Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  ‘Do you have a point?’ I ask curtly.

  ‘Oooh,’ she crows. ‘You think you’re better than me, don’t you? You think you’re some kind of superior human and I’m just a low-life bogan you can look down on.’

  Right on all counts, I think. But I ignore her and wait. If she has something to say, she’ll say it. She looks so smug, I know she won’t be able to help herself. I focus on Imogen, on getting her home, on this being nothing but an unpleasant and distant memory the moment I walk back out the door and into the blaring sunlight.

  ‘OK,’ she mutters when I fail to react. ‘So, I received a letter from some guy I’ve never heard of. He said he thinks maybe I’m his mum.’

  ‘Tristan,’ I say, deadpan. She straightens a little. Frowns. I resist the temptation to smile. ‘I’m not an idiot, you know. I didn’t come here without doing some research.’

  She stares back at me, her expression unsettling. Then she gives the smallest of shrugs. ‘Right. Guess that part’s not news. So I wrote back, told him I certainly didn’t call any of my children Tristan. What kind of pretentious name is that, anyway? Not as bad as Imogen, but still. So he wrote to me again, telling me that his name was changed when he was little, and that no one will tell him anything about his real family or his past, but he has enough memory to piece bits of it together.’

  I know what’s coming before she says it. I don’t know why I expected more from this visit, but something in me expected to find out something that we didn’t already know.

  ‘He said that he thinks his name was Brad,’ Sally says, her voice low, conspiratorial. ‘And that he wants his family back together again. Looks like he’s got what he wanted, don’t you think?’

  Chapter 42

  KAT

  ‘Right, yeah, I pretty much expected that,’ I say mildly. ‘But I want to know what he’s planning, exactly.’

  Sally’s eyes bore into mine. This time I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. My strength builds as I think about her crimes. Spineless, cowardly crimes. Crimes where the victims were entirely dependent on her. Where they couldn’t fight back. She’s dangerous, yes. But not to me. Even if she was given the chance, I doubt she’d come for me. She thrives on power; dominance. I wouldn’t go down without a damn good fight.

  She seems to sense the change in me as she shifts in her chair, sits a little straighter, tries to look more threatening. I stay completely still. This is a game, and I intend to win it.

  ‘Well, when he came to visit me—’

  ‘He came here?’

  ‘He’s my son. Of course he visited me.’

  ‘How? Surely they would have flagged that.’

  She laughs, a throaty, raspy laugh that I’ve heard a hundred thousand times before. It’s Imogen’s laugh. The noise pinches at my confidence, stops the air from reaching my lungs. For a few seconds, I’m convinced I can’t breathe. The grim, grey walls are closing in on me, and I’m going to die here in this prison, with no one but Sally Sanders to keep me company.

  My fingers tingle, and my vision begins to blur. My heart is beating so wildly that I’m certain this is it for me. And then Sally laughs again and my panic shifts, morphs, is replaced by anger. The attack subsides, and my lungs flood with oxygen once more. Panting, I force myself to regain my composure. The stakes are too high to give in to this. I need to find out what Brad is doing.

  ‘Oh, you rich city folk are all the same,’ she says mockingly. ‘You see the rules, and you think of them as restrictions. Some of us, the creative ones, we see them as ways to come up with alternative solutions. He got a fake ID. Obviously. It’s not that hard, if you know who to speak to, and you have the money for it, which he does. The mines pay well, and you can keep to yourself out there, so he tells me. He works hard. We taught him that, having a good work ethic.’

  At this she puffs her chest out with pride. I don’t give myself a chance to feel sick, to let her reactions sink in. My armour is up. I’m going to get my answers.

  ‘Impressive,’ I lie. I’ll tell her what she wants to hear, so long as she pays me back with the truth. ‘So he came to see you. What did he say?’

