Chapter 5 - Two Photographs
Susan arrived in Columbus three days before Christmas.
Nobody invited her.
Michael was leaving court when Patricia called.
“She’s here.”
“Who?”
“Susan.”
Michael stopped walking.
“Where?”
“My porch.”
When he reached Patricia's house twenty minutes later, two identical old women sat on opposite ends of the living room sofa.
Not identical anymore.
Time had made choices.
Patricia wore her gray hair short. Susan's fell to her shoulders. Patricia sat upright. Susan leaned forward with both hands wrapped around coffee she had apparently forgotten to drink.
But their eyes were the same.
Michael entered.
Susan stood.
“You must be Michael.”
He did not shake her hand.
“Yes.”
Susan nodded as though she'd expected that.
Patricia said, “Sit down.”
Michael remained standing.
Nobody spoke.
Finally Susan looked at Patricia.
“You still make terrible coffee.”
Patricia stared at her.
“You still complain before finishing a cup.”
For one second, something almost normal passed between them.
Then it vanished.
Susan placed the mug down.
“I came because Michael called.”
Patricia looked at her son.
Michael shrugged.
“I didn't tell her to come.”
“No,” Susan said. “He told me to stop acting twenty-one.”
Patricia nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Susan's eyes moved around the room.
She saw photographs of Michael.
Lily.
Patricia's late husband, Thomas.
Her face shifted.
“Tom got old.”
“He died at sixty-two.”
“I know.”
“You sent flowers.”
“Yes.”
“I threw them away.”
“I assumed you would.”
Michael felt like an intruder in a conversation forty years overdue.
Patricia crossed her arms.
“Why are you here?”
Susan looked at her.
“To give your name back.”
Patricia's face went still.
“That isn't something you can carry in a suitcase.”
“No.”
Susan reached into her coat pocket.
She removed an envelope.
Inside were documents.
Birth certificate.
Old Social Security correspondence.
A notarized statement.
Copies of records.
Michael moved closer.
“What is this?”
“My confession.”
Patricia frowned.
Susan looked at Michael.
“I spent the last week writing down everything. The crash. The switch. The records. What our parents did. What I did.”
“You had a week?” Patricia asked.
“I've had forty-five years.”
Patricia looked away.
Susan continued.
“I also contacted an attorney in California.”
Michael was surprised.
“You're willing to correct the identity records?”
“Yes.”
“Publicly?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there are consequences?”
Susan swallowed.
“Yes.”
Patricia stood.
“No.”
Michael turned.
“Mom.”
“No.”
Susan stared at her.
“You don't get to protect me again.”
Patricia's face changed.
“I am not protecting you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I am protecting myself.”
Susan stood too.
“From what?”
Patricia's voice rose.
“From becoming that girl again!”
Silence.
“You think I want to walk into an office and explain that I spent forty-five years living under my sister's Social Security number because my mother asked me to?”
Susan's eyes filled.
“You think I want somebody looking at me like I'm pathetic?”
“Pat—”
“Don't.”
The name hung there.
Pat.
The original name.
Patricia turned away.
Susan whispered, “I'm sorry.”
Patricia laughed.
“There it is.”
“I know it isn't enough.”
“You've known that for decades.”
“Yes.”
“Then why now?”
Susan looked at Michael.
Then back at her sister.
“Because your granddaughter noticed.”
Patricia's face softened despite herself.
Susan continued.
“An eight-year-old looked at a bracelet and asked a question everybody else spent forty-five years avoiding.”
Nobody spoke.
Michael thought of Lily at Thanksgiving.
Why did the hospital lady call you Susan?
So simple.
So devastating.
Patricia walked to a cabinet.
She opened the bottom drawer and removed a small wooden box.
From it she took two photographs.
Michael recognized one.
The pool photograph.
The second he had never seen.
It showed the twins at twenty-one.
They stood outside the Franklin County courthouse.
Patricia wore a pale blouse and held a coat over one arm.
Susan stood beside her.
Both were crying.
On the back someone had written:
June 18, 1981.
Last day as ourselves.
Michael felt a chill.
“Who wrote that?”
Patricia said, “Our mother.”
Susan covered her mouth.
“I forgot this existed.”
“I didn't.”
Patricia handed Michael the photograph.
“After sentencing, Mama took us home. Three weeks later she started switching records.”
Michael stared at the picture.
“What did you lose?”
Patricia looked at him.
He realized he had never asked the question directly.
Not what happened.
Not why.
What did you lose?
Patricia sat.
“A scholarship.”
Michael frowned.
“What scholarship?”
“Ohio State.”
“You went to Ohio State.”
“For one year.”
He hadn't known.
“I was studying education.”
“You wanted to teach?”
Patricia smiled faintly.
“Third grade.”
Michael felt something break open inside him.
His mother had worked as a bookkeeper for thirty-seven years.
She had never once complained.
“The conviction cost me my placement.”
Susan closed her eyes.
Patricia continued.
“I lost the scholarship. I lost the school. Later, when I tried applying elsewhere, Susan's record followed me.”
“But after the identity switch—”
“I needed work. We needed money. Life moved.”
“And Dad?”
“I met him at the accounting office.”
“Would you have met him if none of this happened?”
Patricia looked at Michael.
“No.”
The room went quiet.
There it was.
The impossible arithmetic of regret.
If Patricia's life had not been damaged, she might have become a teacher.
She might never have met Thomas.
Michael might not exist.
Lily might not exist.
How did a person mourn the road not taken when the road they did take contained people they loved?
Susan began crying silently.
Patricia looked at her.
“Don't.”
“I took that from you.”
“No,” Patricia said. “You took choices from me.”
Susan nodded.
“That sounds worse.”
“It was.”
A long silence followed.
Then Susan said, “There was something else.”
Patricia stiffened.
Susan turned toward Michael.
“The miscarriage wasn't the reason Patricia took responsibility.”
Michael frowned.
His mother said sharply, “Susan.”
“He deserves to know.”
“No.”
Susan's eyes filled.
“Daniel Price was alive when we stopped.”
Michael froze.
Patricia went pale.
Susan continued.
“Raymond wanted to leave.”
Her voice trembled.
“I wanted to leave too.”
Michael could barely breathe.
“But Patricia wasn't there,” he said.
“No.”
“Then how does this involve her?”
Susan looked at her sister.
“Because when I called Pat that night, I told her Daniel was already dead.”
Patricia closed her eyes.
Susan's voice broke.
May you like
“He wasn't.”
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