My boyfriend in college used to kiss it and call it my lucky charm. The woman reached into her purse with trembling hands and pulled out a worn photograph. This was her.
This was Rachel. I looked at the photo and felt the ground shift beneath my feet. A little girl stared back at me, grinning with two missing front teeth.
She had my nose, my chin, those same green eyes with gold flecks. She was wearing a pink dress I swear I remembered owning. I have to go, I said backing away.
I’m sorry, I have to go. I turned and ran out of the pharmacy, leaving my prescription, my dignity, and possibly my entire identity scattered on that floor. The rain hit my face like cold needles, but I didn’t stop running until I reached my car.
I sat there, engine off, rain pounding on the windshield, trying to make sense of what just happened. But here’s the thing about the truth. It doesn’t care if you’re ready for it.
It doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. Sometimes it finds you on a random Tuesday when you’re sick and vulnerable, standing in line at a pharmacy. Sometimes it looks like a stranger’s tears and sounds like your own name spoken by someone who’s been searching for you for 25 years.
My name is Jessica Thompson. At least I thought it was. But that Tuesday afternoon, I started to wonder if my name might actually be Rachel Marie Anderson, and if the life I’d been living was built on someone else’s tragedy.
That morning had started like any other Tuesday in my life. I woke up at 730 in my Pearl District apartment, the one with the exposed brick walls and the window that never quite closed all the way. Rain was pattering against the glass, which was nothing new for Portland in March.
My sinuses felt like someone had stuffed them with cotton balls soaked in cement. I rolled over and grabbed my phone, squinting at the bright screen. Three texts from Ashley asking if we were still on for Thursday coffee.
One from my mom with a gif of a dancing cat and the words, Happy Tuesday, sweetie. And two missed calls from my client who wanted to know if I could make the logo more purple, but less purple. My name is Jessica Thompson, and I design logos for small businesses.
Not the most glamorous job, but it pays the bills and lets me work from home in my pajamas. I’d been doing it for five years, ever since I graduated from Portland State with a degree in graphic design and a mountain of student loans. I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen.
My apartment was small but cozy, decorated with thrift store finds and plants I somehow hadn’t killed yet. The walls were covered with my own artwork and photos from family vacations. There was one of me and my parents at Crater Lake when I was 15, all of us squinting in the bright sun.
Another from my college graduation, my dad looking proud in his only suit, my mom crying happy tears, Susan and Michael Thompson, the best parents anyone could ask for. Mom worked as a pediatric nurse at OHSU, coming home with stories about brave kids and grateful parents. Dad was an accountant at a firm downtown, the kind of guy who got excited about tax season and actually enjoyed balancing checkbooks.
They’d been married 35 years and still held hands when they walked. I made myself tea with honey, hoping it would help my throat. As I waited for the water to boil, my phone rang.
Mom’s face appeared on the screen, smiling in that photo I’d taken at her birthday dinner last year. Morning, sweetie, she said when I answered. How are you feeling? Like someone filled my head with concrete, I croaked.
Did you call the doctor? You know how you get with sinus infections. Remember that time in high school when you let it go too long and ended up with pneumonia? I did remember. Mom had stayed home from work for three days, making me soup and forcing me to drink what felt like gallons of water.
She’d slept on a chair in my room because she was worried about my breathing. I’ll go to the walk-in clinic, I promised. Good.
Oh, and don’t forget about Emma’s wedding next month. Aunt Karen called yesterday to make sure you got the invitation. You know how she gets about RSVPs.
Emma was my cousin, Aunt Karen’s daughter. We’d grown up together, spending summers at the coast, building sandcastles and searching for shells. The Thompson family was small but close, just my parents, Aunt Karen and Uncle Bill, and their two kids.
My grandparents had all passed before I was born, which I’d always thought was sad. No stories about grandma’s cookies or grandpa’s war tales like other kids had. After I hung up with mom, I took a shower, threw on my dad’s old University of Oregon sweatshirt and some jeans, and headed to the walk-in clinic.
The doctor confirmed what I already knew. Sinus infection. She sent me off with a prescription for antibiotics and instructions to rest.
The rain had picked up by the time I left the clinic. I sat in my Honda Civic for a moment, debating whether to fill the prescription now or just go home and sleep. Responsibility won.
The Walgreens on Northwest 23rd was only five minutes away. I found a parking spot right in front, which felt like a small miracle. Inside, the pharmacy was busy, but not packed.