  ‘Well, he told me all about the miserable life the authorities forced upon him after they took his family away. I’d say I’m better off in here than he was out there as a little boy, fending for himself, getting passed from family to family. Should have stayed with me, with his mum. Where he belongs. Doesn’t say much about justice when a kid has a worse life than a convict, does it?’

  That familiar guilt comes hissing to the surface again, as it always does when I think about Brad, about the life he had, a stark contrast to that of his sister. But instead of indulging my conscience, I shift it, like a puzzle piece, slotting it neatly into its rightful place. As awful as childhood must have been for Brad, it’s not my fault. It’s not the fault of the families who tried to take him in, who tried to make him one of their own. It’s the fault of just two people, one of whom is sitting right in front of me. The sense of absolution is swift, overwhelming. My shoulders loosen, just a tiny bit, as I realise the truth of the issue.

  ‘He told me about you, too,’ Sally says, and I freeze. My skin erupts in goosebumps.

  ‘Me?’ I squeak.

  ‘Yeah, you. He told me about a family. About a woman who rejected him, left him to be passed around from home to home, who took his baby sister away from him.’

  ‘I saved her,’ I say fiercely. ‘I took her away from you.’

  ‘That may be how you see it,’ Sally spits, ‘but we don’t look at it the same way. Family sticks together, above all else. That’s the way we work, us Sanders. We’re loyal. We don’t tear families apart.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I ask, my voice rising, rage bubbling hot in my chest. ‘Maybe you should have thought about that before you tortured your helpless children, you worthless excuse for a mother. Maybe you should have taken care of your kids instead of neglecting them and abusing them, and God knows what else—’

  ‘Guard!’

  She’s not looking at me now. She’s gesturing to the guard in the corner, a flick of the head that brings the woman in the uniform strolling over, hands on her hips.

  ‘Visit’s over,’ she says as the woman approaches.

  ‘No,’ I pant, breathless. ‘I’m not done yet, I don’t have what I need.’

  ‘Oh, honey,’ she croons, patronising. ‘Even if I knew what my boy was planning on doing, you can get stuffed if you think I’d tell the likes of you. I don’t want my daughter in the hands of a stranger.’

  The guard steps between us and motions for me to leave.

  ‘Please,’ I gasp, but she shakes her head as Sally bursts out laughing, that low, rasping noise igniting a flare of longing for Imogen, and a blaze of hate for this poisonous, dangerous woman.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Kathryn Braidwood,’ Sally says.

  I frown. She’s delusional if she thinks I’ll be back.

  ‘I’ve got a court hearing coming up. Bet you didn’t know about that. There was an issue with some of the evidence presented at my trial, all those years ago. Which means I might actually get out of here one day. And it might be sooner than you think.’

  I stare at her, appalled, then look to the guard for confirmation. She offers no reaction. Surely this can’t be true? She was given life with no eligibility of parole. She’s lying. She has to be.

  There’s a clink of chains as Sally’s untied from the table by a second guard. As she’s led away, shuffling in her shackles, she gives another throaty laugh, stops, and looks back.

  In that moment, our eyes locked in silent battle, I know I’ve made an enormous error. I should never have come. I should have trusted the police to do their job.

  ‘And when I do get out,’ Sally cackles as she turns to leave again, ‘I know exactly how to find the person who stole my daughter … and rejected my son.’

  Chapter 43

  KAT

  Fifteen Years Ago

 
; ‘And what about Brad?’ Monica asks.

  It’s been two weeks since we agreed to adopt Amy. Fourteen days, two meetings with the adoption agency, dozens of forms and hundreds of the most difficult conversations Dylan and I have ever had.

  The problem is, neither of us is passionately convinced either way. Every time we’ve tried to talk about it, one of us will suggest a point to consider; either for or against adopting Amy’s older, traumatised brother. It’ll be a good point, well made, evenly delivered. The other person will counter, and then we’ll stay in whichever camp we started in, vehemently arguing for and against. The next time, without meaning to, we’ll switch sides and argue the same points as before, but in reverse.

