An elderly man was arguing about insurance coverage. A young mom was juggling a toddler and a prescription bag. Normal Tuesday afternoon stuff.
I handed my prescription to the pharmacy tech, a kid who looked about 12, but was probably in college. 20 minutes, he said without looking up. So I wandered the aisles, picking up things I didn’t need.
Chapstick, a magazine with spring organizing tips on the cover, a bag of cough drops. Normal things for a normal person living a normal life. If someone had told me that in 20 minutes everything I believed about myself would crumble, I would have laughed.
I was Jessica Thompson. I had baby pictures on my parents’ mantle starting at age three. I had a birth certificate, a social security number, a history.
But histories, I was about to learn, can be rewritten, and sometimes the most ordinary moments are just the calm before everything changes. The pharmacy line moved slowly. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the pressure in my sinuses.
The woman in front of me was buying what looked like half the gardening section. Gloves, plant food, and one of those little hand shovels. She had gray hair pulled back in a neat bun and wore a cardigan that reminded me of something my mom would own.
When she turned around to leave, our eyes met. The change in her expression was instant and terrifying. Her face went from pleasant distraction to complete shock, the color draining away like someone had pulled a plug.
Her mouth opened slightly and the bag of gardening supplies slipped from her hand. Oh my god, she whispered. I bent down to help her pick up the scattered items.
Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? She grabbed my wrist as I handed her the gloves. Her grip was stronger than I expected. You look just like my sister.
I straightened up, gently pulling my hand back. People say I have one of those faces. No, she shook her head violently.
No, you don’t understand. It’s not just a resemblance. It’s everything.
The way you tilt your head, your nose, your eyes, even that scar. Her finger pointed to the small mark above my right eyebrow. I touched it reflexively, the way I always did when someone mentioned it.
I got this falling off my bike. When you were seven, she said. It wasn’t a question.
How could you possibly know that? Because Rachel got that scar when she was seven, two weeks before she disappeared. Her voice cracked on the last word. She was trying to ride without training wheels, hit a rock and went over the handlebars.
Three stitches at St. Mary’s Hospital. The pharmacy suddenly felt too warm. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
I think you’re confused. My name is Jessica. What’s your full name? She leaned forward, her eyes searching mine with desperate intensity.
Jessica Thompson. The words came out automatically, then I added without thinking. Jessica Rachel Thompson.
The woman made a sound like she’d been punched. Her purse hit the floor. Rachel, your middle name is Rachel.
It’s a common name, I said, but my voice sounded strange to my own ears. How old are you? 32. Born in 1993? I nodded, unable to speak.
Rachel would be 32. Born May 15th, 1993. Tears were streaming down her face now.
She had green eyes with gold flecks, just like yours. She was left-handed. Are you left-handed? I looked down at my left hand, still clutching my prescription paper.
Lots of people are left-handed. She had a birthmark on her left shoulder, shaped like a crescent moon. My mother had the same one.
It runs in our family. The prescription paper crumpled in my fist. I did have that birthmark.
I’d always thought it was unique, special. My college boyfriend used to trace it with his finger, but how could this stranger know about it? I need to show you something. The woman fumbled in her purse, pulling out a worn leather wallet.
From inside, she extracted a photograph, holding it with shaking hands. This is Rachel. This was taken three days before she went missing.
I looked at the photo and felt the world tilt. A little girl grinned at the camera, missing her two front teeth. She wore a pink bicycle helmet and matching knee pads.
Behind her was a red bike with white streamers on the handlebars. But it was her face that made me grab the pharmacy counter for support. It was my face.
Not similar, not resembling. It was exactly my face from the photos on my parents’ mantel. The earliest photo they had of me was from my third birthday, they said.
Everything before that was lost in a house fire. She was playing in our backyard, the woman continued, her voice hollow. In Denver, I went inside to answer the phone.
It was my mother calling about Sunday dinner. I was only gone five minutes. When I came back, the gate was open and Rachel was gone.
We searched for hours, days, years. I’m not her, I said, but the words felt like a lie. I’m from Portland.
My parents are Susan and Michael Thompson. I’ve always been Jessica. Then how do you explain this? She pulled out another photo.
This is what the age progression specialist said Rachel would look like at 30. I stared at the computer-generated image. It could have been my driver’s license photo.