Free Becoming Sarah by Miranda Simon Page A

that gave out free groceries, or haul Mom downtown to apply for food stamps and government checks. After a couple of months she’d hit rock bottom. She would drink so much she’d give herself alcohol poisoning. I would haul her to the emergency room, scared half to death she might die on me. She would recover, cry, and promise to do better. And she would, for a while.
    I could never figure out what started it. Sometimes the cause seemed obvious: she got dumped by some guy she was seeing, or laid off from a job, or had a falling out with a friend. Other times we were coasting along pretty happily and then all of a sudden, wham, like a piano falling from a blue sky.
    It gnawed at me, this worry that Mom was drinking again. Who would take off her shoes and tuck her under a blanket? Who would make oatmeal for her, with brown sugar and raisins, when she had a really bad morning? I imagined her alone in our apartment and I decided I couldn’t wait any longer.
    I’d wanted to give her a little time. Two weeks would have to be enough.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    I planned everything so carefully. I didn’t want her to slam the door on me, so I would wait until she came outside. I didn’t want her on the defensive immediately, so I needed to disguise myself. I needed to know what to say to her, word for word; I wrote it out and memorized it.
    On the day I’d chosen, a Saturday, I picked an outfit Jamie would have worn: jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. I bought a wig for the occasion, a red one. I drove over to my mom’s apartment building and parked two blocks away. I sat in the car, literally shaking. My teeth chattered. My knees knocked against each other. This was it. My chance to get my old life back. I could have everything I had now, plus the people I loved.
    I waited and watched until the lights went out in the apartment. A minute later my mother came down the front steps. She wore sweatpants and a sweater stretched down over her thighs. She carried her big black purse and pulled the little metal cart we used for heavy groceries.
    She almost walked by without seeing me. I jumped out of the car and blocked her way. "Just listen a minute," I said, "and I'll leave you alone, I promise. But you have to hear me out. I'm Jamie. It's me, Mom, and I know how to convince you."
    She tried to push by me, but I ran along next to her on the sidewalk. "I know Maria told you I'm some crazy person who just happened to know private stuff about her, from Jamie. But if you ask me questions only Jamie could answer, and I answer them, that proves who I am. Go ahead. Ask me anything."
    My mother paused and turned to me. There were tears on her cheeks. "Why?" she asked quietly. "Why did this have to happen to my baby girl?"
    It wasn't a question I expected. "I don't know -- I --"
    She put her hand on my arm. "Honey, I wish you were my Jamie. Don't you think I wish it with all my heart? But you're not, you can't be."
    "I am, I am." I was crying, and my carefully written speech had gone completely out of my head.
    "You know what I think? I think you're a lonely girl, a troubled girl, and you're looking for someone to love you. I feel sorry for you." She took her hand away.
    "Mom, please. Just ask me a question."
    "And what would that prove? That you knew Jamie. That you're a good guesser." She shook her head. "No, I won't listen to you, honey. Because right now I want to believe anything, anything that might bring my daughter back."
    "Give me a chance," I begged.
    She started walking again. "Go away now, please."
    "Mom, listen." I wracked my brain for the thing that would keep her talking. "Don't you want to know who did it? Who hurt me? I can tell you that."
    She wouldn't look at me. "Go home, honey. Just go home."
    "No, please, Mimi --" I used the old childhood nickname without thinking, a corruption of "Mama" and her first name, Miriam.
    She turned sharply to stare. "What did you call me?"
    "Mimi. Mimi. See, you do know me!"
    I watched hope bloom and