The Wrong Family

by Tarryn Fisher

  “The denial is strong with that one,” she’d say to her secretary, Naveen, who would take the outstretched file with a sad, knowing smile. But even if Terry had been a denial mother, she had every right to know that she had a grandson. And he has every right to know about her, Juno thought decidedly.

  Josalyn had described Winnie to Terry as a friend. That meant the girl had trusted Winnie. Social workers often felt like friends to their patients, and it was easy for lines to become blurred. Fifteen years ago, Winnie would have been fresh out of grad school, young and energetic. The pictures were in every room and on every wall, Winnie posing with various landmarks and accomplishments: high school graduation, college graduation, engagement, wedding, grad school graduation...and then, Juno imagined, it was time for a baby. Winnie liked things to be orderly, and Juno supposed that at some point, she’d decided it was time and approached Nigel about it. But—plot twist—she couldn’t get pregnant. Entitled, spoiled Winnie—it must have irked the hell out of her when she found out Josalyn the teenage homeless girl was pregnant and didn’t even want to be when Winnie herself couldn’t conceive. Juno felt a surge of disgust for Winnie—for Nigel, too, who’d known and who’d helped Winnie get what she wanted out of Josalyn.

  Juno created a new Gmail account; it took her a minute to think of something suitable. She settled on Hum123@gmail.com and clicked to open a new message.

  “Like riding a bike,” she said to no one. All those years when she actually had a computer: one at home, one at work and one always in her bag, a sleek silver laptop. It made her laugh and feel sick at the same time.

  Dear Terry, she typed. We had a conversation on the phone today. Thank you for speaking with me. I know that must have taken a tremendous toll on you emotionally. When I called to inquire about Josalyn and you told me that she claimed she had a baby in late 2007, I did some digging and stumbled upon a police report filed by a homeless woman in December of 2007, claiming her infant had been kidnapped.

  Juno had not done some digging; she’d found both xeroxed police reports in Winnie’s lockbox, along with the bloody scraps of cloth. One report had been made by an unnamed homeless woman in December 2007, claiming that her infant had been kidnapped. The report, filed by a Sergeant Morales, indicated that the woman had seemed under the influence of alcohol or drugs, perhaps both. And the other report concerned the body of a young woman found in February 2008. Neither the woman in the report nor the homeless woman who filed it were named. But one thing Juno knew firsthand was that the homeless were largely nameless to the general public, described in terms of their drug addiction and crimes instead of their names and personalities. And this was Josalyn, she knew it. One report was Josalyn claiming that her infant had been kidnapped, and the other one was Josalyn found dead. Had Winnie had something to do with Josalyn’s death, too? Did that explain the bloody cloth in the lockbox?

  Her fingers found the keys again and she began to type.

  She never gave the police her name but I’ve included the case number from the report so you can look into it yourself. I may have lost you by now, Mrs. Russel, so let me just say one last thing: in the statement, the officer described her as having what appeared to be track marks on her arms as well as being disoriented with slurred speech. She wouldn’t allow the officer to take her to the hospital to be examined, despite her claims that she’d just given birth and someone had stolen her baby, and became aggressive when he tried to coerce her into going for help, running across the street and almost being hit by an oncoming vehicle. The officer, Sgt. Morales, made a note on the report saying that he saw blood on the woman’s pants, though he couldn’t attest to where the blood was coming from. Nothing further was followed up on since the woman gave no name or address and refused to go to the hospital. There was, however, one detail I’d like you to look over. The officer mentioned a tattoo in the report and I was wondering if Josalyn had any. You’ll see a short description of it in the last line. In the case that you can confirm that the tattoo belonged to your daughter I’ve included an address.

  Juno paused, resting her hands in her lap as she considered how to word the next part. The next part was important.

  Your grandson is in that house.

  She hit send without bothering to sign her name. There. All she had to do now was wait. Wait for Terry, wait for atonement, wait for death.

  27

  WINNIE

  On Winnie’s last day at Illuminations for Mental Health, she’d had to turn in her work phone and laptop, which would then be assigned to whomever replaced her. She remembered feeling almost relieved as she set the two items in a box, along with her badge and access cards, and placed them on her superior’s desk. She would no longer be tied to the things of the past. When she stepped out of the building for the last time, the sharp February air filling her lungs, she felt...free. That’s what her therapist was helping her see: at the end of trauma was the road to a new beginning.

  Winnie had felt like she didn’t deserve a new anything—and then hope had come in the form of a missed period and a positive pregnancy test. After all the years of hoping, all six miscarriages she couldn’t bring herself to let go of, despite the heartbreak they caused her. She’d even secretly kept scraps of the clothing she’d been wearing when she’d miscarried all those times, as morbid as that probably was.

