Not My Daughter

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. I imagine she wants to put all that behind her. Anyway. Forget I mentioned that, Liberty. It’s all in the past and something beautiful came of it. Make the best of every tragedy, right? You just wait until you see inside. It’s magic in here, I tell you. The best studio in the whole country.’

  ‘Humble as always, Michael Reyji Ray.’ Diane totters through the woods, dressed in a black fitted suit and neon-pink high heels. The outfit is a little dated, and I can picture Diane wearing it better as a younger woman.

  ‘Trust me, Diane,’ says Michael. ‘Liberty is gonna flip her lid over this equipment.’

  ‘Is she indeed?’ says Diane. ‘Well, listen. I’ve come to say goodbye before I head off.’

  ‘You’re going?’ I ask.

  ‘I have a plane to catch,’ says Diane, kissing Michael on the cheek and giving me a long hug. ‘So I have to skedaddle. Liberty, it was amazing to meet you. Don’t be a stranger. Okay? Why don’t we have a girls’ shopping trip when I get back? Get this man to spend some money on us?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

  ‘Milan. I’m meeting some designers.’

  ‘Diane has a new handbag range,’ says Michael.

  ‘I think you’d approve, Liberty,’ says Diane. ‘It’s vegan. Fake leather all the way.’

  ‘This woman won’t sit still, I’m telling you,’ says Michael. ‘Good cause after good cause. She puts me to shame.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ says Diane. ‘You give millions to your charities. I’m just the little wife who sells ethical clothing.’

  ‘A little wife who’s always jetting off and leaving her husband.’

  ‘What’d I do if I stayed home all the time?’ says Diane. ‘You like me being gone once in a while. Admit it.’

  ‘Only because it’s so fun when you come back.’

  Diane takes out her phone. ‘Come on, let’s have a photo of you two before I leave. You two are peas in a pod. You’re the spit of each other.’ She hesitates. ‘I don’t see Lorna in you at all, Liberty. You’re all Michael.’

  ‘So how about it, Liberty bell?’ says Michael. ‘A selfie with the old man?’

  Diane laughs. ‘It’s not a selfie, Michael. A selfie is when you take a photo of yourself.’ She shakes her head at me. ‘He thinks he’s so down with the kids. Okay – stand together, you two.’

  Michael puts his arm around my shoulder and grins from ear to ear, every bit the proud father.

  When Diane shows us the photo, Michael’s eyes well up. ‘Wowsers. Look at the pair of us. Together again. We do look the same, don’t we? You have to say it.’

  I look at the picture. He’s right. Same tanned skin, straight white teeth, long nose, thick, dark eyelashes and eyebrows. And now black-brown hair, bleached blonde. Like Diane says, two peas in a pod.

  ‘Father and daughter, reunited,’ says Diane.

  Michael nods, but he’s too choked up to answer.

  ‘Kids, I’m so sorry.’ Diane checks her Rolex. ‘I really have to run. Don’t look at me like that, Michael. You know who you married.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ says Michael. ‘A woman who can’t sit still.’

  Diane gives him a hug, then me. ‘What a pleasure it was to meet you, Liberty.’

  I let out a long breath as she heads off. ‘Okay, Dad. Tell me everything.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s go inside. I’ll show you the instruments. And we’ll talk.’ Michael pulls open the heavy cottage door. ‘It gets stiff, this old thing. But it has to be metal. Wood goes rotten out here.’

  I stand on the threshold, eyes wide.

  ‘I like to do things differently, Liberty. Come on inside now, there’s a girl.’

  Lorna

  I roar down our street in Nick’s green MG, tears streaming down my face.

  He’s got to Cat too. He’s poisoned her mind. She’s drunk the Michael magic potion …

  I slow as I reach our house, heart racing.

  Who the hell is that?

  An orange-jacket delivery guy lurks outside the house, looking around the tall gate then peering through the crack. He won’t be able to see inside. The crack is sealed. I glued the rubber strip on myself with modelling glue.

