My name.
My birth year.
And a date from eight years earlier.
Hanging from the tree was a familiar nursery tag.
My handwriting.
She’ll bloom.
I had sold Avery the tree planted in memory of my supposed death.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
The missing photographs.
The locked bedroom.
The funeral obituary.
The weekends spent away.
My family hadn’t told Avery I lived in Atlanta.
They had allowed her to believe I was dead.
For eight years.
I sat at the dining table until nearly midnight.
Then I found my mother’s keys, unlocked my bedroom and packed.
Medication.
Documents.
Clothes.
Ruth’s grafting knife.
My yellow notebook.
I left the bedroom door wide open.
Then I called Ruth.
“I found out why they keep sending me away.”
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she asked one question.
“Are you coming here?”
“Not for long.”
“Good,” she said. “It’s time you took that job in Washington.”
