A door opened at the far end of the conservatory.
A nurse entered, pushing a wheelchair.
The woman seated in it had silver-brown hair cut to her shoulders. A blanket covered her knees. Her face was thinner than the woman in the cabin photographs, but the shape of her mouth was unmistakable.
My mother.
Evelyn.
Alive.
She looked around the room with mild curiosity.
Then her eyes found me.
Her lips parted.
“Rose?”
I could not move.
Lenora spoke gently.
“Evelyn, this is Claire.”
The woman’s expression changed.
She gripped the arms of the chair.
“No.”
“It’s all right,” the nurse said.
“No,” Evelyn repeated. “Claire is little.”
I walked forward.
“I’m Claire.”
Her gaze moved across my face. Confusion gave way to fear.
“No. Claire is with Elaine.”
“Elaine raised me.”
Evelyn began trembling.
“She promised.”
“She kept her promise.”
I knelt in front of the wheelchair.
