Not My Daughter

by Suzy K Quinn

  I’ve made it through a night at my father’s house unscathed.

  I have to say, this place is incredible in its own way. It’s not my thing, all the fake turrets and marble and mismatched finery. I prefer simple. But the woods go on forever – miles of them.

  As I climb out of bed, Skywalker whines and gives a few short barks, meaning nature is calling. I dress, pinning my smiley face badge to my denim jacket and making sure it’s the right way up.

  ‘This is the most important fashion statement I’ve ever made,’ I tell Skywalker, patting the badge.

  Skywalker looks at me like, ‘What are you talking about, Willis?’

  I smile. ‘I know you don’t get fashion. I’ll take you out, okay?’

  But when I try the door handle, it feels … stuck.

  ‘It can’t be,’ I tell Skywalker. ‘That’s stupid. I’m being paranoid.’

  I try it again. But it really is stuck.

  ‘Hey,’ I shout, pulling. ‘HEY!’ I twist the rattling metal handle back and forth.

  Skywalker barks beside me, jumping about between my legs. He thinks this is a game, but the door won’t budge.

  ‘Skywalker, sit,’ I say. ‘Stay there.’

  I’m preparing for a shoulder run when I hear a scrabbling sound at the door. Like witch fingernails dragging over wood.

  I pause.

  ‘Um … hello?’

  No one answers.

  I watch a lot of Asian horror movies and right now I feel like I’m in one. The Johnny Rotten decal watches me from over the fake fireplace and the shadowy green trees whisper ‘all alone’ through the arched window.

  I glance at the window, wondering if I can climb out. I’m a good climber.

  The scrabbling gets louder, and I pick up a chair, wielding it like a weapon.

  ‘Skywalker, heel.’

  Doggie comes to my leg, one clawed paw standing shakily on my DM boot. He’s trying his best to be a tough guy.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  It’s just the weirdest noise.

  Okay. Okay, ready to charge the door …

  But suddenly the door flies open, light pouring in, dust clouds swirling up from the wooden floor.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ Diane holds a palm to her chest and sounds out of breath. ‘You’re not going to whack me with that chair, are you?’

  Diane wears navy blue cotton pyjamas with stars on them and her brown hair twists and flicks messily around her chin. Without make-up she looks old and tired, with large grey bags under her eyes.

  I lower the chair. ‘There were weird noises outside. Like … scratching. I watch a lot of horror movies. I thought you were … I don’t know, a Japanese girl with stringy hair over her face, crawling up the stairs to get me.’

  Diane laughs. ‘This door.’ She rattles the handle. ‘It gets stuck sometimes from the inside. I just woke up in a cold sweat, thinking Jesus – what if the door sticks, and Liberty thinks we’ve locked her in. She’ll start believing Lorna and all her big bad wolf stories. You’re up early.’

  ‘I like early mornings.’

  Skywalker sniffs at Diane’s pyjamas and she strokes his head. ‘Was he okay sleeping up here?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, sort of.’ I push hair out of my face, grab my denim jacket and pull Skywalker to the door. ‘He needs to get outside, though. For his early-morning run-around. And toilet.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Diane. ‘Listen, I’ve put some breakfast out for you downstairs. Do you like eggs?’

  ‘Um … I’m vegan. Remember?’

  ‘Right. Sorry. Okay. Wowsers. Can you give me some vegan breakfast ideas? What’s left without eggs and toast with butter?’

  ‘Mushrooms. And cereal with almond milk or oat milk.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’

  ‘Thanks. Is Michael awake yet?’

  ‘Not yet. He had a bit of a late one last night. He’s feeling it today. Come on. Let’s go downstairs and you can let your dog out for a run-around.’

  Skywalker and I take a long time walking around Michael’s woodlands. The way I’m doing things, we explore methodically, kind of breaking the land up into chunks.

  Skywalker, of course, wants to hare around in all directions.

  ‘Come on, dogface.’ I tug at his collar. ‘We don’t have forever. The longer we stay here, the closer Mum is to having a nervous breakdown.’

  After an hour, Skywalker is done exploring the woods, so we head back for breakfast. On the path back to the house, Skywalker finds some old shotgun shells and picks up the gunpowder scent. I follow him to a hunting shed full of shotguns.

