The sponge hit the bathwater with a soft splash.
For several seconds, I could not move.
The crescent-shaped mark sat just below the woman’s right shoulder.
Small.
Pale.
Perfectly curved.
I had seen that mark thousands of times.
Not in person.
Not for twenty years.
But in a photograph.
My mother’s photograph.
My hands began trembling inside the yellow rubber gloves.
Rose noticed.
“Are you all right?”
Her voice sounded distant.
I stepped backward.
The marble counter struck my hip.
“I need a minute.”
“Elena?”
I froze.
I had told her my name downstairs.
Of course she knew it.
That was what I told myself.
But something about the way she said it felt different.
Not polite.
Not uncertain.
Familiar.
I tore the gloves from my hands.
Then I ran.
I crossed the bedroom and reached the walnut jewelry cabinet beside the
window.
My fingers slipped twice while entering the code.
The hidden drawer opened.
Inside was a small velvet pouch.
I had carried it through college.
Through my first apartment.
Through my wedding.
Through every move.
I opened it.
A tarnished silver locket rested in my palm.
My father had given it to me after my mother disappeared.
He had said it was the only piece of jewelry police recovered from her
office locker.
I opened the clasp.
Inside was a photograph taken when I was five.
My mother stood beside me at Cape Cod.
She wore a blue swimsuit.
Her dark hair blew across her face.
I was sitting on her shoulders.
And just below her right shoulder was the mark.
A crescent.
I returned to the bathroom.
Rose had wrapped a towel across her chest.
She looked frightened.
I held the photograph beside her shoulder.
My vision blurred.
Same position.
Same size.
Same shape.
“No.”
I whispered.
Rose stared at the locket.
Her lips parted.
Then she whispered:
“Elena?”
This time, I knew.
She had not simply read my name from the situation.
She said it like a memory.
I dropped to my knees beside the tub.
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