“Well,” Ed said. “I think I may have solved your problem.” They were both smiling like they shared a secret.
I waited.
“I took a small detour from my route. Went to visit some beautiful cemeteries in Georgia and Tennessee.”
“What?”
“Some of those tombstones are very sad. Babies dying just days after they’re born.”
“Are you saying what I think . . .” I trailed off.
“You need a birth certificate. The only choice they’ve given you is to use someone else’s. Someone who was born around the time you were and died right away. I figured you’re around twenty-four or twenty-five, so I looked for a match,” he said, pulling a paper from his shirt pocket. “And I found one.”
He handed me the paper, which I unfolded. Addison Hope. Born August 28, 1994, died September 3, 1994. I raised my eyebrows and looked back at Ed. “Are you saying I am going to pretend to be this Addison Hope? I don’t understand.”
“No, not pretend to be her. You’re just going to take her name. We have a name and date of birth now. I know someone who can have a driver’s license made for you in that name with your photograph. Once we have the license, I can get her birth certificate from the state vital records office. Once we get that, the rest is easy. Social security card, etcetera. Presto. You are now in the system.”
“How on earth do you know about this stuff?” I asked. “And a guy who can make a fake license?”
“You’d be surprised at the things truckers run across.”
I thought for a minute, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “But is that legal?”
“No. It’s highly illegal. But what’s the alternative?” Ed said, and I heard Gigi sigh.
He was right. There was no alternative. So I became Addison Hope and told myself it was only temporary, until I remembered my real name. But despite all my work with neurologists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and even hypnotherapists over the last two years, I’m still unable to recall a cohesive past. When I say I don’t remember anything, though, that’s not entirely true. If you consider the flashes that come at unexpected times to be memories, then I have a few—blood-spattered faces, flesh torn away from bones, eyes open and staring at me, lifeless and condemning. So many bodies.
??12??
Julian
Julian took a sip from his mug of coffee. He sat down on the sofa and began to read from Cassandra’s diary.
Valentina is the most perfect baby I could have ever dreamed of. At four months, she’s already sleeping through the night, and the only time she cries is if she’s hungry or needs to be changed. I could sit and stare at her all day. Julian is as besotted as I am, and we practically argue over who gets to hold her. Julian was so sweet and hired a part-time nanny to come and help now that he’s gone back to work full-time so that I can have some time to myself, go back to a yoga class here and there. He took a month off to help me when Valentina was first born. I have friends whose mothers came to stay with them, but of course that’s not an option for me, and I think Julian sensed how alone I felt. Over the years I’ve yearned for my parents, especially my mother, but never as much as when I became a mother myself. Julian pampered me that first month, made all my meals, made sure I rested in between feedings, massaged my back. He’s made up for all the misery and loneliness in my life before I found him.
Julian set down the book. It was too painful to read anymore. A part of him knew that eventually he would have to move on, to accept that Cassandra’s absence was permanent, but he couldn’t yet. Even if he could forget, he had a duty to his daughter to bring her mother back home. And he remained very concerned about his wife’s mental state. In the months before she disappeared, she’d been confused, forgetful. She’d started taking a heavy dose of antianxiety and depression meds, all left behind. After she’d disappeared, the detective kept pushing him, implying that maybe she had just decided to leave on her own. All he’d had to do was show him that her purse, her phone, and all her IDs were still at the house. What woman starts a new life with no money, identification, anything?
More importantly, she would have never left their daughter. No, Julian was convinced that something had happened to cause her to forget who she was. To forget him and Valentina. But they would never forget her. He wouldn’t ever stop looking until she was back home where she belonged.
??13??
Blythe
Blythe hadn’t slept well the night after the bridal appointment. The scar on Addison’s arm was unmistakably from a suicide attempt. Once she thought about it, she realized that Addison always had her arms covered. She thought back to the numerous times over the summer she had invited Addison to the club for tennis or swimming, and Addison always had an excuse for why she couldn’t make it. Even at their engagement party, on a ninety-degree day, Addison had been in long sleeves.