Chapter 5 - The Name on My Birth Certificate
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“My name is Rachel.”
Mark said nothing.
I pulled out my driver’s license.
“Rachel Bennett Patterson.”
“Legally, yes.”
“Legally?”
Diane looked almost pleased.
Mark turned on her.
“You’ve done enough.”
“No,” I said. “She hasn’t.”
I wanted every poisonous word.
Mark explained that before my parents died, my name had been Rebecca Bennett.
At least according to records he had seen.
After an incident when I was very young, my family began calling me Rachel.
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“How do you know any of this?”
“Laura.”
My supposed sister had contacted Mark years before we met.
She told him she was searching for Rebecca.
For me.
Mark initially believed Laura was unstable.
Then she showed him photographs.
Hospital documents.
Two little girls.
Laura and Rebecca.
“What happened to Rebecca?”
“You disappeared.”
“When?”
“Age six.”
I remembered being six.
Birthday cake.
Kindergarten.
My father teaching me to swim.
At least I thought I remembered.
Mark looked devastated.
“Laura said those memories might not be yours.”
I wanted to slap him.
Instead I asked:
“Why did you marry me?”
His answer came too slowly.
“I loved you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He looked down.
I understood.
“You approached me because of Laura.”
“Yes.”
The charity fundraiser had not been accidental.
Mark had recognized me.
He had known who I might be before introducing himself.
Every foundational memory of our marriage suddenly became contaminated.
“Did Laura tell you to marry me?”
“No.”
“Did Diane know?”
Mark glanced at his mother.
“Yes.”
That explained her hatred.
I had entered their family as a mystery.
Then refused to behave like one.
But it still did not explain Emma.
“Why drug my daughter?”
Mark shook his head.
“I never agreed to that.”
“You watched your mother do it.”
“I found out later.”
“The video—”
“I thought she was giving Emma melatonin.”
Dr. Stevens looked disgusted.
“Then why did you say she couldn’t keep increasing it?”
Mark’s face fell.
Caught.
The social worker asked Emma whether Grandma ever told her why she needed the pills.
Emma nodded.
“Because of my dreams.”
I crouched beside her.
“What dreams?”
“The red room.”
Mark went completely pale.
Diane whispered:
“Oh, God.”
“What red room?”
Emma looked frightened.
“The room Mommy remembers too.”
I didn’t.
Then Emma described it.
Red wallpaper.
White rocking horse.
A broken moon-shaped lamp.
My knees nearly gave out.
I had dreamed about that room since childhood.
I had never told Emma.
Not once.
Yet my four-year-old daughter knew every detail.
Then she said:
“There was a little girl under the bed.”
I whispered:
“Who?”
May you like
Emma looked directly at me.
“She said her name was Rebecca.”