  I screech to a halt, bumping two car tyres onto the sidewalk (pavement, Lorna) and leap out.

  We never order goods by mail because I don’t like strangers hanging around the gate. Or strangers, full stop. Nick calls me paranoid, but he’s given in to my cynical world view and now buys his protein bars and neoprene sleeves in town.

  The delivery guy’s jacket boasts: ‘Same Day Guarantee’. He has a cosy-looking blond beard all around his face and neck like a furry scarf, and he holds a small, grey parcel.

  ‘Hey.’ I jog up to him. ‘This is my house. We never have parcels delivered. You must have the wrong place.’

  ‘Iron Bridge Farm, right?’ The courier has an oddly high voice, considering his large beard. I see two broken front teeth.

  ‘Yes, but I told you. We never have deliveries.’

  ‘It’s definitely for you.’ He hands me a small package, then unsnaps the plastic device from his belt. ‘Miller, right? Sign here.’

  I squiggle my finger on the signed for device, staring at the parcel. Then I let the courier shove it in my hand.

  The parcel feels light, like a piece of cedar wood, the edges squared but soft. I rip open the thick, grey plastic, making a big, jagged black mouth.

  What the hell is this?

  A book.

  I slide the novel out of the plastic, my fingers slippery, unreliable, not my own.

  The Tales of Hans Christian Andersen.

  This is my book. One of the study resources I took on tour with Michael, before I abandoned school entirely to live with him.

  An angry tear falls onto the cover. Where the hell did this come from? Who sent it?

  Someone has folded a small, plain paper between two pages as a makeshift bookmark.

  My hands shake as I flick the book open. The bookmark has been placed at the end of The Little Mermaid story. It’s the part where I stopped reading the book years ago on a flight with Michael, but the bookmark can’t be mine. The paper is too new.

  The story is about love and sacrifice, I remember telling Michael.

  Would you sacrifice yourself for me?

  Of course I would …

  There are bright yellow highlights on the bookmarked page. Did I make these highlights? No. I don’t think so. But then again, my memory of that time is terrible.

  I read the neon yellow sections:

  The knife trembled in the hand of the little mermaid; then she flung it far away from her into the waves. She cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and thought her body was dissolving into foam.

  ‘After three hundred years, thus shall we float into the kingdom of heaven,’ whispered one of her companions. ‘Unseen we can enter the houses of men, where there are children, and for every day on which we find a good child, who is the joy of his parents and deserves their love, our time of probation is shortened. The child does not know, when we fly through the room, that we smile with joy at his good conduct, for we can count one year less of our three hundred years.’

  More tears come, falling onto sandy-coloured, porous paper.

  A story of love and sacrifice.

  This is all Michael. He made this bookmark and he highlighted this section.

  It’s a message.

  He wants me to give myself up. Diane must be gone – Cat said something about her taking a flight. Michael is calling me back with the strongest bait he could get.

  If I give myself up now, he might let Liberty go.

  Liberty

  Wow.

  Michael’s music studio is … wow.

  I suck in a breath.

  ‘You like it?’ Michael asks.

  I nod and nod. ‘Who wouldn’t? It’s amazing.’<
br />
  ‘Diane isn’t too interested,’ Michael chuckles. ‘Not her sort of thing. But you’re a musician. You get it.’

  I walk around, hands running over instruments and recording equipment. ‘Totally amazing.’

  The space is open plan, like Peter Gabriel’s recording studio. No separation between the sound engineer equipment and the recording area. The mixing desks are within the rehearsal room. Not that I’ve ever been to Peter Gabriel’s studio, but I’ve seen YouTube videos.

  I feel like I’m in a playground.

  Skywalker sniff, sniff, sniffs at the floor, suspicious of its texture.

  ‘It’s a great space, isn’t it?’ says Michael, closing the door behind us. ‘I’m guessing you’ve never been in a real music studio before?’

  ‘Never. My mother isn’t keen on me exploring that particular avenue. This is like … amazing.’

  ‘Better than you were expecting?’

