“I know. Please, just turn. Something about this road feels familiar.”
She guided me through a neighborhood I’d never visited.
After three blocks, she pointed to a small house with green shutters.
“Stop here.”
I pulled over.
“Something about this road feels familiar.”
My wife stared at the front porch, her hand pressed against the window.
“Rachel, do you know who lives there?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I remember coming here.”
Then tears started running down her cheeks.
“I should have done this before.”
“I remember coming here.”
I reached for her hand.
“Before what, sweetheart?”
“Before I lost my memory. I don’t know why, but I need to find out.”
She opened her door before I could suggest going home.
I followed her up the path.
“Before what, sweetheart?”
A woman answered our knock.
“Rachel?”
She looked about 50, with flour on her sleeve.
“Oh, Rachel. You came back!”
A woman answered our knock.
My wife stepped closer to me.
“Do I know you?”
The woman looked confused.
“I’m Bianca. Your sister.”
I stared at her.
“Do I know you?”
Rachel had spent years refusing to speak about Bianca.
Now her sister was standing in front of us, looking as though Rachel’s visit was perfectly normal.
“I’m Michael,” I said.
Bianca nodded.
“Rachel told me about you.”
Rachel had spent years refusing to speak about Bianca.
“When?”
“Before her accident.”
Rachel caught my arm.
“I used to come here? Before the accident?”
Bianca’s expression softened.
“Before her accident.”
“Several times, actually.”
Inside, Bianca pulled out a chair beside the kitchen window.
“You always liked sitting there,” she told Rachel.
“Did I?”
“You said the afternoon sun made everything look nicer. I think you called it romantic.”
“Several times, actually.”
Rachel smiled.
“That sounds like something I’d say.”
I noticed a photograph on the shelf.
Rachel and Bianca stood together, holding coffee cups.
“How long were you seeing each other?” I asked.
Rachel smiled.
“About three months before the accident.”
I picked up the photograph.
“Rachel never mentioned it.”
Bianca glanced at my wife.
I picked up the photograph.
“She wanted to take things slowly.”
“Why?”
“Because we’d spent years apart, Michael. We were trying to fix that.”
Rachel reached for the photograph.
“Can I see that?”
“Why?”
I handed it over.
She studied her own smiling face.
“I look happy.”
Bianca sat beside her.
“You were, Sis. You told me so many stories about your kids.”
I handed it over.
I wanted to ask a dozen more questions.
Then Rachel looked up.
“Could we come back?”
Bianca’s eyes filled.
“I’d love that.”
Bianca’s eyes filled.
At home, I found Rachel looking through the photographs again.
“You’re upset,” she said. “I can feel it.”
“I’m trying to understand why you kept Bianca a secret. I understand not remembering her now, but before the accident, Rach? Why?”
Rachel lowered the picture.
“I can feel it.”
“I wish I could explain.”
I sat opposite her.
“You told me she abandoned you when your mother was ill. You said you’d never forgive her.”
“But I went back.”
“Apparently. It seems like that.”
“I wish I could explain.”
She flinched.
I regretted my tone.
“Sorry, Rachel.”
She turned the photograph toward me.
“Look at us. Whatever happened, we were trying.”
“Sorry, Rachel.”
I watched her trace Bianca’s face.
Rachel had changed her mind about her sister before the accident, and I hadn’t known.
That evening, Grace noticed Bianca’s number beside our telephone.
“Why is Aunt Bianca’s number here?”
I watched her trace Bianca’s face.
I looked up.
“Your mother and I visited her today.”
Grace stopped beside the table.
“You went to see Bianca? I thought Mom hadn’t spoken to her in years.”
I looked up.
“Neither did I. Apparently, they started seeing each other again before the accident.”
Grace pulled out a chair.
“Didn’t she leave Mom to take care of Grandma on her own?”
“That’s what your mother told me. But there may be more to it.”
Grace frowned.
“Neither did I.”
“So why would Mom want Bianca back in her life?”
Before I could answer, Sam looked up from his drawing.
“Maybe Bianca knows stories about Mom when she was little.”