  Renewed, she felt that God had given her the forgiveness she had been begging for. She wasn’t a terrible person; she was a good person who had made a bad decision. And for the rest of her life, Winnie planned on atoning for that decision, starting with her baby. He or she would be raised to be conscious of all life, tender, well rounded. Winnie would fix what she had done. She would raise such a wonderful child, so caring and aware. And she’d started by quitting her job so she could take care of this baby full time. She’d only gone back to work when he started kindergarten.

  Sam was just going through a stage; all teenagers rebelled against their parents. How many times had she repeated that to herself over the last six months? If Winnie were honest, she’d be able to acknowledge that her current lust for another baby had been triggered by Samuel’s snipping of the apron strings. Fill the hole, do a better job as a mother next time. It was a bold-faced lie she enjoyed telling herself. She could give birth to ten of her own babies and that one baby would still take the primary spot in her heart and mind. Because you killed him, Winnie told herself. And she would never, ever forget that day.

  Winnie walked into the house just as the sky was waking up. She didn’t remember getting back into the car or driving home, and now, as she fumbled with the lever on the kitchen sink, she opened it and bent her head to guzzle water straight from the tap This isn’t happening, not really, it’s just a very bad dream, she told herself. There was a strange buzzing noise, interrupted by chirps. A phone. A phone was ringing somewhere. Her phone, she knew. She couldn’t even bring herself to dig for it and look at the screen—she knew whose name she’d see there. She watched as the water washed down the sink. Nigel’s voice was behind her, in the kitchen. It was louder than the awful noise—that god-awful buzzing.

  “What happened, what happened?” he said, over and over. She didn’t know; this was a dream. No, it was real. The noise was her; Winnie realized that she was crying, mewling like a lost kitten.

  “What happened?” he said again.

  Winnie looked down at her sweatshirt, over the spot where her heart was. It was empty. She’d pulled his little body out and laid him on the passenger seat of her car.

  “Winnie!” Nigel was shouting now, shaking her. His hand came up and hit her across the face, hard enough to stun her out of the nightmare.

  So she told him. Nigel had stopped yelling and was staring at her, his eyes so wide. She’d never seen him look that afraid.

  “It was so cold, Nigel, he was suffering... I just wanted to help him.” She was trembling so hard her teeth knocked together. Nig
el took a step away from her. “There was trash everywhere. I had to crawl to reach him—”

  “Winnie... Winnie...” he said, breathless, interrupting her. “Is he dead? Is the baby dead?”

  Her howls came from somewhere deep in her belly, raw and ugly, answering his question. Nigel grabbed his wife, pressed her face into his chest so that she would stop screaming.

  “The car. It skidded on black ice. I had him in my sweatshirt.” She held a fist to the spot; she could still feel his heat against her, his tiny vulnerable body cradled to her chest. “I thought I could keep him warm that way. I was taking him to the hospital. The car skidded... I hit the barrier.” She raised three fingers to her hairline where her forehead had hit the steering wheel. There was blood, but only a trickle. “I think he died on impact, or I smothered him!” Her voice was hysterical.

  Nigel grabbed her face, pinched it between his fingers and studied her with wild eyes.

  “He’s dead. Oh my God!” She tore at her face, her nails ripping, but she could barely feel it.

  “Winnie!” He shook her hard so that her head snapped back. “Did anyone see you take him?”

  She shook her head, lips pressed together. “No, Jos—she was alone.”

  “And the accident...?” His fingers bit into the flesh of her arms and she yelped.

  “No one saw,” she sobbed. “You’re hurting me.”

  “How do you know?” She could hear her teeth crack together as he rattled her like a doll.

  “It was snowing! There was no one on the road.” She drew back, trying to pull herself from his hold, but he wouldn’t let go. “The car was still on so I drove home.”

  “Where is it? Where is the body?”

  “In the car.” She reached for his face and he pulled back, disgusted. “You have to bury him. She gave birth to him in a tent. She was a drug addict!” She screamed this last part into his face, spit landing on his cheek. He stared at her in disbelief.

  “And that makes what you did okay? Fuck!” He pulled at his hair, shaking his head. “It’s not for us to decide. We have to go the proper route, tell the authorities...”

  She could feel how labored his breathing was, could hear the thumping of his heart. Nigel was scared.

  “No! Nigel, no. They’ll arrest me... I’ll lose my job. We can’t—please.”

