Angie’s mouth went dry—1986 was when she’d been four going on five. Whatever this was—the date, the age of the child at the time—it didn’t make sense. Wind smacked a branch against the big windows and she jumped. Rain started drumming on the metal roof. Angie reached into her pocket for her phone. She dialed the number for her favorite Italian restaurant where she regularly bought takeout. She asked for Mario, the owner.
He picked up.
“Hullo!” he yelled. She could hear the clatter of pots and kitchen pans and voices in the background.
“Mario.” She spoke loud and fast and clear. “It’s Angie Pallorino. I have a big, big favor, and I’m in a rush. Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“Hang on, Angie, I’m going to take this in my office.”
When he came back onto the phone, the background noise was quieter, and there was no longer a need for him to yell.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need a translation from Italian into English—an old newspaper story.”
“Ah, no problemo. You want to fax it over?”
“I ... do you have a smartphone or an address where I could forward a photo of the article?”
He gave her an email address.
“And ... Mario, it’s personal. If—”
“No worries, Angie. No worries. What happens with Mario stays with Mario.”
She smiled. “Okay. Hang on.”
With the phone, she shot a close-up of the article and sent the image to him. She paced in her dad’s office while she waited for him to read it, then tensed when her phone rang. She connected the call.
“This is really weird, Angie. Whatisthis?”
“What does it say, Mario? Just tell me what it says.”
“It says,The child of Canadian citizens Miriam and Joseph Pallorino was killed in a car accident in Tuscany. The child, Angela Pallorino, was four years old.” He paused. “It says the dead child’s name was Angela Pallorino,” he repeated. “Is this some mistake?”
A chill washed over her skin. She fell silent. Her brain swirled into a vortex, spinning everything she knew to be true into a wild whorl of color, and like water it was being sucked down a drain.
“Angie?”
“The ... the date ... when does it say the accident happened?”
“March 12, 1984.”
“Mario, can you keep this to yourself? It’s ... very personal. And I ... I need to figure it out.”
“Of course, Angie. Like I said, what happens with Mario—”
“Thank you. I owe you.” She hung up and stared blankly at the rain-streaked windows, at her own distorted reflection.
Angie Pallorino. Died. Age four. According to that news cutting.
That had to be a mistake, surely? Or whose reflection was she staring at?
Time ticked on, and still she stared, unable to fully compute this. She’d thought she’d begun to remember the accident—the pain on her mouth, trying to escape the crashing, mangling wreck. Were those memories false? What about the places her mind had gone with Alex during hypnosis—the men, the knife? What thefuckdid this mean?
She lunged back down to the papers scattered across the carpet. On her knees, Angie rummaged through them until she finally found what she was searching for. Her birth certificate. She read the date.
February 14, 1980.
