“I know.”
Susan folded her hands. “You were frightened. Mark was worse.”
You kept asking for your glasses.
“Why?”
She stared at me. “Because both babies were alive.”
I couldn’t breathe. “What did you say?”
“Both babies were born alive.”
I stared at her. “Then why did Mark tell me one died?”
You were frightened. Mark was worse.
Susan said nothing.
“He knew both were alive?”
“Yes.”
“And he let me believe my son was dead?”
“Rachel…”
Both babies were alive.
“For eighteen years?”
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
“Rachel…”
“No. One died.”
Susan’s eyes filled. “That isn’t what I remember.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“My husband told me.”
“I know.”
And suddenly, I remembered a conversation with Mark a few weeks before the birth.
***
“We’re going to need two of everything,” I’d said.
