Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Had My Face
The video lasted forty-seven seconds.
The woman stood beside Emma’s sleeping body.
Same height as me.
Same dark hair.
Same shape of face.
But not me.
I had been in Philadelphia that night attending a jewelry-industry conference.
Mark had stayed home with Emma.
The stranger touched Emma’s hair.
Then she whispered:
“She looks like us.”
Us.
Diane answered:
“She looks too much like Rachel.”
The woman’s expression hardened.
“You promised me this would be fixed.”
“I’m trying.”
Then the bedroom door opened.
Mark entered.
He stared at the stranger.
“Laura, you need to leave.”
Laura.
A name I had never heard.
She kissed his cheek.
Not romantically.
Familially.
Then she walked out.
The recording ended.
I turned toward Diane.
“Who is Laura?”
Her mouth remained closed.
“WHO IS SHE?”
Emma began crying.
I immediately lowered my voice.
The social worker took her gently toward the other side of the room.
Diane smiled.
That infuriated me more than shouting would have.
“You really don’t know?”
One officer warned her to stop provoking me.
I ignored him.
“Why does she look like me?”
Diane looked toward the floor.
Then Mark appeared at the end of the corridor.
He stopped when he saw the tablet.
When he saw his mother beside security.
When he saw me.
“Rachel.”
“Who is Laura?”
His face changed.
That was my answer.
“You know her.”
He approached slowly.
“I can explain.”
“You had eight years of marriage to explain.”
“This isn’t what you think.”
I almost laughed.
“I don’t know what to think.”
Mark glanced toward Emma.
“Not here.”
“Everything happens here now.”
The social worker stepped between us.
Mark looked defeated.
Then he whispered:
“Laura is your sister.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Yes, you do.”
My parents died when I was twenty-two.
Not once had they mentioned another daughter.
Mark continued.
“Your twin.”
The hallway tilted.
Diane interrupted.
“Half sister.”
Mark spun toward her.
“Mom!”
She smiled.
“You wanted truth.”
Then she looked at me.
“Ask him how he met you.”
I turned slowly toward my husband.
Mark had told me we met accidentally at a charity fundraiser.
He had spilled champagne on my dress.
I had laughed.
We married two years later.
“You knew Laura before me?”
Mark closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“How?”
No answer.
Diane supplied it.
“He was engaged to her.”
My stomach dropped.
Mark stepped toward me.
“Rachel—”
I backed away.
Then Emma suddenly spoke from the examination bed.
“Mommy?”
I turned.
She was holding the photograph Mark had hidden among her toys.
Apparently the social worker had retrieved it from our house through an officer.
Emma pointed at the back.
“There are words.”
I took it.
Three names had been written beneath the photograph.
Mark.
Laura.
Rebecca.
Not Rachel.
Rebecca.
I looked at Mark.
“Who is Rebecca?”
May you like
He whispered:
“You are.”
