One by one I lift them out: Wakai, Webster, Williams, Wall. Taking it out of the cabinet, the folder shakes in my trembling hands. I rest it on the ground reminding myself to breathe, to calm down. Stay focused, Becca. It might be nothing.

It’s not nothing: it’s me, Rebecca Wall, all my details, the forms I filled in, details about Mom. Then a small slip of paper slides out onto my lap. Blood results. My eyes peel the information from the page.

Conclusion: not the daughter of eFAD patient Nancy Wall.

There’s a bomb in my head, tick-tock tick-tock, thumping inside my skull, blurring my sight. Grabbing the bin by my side I throw up until I’m empty. Then I drag myself to the water cooler in the corner and drink. And then puke again.

My body is numb from head to toe, my soul too. What does this mean? Am I not me? Who am I?

Her words arrive like a swarm of bees attacking.

‘I took you, Becca. You’re not my daughter.’

My mouth won’t close. I’m sitting on the floor trying to get my body to move. Down the corridor activity is growing. More footsteps, more secrets. I have to get out of here, leave it as I found it, but it’s taking all my energy just to breathe. Closing my eyes, I pray, please God, help me.

The lobby has come to life in my absence. The change of shift. Barry is still behind the counter. He stands to speak as I pass, but I lift my hand to stop him. I can’t think straight. Squeezing the piece of paper in my pocket, I press the elevator button and wait.

A thousand questions whirl through my mind. Is it true? Could there be a mistake? Am I adopted? I took you, Becca. The elevator crawls to the second floor. Who else knows? The Walls? Bert? She came here looking for you. The door opens to the sound of another day starting. Another day of keeping the dead alive. Down the hallway I smell the decaying lies, the secrets, the past. Mom’s door is open when I get there, her head still, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. Are they the eyes of a liar? Is this the shape of a liar? I sit down beside her. Breathe, Becca, breathe. Nurse Lucy walks in just as I’m about to speak, and I order her back out the door.

‘But I have to change—’

‘Get out,’ I shout this time, louder, more guts, more hate.

Mom jolts in the bed when she hears my shout, eyes scared, fluttering. I take her hand in mine, her bony hand. The hand that held me, fed me, soothed me, guided me. The hand that squeezed mine on that first day of school. The hand that wiped the tears when Scott McCarthy broke my heart. This is the hand.