Page 90 of Memories of the Lost

Tillie thought of Arlette, laughing when a raven stole her earring. Singing when they played games in the fields or planted seeds in the greenhouse. Thought of her laughing, with one hand on her chest. Her heart burned. The panic returned.

“That’s not my mother,” she said, pushing away from Liam. “They’re mistaken. I’m not the person they think I am.”

“Okay.”

“You’re humoring me,” she cried. “Like a frightened horse. But just because they want it to be true doesn’t mean that it is.” She paced through the grass, agitated, and paced back, her hems gathering bits of seed.

He simply stood there, hands at his sides.

She stared at him as if this was his fault. “How would that even be possible, Liam? You know? Like, we just accidentally met at the gallery, and then we had this wild affair, and now I’m here—were you part of this, like some weird scheme to get me here?”

“No,” he said again. “I swear.” He held up his hands in an oath.

Her eyes filled with tears. “What about mymom? Myrealmom?”

She stared back at the house, as if there were dragons within, unable to move in any direction.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “What if we just see what happens? You don’t make any choices or alliances or believe anything.”

She waited.

“You were looking for answers, yeah?”

She nodded.

He held out his hand. “Shall we go in and see if we can find some?”

“Okay.” She placed her hand in his, her smaller fingers enfolded in his own, and let him lead her back inside.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Tillie was only slightly steadier when she went back into the kitchen through the back door. All three women looked up. Tillie paused to look at Sage and Clare, taking her time, looking with her eyes and her artistic eye to see that yes, she resembled them, and Sage looked older but wore her same face. Undeniable.

And so undeniable that Sage knew about her scar.

Clare easily could be her blood mother. Physically they looked alike, too, enough that her artistic brain offered her a visual of two kittens with a mama cat, all the same fur and eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t know ... I feel so ...” She gave up and flung up her hands.

“Why don’t you come sit down,” Clare said quietly. “I’ve put the kettle on. We can have supper, just as we’d planned.”

Tillie sat down. Sage was next to her, and her hands were on the table. Tillie’s hands, long and slender, with short nails. Tillie settled hers beside Sage’s. “They look the same.” She touched her thumb. “The nails are exactly alike.”

Sage nodded. “You have a dimple on the opposite side.” She smiled to show hers, on the left. Tillie’s was on the right. “Like parentheses.”

They looked at each other. Tillie assumed Sage was seeing the same things she was, the ways they were the same—eyebrows the same shape,the width of their shoulders, the terrain of their mouths, a fuller upper lip than lower. Tillie looked at the baby bump.

It was a safe-enough topic. “When is your baby due?”

“June 15.” She rested her hand on the swell. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Tillie is an artist,” Liam said. He’d settled across the table, next to Paula. “Quite well known, actually.”

“Really?” Clare brought mugs and spoons to the table. “What kind of art?”

“Painting. Realism mixed with fantasy elements, like people who are part animal.”