Chapter 5: What Diane Knew
I stared at Diane's name on the screen for three full rings.
Michael saw my face.
"Who is it?"
"Diane Marsh."
Something shifted in his expression.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
"Answer it," he said.
I did.
"Diane."
"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice was the same as I remembered — warm, a little hoarse, the voice of a woman who had spent fifty years laughing loudly and meaning it.
But underneath the warmth tonight there was something careful.
"I've been thinking about you all week.
I don't know why.
I just kept feeling like I should call."
"I'm glad you did." I looked at Michael.
"I found Mom's letter tonight."
Silence.
Then: "Ah."
Just that.
*Ah.*
"Diane." I kept my voice steady.
"Did you know?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"Which part?" she asked.
My legs went out from under me.
I sat down in the nearest chair.
"All of it," I said.
"Tell me all of it."
She exhaled slowly.
"Your mother and I were friends for fifty-one years.
There are things she told me that she never told another soul." A pause.
"Ruth was one of them."
"You knew about Ruth."
"I was there, honey.
I was twenty-two years old and I drove your mother to the hospital and I sat in the waiting room and I drove her home." Her voice was steady but thin.
"I held her hand in the car.
She didn't make a sound the whole way home.
Not one sound.
That was the bravest and the most heartbreaking thing I have ever witnessed in my life."
I pressed my free hand flat against the table.
"She never told me," I said.
"She wanted to.
So many times.
Especially after you and Michael started trying." Diane's voice caught.
"She used to call me after your appointments.
She'd say, *Diane, I should tell her.
She needs to know she's not alone in this.* And I'd say, *Then tell her, Carol.* And she'd say, *I can't.
If I tell her about Ruth, I have to tell her everything, and I can't do that to her.*"
"She wouldn't have been doing something to me.
She would have been letting me in."
"I know that.
You know that.
Your mother knew that too." A long pause.
"But shame doesn't listen to reason.
It never has."
I looked at the index card on the table.
"The address she left," I said.
"Ruth Callahan, Columbus, Ohio.
Do you know if it's still current?"
Quiet.
"Diane."
"Your mother wasn't the only one who hired someone to look," she said carefully.
I went very still.
"When?"
"Three years ago.
After Carol passed." Her voice was soft.
"I thought — if Carol couldn't be brave enough to find her, maybe I could do it for her.
As a last thing.
A gift she never got to give herself."
"Did you find her?"
"I found a woman named Ruth Callahan in Columbus, Ohio, who was born on March 4th, 1965." Diane's voice was barely above a whisper.
"The same birthday your mother wrote in the letter."
The kitchen felt very far away.
"Is she still at that address?"
"No.
She moved about eight years ago." A pause.
"But I have her current address.
I've had it for three years.
I didn't know whether to send it to you.
I didn't know if you even knew she existed."
"Send it to me," I said.
"Tonight.
Please."
"There's something else you should know first."
I gripped the phone tighter.
"Ruth looked for your mother," Diane said.
"About fifteen years ago.
She hired her own person.
They found Carol's name, her city, her general area — but they hit a wall with the contact information.
Ruth left a message with the agency, in case Carol ever made an inquiry." A pause.
"She never stopped looking either."
I couldn't speak.
"She wanted to be found," Diane said gently.
"She's been wanting to be found for a very long time."
I looked at Michael across the table.
He was watching me with that same expression — not guilt, not relief.
Something quieter than either.
"Send me the address," I said.
"It's already in your inbox," Diane said.
"I sent it the moment I heard your voice."
We stayed on the line for another moment without speaking.
"Your mother loved her," Diane said finally.
"Every single day.
She just didn't know how to carry it and show it at the same time."
"I know," I said.
"I think she'd be very glad you found that letter."
After I hung up, I sat without moving for a long moment.
Then I opened my email.
The address was there.
A street in Columbus.
A different street from the one on the index card.
A name below it that made my breath catch — because beneath *Ruth Callahan* was a second line.
*Also known as: Ruth Callahan-Moore.*
She was married.
She had a life.
She had no idea that the sister she'd never known was sitting in a kitchen in another state, holding her address with shaking hands.
Michael reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
I looked at the address.
At the twelve ultrasound photographs.
At my mother's letter, folded and still.
"I want to write to her," I said.
"I don't want to call.
I don't want to show up.
I want to write to her and let her decide."
"Okay."
"But I don't know what to say."
Michael was quiet for a moment.
May you like
"Yes you do," he said.
And somehow, he was right.
