“And this is our amazing, amazing new bathroom. Look, the bath has these jets, which are great for my muscles, because they get really tight from always sitting down . . .”

I sit up on the sofa. Right, it’s time for bed. This is ridiculous.

“And this is our specially built medicine cabinet.” Grace taps in a code and the doors for the largest medicine cabinet I’ve ever seen open with a small click. I pick up the remote, hit the red button to turn it off, but it doesn’t respond; the batteries are running out.

“The cabinet was Mum’s idea, she’s much better than me at keeping track of all my meds . . .”

I stand closer to the television, aim, and press the red button again and again. Fucking thing.

“It’s a relief one of us is organized. I’m such a dreamer that I . . .” The camera zooms in on the cabinet and the rows of carefully organized pill boxes. I’m inches from the screen. The boxes have their labels turned out, facing the camera. They’re all for Grace, but something to the side and just behind them catches my eye. It’s a piece of light green paper, a slip for a repeat prescription for Meg, not Grace, folded in half and tucked into the side of the cabinet. My eyes pounce, immediately recognizing another familiar name, one I’ve heard and spoken myself many times recently.

“Now I want to show you my special bed, which is really cool.” The camera moves on, following Grace’s chair as she maneuvers out of the bathroom and starts to glide down the hall. I stand still as my mind races. I know what I saw, I recognized the name of the doctor on the paper: Dr. Nina Rossi. She told us she wasn’t ever their doctor, so why was she prescribing Meg drugs? I turn the television off, pulling the plug from the socket, load the video on my laptop, and freeze the frame. The prescription slip is small on the screen, but now I can see two names clearly. Dr. Rossi was prescribing Meg OxyContin, a powerful opioid. Maybe it was for her back pain, but in that case why didn’t she get it from her own GP? I glance at my watch. I had thought about springing a visit on Dr. Rossi this morning to find out if she knew about Grace’s real name and age, but now questioning her is urgent, imperative. If I leave in two hours I’ll miss the traffic. I could wait for Dr. Rossi at work. It’s a bit of a mad plan, but I’m beyond caring now. I feel alive with energy again, and I need to know why Dr. Rossi lied.

13

Cara

By the time I get home, Mum’s on her own, bleary-eyed and disheveled, her FIND GRACE T-shirt thrown over a chair. She’s sitting on the sofa in her bathrobe, holding a large glass of red wine, the bottle empty on the coffee table in front of her. She turns slowly towards me, chin raised, defiant in her drunkenness. Her hair is flat at the back where she’s been resting her head. None of this feels real. I feel like we’re bad actors in one of those melodramatic soap operas Mum loves.