Becoming A Founding "Father"- Historical Hamilton

Chapter Forty-Seven: An End?

"Well, let me start with the basics, then I'll answer any questions you have." She lifts her hand- no ring, though wrinkles are prominent on her face. "First of all, what's your name?"

"Solomon Layden." Her eyebrows raise in interest, and I correct myself. "Solomon James Layden, I suppose."

"You know that's not your real name."

"What on Earth are you on about?" I say and look at her. She looks back at me. I realize my mistake, but I don't stop glaring. Though she's the only other person here, I feel eyes on all parts of my body. "You already know, do you not?"

"I do, yes," She answers, the wrinkles by her eyes seeming to sharpen. "I just need you to say it."

I decide to tell the truth. "I've forgotten my 'real' name, Miss. I have been Layden for the past decade." All I'm wearing is a hospital gown, I realize. There's nothing hiding my femininity, and I curl in further into myself.

"Where did you get that name you go by then?"

I don't want to tell her, but what choice do I have? I think. And I have to think really hard, but I manage to pick out a memory.

-

'I simply cannot resist asking of Your Name. It is an unusual thing to ask after knowing each other for a while now, but James Hamilton is my brother's name, not Yours. '

My hands shake. I can't see clearly through the tears. The bang echoes in my mind, repeating over and over again.

God, he's dead. Peter killed himself.

'I have gotten used to referring to You as James in my head, as that was the name I had accidentally bestowed upon you in Nevis. '

The fuck's Alexander talking about? Names and Nevis?

Nevis.

Nevis.

...Nėris.

-

"Solomon had come from a poetess of my childhood that had a similar pen name to the town I resided in. And my last name... well, I do not recall. Something with a doctor, it was."

"Why did you not use your birth name?"

"I do not recall my birth name, miss." That's just another sign of how absolutely detached I am from this reality.

"It's Irene."

A beat. I blink, but the Miss Anderson simply shuffles through her papers. That name rings absolutely no bells, and- she must be lying, how could she know, anyhow?

"Well, I'm anglicizing. Your name is Irena Lazaitė."

That... indeed sounds vaguely familiar, like an echo of a forgotten memory. Indeed, in my head, I can see vague people and Dalia calling me that.

Irene. Irene. Irene.

But it's not right. I try to imagine Alexander calling me that, Lafayette delicately whispering it under his breath, or Laurens trying to convince me of something with it- but I can't. Irene must have been the girl with only one friend who loved puzzles and fantasy novels, but she isn't the person who lied to everyone who cared, who hid behind and used their best friend for personal gain, who is at the fault of the death of an innocent woman.

To call myself Irene would be to taint her memory.

"That's great," I answer, unfeeling. Miss Anderson picked up on my change in mood, and thankfully changes the topic. Thus ensues a flurry of questions- my age (apparently, I can't count and am twenty-seven instead of thirty), my occupation, what was Tilghman's hair colour, who was I interacted most with, many seemingly random questions about Alexander (She perhaps wanted to see if I truly knew him, which leaves a deep pit in my stomach. When did I ever have to be interrogated if I knew Hamilton?) and an unusually large amount of questions concerning Thomas Jefferson.