  ‘A hundred times better.’ My boots squeak on the floor. ‘You have everything. You’ve got a TR808 …’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Of course. I’m a musician who also happens to be a millionaire. What else would I spend my money on?’

  I look around the studio. ‘Can I record something?’

  ‘Don’t you want to wait until the rest of your band are here?’

  ‘Nope. I want to play around with all this stuff right now.’

  Michael laughs. ‘If it means I get to spend more time with you, you can do anything you like. You can even have a rock and roll moment and smash a guitar.’

  ‘As if I would. I’d never hurt an instrument. It would be sacrilegious.’

  ‘Let’s get everything set up then,’ says Michael, going to a mixing deck and flicking switches.

  I grab a guitar.

  Something happens when I play music. It’s like being carried away. Time just … goes. Before I know it, a lot of time has passed. We’ve recorded three of my songs, and I’m still freestyling, messing around with the sounds.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Liberty,’ says Michael, leaning back in a white swivel chair. ‘You’re the best thing I’ve heard in a long time. A very long time. And that guitar suits you down to the ground.’

  ‘It’s the coolest guitar ever.’ I’m holding Joan Jett’s guitar of choice.

  ‘You want that guitar?’ says Michael. ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘No way. You mean it? No way.’

  ‘Of course I mean it. You’re my little girl. You’ve missed enough birthday and Christmas presents. Anyway, you need a good guitar. It’s a necessity for you. To play like that at your age … I have to tell you, I’m pretty blown away.’

  I look down at the guitar, plucking strings. ‘Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you. Do you know what? How long have we been out here? It must have been hours.’ I shake my head, fretboard-toughened fingers finding chords. ‘I feel guilty.’

  ‘Because of your mother?’ Michael plinky-plonks a few notes on the piano.

  ‘Yes.’ I hang up the guitar and shake out my fingers.

  ‘So on that note, pun intended, I think now is the right time to have our talk.’

  I nod. ‘Okay. Just let me give Skywalker some fresh air.’ I go to the studio door and heave it open so Skywalker can scamper outside. Michael comes to stand beside me, and we both watch dogface sniff a tree then pee against its trunk.

  ‘Once we do this, there’s no turning back,’ says Michael, returning to the piano. ‘Your life is going to change forever. You’ll never see the world the same way.’

  My nodding gets slower. ‘Yes.’ I let out a long breath. ‘Yes, I know. And I’m ready. I came here because I wanted things to change. Things can’t stay as they are. And that means knowing the whole truth. About everything. Whatever my mother is hiding, I need to know.’

  ‘Okay.’ Michael stares at piano keys. ‘But you should be prepared for something. You’re not going to like your mother very much once I tell you. You might not like me much either.’

  ‘I’m prepared for that.’

  ‘Well then.’ Michael slides his hands from the piano keys. ‘Here goes. We talked about Lorna’s cancer before, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that she never told you what kind of cancer she had.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Michael laces chubby fingers together. ‘She told me all about her cancer. The operation, the radio-chemotherapy, how it all made her feel. Where the cancer started. It’s a bit weird, don’t you think, that she hasn’t told you, her own daughter, what kind of cancer she had?’

  ‘Maybe she wants to put it behind her,’ I say, rubbing Skywalker’s ears as he comes to stand beside me. ‘Positive outlook. Don’t mention the C word.’

  ‘What about her new partner? Has she told him, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t get why it matters.’

  ‘Oh, it matters so much, Liberty bell. So much. It changes everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  Michael watches me for a moment. ‘Lorna had uterine cancer.’

  ‘Is that … the womb?’

  ‘Exactly. Uterine. Uterus. She had cancer of the womb. They removed her womb, Liberty. The whole thing. Before you were born.’

  There’s a long silence, broken by a wood pigeon squawking outside.

  ‘So … how did she have a baby?’ I say eventually.

  ‘She didn’t.’

  There’s another long silence.

