Chapter 3 - The Wrong Sister
Michael had questioned hundreds of witnesses in conference rooms, courtrooms, hospital waiting areas and cramped kitchens where children listened through walls.
Nothing prepared him for questioning his mother.
“You were driving?”
Patricia shook her head.
“No.”
“You just said you were charged.”
“I was.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“I know.”
Michael pushed the photograph back toward her.
“Start over.”
Patricia sat.
She looked suddenly older than sixty-six.
“In 1981, Susan and I were twenty-one.”
Michael waited.
“Our father had rules about everything. Where we worked. Who we dated. What time we came home.”
“That sounds like Grandpa.”
“You knew the softened version.”
Michael almost smiled.
Patricia didn't.
“Susan was different from me. Restless. She wanted to leave Ohio. She wanted California, New York, anywhere that wasn't five miles from our parents.”
“What happened?”
“She started seeing a man named Raymond Bell.”
“Who was he?”
“Twenty-seven. Married.”
Michael exhaled.
“Grandpa must've loved that.”
“He didn't know.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
Patricia rubbed her thumb across the edge of the photograph.
“One night Susan called me. It was after midnight. She was crying so hard I could barely understand her.”
“The crash.”
Patricia nodded.
“She said Raymond had been drinking. She said there'd been an accident.”
“Was she driving?”
Patricia looked at him.
“No.”
That caught him.
“Then why did anyone need to take responsibility for her?”
“Because she was in the car. And because Raymond ran.”
“What else?”
Patricia did not answer.
Michael leaned forward.
“What aren't you telling me?”
“She lied to police.”
“About?”
“Everything.”
Patricia stood abruptly.
“I can't do this today.”
Michael stared at her.
“You came here.”
“I know.”
“You cannot drop half a confession on my desk and leave.”
“I can if the other half belongs to somebody else.”
“It became mine when you put my name on Susan's hospital record.”
Patricia flinched.
Michael immediately knew he'd hit the wrong nerve.
“That isn't what happened,” she said.
“Then explain it.”
“I can't.”
“Won't.”
“Yes.”
She picked up her bag.
At the door, Michael said, “Did you go to jail?”
Patricia stopped.
“Eight months.”
His throat tightened.
He had never known.
Eight months of his mother's life had vanished from the story she had given him.
“When?”
“Before I met your father.”
“For something you didn't do?”
Patricia turned.
Her face was calm again.
Too calm.
“Be careful, Michael. Innocent and blameless are not the same thing.”
Then she left.
The court file arrived that afternoon.
It raised more questions.
Susan E. Mercer had pleaded guilty to obstruction of justice and leaving the scene as an accessory after the fact. The more serious charges had been dismissed.
Eight-month sentence.
Three years probation.
Michael studied the signature.
Susan E. Mercer.
He had seen his mother's handwriting on birthday cards his entire life.
It was hers.
He called a retired clerk whose name appeared on an old docket note.
The woman remembered almost nothing.
But one sentence mattered.
“The Mercer girl?”
“Yes.”
“I remember the family because the mother cried in the hallway every day.”
“Do you remember Susan?”
“Dark-haired?”
“Yes.”
“Honey, that was forty-five years ago.”
“Anything helps.”
A pause.
“She had a sister.”
Michael closed his eyes.
“Patricia.”
“Yes. Quiet girl.”
“Did you ever see them together?”
Another pause.
“Once, maybe.”
Michael waited.
“They could've fooled the devil.”
That evening, he drove to his mother's house.
Patricia was not home.
He had a key.
He felt guilty using it.
Then he remembered eight months in jail.
He entered.
The house was painfully familiar.
Family photographs.
His father's old chair.
A ceramic bowl Lily had made in kindergarten.
Michael walked toward the hallway closet.
He did not know exactly what he was looking for.
Lawyers liked to pretend investigation was logical.
Sometimes it was just intuition wearing a tie.
He found a locked metal box behind old Christmas decorations.
The key was taped beneath it.
Inside were letters.
Dozens.
Most addressed to Patricia.
One envelope had never been opened.
RETURN TO SENDER.
Recipient:
Susan Mercer.
Santa Cruz, California.
Postmarked 1995.
Michael opened older letters first.
Some came from Susan.
Pat, I'm sorry.
Pat, I know you hate me.
Pat, Dad says we can't tell anyone.
Pat, I didn't know Raymond would leave him there.
Pat, please answer.
Then one line stopped Michael.
You promised Mama we'd keep the names straight until my record cleared.
Names.
Plural.
He read further.
Another letter.
1983.
Pat,
They issued my new Social Security card. Mama says this fixes things for now. You use mine. I use yours. When the probation ends, we'll switch everything back.
Michael put the letter down.
His skin felt cold.
They had not merely lied about the crash.
They had switched identities.
He heard the front door.
“Michael?”
Patricia.
He stood.
She entered the room and saw the box.
Her shoulders dropped.
“You broke into it.”
“The key was taped underneath.”
“That wasn't permission.”
“No.”
He held up the letter.
“But this explains the hospital.”
Patricia said nothing.
“You've legally been Susan for forty years.”
“Not completely.”
“Enough.”
“Michael—”
“And Susan has been Patricia.”
Patricia sat on the edge of a chair.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you switch back?”
She laughed softly.
It was an awful sound.
“Because life doesn't wait politely while people clean up their mistakes.”
“Explain.”
“I married your father.”
“Under Susan's identity?”
“Some records. Not all.”
“Mom.”
“Things were different then. Records weren't linked the way they are now.”
“That's not the point.”
“I know.”
“You built a life on her name.”
“No.”
For the first time, anger flashed in Patricia's eyes.
“I built a life despite her name.”
Michael stopped.
His mother looked toward the box.
“I was supposed to borrow it for three years.”
“Why?”
“To keep me employable.”
“Because of the conviction?”
“Yes.”
“And Susan took your identity?”
“She needed one without the scandal attached.”
“Why would you agree?”
Patricia's voice lowered.
“Because our mother begged me.”
Michael stared.
“And Susan?”
“She promised.”
“To switch back?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When everything calmed down.”
Michael almost laughed.
“Forty-five years?”
Patricia looked at him.
“She disappeared after three.”
The room seemed smaller.
“What?”
“She went west. Changed addresses. Stopped answering letters.”
“And you just stayed Susan?”
“I had a job. Then I met your father. Then you were born.”
“Why didn't Dad know?”
“He knew some.”
“Some?”
“He knew I had a legal problem from when I was young. He knew Patricia was the name I used socially. I never told him everything.”
Michael sat opposite her.
“You let your husband die not knowing your real name?”
Patricia's face hardened.
“Do not make your father part of your anger.”
“He was part of your life.”
“He loved me.”
“Which you?”
That landed.
Patricia looked away.
Michael regretted it instantly.
But he did not apologize.
Not yet.
After a long silence, she said, “Both.”
Then she reached into the metal box and removed another envelope.
She held it without handing it over.
“This is why I told you to stop.”
“What is it?”
“A letter from Susan.”
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“The last time you heard from her?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
Patricia met his eyes.
May you like
“She finally told me what really happened that night.”
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