Page 8 of Before We Came

I smile.

“To getting our rocks off.”

* * *

We chat about school and work for a while. I graduated from the chef program early last spring and have been teaching private cooking lessons at clients’ homes while I look for a restaurant opening. I ask about Micky’s plans for her culinary practical—she graduates this coming spring—and I love listening to all her creative ideas for her patisserie program exam. Each student must complete a practical exam and serve their dishes to some of the top executive chefs in the area. Coming up with a menu is stressful, so I help her work through some of her plans. After we finish strategizing her petit fours, there’s a lull in the conversation.

“Hey, so, I wanted to talk to you about something that happened at the funeral.”

“If this is about me telling people your mom holds the world record for opening the most soda cans in under a minute...”

“It’s not—what? Don’t even tell me.”

“Okay, I won’t,” she agrees as she takes a sip.

“I wanted to talk to you about some weird pictures I found.”

I open my purse and pull out the two photographs to show her.

“Look at these and tell me what you see.”

“Oh my God, is that you as a little kid?” she fawns. “You’re so adorable!”

I shake my head, exasperated.

“No, Micky. Look!”

She peruses the photo for a few seconds.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for,” she replies, glancing back and forth between the two. I pull out my phone and use the screen as a light to better view the images.

“See the leg? There’s no birthmark there. I’m supposed to have one right there.” I jab a finger into my thigh to further prove my point.

“Okay, and? These pictures are like twenty years old, cameras probably didn’t pick up on details like that back then.”

I huff and grab the other close-up picture and slap it down on the bar.

“What about this one?”

“Am I still supposed to be searching for a birthmark?”

“Look at the eyes.”

“Okay...”

“Do you see it?” I ask wringing my hands.

“See what, babe? I’m sorry, you’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

“These eyes are brown.” I point at the photo, then to my eyes, “Mine are gray, see?”

I’m trying not to act frantic, but these pictures have been bothering me for the last few days, and I can’t hold it in anymore.

She pauses. “I see that. So, what are you saying? You think you have a twin or something? Maybe it’s someone else.”

“I don’t know. But see?” I flip the photo over. “Julianne & Elizabeth. It says it’s me and Mom.”

“It’s a little weird, I guess. Where did you get this picture? Who took the photo? Maybe they know.” She shrugs.

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