“This photo was taken in August 1978. I’m roughly eight months old in that photo. So I’m eighteen months in one picture and eight months in another, do you follow?”
Karen nodded. Anna fetched a letter opener from her desk and placed the framed photograph face down.
“What are you doing?”
“My parents are lying,” she snorted. The old frame was an obstinate devil. The small brackets had practically rusted into the cardboard backing.
“About what?” Karen was completely lost.
“Turn that photo over.” Anna nodded in the direction of Ulla’s photograph on the table while she struggled. By now, she didn’t care if she broke the stupid frame. Karen sat diagonally behind her, curled up in the sofa, and Anna sat on the edge, using the coffee table as her workspace. Finally, the stubborn brackets started flying.
“Sara Bella and Jens, August 1978,” Karen read out loud. “I still don’t get who Sara is?”
“Don’t ask me.”
Anna slipped the letter opener under the cardboard backing.
“Spooky,” Karen mused. “Perhaps you had a twin sister who died?” Anna stopped in her tracks. This was an explanation she hadn’t even considered. She examined it quickly.
“That baby,” she pointed the letter opener at Ulla Bodelsen’s photograph, “is me. And this baby,” now indicating the picture she was easing out, “is me as well. The girls are identical.”
“Identical twins,” Karen whispered, dramatically.
“It makes no sense, Karen. Why would my parents keep it a secret that I had a twin sister who died? Anyway, that can’t be it. Ulla, the health visitor I saw today, said nothing about twins.” The cardboard came off, underneath it the faded backside of the photograph appeared. Anna cheered. On it someone had written Anna Bella, Dad, and Mom. July 1979.
Anna placed the two photographs side by side on the coffee table. They sat up and studied them.
“It’s the same child,” Karen stated. “But in August 1978 she was called Sara and the following July, her name was Anna. That’s just weird.”
They sat in silence for a long time, lost in thought. Anna felt a strange sense of purpose. She wasn’t alone. Karen was there.
“Why would you change a child’s name?” she asked Karen.
“Why don’t you just ask Jens and Cecilie?” Karen suggested.
“True,” Anna said. “And I’m going to. But let’s play detectives. I want to be prepared.”
“Okay,” Karen said, indulging her. “A name usually marks the beginning of a life. You’re named and you go through life with that name. You keep that name—unless you visit a numerologist who tells you you’ll win the lottery, if you change it to Solvej, or something like that.”
Anna started to smile.
“So, a name marks a beginning,” she said slowly. “Cecilie was ill. She had problems with her back.”
“Hmmm,” Karen said. “I do remember something about that. My mom used to say that’s why you were so close to Jens. Because he carried you everywhere during your first year.”
“He was practically a single dad,” Anna said. “Cecilie spent a lot of time in the hospital. Though I think he managed quite well,” she added.
Soon afterward they went to bed.
Saturday morning Anna woke up and, for a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She sat upright, feeling dazed. It was past ten and she was in her bedroom. She couldn’t recall the last time she had slept past ten. She heard muted laughter and got up. She went to the kitchen. The door to Lily’s room was open, and Karen and Lily were sitting on the floor drawing pictures. They had taped paper to the floorboards and were drawing houses and roads as seen from a bird’s perspective. Lily had started furnishing one of the houses with small teddies and furniture from her doll’s house. The radiator was on at full blast, and she could smell toast.
“Hi,” Anna said.
“Mom,” Lily shouted, dropped everything and threw herself into Anna’s arms. Anna lifted up her daughter and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. Lily’s body was warm and soft under her PJs.
“Did you sleep well?” Karen asked. Anna nodded.
“Cool afro,” she said, giving Karen a nod of approval. Karen’s hair was—if possible—even frizzier in the morning. They both burst out laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” Lily asked, confused.
“Auntie Karen’s monster hair,” Anna explained.
“Auntie Karen has a lion on her head, Mom,” Lily said.
Karen and Anna laughed even louder. The kitchen was welcoming, and Anna wanted some toast. With lots of butter and cheese. It was just like the old days. Karen and Anna rolling down a hill in the sunshine, laughing and rolling. They could take on the world. The cow pies they rolled over, the spinning globe, hunger, thirst, everything. As long as they were together.