“Interesting coincidence,” she said, her heart beating so loudly her own voice sounded odd to her, like something aquatic, swallowed by waves. “She even looks a bit like me, don’t you think?”
Kate pretended to study the iPad for a moment, looking at the picture of herself with Cecily from two years ago. She was heavier then, carrying pregnancy weight she hadn’t lost. She’d still had twenty pounds of it in her face and around her middle when she met Andrea. But that was before life robbed her of her appetite and she ran around after two little boys all day. The thirty pounds she’d lost in the last year had made a world of difference. Sometimes, when she caught a glimpse of her face in a mirror, she almost didn’t recognize herself. And her hair in the photo was that sun-kissed color she’d been dyeing it then, not the dark-brown shot with gray it was now.
She handed the iPad back to Andrea. “See?”
Andrea gave the picture a cursory glance. She’d already discounted the possibility that it could be Kate.
“You’re much more attractive than this woman.”
“Thank you. They say everyone has a twin out there somewhere.”
“I’ve heard that.” Andrea flicked her finger, and the next news story loaded. “I don’t think that’s true. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone who looks enough like me to confuse someone. Though this one time, in the grocery store, a woman came up to me and was convinced I was Trisha Smith. Can you believe it?”
Trisha was a Westmount mommy who lived one block over. Her hair was the exact same shade as Andrea’s, as was her spray tan, and since they shared a trainer, their bodies had the same emaciated shape. Kate had mistaken them from a distance more than once.
“That’s crazy.”
“Right? It’s like all mothers look alike or something.”
“Right. Anyway, I should get that laundry on . . .”
Andrea had already lost focus, peering at her iPad with a squint because she refused to accept that she needed reading glasses. Kate went down to the basement, the location of the laundry room, and promptly threw up in the bathroom. Then she washed her face and put on a load of laundry in case Andrea thought to check.
Kate spent the rest of the day until the boys went to bed on autopilot. She’d spent the last year with her head in the sand. She needed to correct that.
When the boys were firmly asleep, she asked Andrea if she could borrow the spare iPad and went to the basement. Her new friends on IKWYDLS.com were right. It was time to explore more than TMZ. Time to see what the rest of the world had seen since she’d stopped watching a year ago.
Back then, after three days of nonstop coverage, Kate had worked up the courage to leave her depressing hotel room. She’d spent a week getting to know her new city. Listening to its sounds. Reviving the French she’d learned more than twenty years ago. She still thought of herself as Kaitlyn Ring then. A persona she tried to shed as she walked. Up to Mount Royal. Down to the Old Port and the Saint Lawrence River. Along the Lachine Canal for hours. Letting the cold October wind whip against her skin until it felt baby soft.
Montreal was full of churches. At the end of the week, she lit a candle for the dead in one of the cathedrals. And then another for her family. She thought of them every day. Not less as time went by but more. As she walked and slept and spent time alone, certain things became clear. Everything that had happened since the fog of her second bout of postpartum had lifted was a lie. She wasn’t better. The things she clung to as evidence that she was were just the gasoline she was dousing herself in. Waiting for it to spark, catch fire, and consume her.
So when she was faced with an actual fire, when her life had actually blown up, she’d taken the opportunity to run as far and as fast as she could. Thinking this would save her, finally, and for good. But it hadn’t. She was still who she was. The things that had dragged her down were still inside her. Everywhere she went, there she was. And now, added on to that was the pile of lies and deceit and regret. So much of it she was afraid she’d be dragged fully under this time.
She had to live with her choices or end it all. And even that she couldn’t do because it would lead to her being identified. Which would be even worse for her children. To learn that she’d run away, and then taken her life anyway? No. She’d built this prison, and she had to live in it. She had to make the best of it. Because she had no one to blame but herself.
She upped her efforts to get a job, to find a better place to live, to start eating three square meals a day. A list that felt more and more desperate as her money dwindled and none of the jobs she applied for ever showed any interest. And then one did.
It was, of course, the job she’d applied for thinking she could never do it. That she’d never have to. Because she couldn’t be a nanny to someone else’s children after having run away from her own. She just couldn’t. But she had less than $600 left and no prospects. This position offered everything on her list: housing, income, food.
She spent two hours agonizing, then booked the interview. Then she went to the corner store and bought two cheap bottles of red wine that still cost more than she’d spent in the last three days. She drank them down like medicine until she could barely remember her own name. When she’d woken, groggy, her tongue thick, she said her new name out loud: Kate
