"Thank you," Victoria whispered. "Thank you, Hannah. I will make all the arrangements. We will do this together."
"I am scared," Hannah said.
"So am I," Victoria said. "But we will not be scared alone. Not anymore."
Chapter 5: The Box in the Attic
The drive from Seattle to Portland took three hours, and Hannah spent all three rehearsing what she would say. Mom, where was I born? Every version sounded like an accusation. By the time she pulled into the driveway on Alder Street, her hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
Sarah was already on the porch, apron on, smile too bright. "Hannah! You made good time. Come in, honey. I made soup."
"I am not hungry, Mom," Hannah said. "I need to look at something first. The box. The one in the attic."
Sarah went still. It was only a second, but Hannah felt it. "What box, sweetie?"
"The box with my baby things," Hannah said. "You showed it to me once when I was little."
"Oh, that old thing," Sarah said, too quickly. "It is probably just dust and old clothes by now. Come in and have some soup first. Your dad is at the hardware store."
"Mom," Hannah said. "Please. The box."
Sarah looked at her for a long moment, then nodded toward the stairs. "It is in the attic, behind the winter coats. Bring the flashlight from the kitchen drawer."
Hannah found it at the back, under a folded quilt, a plain cardboard box with SARAH written on the side in faded marker. She carried it down to her old bedroom. Part of her wanted to close it, go downstairs, eat soup, and pretend she had never met Victoria Ashford at all. She lifted the lid.
On top was a tiny knitted cap, soft and yellowed with age, small enough to fit in her palm. Under it was a photograph. Sarah, much younger, hair dark instead of gray, holding a newborn wrapped in a white blanket. On the back, in Sarah's handwriting, were the words June 2001. Hannah stared at the baby in the photo, eyes closed, mouth open in sleep.
Under the photograph was a folded piece of paper. Her fingers shook as she opened it. The handwriting was not Sarah's. It was hurried and uneven, the letters leaning hard to one side, as if the writer's hand had been shaking too. It said, "Please take care of her. Her mother can't."
Who wrote this?
At the very bottom of the box, under a folded baby blanket, was a plastic bracelet. A hospital bracelet, the kind they put on a newborn's wrist. The print was faded but still clear. Baby G.A. Hannah held it up to the light. Baby G.A. Not Baby Brooks. Not Hannah. G.A. The same initials as the silver bracelet Victoria had shown her. Her stomach dropped.
"Mom?" she called. Her voice came out thin. "Mom, can you come up here?"
Sarah came up the stairs slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. When she saw the open box on the bed, the color left her face. "Hannah, what are you doing with that?"
"I need to ask you something," Hannah said. She tried to keep her voice steady. "Mom, where was I born?"
Sarah froze. Her eyes went to the box, to the photo, to the bracelet in Hannah's hand, and then back to Hannah's face. For a second, Hannah thought she might actually tell the truth. Then Sarah smiled, a small, brittle smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Portland, honey. You know that. You were born right here at home. I have told you that story a hundred times."
"Have you?" Hannah said.
"Yes," Sarah said. "You came so fast we did not even have time to call anyone. Your father caught you. Remember?"
Hannah nodded slowly. She had believed that story without ever questioning it.
"Mom," she said, "then why is there a hospital bracelet in my baby box?"
Sarah stared at the bracelet. "That is just something from a checkup. All babies get those."
"A checkup?" Hannah said. "It says Baby G.A. My name is Hannah Brooks. G.A. is not my name."
"It could be a mistake," Sarah said. Her voice was getting faster. "Hospitals make mistakes all the time. Or maybe it was from when you had that fever. We took you in. They must have put that on you."
Hannah held up the folded note. "Then what is this?"
Sarah took the note with trembling hands. She read it, and her whole body seemed to fold inward. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed. "Where did you find that?"
"It was in the box, Mom," Hannah said. "Under the photo. Under the cap. Please take care of her. Her mother can't. Whose mother? Who wrote this?"
Sarah pressed the note to her chest. Her eyes filled with tears. "Hannah, please. Please do not do this now."
"Do what?" Hannah said. "Ask where I was born? Ask why my baby box has someone else's initials in it? Mom, a woman in Seattle says I am her daughter. She says her baby was taken twenty-five years ago. She showed me a bracelet with G.A. on it. And now I find this in our attic. I need you to tell me the truth."
Sarah began to cry, her shoulders shaking. She reached for Hannah's hand and held it tight.
"I need to tell you something, but not like this," Sarah said, her voice breaking. "Come back Sunday. I will tell you everything."
Hannah stared at her. "Sunday? Mom, I am here now. I drove three hours."
"I know, baby, I know," Sarah said. "But your father needs to be here. We need to do this right. Please. Come back Sunday. I will tell you everything. I promise."
Hannah looked at the box, at the bracelet that said Baby G.A. She wanted to scream. Instead she heard herself say, "Sunday. I will come back Sunday. But Mom, no more stories. I need the truth."
Sarah nodded, tears running down her face. She pulled Hannah close and held her, and Hannah let herself be held, even though every answer she had come for was still locked inside the box.
Chapter 6: The Test
Hannah drove back to Seattle on Monday morning with the attic box still sitting in her mind. The hospital bracelet. The folded note. Her mother's tears. Her mother had promised the whole truth on Sunday, but Sunday felt far away when the questions were already burning in her chest. She called Victoria from a rest stop.
"Hello?" Victoria said, and Hannah could hear the hope she was trying to hold back.
"It is Hannah," Hannah said. "I am driving back to Seattle. I want to do the test. The DNA test. Can we do it this week?"