  It’s an impossible choice.

  On the one hand, an abused, neglected, traumatised child needs a home. That much is irrefutable. He deserves the kind of life he’s been denied in his five short years. He deserves the kind of life that we could give him. Besides, he’s Amy’s brother, and we learned in training how important it is for siblings to stay together. It gives them a sense of security, of familiarity, of belonging.

  On the other hand, this particular child has been so badly affected by his parents that he’s riddled with behavioural issues and anger management problems. It’s to be expected – of course it is. But so far, in the emergency foster homes he’s been placed in, he’s lit a fire in his bedroom, punched another child, bitten a carer and urinated all over a family’s dinner while standing in the middle of the dining table. The agency has advised his current foster carers to keep him locked in his room at night, for their own safety.

  Sure, Amy might present her own set of behavioural problems. She’s experienced her own trauma; it’s inevitable that there will be some effects, somewhere along the way. But bringing up a baby is a very different undertaking to bringing home a five-year-old child who can remember his trauma, who has already been shaped by it.

  There’s concern for Amy’s safety, too. Not that Brad has shown any indication that he’d harm her. If anything, he seems to be her protector, her keeper. But if they grow up together, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep her past from her, because he remembers where they came from. And if she finds out, it means at eighteen she’ll have legal access to her records, which means she’ll work out who her parents are, if she hasn’t already figured it out by then. Most adopted children want to meet – or at least contact – their biological parents, and there’s no reason to believe Amy won’t feel the same way. But her parents are so dangerous, so cruel, that the authorities want to limit any chance of her having any kind of contact with them.

  So keeping Brad with her could, in the long term, put Amy in serious danger.

  And yet tearing them apart could ruin a little boy’s life.

  It’s been a hellish two weeks. Even now, sitting in Monica’s office, signing more papers and entering into more discussions about changed identities and suppressed records and psychological monitoring, I still don’t know what our answer is going to be. I’m torn.

  Well, no. That’s not entirely true. I think I’ve finally decided what our answer should be. Maybe I’ve known all along. But that in itself is tearing me up, because I know I’ll probably regret it. And I’ll definitely feel guilty for a long, long time. But at least I’ll know. It’s the not knowing of the other option that I’m not sure I can handle. It’s the fact that anything could happen. Of course it could be rewarding and joyful and the best thing we ever do. Or it could be a disaster, and it could bring danger and chaos and distress into our lives.

  I glance at Dylan. His head is bowed, and he folds one hand into the other, cracking each knuckle, one by one, a series of soft pops.

  My heart sinks as I realise I’m about to say the words I haven’t been able to bear uttering before. I’ve barely let myself think them.

  ‘I don’t think we can,’ I say, wincing as I prepare for judgement, or worse, disappointment.

  ‘I understand,’ Monica says gently, and I think she genuinely might. ‘It’s an incredibly difficult decision, but I can see you’ve put a lot of thought into this, and in the end, it has to be right for your family.’

  I nod, tears building on the rims of my eyes.

  ‘And besides,’ she continues, ‘we don’t even know what’s best here. It’s a completely unique situation, and regular procedures don’t really apply. So this might be the best thing for Amy, after all. What we’re most focused on is getting her into a stable, loving home so that she at least has a chance at a fresh start.’

  ‘Can we …’ Dylan lifts his head as though he’s suddenly thought of something important, but the words fade as he trails off.

  ‘What is it?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I just … I feel like we’re making this decision based on what we’re seeing on paper. We haven’t even met the poor little guy. What if … I just think it’d be a good idea to meet him before we give our final yes or no. Can we do that?’

  Monica pauses, tapping her pen against her bottom lip. I hold my breath.

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘it’s not standard procedure, but then again, none of this is. I think we can probably make that happen. What do you think, Kat?’

  I smile weakly and nod, because I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. But I don’t want to meet him. I know that seeing him in the flesh and looking into his eyes isn’t going to change my mind. All it’s going to do is make me feel more guilty.

