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“Fine, then I’m broken,”
“I know you hurt. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re alive. You need to scoop up those pieces, use that old worn out heart like the tool it is, and love yourself back together.”
“I’ll try,” I pro
mise half-heartedly, but that’s more than I could have managed before she came to visit.
She pulls me into a hug and presses a lingering kiss on my cheek before she lets me go.
“You may not be my child by blood, but there are so many things about you that remind me of my father. I guess it’s because I raised you, and he raised me.” She strokes my cheek tenderly, and suddenly, I want to cry.
“I know as soon as you get some closure on things you’ve never allowed yourself to dwell on you’ll be able to move on.”
“Mom that was ten years ago.”
“You fell so hard for her. Maybe this trip you two can work things out—”
I put a finger on her lips to silence her. “I hope she’s not why you want me to go.”
She shakes her head and lifts my finger from her mouth and holds my hand. “No, I think the change of scenery will do you a world of good. But—”
“There’s always a but.”
“I’ve never heard you sound happier than you were the summer you spent with her. So, I won’t pretend I don’t want that for you again.” She grabs her coat and slips it on.
“You’re leaving?” I’ve spent months avoiding her, but now that she’s here, I don’t want her to go.
“I have errands to run, and you’ve got to get packing.”
“Thank you for barging in. I love you, Mom.”
She smiles fondly. “I know you do. It’s amazing how soft your heart is under that unaffected exterior of yours.”
“It’s my armor.”
“I know. That’s why I hoped you and Beth would work things out. She stripped it clean off you.”
That was exactly the problem. She stripped me bare and then poured salt all over me. And I feel the sting every time I think about her.
Glutton for punishment that I am, I pull out my phone and open Nadia’s email. I follow the photo tag for @BWolfe.”
The account only has one post made on May 13th of last year. It’s a picture of a three young people. A boy and two girls who look just like Beth. I stare for at it for a long time. I didn’t know she had a sister, much less a twin.
“Blood of my blood. There is no space or time between us. Nothing can keep us apart. #LiveFreeOrDieTrying. I’ll miss you forever, Bethany.”
I scan the post, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. The boy, who has the same dark hair and blue eyes as the two girls, towers over them as he stands between them. They’re all dressed in bathing suits, and all of them are dripping wet. They’re standing in a yard that’s littered with balloons. I look back at the girls. One of them is smiling as wide and bright as the Beth I knew. The other one isn’t. But I know the unsmiling twin is the girl I knew. Because the glimmer in her eyes, the one she got when she was lost in her own thought, is the same wild unrestrained joy I’d seen when we’re together. These must be her siblings. I remember how her face lit up when she talked about her brother. Why didn’t she even mention having a sister?
I exit the app, open my browser, and search for Bethany Wolfe.
The first hit is an obituary dated two years before I met Beth.
Bethany Mortimer Wolfe was a beloved daughter, sister, granddaughter, and friend. She was a math prodigy and an accomplished pianist. Her love for her family was only matched by one thing, her love for the town of Winsome.She will be remembered for being our mascot when she was a baby and our ambassador as a young woman. Her short life was marked with many successes, and we’ll keep her memory alive by honoring her dreams. She is survived by her father Andrew Wolfe, her mother Claudette Mortimer, her grandmother Agnes Wolfe, her brother Phillip Mortimer-Wolfe, and her sister Elisabeth Mortimer-Wolfe, and an entire town who thought of her as family.
The weight of realization knocks me back in my seat. Bethany Wolfe who looks just like her sister Elisabeth Wolfe
I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but I can’t. I’m choking on a juggernaut of horror and disbelief. But why didn’t she tell me about her sister? I realize her reasons don’t matter. There are a lot of things I didn’t tell her about myself that summer. The phone slips out of my hand, but the clatter of it hitting the floor sounds distant. The rush of blood racing to my thundering heart mutes everything, and I wish it would mute mine.
I’ve made tremendous mistakes in my life. Huge lapses of judgement that have cost me dearly. But the enormity of this transgression can’t be overstated.
