I pulled out my laptop and looked up Caroline Mathers. The physical similarities were striking:
same steroidally round face, same nose, same approximate overall body shape.
But her eyes were dark brown (mine are green) and her complexion was much darker— Italian or something.
Thousands of people—literally thousands—had left condolence messages for her.
It was an endless scroll of people who missed her, so many that it took me an hour of clicking
to get past the I’m sorry you’re dead wall posts to the I’m praying for you wall posts.
She’d died a year ago of brain cancer. I was able to click through to some of her pictures.
Augustus was in a bunch of the earlier ones: pointing with a thumbs-up to the jagged scar across her bald skull;
arm in arm at Memorial Hospital’s playground, with their backs facing the camera;
kissing while Caroline held the camera out, so you could only see their noses and closed eyes.
The most recent pictures were all of her before, when she was healthy, uploaded postmortem by friends:
a beautiful girl, wide-hipped and curvy, with long, straight deadblack hair falling over her face.
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