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“Of course! We might be here for hours.” She wraps an arm around mine. “And I get to gaze upon your impressive male beauty.”
We turn the corner, and the metal rail comes into view. My step slows automatically.
“You’ve got this,” Tillie says. “No matter what, you get to bang this girl at the end.”
“I think I’d rather go back and do that now.”
“No chickening out.”
“I am happy to gobble all day long.”
“That’s a turkey.”
“Right.” My head goes light as I see a woman sitting at a table.
I come to a complete stop.
Tillie turns to look. “You think that’s her?”
“Surely it can’t be that easy.”
“Your mom did her research. Her croissant pictures tend to be at an outdoor table. It’s half past nine. The probability is actually pretty high.”
“We have to get closer to be sure.” My voice breaks halfway through the sentence.
“Tell me what you plan to say to her.”
I draw in a shaky breath. “Are you Anita Clemens?”
“That sounds good. You ready?”
“Yeah.”
We walk to the gate. I fumble with it for a second, and Tillie reaches across me to open it. I keep looking at the woman. Is it her? It’s the right hair, darker than mine, braided over one shoulder. She wears a hat, pale straw with a navy-blue polka-dot ribbon.
She’s talking on her phone while she spreads a hand over a glossy magazine. She hasn’t looked up, but her jaw is right. It fits the woman I saw in the picture. She’s slight, but not thin. A navy cardigan covers a white shirt. Khaki pants.
I think I should feel something. Like I should know, all the way down, that this is the woman who gave birth to me.
We step inside the gate. She’s five tables away.
“You okay?” Tillie asks.
I can’t respond. I don’t know.
Tillie pulls me forward. I try not to resist, but I don’t move.
“Do you need a moment?”
“What if it’s not her?”
“Then we sit somewhere and wait.”
Right.
The idea that it’s not Anita helps me take a step.
But we’ve passed only one table when the woman looks up and sees me.
