“Yes. Lily Bennett.”
Every sound in my house disappeared.
The refrigerator hum.
Traffic outside.
A dog barking two streets over.
Gone.
I tightened my fingers around the phone.
“Could you repeat the name?”
“Lily Bennett.”
I stood so fast the stool scraped backward.
“There’s been a mistake.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My sister died ten years ago.”
Silence.
Not the polite pause people use while checking a computer.
A different silence.
The kind that means the other person suddenly realizes the conversation has stepped outside normal reality.
Finally she said:
“I’m… very sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who is sitting in your office?”
“I’m looking at the patient record now.”
“Don’t look at the record.”
“Look at the woman.”
Another pause.
“She says she’s Lily.”
My heart began pounding so hard I felt it in my throat.
“Put her on the phone.”
“Ms. Bennett—”
“Please.”
There was movement.
