Page 74 of Wish For Me

Then I take Leif’s hand. “What’s the third thing?”

“I want to see the photo.”

“I told you I’d tell you about it later!”

He blinks. I know it’s his version of shaking his head. “I’m ready now.”

I hesitate. Then I sigh and pull out the photo of the best friends. Betty, maker of turkey soup and rescuer of war victims, and her best friend Carolyn, the answer to years of questions.

Betty’s a woman I never knew, but after grilling Mom via email and text over the past several days—the only distraction that could hold my attention while we waited for Leif to live—I feel like I do know her.

And I feel like I know Carolyn, too, after reading the diaries Leif’s aunt Nora and Uncle Jude dropped off two days ago. Carolyn is Clea, we were all convinced, and that was before I showed them the photo. James’ diaries are purposefully cryptic, but the mentions throughout the pages line up with the historical record like two sides of a puzzle finally snapping into place. From mentions of C founding ‘the league’, which Nora always thought was a baseball reference, to his offering the league ‘a few pennies’—he was clearly the anonymous donor who got them off the ground. The diaries talk about ‘C’ answering the call, then there’s a gap of over a year where he didn’t keep any diary at all—or perhaps, in his grief at losing his daughter, he shared too much and destroyed what he wrote.

There’s more, so much more. But the biggest thing—the last piece of the puzzle connecting it all—is what’s in this photo.

I hold up the photo, and turn it around to face him.

I wait, holding my breath.

He doesn’t see it at first. He only smiles, seeing the two best friends.

But then his brows furrow, and the excitement fills me to nearly bursting.

“Hey,” he says, squinting. “Isn’t that—”

I hand him the photo. In this one, the two women are embracing, their cheeks pressed together. Carolyn’s hand is gripping Betty’s—her left hand, with a wedding ring visible.

He looks me in the eye, his expression stunned. “Why is she wearing my mom’s wedding ring?”

I smile, waiting for him to put it together. He’s a smart guy. The smartest guy I know. It doesn’t take him long.

Leif laughs then—fully laughs—for the first time since he woke up. The sound is like a wish come true.

Epilogue

LEIF

TWO YEARS LATER

Noelle looks like a Christmas angel. Everything about her sparkles: the snowflake earrings dangling from her earlobes; the fancy pin thing in her hair; the ring on her finger.

The necklace she always wears; the clover shining as she turns.

I walk toward her at my usual ambling pace, saying hello to people as I pass but not stopping. I won’t stop until I reach her.

Instrumental versions of the holiday classics emerge from the exceptional sound system in the Elizabeth Brown Theater, as the full house mills around holding cocktail napkins piled with canapés and admiring the displays on the walls and plinths dotted throughout the room.

I wait until the couple Noelle is speaking to excuses themselves, then come up beside her, slipping my hand across the nape of her neck and kissing the top of her head.

“Hey,” she says, angling herself to face me. The smile across her face is so bright my breath hitches.

“You doing okay?” I ask.

“Better than okay. You?”

I glance around at the huge crowd; at Aunt Nora’s documentary playing silently on the huge screen on stage; at the tiny woman in leopard print, flanked by two massive bodyguards, holding court on the far side of the room.

“Honestly? I still can’t believe all this is real.”

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