The sponge hit the bathwater with a soft splash.
For several seconds, I could not move.
The crescent-shaped mark sat just below the woman’s right shoulder.
Small.
Pale.
Perfectly curved.
I had seen that mark thousands of times.
Not in person.
Not for twenty years.
But in a photograph.
My mother’s photograph.
My hands began trembling inside the yellow rubber gloves.
Rose noticed.
“Are you all right?”
Her voice sounded distant.
I stepped backward.
The marble counter struck my hip.
“I need a minute.”
“Elena?”
I froze.
I had told her my name downstairs.
Of course she knew it.
That was what I told myself.
But something about the way she said it felt different.
Not polite.
Not uncertain.
Familiar.
I tore the gloves from my hands.
Then I ran.
I crossed the bedroom and reached the walnut jewelry cabinet beside the
window.
My fingers slipped twice while entering the code.
The hidden drawer opened.
Inside was a small velvet pouch.
I had carried it through college.
Through my first apartment.
Through my wedding.
Through every move.
I opened it.
A tarnished silver locket rested in my palm.
My father had given it to me after my mother disappeared.
He had said it was the only piece of jewelry police recovered from her
office locker.
I opened the clasp.
Inside was a photograph taken when I was five.
My mother stood beside me at Cape Cod.
She wore a blue swimsuit.
Her dark hair blew across her face.
I was sitting on her shoulders.
And just below her right shoulder was the mark.
A crescent.
I returned to the bathroom.
Rose had wrapped a towel across her chest.
She looked frightened.
I held the photograph beside her shoulder.
My vision blurred.
Same position.
Same size.
Same shape.
“No.”
I whispered.
Rose stared at the locket.
Her lips parted.
Then she whispered:
“Elena?”
This time, I knew.
She had not simply read my name from the situation.
She said it like a memory.
I dropped to my knees beside the tub.
“How do you know my name?”
Rose pressed one hand against her forehead.
“I don’t know.”
“Look at me.”
She did.
I held the locket closer.
“Do you know this woman?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I…”
She stopped.
Her breathing changed.
Then she touched the photograph with one wet finger.
“That beach.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What beach?”
“There was wind.”
She whispered.
“A little girl.”
I could barely breathe.
“What little girl?”
Rose squeezed her eyes shut.
“Yellow bucket.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
In the original photograph, cropped inside the locket, the bucket could
not be seen.
But I remembered it.
A bright yellow plastic bucket.
I carried it everywhere that summer.
“What color was her swimsuit?”
I asked.
Rose shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Please.”
“Elena, I don’t know.”
Her voice broke.
“I see pieces.”
“What pieces?”
“Water.”
“Sand.”
“A child laughing.”
She looked at me.
Then her face twisted with confusion.
“Your father was angry because you buried his shoes.”
A sound escaped me.
Half sob.
Half gasp.
I had never told Adrian that story.
I had never told anyone except my mother.
I was five.
Dad had fallen asleep on a beach towel.
Mom and I buried his sandals.
When he woke up, he pretended to be furious.
For years afterward, Mom called me the sandal thief.
My knees gave way.
I sat on the bathroom floor.
Rose stared at me.
“What’s happening?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
Then Adrian appeared in the doorway.
He held a thick brown file.
He looked at Rose.
Then at me.
And I saw something on his face that made my grief turn instantly into
suspicion.
He was not surprised.
“Adrian.”
He said nothing.
“You knew.”
“Elena—”
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
My chest tightened.
“You brought her here because you knew.”
“I brought her here because I needed to be sure.”
I stood.
“You needed to be sure?”
Rose pulled the towel tighter around herself.
Adrian lowered his voice.
“Let’s get her dressed.”
“No.”
I snapped.
“You tell me right now.”
“Elena, she is frightened.”
“So am I.”
That stopped him.
For fifteen years, Adrian had seen me angry.
Stubborn.
Impatient.
Arrogant.
But rarely afraid.
He set the file on the counter.
“I met her three days ago.”
“You told me you met her today.”
“I lied.”
The confession struck me hard.
“Why?”
“Because the first time I saw her, I recognized the mark.”
“How?”
He looked toward the locket.
“You showed me that photograph years ago.”
I stared at him.
Our second year of marriage.
I had been drinking wine.
We were talking about childhood.
I showed him the locket.
I told him about Mom.
I told him the police believed she was dead.
I told him I still dreamed she would walk through a door someday.
Adrian remembered.
I had forgotten that he remembered.
He continued.
“I saw Rose at the soup kitchen on Tuesday.”
“Her coat had slipped off one shoulder.”
“I noticed the mark.”
“I told myself it was coincidence.”
“Then she said something.”
“What?”
“She said she hated the smell of lavender soap.”
My stomach dropped.
Mom hated lavender.
She said it smelled like furniture polish.
Adrian opened the file.
“I started asking questions.”
“You investigated her behind my back?”
“I called a private investigator.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because if I was wrong, I would have reopened the worst wound of your
life for nothing.”
I wanted to hate him for that answer.
Part of me did.
Another part understood.
Rose stared between us.
“I should leave.”
I turned immediately.
“No.”
