Why is there an entry in her diary after that day? I fan my pajama top against my chest. Was there a mix up between my mother and another patient? Did my mother not die? I shake my head. She’s dead, I’m sure of it. Maybe the hospital got the date of her death wrong? Or was my mother confused the day she wrote her last entry? But who would mistake any other day for Christmas?This is insane.
I reopen the journal and stare at the date, my hands tugging on the roots of my hair. My mother was unwell.I know this.I’ve known this since I was eight years old. Why did she seem perfectly healthy in my dream?
“I’d never leave you, Mari.”
Clutching the journal against my chest, I storm into Anna’s living room. I’m hit with blaring music, and the strong scent of golden toast, melted butter and sizzling bacon.
“Morning. How did you sleep?” Anna calls from her makeshift kitchenette. She’s piling food onto two plates with her back to me. She spins around, golden pants glimmering, the waist concealed by an oversized, vivid purple sweater. Our eyes meet and the smile on her glossy red lips falls. “Ella?” She grabs her phone and the music ceases. “You’re shaking. When was the last time you ate?”
“Last night… I think.” Food isn’t important. Nothing matters except uncovering how it’s possible my mother left a note in her diary the dayaftershe died. “I have to go.”
Anna inserts herself between me and the front door, and I’m inundated with a whoosh of sweet, floral fragrance and strawberry lip gloss. I’d forgotten just how much my medication dampened my sense of smell.
“But—I made breakfast,” Anna says. “And you’re still wearing pajamas. Come and sit down for a second.” She plants her hands on my shoulders and forces me to sit at her small dining table. “Tell me what’s going on while you eat,” she says, sliding two plates of food onto the table. She sits next to me and crosses her legs, her wide green gaze flickering from my face to the journal still clutched against my chest.
I’ve kept the details of my past a secret since the day I left school. What if I tell Anna the truth and I lose her? Isn’t that what happened with Silas? I inwardly cringe.
“My mother died in hospital when I was eight.” Anna’s eyes widen, her lips parting to draw in a small gasp. “But after the fire last night, I found some of her old journals. I was reading them this morning, and her last entry wasafterthe date I was told she died.”
I open the journal to the last entry and slide it toward Anna. She picks it up and her contoured face momentarily dips behind the pages. “Let the current carry you,” she mutters, turning the page as if it’s fragile. “Is it possible you remembered the date wrong?”
“No. She died on Christmas Eve.”
“I’m so sorry,” Anna says, flipping to the front of the journal. She pauses on a sketch of my mother with my younger self. “Oh, Ella. She was beautiful.” Her eyes scan my face and drop back to the sketch. “You could be twins.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I think the hospital must have confused her death with another patient’s or something.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Anna says, returning the journal to me. “Have you checked her death certificate?”
I shake my head. “I never saw one.”
“You know, when my Aunt Gaye was searching our family tree, she entered some details into a website and all the information just came up.”
“Really?” My fork clangs on the tabletop. “Can we look up my mother?”
“You eat,” Anna says, and she jabs an acrylic nail at my plate. “I’ll get my laptop.”
While she ducks into her bedroom, I take a bite of food and groan. Did food taste this good before? “What’s in this?” I ask Anna when she returns.
“It’s just scrambled eggs and bacon,” she says, placing her laptop on the table. She pulls up a chair beside mine, finds an ancestry page, and tilts the screen toward me. I typeEvelyn Adamsinto the search field.
“Hmm,” Anna says, frowning at the screen when the search comes back empty. “Try another one.”
I return to the search engine and open another ancestry site. Re-entering my mother’s details, I hit the return key. “It’s not here,” I say after another three attempts.
Anna huffs at the screen. “I don’t understand why it’s not showing up.” She leans her shoulder into mine. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course.” There’s a wrinkle between her brows, and she’s biting her lip.
“What?” I ask.
Anna’s gaze finds mine. “How did she die?” she asks softly.
There’s a flash of white walls and sterile floors. Nurses. And light glinting off sharp, beveled needle tips. A bead of sweat forms over my brow.She killed herself. Say it.The words huddle on the tip of my tongue.Don’t lie about this.
Anna stares at me, waiting.
