“”I can explain.””
“”Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara.””
I looked back at her.
“”You had six years.””
Then I left.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
That was my decision. Clara had controlled* enough* of the truth.
At home, I opened a drawer and found my two blue mugs.
I didn’t call Mom and Dad that night.
One for me, one “”spare.””
I’d been buying spares for ten years.
The next morning, I called Mom.
“”Are you sitting down?””
“”Sarah, I hate when you start like that.””
“”Please.””
One for me, one “”spare.””
Her voice changed.
“”Okay.””
“”Clara’s alive.””
Silence.
Then, carefully, “”Sweetheart…””
“”I saw her.””
Another silence.
“”Sweetheart…””
“”She knew about the moon. She knew about the broken vase. It’s her.””
Dad came onto the call.
“”What do you need from us?””
Not where, not how, just what do you need?
“”I don’t know.””
“”Then we’ll start there, sweetheart,”” he said.
“”She knew about the broken vase. It’s her.””
Two days later, I took them to Clara.
Mom stopped inside the apartment.
Clara stood near the window.
Then Mom crossed the room.
“”My baby.””
Clara stiffened before collapsing against her.
I took them to Clara.
Dad stayed back, wiping his eyes.
“”Hey, kiddo.””
I looked away.
I loved her.
I was furious with her.
Both things fit.
After a while, Mom started talking too quickly.
I was furious with her.
“”I still make the cherry pie you loved. Your room isn’t blue anymore, but we could change it back. And remember that song you girls used to sing?””
Clara’s hand slipped.
The mug she was holding hit the counter and rolled onto its side.
“”Stop.””
Mom froze.
“”And remember that song you girls used to sing?””
Clara pressed both hands over her face.
“”Please, just stop.””
“”Clara?”” Mom whispered.
“”I can’t do this anymore!””
The room went silent.
Dad moved toward Mom, but I stayed where I was.
“”I can’t do this anymore!””
Clara looked at all three of us, breathing hard.
“”This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back.””
Mom’s face crumpled. “”Because I mentioned pie?””
“”No, Mom. Because five minutes after seeing me, you’re already rebuilding the person I used to be.””
“”I thought you’d want something familiar.””
“”I don’t even like cherry pie anymore.””
“”This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back.””
Mom stared at her.
Then she glanced at me.
“”But Sarah always loved it too. You girls liked all the same things.””
Clara laughed once, sharply.
“”There. That.””
I felt something cold move through me.
“”You girls liked all the same things.””
“”What are you saying?””
Clara turned to me.
“”Growing up, everything was Sarah and Clara. You got the better grade, made the team, won something, and people looked at me like I was the version that hadn’t.””
“”I never asked them to do that.””
“”I know.””
“”Growing up, everything was Sarah and Clara.””
“”Then why are you looking at me like I caused it?””
“”Because you never had to think about it.””
Her voice cracked.
“”You got to walk into a room and just be Sarah. I walked in and became the other one.””
Mom started crying.
“”I never knew you felt that way.””
“”I walked in and became the other one.””
“”Neither did I, not fully. Not until after the crash.””
Clara gripped the counter.
