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2
HAZEL
Some weeks later
The crazy girl was not so crazy after all. She was right.
Rosemary Hardin should have been me, Hazel Davenport.
And I was supposed to be her.
As our families awkwardly had a meeting, I watched Rosemary sneak away for some time to herself and fresh air, away from the drama. Part of me wishes I hadn’t followed her outside. That’s when she suggested that we switch lives for a week, and for whatever insanity was overtaking me, I said yes.
Now, I study the notes on my laptop screen, pinning my focus to the latest case study I’m studying for school, in a loose attempt to distract my head from the mess of feelings I feel in my stomach.
It doesn’t really work. Every time I read a paragraph I have to scroll up and read it again.
Part of me wonders how much of this is necessary. We were switched at birth. That was twenty-five years ago—what’s done is done. Do I really have to visit the Hardins, all by myself? Pretend to be a daughter or something?
My family is my family.
And then I remember…I have sisters. Sisters. I can’t even begin to fathom what that’s like. Nor can I quell the excitement it gives me to potentially, maybe…bond with them?
My ears pop. We’ve barely reached cruising altitude when my stewardess, Sandy, sets a champagne flute on the polished oak table in front of me. It’s half-filled with bubbly.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
She gives a shrug. “Seems like an occasion to celebrate, no?”
“Oh. Um. I guess so.” I close my laptop—it was futile anyway—and wrapping my fingers around the crystal stem, I smile up at her.
It does feel so much like a new life is awaiting me down there, and at the same time, so waits a kind of death. Is what it feels like, anyway. If I overthink it. Which I most certainly do.
“Drink up quick, we’ll be landing soon.”
“Already?”
“Short flight.” She smiles back, sweetly.
“Thanks, Sandy.”
I take a sip and gaze out the window, the vast green, purple, and amber-yellow waves of grain coming closer and closer into view as the jet descends. I tip back the last drops and gather my things as we taxi across the airstrip.
The door opens. From the top stair, I see that Hank is here to pick me up.
“Enjoy yourself, Miss Hazel,” Sandy says pleasantly as I start to deplane. “We’re just a phone call away if you need us.”
“Thank you so much.”
Determined to make the most of this occasion—an occasion to celebrate as Sandy put it—and maybe fortified by a little liquid courage, I turn up my most buoyant smile as I walk toward Hank.
He doesn’t really smile. He doesn’t really frown. I don’t know if I should hug him, shake his hand, or what, so I just stop a few feet in front of him, still grinning as I clutch my suitcase in front of me with both hands.
“Hi.”
“Hazel,” he says by way of greeting. His eyebrows fold together as he looks at my outfit. “Rosemary is about your size. Sure she wouldn’t mind if you borrowed her clothes while you’re here.”
Like I’m borrowing the rest of her life?