  I can’t do it. I can’t take him.

  And I hate myself for knowing that.

  Chapter 44

  IMOGEN

  It was still early, and yet Imogen’s whole body seemed to be oozing sweat. She’d woken up gasping and drenched, the heat like a blanket, smothering her. The little cabin, all dark and shaded by gums, had been outdone by the rising temperatures and was now retaining more heat every day, making it feel like an oven.

  She pulled herself out of bed, splashed some tepid water on her face and went in search of Brad. She wanted to be around him, stay near him, to be within sight of the only person who wanted her around. Whenever he wasn’t in her direct line of sight, Imogen began feeling anxious, worried that he had run off and left her with no one and nothing. The fear would bubble and build, tears forming behind her eyes, until inevitably he’d return, having only been gone a few seconds, and she’d want to weep with relief.

  The same panic was creeping up in her as she peered into the living room and the bathroom. Both were empty. As Imogen looked around for another door, the one that would lead to his bedroom, she realised that there wasn’t one. Guilt pinched her stomach. Where had he been sleeping? And where had he gone? Hands shaking, she tried the back door and, knees weak with relief, she found Brad outside, lying face up on a pile of sofa cushions under the tiny corrugated iron porch.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, her voice still thick with sleep. She cleared her throat, and her skin tingled as the slightest breeze breathed across it.

  ‘Morning,’ he replied, throwing her a cushion.

  She sat heavily, her spine still tingling from the horrifying split second when she thought he’d left. She hated being like this, so needy and paranoid, but she couldn’t stop it. Brad was all she had. She couldn’t bear to lose him, too.

  ‘Brad?’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘Where have you been sleeping?’

  ‘Oh, just on the sofa,’ he said.

  Her hands flew to her face in shame.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to take your room, you can have it back and I’ll sleep on the sofa—’

  ‘Over my dead body, little one,’ he said firmly. ‘My baby sister isn’t sleeping on a sofa, OK?’

  ‘I’m not a baby,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You are to me.’

  He smiled widely, that dimple in his cheek getting even deeper, his caramel eyes filled with affection, and her heart flipped over. She didn’t need to worry about him leaving, she decided. He wanted to be there, wanted to
be with her.

  Unlike her own family.

  Her heart dropped again, as it did every time she thought about that message from Kat. She couldn’t understand the things she’d said, the way she’d just dismissed her daughter – adopted or not – without even trying to speak to her. If she hadn’t seen the message with her own eyes, she’d never have believed Kat was capable of such cruel words. Imogen’s whole body ached when she thought about it. She tried to focus on something else instead, like her rumbling stomach.

  ‘You hungry?’

  She nodded, and Brad pulled a bag from behind him, the brown paper dark where grease had soaked through.

  ‘When did you …?’

  ‘Oh, I was up early; too hot. And I was starving. So I thought I’d do a Maccas run for us. I mean, it’s not exactly fresh any more, but it’s still warm. I got us a bacon and egg McMuffin each and some hash browns. And coffee.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed a weak smile and took the proffered bag from him, rummaging through it for one of the wrapped muffins and two hash browns. Her appetite had reappeared with a vengeance, and the salty, fatty smell of breakfast made her mouth water.

  For a few minutes they sat in comfortable silence, eating and sipping, Imogen trying to contain the barrage of questions she still had for him. Eventually, though, she couldn’t hold them in.

  ‘Please can you tell me about our family? Our parents?’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ he said, mouth full of food. ‘OK, where do I start? Right, so I’ve told you your name is Amy. Amy Sanders. And you were born in Victoria.’

  ‘Victoria!’

  ‘Yep, you’re not an Adelaide girl. You’re from the outback.’

  Imogen glowed with a strange kind of pride for her newly discovered beginnings.

  ‘Wait. Am I really sixteen? Is my birthday a lie too?’