Page 11 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
It didn’t make sense—none of it, not one little bit—yet when the woman wrapped her arms around her, Beatrice wanted to cry.
And Beatrice wasnota crier.
This woman, though—here was a woman who knew where her faucet was located.
“I can’t believe it.” She wiped tears from her face and laughed, looking at Minna and the woman named Reno. “Oh, my, we have to sit down, Minna, can you bring that chair—yes, Reno, grab that one there.”
Without even choosing to bend her knees, Beatrice found herself seated in a wicker chair, her clone sitting opposite. Near them, Minna and Reno both pulled up chairs, but Beatrice couldn’t have made herself look away from the woman if she’d wanted to.
Which she didn’t.
It was stranger, deeper, than just finding a woman she freakishly resembled. A swell rolled beneath her, as if the entire building had been placed on the ferry, as if she were sailing over something enormous and aqueous. It felt primeval.Damn, she was losing it. “I don’t understand.”
The woman’s eyes—that exact shade of clove, the exact shape that Beatrice saw every day in the mirror—darted to Reno. “Where’s—”
Reno said, “Went to yoga. Twenty minutes ago. Told me to tell you.”
Beatrice sat forward. “Whoareyou?”
The woman pushed her hair over her shoulder and leaned forward. “I’m Cordelia. And you… you found me. You foundus. Finally. You’re alive.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cordelia reached forward, her hand moving quickly, her fingers touching Beatrice’s face. “You are alive, right? I’m not dreaming this?” She glanced at Minna, who nodded encouragingly.
Beatrice said, “I don’t think we’re dreaming. Maybe… do you have me confused with someone else?” Perhaps her father had a cousin out here or something? But Dad always talked about how tragic it was that their family was so small—after her mother had died of lung cancer, it had just been the two of them until Dad had married Naya. At one point, Beatrice had been such a lonely child, she’d made imaginary friends with her own image in the mirror, chatting to it, swearing that sometimes it answered her back.
Fumbling with a small bag next to her chair, Cordelia drew out some kind of yarn project that involved very small needles. But as if her fingers were having trouble knowing what to do, she made no move to start knitting. “I’m not confused. Not if you’re Beatrix.”
“My name is Beatrice.”
“Beatrice, then. Yes.” A small shake of the head, as if to clear it, and then Cordelia said, “But you died. In the accident.”
“What accident?”
“The car crash when we were thirteen months old. My mother told me that my father and twin sister died.”
This was too much. It simply couldn’t be. Beatrice leaned forward. “When’s your birthday?”
Cordelia’s fingers began to manipulate the yarn around the tiny silver needles. She smiled. “Today, of course. Happy Birthday, Beatrice.”
It felt like a punch to the kidneys. “Plimmerton Hospital?”
“In New Jersey. Yes.”
Was this really happening? Beatrice said, “Twelve thirty p.m.”
“You’re older than I am. I was one fifteen p.m.”
No.
No.
This didn’t happen to normal, regular people who did normal, regular things. Beatrice paid her taxes by the end of February and got her teeth cleaned every six months. She bought everything bagels fresh on the weekend and froze them for the week ahead. Normal people did not find their long-losttwinwhile on a weekend earmarked for golf.
Move. Think.She sucked in a breath and stood, unsure where to move to next. But it helped to stand up. Something rose inside Beatrice’s chest—a flame of heat that might sear her lungs forever if she didn’t articulate the feeling that was rising inside her. “Is she alive? Our mother?”
Cordelia’s fingers never stopped knitting, but she kept her gaze on Beatrice. “Alive and spitting.”
