Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

Bennie reached her office, shut the door, then yanked the envelope out of her briefcase and opened the wrinkled yellow flap. Inside were three photographs, one eight-by-ten and two smaller ones, snapshot size. The large photo drew her eye. It was in black-and-white, of twelve pilots in front of a grainy airplane. The shadow of a propeller fell on its riveted skin and the airmen faced the camera in two rows, like a jury. The back row was a lineup of men in bomber jackets, grayish ties, and caps with badges on the front. In the bottom row of the photo knelt another line of pilots, in envelope caps of grainy wool. The pilot on the far right, poised uncertainly on one knee, had light eyes that Bennie recognized. Her own.

She swallowed hard. The soldier’s eyes were round and large as hers, though he was squinting against the sun. His nose was longer than Bennie’s and his lips less full, but his hair was a sandy blond, like hers. Bennie felt a jarring in her chest and turned the photo over. “Formal crew photo,” it said on the back, in a neat, careful pencil. “Lt. Boyd’s Crew, 235th Bomb Squadron, 106th Bomb Group, 2nd Division, 8th Air Force.” The names of the airmen on the top row were written in the same handwriting and they were all lieutenants. Bennie’s eyes raced to the end of the second line. A list of sergeants, then the last sergeant’s name. S. Sgt. William S. Winslow. Bill Winslow.

Dad.

Dad? Bennie checked her watch. There was still a chance she could find out today. She grabbed the group photo and snatched up the little photos with only a glance. She’d look at them on the way. She had to get there before visiting hours were over.

The last rays of the sun streamed dark gold through the Palladian windows, burning long, glowing arches into the Oriental rug. The sitting room was spacious, with worn antique chairs and couches grouped around mahogany coffee tables. Oil landscapes hung on the plaster walls, and a portrait of a somber physician in three-piece suit and watchchain was illuminated by a dim brass fixture. The setting was a model of old-money elegance. Nobody would have guessed it was a mental hospital.

Her mother’s wheelchair had been positioned against one of the windows, apparently to view the front lawn, newly shorn. The wheelchair cast a distorted shadow, its handles elongated and its wheels elliptical. Her mother’s head made a rumpled silhouette above the plastic sling of the wheelchair. Bennie felt a pang as she crossed the empty room toward the chair. Her mother’s condition was expected to remain stable with medication. It was both the good and bad news.

Bennie pulled up an ottoman needlepointed with fox-hunters. “Hey, good lookin’,” she said, sitting down. Her mother’s head didn’t turn from the window. “Ma. How are you?”

The sunlight streamed onto her mother’s face, but she didn’t blink. A tiny woman, her chin and cheekbones were delicate, framed by dense, wavy, gray hair. Pale, papery skin covered her soft jowls, and deep frown lines furrowed her forehead. Her eyes drooped a listless brown, her lids hooded with age. Her only strong feature was a hawkish nose that had always seemed feisty to Bennie until recently.

“Ma, you gonna say hi to me?”

Nothing, not even the blink of an eye. Her mother had been this way for two weeks now. The doctors were tinkering with her dosages, but she wasn’t coming around.

“Ma, the sun bothering you? You want me to move you?”

Her mother suddenly slipped down in the wheelchair. A blue cotton blanket rode up her legs, exposing knobby ankles under the hem of a chenille bathrobe. Her spongy slippers fit poorly, curling up at the toe. Dark, spidery veins looked sketched in india ink against the translucent whiteness of her shin.

“Ma, here. Let me help you.” Bennie tilted the chair out of the sunlight, then grasped her mother by her thin shoulders and hoisted her higher. The old woman offered neither resistance nor help; her body was light as an old paper lantern. A scent clung to her, not the Tea Rose perfume she favored, but a bitter and medicinal smell. Bennie pulled the blanket down over her mother’s feet. “Better?”

No response, but her mother slipped down again, her knees flopping wide open. If she had been sentient she would have been mortified, and Bennie shuddered for her as she pressed her knees together and tucked the blanket tight around them.

“Ma, sit up straight. You gotta sit up. Can you sit up?” Bennie leaned over, eased her up again, and held her there a minute. “Isn’t that better? Do you feel that? I’m gonna let go now. When I let go, see if you can stay up. Ready? One, two, three.” Bennie released her grip, but her mother slid down into a deep sea of blue cotton, her chin barely above water. Bennie permitted herself a sigh and rearranged the blanket over her mother’s legs and ankles. “You’re not at dinner tonight, Ma. Did you eat in your room?”

Her mother’s expression remained unchanged.

“Was Hattie here to visit today? She told me she was. She said you had lunch together. You had some soup, right? Chicken noodle.” Bennie grasped the green-padded armrests of the wheelchair and pulled her mother closer. “You’re not gonna talk? What, do I have to take your deposition?”

But even that didn’t get a reaction. Her mother’s eyes rested on Bennie without seeing her. If Bennie hadn’t lived it, she wouldn’t have believed it was physically possible. As long as she could remember, Carmella Rosato had been ill, and the daughter had grown up taking care of the mother instead of the more conventional arrangement. They’d made a breakthrough with electroconvulsive therapy, but the old woman’s heart had grown weaker. Bennie called a halt to the procedures because she’d rather have her mother depressed than dead. At times like this, she doubted her decision. “Ma?” she said. “Mom?”

Her mother blinked, then blinked again, and Bennie realized she was falling asleep. Then Bennie remembered. The envelope. The photos in her briefcase. She wasn’t sure what to do. As much as she wanted to know, Bennie felt torn about raising the subject. Her mother was already so fragile. What if the questions sent her into a deeper catatonia? Gave her a heart attack?

Still, Bennie had asked nothing of her mother all her life and all she wanted now was an answer. Of course she didn’t have a twin and she was entitled to have it confirmed. Anger glowed in her chest, but Bennie ignored it, ashamed. It wasn’t that her mother wouldn’t help, it was that she couldn’t. Still Bennie didn’t reach for her briefcase. She froze on the ottoman, as motionless as her mother in the wheelchair.

The sunlight faded to the shade of tarnished brass and the room grew cold. Bennie watched her mother’s eyes close and her head nod slowly forward. Her skin looked waxy and pale. Her breathing was shallow. Soon the old woman would be dead. What? Bennie caught herself, in surprise. Not dead, asleep. Soon her mother would be asleep. Bennie ignored the lump in her throat, fished out the envelope, and set it on her lap. “Ma, I have something I want to talk about. It’s important. Wake up. Wake up, Ma.” She patted her mother’s knee, but it had no effect. “Ma, I’m sorry, but there’s something I have to ask you. It’s crazy, but I want to hear you say that. Ma?”

Her mother stirred, lifting her head with an effort that sent a guilty ripple through Bennie.

“Great, Ma. That’s great. Now can you see me? Do you see me?”

Her mother’s eyes were open but unfocused. As far as Bennie could determine, her mother was seeing nothing.

“Ma, I met a woman today who says she’s my twin sister. She says that I was a twin, that I am a twin. That’s crap, isn’t it? Of course it is.”