Page 56 of Since She's Been Gone

Two days later, I walked down the same stairs I had tiptoed down a few months before when I had tried running away. But this time, I had my luggage in my hands, and I was going home. The entire staff was waiting for me in the living room and started clapping.

Dr. Larsen handed me a goodbye book that they had all signed. She hugged me and whispered in my ear, “This isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of your life.”

At the time, I had no idea that over a decade later, under very different circumstances, she’d make a reappearance in my life.

CHAPTER35

RAMONA MAKES COPIESof Mom’s death certificate and my driver’s license. She’s in her early thirties and has long, wavy dirty blond hair pulled back by a thin silver headband with rhinestones.

“Thank you for following up,” I tell her.

“My mom died when I was ten,” she says. “I know what it’s like to try to piece their lives together after they’re gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“There are so many things I wish I could ask her—some important, some silly. Know what I mean?” she asks.

I nod.

“How will I know if I’ve found the one? Am I allergic to bees? Is it normal to wonder if you’re fulfilling your life’s purpose? Sorry,” she says, blushing. “This isn’t very professional.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say.

“I’ll be back with your mom’s records.” She stands up and leaves the room with the photocopies.

ED is still hustling me about eating the bite of bagel. I cover my ears like old times, trying to tune him out, when Ramona returns.

“You okay?” she asks.

I quickly drop my hands from my ears back to my sides. “My ears are still popping from the plane,” I lie.

“I hate when that happens,” she says.

I notice the single sheet of paper she’s holding. And my heart starts to flutter like my entire future hinges on this one thin slice of tree.

“I forgot to mention on the phone that the year your mom was admitted to the hospital is different from the one you asked about,” she says.

“It wasn’t 1997?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “It was 1974.”

1974? I quickly do the math in my head. Mom was a college student then.

“She spent a month at the hospital,” Ramona adds.

“A month?” I repeat, stunned.

Ramona pushes the paper toward me.

Irene Mayer, DOB: 01-02-1955

Admitted: March 23, 1974.

Discharged: April 27, 1974.

Mom never told me she was hospitalized during college, let alone for a month.

“This record doesn’t explain why she was admitted,” I say.

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