What was her last name? I heard myself ask. Anderson, Rachel Marie Anderson. I’m Carol Anderson.
I’m your sister. That’s when the antibiotics slipped from my hand. The bottle breaking open on impact, pills scattering across the floor like tiny white secrets I could no longer keep contained.
I ran out of the pharmacy like the building was on fire. The automatic doors couldn’t open fast enough. I burst through them into the rain, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.
My car was right there, just 20 feet away, but it felt like miles. My hands shook so badly I dropped my keys twice before managing to unlock the door. Inside the car, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
The rain hammered against the windshield, creating a wall of water between me and the world. I couldn’t stop seeing that photo, that little girl with my face, Rachel Marie Anderson. The name echoed in my head like a song I couldn’t remember learning.
I drove home on autopilot, ran up the two flights to my apartment, and slammed the door behind me. My reflection in the hallway mirror stopped me cold. I stared at my face, searching for proof that I was who I’d always believed I was.
But all I saw were questions. I went straight to the bookshelf where my parents kept our family photo albums when I was growing up. I had copies of some of them.
My hands trembled as I pulled out the oldest one, labeled Jessica’s early years in my mom’s neat handwriting. The first photo showed me at my third birthday party. Chocolate cake smeared across my face, a pointed party hat sliding off my head.
I flipped the page. Me at Christmas, maybe three and a half, hugging a stuffed elephant. Another page.
First day of preschool, age four, wearing a Minnie Mouse backpack. I flipped backward. Nothing.
No baby pictures, no toddler photos, no first steps or first words or first anything. My life, according to these albums, began at age three. I grabbed my phone and called my mom.
She answered on the second ring. Hi, sweetie. Did you get your prescription filled? Mom, I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.
Jessica, what’s wrong? You sound upset. Why don’t I have any baby pictures? The silence stretched too long. I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow.
We’ve told you this before. The house fire when you were three. We lost everything.
What house fire? Where were we living? In California, before we moved to Portland. Where in California? Another pause. Sacramento.
What was our address? Jessica, why are you asking about this now? Just answer me, Mom. Please. What was our address? I don’t remember the exact address.
It was so long ago. You remember everything. You still have the receipt from my first day of kindergarten shoes.
How can you not remember where we lived? Jessica, you’re scaring me. What’s going on? I hung up. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone.
I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, pulling my shirt off my left shoulder. There it was. The birthmark I’d never really thought about.
Shaped exactly like a crescent moon. I called Ashley. Can you come over? Right now? Jess, I’m at work.
What’s wrong? Please, I need you. Twenty minutes later, she was at my door, still in her dental hygienist scrubs. I told her everything.
The words tumbling out in a rush. The woman at the pharmacy. The photos.
The missing sister named Rachel. The birthmark. Ashley listened, her face growing more concerned with each detail.
Okay, let’s think about this logically. It could be a coincidence. Rachel is a common name.
Lots of kids fall off bikes. And the birthmark? And the fact that I have no photos before age three? And that my parents can’t remember where we lived? Maybe they’re telling the truth about the fire. Then why can’t they remember the address? Why have they never taken me back to California to show me where we used to live? Why don’t I know any family friends from before Portland? Ashley bit her lip.
What do you want to do? I need to know the truth. I pulled out my laptop and opened Facebook. Help me find her.
It didn’t take long. Carol Anderson. Retired teacher.
Lives in Portland. The profile picture showed her with what looked like grandchildren. Her cover photo was a garden in full bloom.
That’s her, I whispered. That’s the woman from the pharmacy. I clicked on her photo, scrolling through years of family gatherings, holidays, ordinary life.
Then I found it. An album titled, Never Forgotten. My finger hovered over it for a moment before clicking.
The first photo knocked the breath out of me. A family portrait. A younger Carol, maybe early thirties.