“We weren’t that life.”
“I know.”
“But she didn’t know that anymore.”
Elaine nodded.
“She believed that if she came home, everyone would ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer.”
I looked through the café window.
Nora was carrying another tray.
She smiled at an elderly customer.
She looked happy.
Or at least peaceful.
And somehow that hurt more.
“Does she know we’re here?”
“No.”
“Does she know you’re talking to us?”
“No.”
“Then how did you recognize us?”
Elaine gave me a strange look.
“Nora showed me your photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“The beach photograph.”
My heart stopped.
“The one the news used?”
“Yes.”
“She kept it?”
“She had a copy.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Where?”
Elaine looked at me.
“In the pocket of that turquoise cover-up.”
I stared at the garment hanging loosely around her shoulders.
“The cover-up?”
“Nora gave it to me years ago.”
“Why?”
“She said she couldn’t wear it anymore.”
“Why?”
Elaine’s voice became quieter.
“Because it reminded her of the last day she was ever truly home.”
I closed my eyes.
Eight years of searching.
Eight years of imagining my daughter dead.
And all that time, she had been carrying a piece of home with her.
