I click on the app, and it takes a second for the muted bluebackground to morph into a bright white withSovereign King’s Archivesabove an empty search bar. I type in my mother’s name, hesitating for a beat before clicking the magnifying glass beside the bar.
Gracie points at a listing in the middle of the screen. “There.”
Miranda Collins… student records… 2001-2005.
I click the hyperlink, my nerves already getting the best of me. My fingers go numb, and what little breath I have left leaves as information populates.
“Wow.” I blink.
I stare at the details, completely caught off guard by some of the things listed. She was on the yearbook committee, and in a few different clubs: Future Economists of SKU, Student Justice Coalition, and Poetry Club.
There’s even a list of awards she won.
Poetry awards. Yearbook committee recognitions. A campus leadership medal with her name etched in a bold serif font. She was brilliant. And she never told me. My throat goes tight, and I press a fist to my mouth to keep steady.
All these years, I thought she was just floating through life, just surviving parenthood, bills, her mental demons… and Gary. And this whole time, she was someone else, too. Someone with a voice and dreams. Someone who once had a life here.
Beneath the text and awards is a grid of photos, and my heart stops. There she is, smiling and alive in a way I’ve never seen her. In one of the images, her hair is longer, a little wild around the edges as if the wind was too much that day. In an another, she’s eating soft-serve ice cream, strands of her perfectly laid sew-in tucked behind her ear. There’s one of her with some girl whosearm is around my mom’s shoulders, and they’re laughing, both bent over and unable to keep it together.
It’s been years since I’ve seen her like this. And I don’t know what’s worse—that she had this whole life that I never knew about, or that something must have happened to make her bury it. I don’t know this version of her, but I want to. And while this doesn’t bring her back, it heals a part of me.
“Damn, Sam. You look so much like her. You could be her twin,” Gracie says, pulling me from my thoughts.
My eyes sting, but I blink away the tears. “Yeah,” is all I say, my voice catching.
Gracie leans closer, quieter now. She rubs my shoulder, but I can tell she’s not sure how to comfort me. Why would she? Her mom is alive and well; they speak every other day and seem to be the best of friends. I love that for her.
Pulling myself together, I survey the other images, each one making me more emotional than the last. But the final one stands out to me the most.
I freeze, tension spreading through my body. Gracie sits up, just as curious as I.
“What?” I whisper.
“That’s my mom,” Gracie blurts and points to the woman on my mother’s left. They’re similar, she and Gracie. The same warm brown complexion, big doe eyes, and long curly brown hair.
And Kane’s mom.
She’s to my mother’s right, and looks exactly how I remember her, but younger and brighter. Healthier, mentally and physically. Her skin is a deep sepia brown that shines from the sunlight. The sharp lines of her pixie cut frame her face perfectly, and her red lips are bold, loud, and full of life. I don’t point out her identity to Gracie because I’d have to explain how I knew her.
My chest tightens once more, and my head starts to spin. Not only did my mother attend here, but so did Kane’s. And they were friends. All this time, I thought they met at the facility, but—
“Who is this?” I ask, pointing to the taller blond woman, with long wavy hair and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
I read the names as if somehow it’ll change the faces staring back at me.
Ladies of Aurelian Circle: La’Kia Kane, Miranda Collins, Desiree Del Rosario, Amber Whitney, and Lynn Hansely.
“Amber is Alex’s mom.” Gracie points to the taller of the two, and then the other. “And Lynn is Christina’s.”
No fucking way. But she’s right. I see the resemblance, her eyes the same shade of green as his. He looks like his father, but he definitely has his mother’s hair and eyes.
“What’s the Aurelian Circle?” I ask.
When I got my acceptance, I studied every extracurricular this school had to offer, and I don’t recall seeing this listed anywhere.
She shrugs. “Never heard of it. See if it’ll let you click on it.”
I do as she suggests and another page loads.