  ‘Well, Mum was right about one thing,’ I tell Skywalker, as he bounds inside the shed and sits perkily by the rack of hunting rifles. ‘He does keep guns here. That’s the countryside way.’

  Skywalker is so proud of himself for finding the stash.

  ‘Good boy.’

  I throw him another biscuit for his sniffing talents. Then I pop chewing gum into my mouth and examine the rifles, looking down the barrels, testing them out.

  ‘Wow.’ I stand back, looking over the gleaming metal. ‘Some of these are pretty mega. I mean, deer guns. You could kill someone with one of those.’

  ‘Yeah, you could.’ Michael’s growly early-morning voice makes me jump. He stands in the cabin doorway, wearing green wellies, black jeans, a grey hoodie and a tweedy flat cap.

  ‘Um … hi.’ I try for a smile. ‘Just checking out your rifle collection.’

  ‘Careful with those now, little one,’ says Michael. ‘They’re dangerous things. You know better than to play around with them, don’t you?’

  ‘I know,’ I say, eyes gliding over the rack.

  ‘Let’s come away from these things, now. They’re not toys. It’s good to see you up and awake.’ Michael gives me a clap on the shoulder. ‘Did your doggy like the woods? Diane told me you were walking him.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He loved it.’

  ‘I thought you’d got lost out here. I came to find you.’

  ‘The walk took longer than I thought it would,’ I say. ‘These woodlands are huge.’

  ‘Listen, you really shouldn’t be in a gun shed like this on your own. No one should be messing around with guns unless they’ve had proper, safe instruction.’

  ‘You think because I’m vegan I haven’t handled a gun before? My mother has rifles.’

  Michael laughs. ‘Silly me. Lorna’s armed to the teeth, no doubt. For the great war that’s never coming.’

  ‘Something like that. They’re hunting rifles, but … yeah. She doesn’t hunt anything.’ My hand wanders absentmindedly to the smiley face badge on my jacket, feeling to make sure it’s the right way up. Fashion is all about getting the right look at all times, after all.

  ‘What’s that?’ Michael notices my badge. ‘The old acid house smiley face. That’s a pretty big badge, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a button that big. Is that the fashion among you kids today? I hope you’re not into that whole scene. Drugs and all that.’

  ‘It’s just an emoji. A smiley face. Looking out on everything. A view on the world. You know?’

  Michael nods, but I can tell he doesn’t really get it. He’s not supposed to – he’s old.

  ‘Listen,’ Michael says. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to see my little music studio today. Before you leave.’

  ‘What I really want to do is talk,’ I say. ‘Really talk. About my mother and all the things she hasn’t told me.’

  ‘Yes, Liberty. A talk is long overdue. But promise me one thing. If you don’t get to see the studio today, you’ll bring your band up here sometime.’

  I nod and nod. ‘I’d love to. They’d love to. We’d all love to. Thanks.’ I hesitate. ‘Dad.’

  Michael gives me a gentle smile. ‘Come on, daughter of mine, let’s go have breakfast. And I’ll start making my peace with you going back to Lorna today, if that’s what you want. God, it’s going to be tough. Like losing you all over again.
’

  ‘I’ll come back,’ I say. ‘And if Mum won’t let me … well, I’m sixteen years old. I’m allowed to leave home. It’s sad. All these years we’ve missed. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘That we do, Liberty. That we do.’

  Lorna

  Cat Cannon opens her front door in a black Chanel dress, cigarette held between red fingernails. She stares at me like I’m a ghost.

  The door opening only happened after a lengthy intercom interrogation, during which Cat accused me of being an investigative journalist and made me answer questions that she herself couldn’t remember the answers to.

  ‘It’s 8 a.m. and you’re all dressed in Chanel with your hair and nails done,’ I say. ‘Am I in a parallel universe?’

  ‘Whoa.’ Cat takes a long inhale of her cigarette and blows smoke up into wedding cake-style cornicing. ‘You look different too. You know, I was thinking of you yesterday. A lot of stuff has come up this week. Come on inside. Jesus, I hardly recognize you. You were all skin and bone back in the day. Now you’re like this strong, sturdy thing. And you grew your hair.’