  ‘She’s not your real mother, Liberty. She’s just a girl who liked me a heck of a lot and couldn’t let go. When I had a baby with someone else, it drove her mad with jealousy. So when she saw a chance to hurt me she took it. By stealing you.’

  I stare at him. ‘No. My mother … I mean, she has her faults. But she would never do that. Take another woman’s child? No way.’

  ‘Lorna was a young kid who thought she might die, Liberty. And then she was told she could never have children. She wasn’t in her right mind. And she was obsessed with me and my music. Hearing my voice during the chemo and all of that. And then she finally met me and thought I could wave a magic wand and make it all okay. Marriage and children. The whole fairy tale. I treated her badly. I admit it. I should have known better. The whole thing sent her a bit mad. Being sick can make people do crazy things. Lorna was sick in the body and sick in the head. I don’t know if it was all the treatments, but her head wasn’t right. Liberty, look right into my eyes, baby girl. Your mother isn’t your mother. She stole you from this house on the day you were born.’

  ‘No,’ I blurt out. ‘That can’t be true.’

  Michael puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘Now tell me, do I look like I’m lying?’

  I look into his eyes. They are totally sincere. ‘No.’ I turn away. ‘But none of this makes sense. Is … is Diane my mother?’

  ‘Oh, Liberty bell. I wish she were. But Diane knows nothing about any of this. She thinks Lorna is your real mother. To tell Diane the whole truth would just hurt her even more. And trust me, she’s been hurt enough.’

  ‘So who is my real mother?’

  ‘Listen – let’s go back to the house. Okay? We’ll talk more there.’

  Once upon a time …

  How much do you trust your own mind?

  Living with Michael was never as solid as other memories. Not hard and vivid, like growing up in the US or Dee’s apartment or meeting Nick. When I was sixteen, reality was something Michael built for me, brick by brick. So memories, reality, perception – it became a jumble, a blur, a big cloud of renovation dust. Everything hazy. But here’s a memory that’s clearer than the rest:

  One day, through that twirling cloud of plaster, Cat Cannon’s daughter banged on Michael’s front door.

  I was sleeping upstairs, even though it was nearing midday. Depression and a touch of anorexia equals big-time lethargy, in case you’ve never experienced the two together.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  It was the sound of a fist
pounding, I was sure, but Michael would handle it. I rolled over in bed. There was nothing for me to do in a situation like this. My role was to stay quiet and out of the way.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Michael still hadn’t got a doorbell or intercom fitted. After all, technically no one was living in this pile of scaffold and gnawed brick.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Probably it was a tradesperson. Worse-case scenario, a journalist.

  I heard Michael’s footsteps beat the flagstones and the door creak open.

  ‘Michael?’

  The voice was young, breathy, female – and horribly familiar.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  ‘You made it here all by yourself?’ I heard Michael reply. ‘I was going to send a driver.’

  I threw off the covers and ran to look over the stairs.

  Annalise stood in the entranceway below, kohl-lined eyes filled with giddy excitement. She wore an oversized Michael Reyji Ray T-shirt with a belt and Indian sandals. Slumpy canvas bags lay at her feet.

  I couldn’t see Michael’s face, but I sensed excitement from him.

  I cantered down the stairs, catching myself on the stair rail. ‘Hey,’ I said.

  Michael didn’t turn around. ‘Good morning, Lorna.’

  ‘Annalise,’ I said. ‘What’s with the bags?’

  ‘Annalise has come to stay with us,’ said Michael.

  ‘She’s … what?’

  ‘She’s going to live here for a while. You’re okay with that, right, Lorna? Another girl around the place. Like sisters.’

  I swallowed. I already have a sister. I just never see her.

  ‘She’s staying here?’ I asked.

  ‘She can’t live with her mother right now,’ Michael explained. ‘Cat’s falling to pieces. And poor Annalise has nowhere else to go so she’s gonna stay here. She’s a friend. We take care of our friends.’

  ‘A best friend,’ said Annalise, laughing and giving Michael a kiss on the cheek.

  I looked at Annalise then – taking in her youth and prettiness and twig legs.