Page 74 of Gone Tonight
My mother claims her birthday is August second.
But topaz is the birthstone for November.
As if in a trance, I shut off the water, leaving the heavy pitcher in the sink, and dry my hand on a dish towel before walking back to my laptop.
I can no longer trust a single thing my mother has said.
Of course, she could have lied about her birth date, and I blindly believed her, never thinking to question such a seemingly fundamental fact about her. I assumed she loved the ring because it was pretty, not because it represented her secret truth. I created a story in my mind to support her deception, like an unconscious coconspirator.
All those years I drew balloons on construction paper cards andbaked chocolate cupcakes to celebrate on August second. Was every bit of it a lie?
I feel the slow burn of deep anger welling up in me again. I clench and unclench my fists.
What else could she have fabricated?
For all I know, even her name might be—
I leap to my feet before my mind registers my movement, jumping back from the table like the thought is something poisonous that might strike me. My heartbeat races as I inch forward again to grab my legal pad. There was something I came across yesterday during my search, something I need to see again right now. A Google hit with a perfect match for my mother’s name…
I flip back a page, my eyes scanning the scribbled notes, then I turn back one more page, impatience swelling inside me. I know it’s here. I have to find it. I crossed it out, but when I see it again—
The words leap out at me, through the strikethrough black pen mark I made.
Ruth Mary Sterling, Wisconsin, same birth date. Died at 12.
I’m shaking so hard I drop the pad of paper.
Maybe my mother’s real last name isn’t Sterling.
Her skin is light brown. She claims to be white—I’ve seen her write that down more than once on forms—but she looks as if she might be partly Latina. I inherited her skin tone, too. My friends Chelsea and Aliyah and I once lined up our forearms—white, black, and brown—and I was the middle shade. Even Ethan, when we first met, expressed surprise when I told him I was fully Caucasian.
The floor beneath me feels like it’s shuddering, trying to knock me off-balance.
I take a step toward the table and slowly ease back down in the chair.
Ruth Mary Sterling died a long time ago. So who is my mother?
The answer crashes down on me. She is the woman who stole Ruth Sterling’s identity.
Identity theft happens after death. It’s common enough that we’ve dealt with it at Sunrise more than once.
My mom told me she gave birth to me at eighteen.
But if she stole Ruth’s identity, she would have also appropriated Ruth’s exact age.
Name, birth date, age, race… these are typically among the first questions on paperwork people fill out in doctor’s offices and on government forms, the core facts we use to define ourselves.
I have no idea who my mother truly is.
My mind begins shrieking at me to run, to get away as fast as I can. Adrenaline seizes control of my body, infusing me with the energy to move. I run to my bedroom and grab my backpack, dumping my old school notebooks and pens onto my bed. I shove a few changes of clothes into it and zip it up, then I remember my toothbrush and run to the bathroom.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, and it pulls me up short. My eyes are big and wild looking.
Who is the woman who calls herself Ruth Sterling? Is she even my mother?
At least the mirror gives me a solid answer. I have her full lips and her high, flat cheekbones. She may have manipulated everything else about our lives, but there’s no way she could have influenced the genes that dictated the shape of my features.
I slump onto the floor and wrap my arms around my knees, curling up tight.