  I hold a clump of my thick, black hair. ‘Michael liked it short, right? So I grew it long. What else was I going to do?’

  ‘And what’s with all the tattoos?’

  ‘I thought I’d better take my identity back.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that one.’

  ‘I’ve changed a lot since Michael. I’ve gotten stronger.’ I mean to sound strong too, but the words crack in my throat.

  ‘Hey.’ Cat gestures at me with a milk-white arm. ‘Whatever pain you’re in, I’ve been there and worse.’ She offers me a cigarette. ‘You know, I think some kind of cosmic force is pulling the past back right now. Come on inside.’

  ‘Can I smoke inside? I gave up but … right now …’

  ‘Sure you can smoke inside.’

  ‘I read somewhere you couldn’t smoke in these townhouses.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve gotta break a few rules, right?’ Cat holds out a gold-stick Yves Saint Laurent cigarette lighter. ‘All I do these days is smoke. It could be so much worse.’

  ‘So you’re all straight and clean now,’ I say. ‘Look at you. With your perfect fingernails and designer cigarette lighter.’

  ‘I’m trying to buy respectability. It doesn’t work.’ Cat blows smoke as she tip-taps down the hallway on high, red shoes with blue soles. There’s a picture on the flowery wall of Cat, dressed in saffron robes, hugging a stone buddha. On the glass she’s scrawled:

  Peace, fun and freedom. Everything changes.

  ‘I read that you found religion,’ I say.

  ‘Who’d have thought, right?’ says Cat, nodding at the walls. ‘Life is crazy. Except Buddhism isn’t a religion. It’s a practice. And I couldn’t do the short hair thing.’ She runs her hand through neatly styled, platinum blonde hair. ‘Shaving it every day … you know. Just a pain.’

  ‘What’s the story with this place?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, you mean because it’s tasteful and traditional and everything I’m not?’ Cat laughs. ‘I can’t change anything here. It’s in my ten-grand-a-month lease. Don’t change the decor. And don’t smoke.’

  ‘I drove past your old house this morning.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Cat nods and smokes. ‘How’s the old girl doing?’

  ‘Not good. Graffiti. Parts burned down.’

  ‘Everything changes. Right?’

  ‘Yeah. It does.’

  Cat shakes her head. ‘Not a good time when I lost that place. Being broke is bad, but being a broke celebrity is the lowest you can ever get.’

  ‘No, the lowest you can get is Michael Reyji Ray.’

  Cat blows out a long stream of smoke, not meeting my eye. Then she says: ‘He’s not so bad. You know, I saw him yesterday.’

  ‘What?’ The word is chilly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Cat nods. ‘He invites me to his anniversary party every year. I think Diane still hates me. But she hates me less with every year that passes.’

  My fingers burn, and I realize I’ve smoked the cigarette down to the butt. ‘How could you go to his party? That’s crazy.’

  ‘You still hate him, huh?’

  ‘Of course I do. Don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Cat’s eyes find mine. ‘Not anymore. We’ve forgiven each other. Even Diane and I are sort of getting along. You know, she actually talked to me yesterday. We had a half-hour conversation about packing a flight bag. The eyedrops, rescue remedy, moisturizer. She’s dull as ditch water, but at least she was trying. And do you know, Cat, I’ve been taking probiotics all week for my flight tomorrow. And I keep a tub of them in my suitcase, packed in ice.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re talking like this. Like you’re friends with them.’

  ‘I am friends with them. Nothing was ever proved, Lorna. And half the stuff you said about Michael … I’m not sure even you believed it. You barely knew your own mind when you were with him. I don’t believe Michael hurt my daughter. Truly I don’t.’

  My jaw hardens. ‘Brainwashing. You always said you were too strong for him. But you’re not. You let him in. You’re drinking the Michael juice just like everyone else.’

  ‘Michael hasn’t got to me. He was there for me. He understood like no one else did. And he forgave me for getting everything twisted. Do you want a cup of tea?’ Cat gestures to a country cottage-style kitchen.

  ‘Nothing got twisted. He hurt your daughter, Cat.’

  ‘NO.’ The word booms around Cat’s wooden kitchen. ‘My daughter is okay. I don’t know where she is, but she’s okay.’ Cat takes a deep inhale and exhale, eyes closed. Suddenly, her long eyelashes ping open again. ‘Listen, honey. I accept you see things a certain way. But it’s not the way I see things now. Michael and I are friends.’

