The Good Twin(50)

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Do you have a picture of her?”

Mallory nodded, then once again opened her purse and pulled out an envelope and placed it in front of me. “I have a few pictures of her on my cell phone, but by the time I got one, she was already very sick and didn’t look like herself.”

I picked up the envelope and pulled out two pictures. The first was of a young woman, holding a baby in her arms. She had chestnut-brown hair, delicate features, and a bright smile. I thought she was beautiful. “This is her, holding you?” I asked.

Mallory nodded.

In the second picture, she looked ten years older, although the child by her side—Mallory, looking just as I did at that age—was holding a birthday cake with a large number-five candle in the center. Her eyes had puffy circles underneath, and her smile had dimmed. I was glad Mallory hadn’t brought any later pictures. “I don’t think we look like her, do you?”

Once again, Mallory pulled an envelope from her purse. This time, she took out a picture and handed it to me. There was my birth mother, looking longingly up at a soldier, dressed in his army uniform. He had blond hair and the same large, blue eyes we did. “Our father?”

“I think we look like him, don’t you?”

I had to agree. “Are your—our—grandparents alive?” I asked.

“Our maternal grandfather walked out on our grandmother when Mom was only one. And Mom never saw her own mother after she was thrown out. I was told recently that she’s dead.”

“And our father’s parents?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about them. Not even their names.”

We finished our salads, and as we waited for the check, I said, “I don’t know anything about you. Where do you live? What do you do? Do you enjoy art?” I could have kept asking questions, but I stopped to give her a chance to speak.

“I’ve loved drawing since I could first hold a crayon in my hand.”

“Me, too.”

“I was studying at the Manhattan Institute of Art and supported myself by waitressing.”

“Was? What about now?”

“When we’re outside.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I loved drawing, too, and I thought I was very good at it. But by the time I left for college, my mother encouraged me to major in something more practical. She didn’t think I was good enough to make it into a museum, and in our family, you didn’t do something unless you could excel at it. So, I run the gallery and try to discover talent better than me.”

Mallory smiled. “I guess that’s one thing Mom gave me—confidence. She always praised my drawings, and encouraged me to follow my dream.”

The waiter came over with our check, and I grabbed it to pay for us both, but Mallory threw down two twenties. “My treat.”

I wasn’t going to argue. I just wanted to get outside and hear the rest of her story. We left the restaurant and began walking.





CHAPTER 35

Mallory didn’t say anything as we walked, so after a few minutes, I broke the silence. Although we were surrounded by people, we were invisible to them as they scurried past us. “You said you know everything about me. What, exactly?”

She turned to look at me. “I know you have five hundred thirty-eight friends and family on Facebook. I know you have more than five thousand Twitter followers and a little less on Instagram.”

“Anyone could know that.”

“I know your closest friend is Janine Wilson, and you met at college.”

“Matt must have told you that.”

“I know your best friend from first grade through high school was Heidi Preston, but you grew apart when she went to college at Stanford, although you still send each other birthday cards every year. Out of nostalgia, she asked you to be a bridesmaid at her wedding two years ago. You had to decline because you were attending an important art show in Munich.”

I didn’t understand how she knew this, and I felt myself take a step away from her.

“I know your favorite cousin is Eddie Engle, even though his sister, Justine, is closer in age to you. I know that your favorite movie is When Harry Met Sally . . . and that you’re afraid to watch horror movies. I know your favorite teacher was Mrs. Reading in the third grade, and you had a crush on Billy Ceszek in the seventh grade. I know your favorite vegetable is spinach, preferably sautéed, and your favorite ice cream flavor is black raspberry.” She stopped to take a breath. “Both are my favorites, too, by the way. And I know you put ketchup on French toast.” She smiled. “You’re on your own with that one.”

I stopped walking. Mallory took a few steps before she realized I wasn’t next to her, then backtracked to me. “I don’t understand,” I said.

“You asked me why I didn’t come into the gallery when I saw you through the window. It was because I was afraid. I didn’t understand what I was seeing. So, I ran away. It took me a week to work up the courage to go back, and when I did, the gallery was closed. It was the night you’d learned about your father’s diagnosis.”

“Three months ago.”

“Yes.” She motioned for me to start walking again, and I did. “I looked up your home address and went there. Ben let me in.”