“I planned to call Mom once I was safe.”
“But then the fire happened.”
She nodded.
“Three days later, I saw my own obituary online.”
My throat closed.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t call.”
“Not then.”
“When?”
She looked at me.
“Seven months later.”
I stood so fast the chair struck the wall.
“Seven months?”
“I called Mom’s house.”
“And?”
“You answered.”
I stared at her.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You were crying. The baby was crying.”
Lucy.
She would have been four months old.
Rebecca’s voice cracked.
“I couldn’t speak.”
“You called me and said nothing?”
“I hung up.”
My hands were shaking.
“That’s not coming back, Rebecca.”
“I know.”
“That’s checking whether we’re still suffering.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know!”
A nurse appeared at the doorway.
Rebecca quietly told her we were fine.
We weren’t.
But the nurse left.
I paced to the window.
“Why?”
Rebecca cried without making noise.
“I wish I had one reason good enough to make you understand.”
“Try.”
She wiped her face.
“At first, I was hiding from Tyler.”
“Fine.”
“Then I found out everyone thought I was dead.”
“Fine.”
“And I was terrified that correcting it would lead him straight back to me.”
“Still fine.”
“I started therapy. The shelter helped me change my name legally. I moved twice.”
“Fine.”
“Then Tyler was arrested.”
I stopped.
“For what?”
“Assaulting another woman.”
“When?”
“About eighteen months after the fire.”
“So after that?”
Rebecca looked down.
“After that, fear wasn’t the whole reason anymore.”