  Tears come. ‘You and me were the only ones, remember? The sane-os. The only ones not buying into Michael’s bullshit.’

  ‘We were the bullshit, Lorna,’ says Cat. ‘Your crazy stalker brain told you stories and we both believed them. Because I needed answers, and you needed a reason to hate Michael. But I’m in a better place now. Back then, I needed to believe Annalise had died. Because I couldn’t face the truth.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘She ran away from me and all my chaos. From the embarrassment of being Cat Cannon’s daughter. My job is to get healthy for her. So that one day she might come back to me. I feel like, maybe she’s in India. Some place like that. A different country. Why are you here, Lorna? Just to stir up more shit?’

  ‘You were at Michael’s house yesterday,’ I say, voice low. ‘Right?’

  Cat hesitates. ‘Yeah. For his party.’

  ‘My daughter is there. Michael has my sixteen-year-old teenage daughter. Did you see her?’

  Cat blinks eyelash implants at me. ‘Your daughter? Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘No, I’m not feeling good at all. My daughter is the same age Annalise was when she went missing. Doesn’t that disturb you? She would have been at the party yesterday. Or … or somewhere in the house.’ Nausea turns my stomach over.

  Cat stubs out her half-smoked cigarette and lights another. ‘You know, Michael’s been a good friend to me. Who he has at his parties are his business.’

  ‘He’s a psychopath.’

  Cat looks at red lipstick on her cigarette butt. ‘I believed that too, once upon a time. But I don’t believe it now, Lorna. I just don’t.’

  ‘They never searched his grounds. If they had …’

  ‘There wasn’t any evidence, Lorna. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

  ‘Yes. It tells me Michael has the police in his pocket. They wouldn’t believe anything you said. Remember?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I had no proof.’ Cat lifts her big blue eyes. ‘The police tore me apart. Opiates are no good for a clear and concise testimony. Which wasn’t my testimony anyway – you told me to say it.’

  I look her right in the eye. ‘Cat. I was telling you the tru
th then and I’m telling it now. About Annalise. About everything.’

  Cat pulls hard on her cigarette and shakes her head. ‘Uh uh. No way. No way. Listen, Lorna. I believed all that “Michael is a psycho” stuff because I needed a reason that wasn’t my fault. Denial. Closure. Whatever you want to call it. But Annalise is out there somewhere. I know she is.’

  ‘Cat.’ My voice is soft, tears coming. ‘I was with Annalise when it happened.’

  ‘Hey.’ Cat holds up a hand. ‘Let’s not go there, right? You’ve vomited this story at me too many times. You were so crazy back then, Lorna…’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be? I was a teenager living with a psycho.’

  ‘Listen, I know Michael wasn’t totally straight with the press,’ says Cat. ‘But Jesus, after the things you said about him. I mean, you were all out to ruin him. Destroy his career, marriage, his whole life practically. And have him rot in jail. Michael’s not such a bad guy. You’re wrong about him. He’s not perfect but he has a good heart.’

  ‘He’s brainwashed you,’ I accuse.

  ‘Do I look like the sort of person who can be brainwashed?’

  ‘Totally,’ I say. ‘You’re in pain. You want something. Those are the only two ingredients he needs.’

  ‘So explain Diane. She’s been with him over twenty years. Is she brainwashed?’

  ‘Of course she is. She’s a good Catholic girl who hates divorce. She has to believe her husband is perfect.’

  ‘Why have you come here, Lorna? Just to spread more shit about Michael? I’m the closest to peace I’ve ever been.’

  ‘I want you to help me,’ I say. ‘You’re clean now. Tell the police that Michael lied about Annalise. And about me living with him. They’ll believe you. It won’t be like before.’

  ‘What is there to remember?’ says Cat. ‘I never knew anything. I just repeated what you told me.’

  ‘You know Annalise stayed with us.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but … you know, I was on heroin. I don’t trust any of my memories from back then. And nor should you. You weren’t in such a great place.’

  ‘Cat. Michael has my daughter. She’s at his house right now. She’s the same age Annalise was when she went missing. Does that mean nothing to you?’