A Voice Like Hers

Mara called from the kitchen with the phone on speaker. Daniel stood at the open back door. Tess sat beside the suitcase, keeping one hand flat on its lid.

“Julian Mercer speaking.”

His voice was warm, brisk, ordinary. Mara had expected something uncanny and was ashamed of the disappointment.

“My name is Mara Vale. I’m Ruth’s daughter.”

A pause followed, long enough for a blackbird outside to complete its song.

“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”

She told him. She kept the dates straight and gave the name of the hospital, as though accuracy might soften what she was doing. When she finished, he made a small sound, not quite a word.

“I thought perhaps she’d changed her mind.”

Tess closed her eyes.

“She became ill very quickly,” Mara said. “We didn’t know about you until yesterday.”

“She mentioned children. I asked whether you knew. She said she needed to tell you herself.”

Daniel stepped outside. Mara watched him grip the back of a garden chair.

Julian explained that they had spoken twice. They had planned to meet in April, but Ruth had canceled because she was unwell. After that, his letters went unanswered.

“I didn’t want to push,” he said.

Tess leaned toward the phone. “We have things for you. Birthday cards. Pictures.”

He breathed in audibly. “She kept pictures?”

“Of you as a baby.”

They arranged a meeting for the following Saturday. Nothing elaborate, Mara promised, just tea. Julian asked whether they were sure. Tess answered before Mara could find the correct reassuring phrase.

“No. But we’d like you to come.”

Afterward Daniel returned, shutting the door too hard.

“You invited him here.”

“Yes,” Tess said.

“Into her house.”

“Our house, potentially,” Mara said, and regretted the word before his expression changed.

“There it is. Are we checking whether he wants a share?”

“I meant we get a say.”

“He gets a say,” Tess said. “He lost someone, too.”

Daniel looked at the little suitcase. “He didn’t even know her.”

Nobody could answer that without injuring him further. He went upstairs, and shortly afterward the shower began running.

Mara opened her mother’s diary to Saturday. There was nothing written there. She entered Julian’s name in pencil, then sat with the unfamiliar shape of it until the kettle clicked cold.