The patio went silent.
Across Aaron’s abdomen was a long curved scar.
Almost identical to mine.
Same side.
Same shape.
My glass nearly slipped from my hand.
Natalie stared between us.
“Why do you both have the same scar?”
“I don’t know,” Aaron said.
Neither did I.
Then my eighty-two-year-old sister, Helen, slowly stood beside the pool.
She walked toward Aaron.
Her face had gone white.
“Turn around.”
Aaron blinked.
“What?”
“Please.”
He turned.
Helen saw the small crescent-shaped birthmark beneath his right shoulder
blade.
She covered her mouth.
And I knew, before she said another word, that the pool party was about
to become something none of us would ever forget.
PART 2 — HELEN’S FACE
My sister had always been difficult to frighten.
Helen was fourteen years older than me.
She had been the practical one after our father died.
The person who handled paperwork.
The person who remembered birthdays.