  Winnie clawed at his chest in panic. She never thought, not in a million years, that he would suggest turning herself in. She imagined herself in prison and let out a wail. Nigel grabbed her wrists, held them. She flailed, wanting to get away, but also wanting to be held until her hysteria passed.

  “Stop it. Stop,” he commanded. She thought he was going to slap her again, but he didn’t.

  “You killed it, Winnie. You stole a baby and you’re responsible for what happened to it after that.”

  “It’s not an it, Nigel. It’s a baby boy.”

  “Was!” he screamed so loudly Winnie stepped back, knocking into the fridge.

  Nigel breathed through his mouth.

  “A baby boy who belonged to someone else, someone who might one day come back looking for him.” In the pause that followed, Nigel dropped his eyes to the hollow at Winnie’s neck. He wouldn’t look at her. Turning away, she whimpered behind him, aware of the rejection.

  “Nigel—please. I’m sorry.”

  He spun on her so fast she covered her face like she was almost afraid of him.

  “You’re sorry? You...you killed a child tonight! Because of your foolishness. Because nothing is ever enough.” And then he punched the wall beside her head, his hand beating through the plaster in one sharp jab. Winnie screamed and slid down the wall, her eyes closed and her hands flailing. She could see the hate in his eyes, feel it so profusely that in that moment she knew he’d never be able to come back from it.

  “Please!” She grabbed the hem of his shirt, but he stepped away, ripping it from her hands. She gaped up at him, her mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out. For better or for worse, was he forgetting that? “Help me. I love you. Please help me...”

  28

  WINNIE

  Nigel had left for a run, and he’d only been gone for a few minutes when the doorbell rang. Winnie was tidying up the kitchen, scooping the last of the crumbs into her palm and dropping them in the sink as the chimes sounded. She brushed her palms together and then headed for the door, glancing up the stairs as she passed them, wondering if Samuel was finished with his homework. She’d take him a snack in a few minutes, she decided. Before her husband had left, he’d given her a generous kiss on the mouth and when he pulled back he’d said, “You’re wearing your face, slim.”

  “Oh...? And what face is that?”

  He’d grinned knowingly, but Winnie already knew what he was talking about. Things weren’t exactly good, but they were better. She’d stopped pulling away when he reached for her, and Nigel had resigned from his job so he’d be away from Dulce and they could try to keep their marriage alive. As always, Winnie was optimistic. He’d given her one last kiss and squeezed her right breast, saying “Later...” And now the prospect that he’d come home early to do “later” things excited her. Though why would he ring the doorbell? Had he forgotten his keys? She hadn’t looked at her phone; maybe he’d been calling her.

  Winnie did not gaze through the peephole as she normally did. She opened the door with a smile, ready for whatever quip Nigel would deliver.

  At first she thought the woman was trying to sell her something. She was older, maybe in her sixties, with an expensive haircut, and had a determined look about her. Winnie mentally rolled her eyes; she had been meaning to get a No Soliciting sign to hang by the door. She straightened her face, trying not to look as put out as she felt. She had her own expensive haircut, and she felt confident as she gazed down at the woman.

  “Can I help you...?” Obligatory words.

  “My name is Terry,” the woman said. She tilted her head to the side to examine Winnie, who felt affronted by the once-over she was being given.

  And then Terry spoke rapidly, saying words that didn’t fit inside Winnie’s world: a therapist named Juno Holland had given her this address; did Winnie know where her grandson was? Stepping out onto the front step to join the obviously distressed grandmother, Winnie looked up and down the street to see if she could spot a lost boy. It was not fully dark yet, and she could make out several small figures across the street in the park. As a mother herself, she felt anxious for the woman; she’d lost Samuel once in Greenlake Park, and it had been the worst day of her life.

  “Is he missing? Have you called the police?”

  But the woman looked right past Winnie into the house. She was staring at the row of family photos that hung on the wall. She was staring at Samuel.

  “Your grandson,” Winnie said again. She had the urge to snap her fingers in the woman’s face; make her focus. “Do you need to use my phone?”

  The woman—Terry—looked back over her shoulder at the park, and then nodded. She was a nice-looking older woman, and as Winnie led her inside, she could feel hard muscle underneath her button-down shirt. Yoga, Pilates, a tennis trainer—she recognized the Hermes scarf tied around Terry’s neck. A rich little boy was lost, she noted. In the foyer, she sat Terry down in the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  And then she dashed off to the kitchen for her cell phone, grabbing a bottle of water off the counter to take with her. When she rounded the corner, phone in hand, Terry was no longer in the chair. Her back to Winnie; she was studying Samuel’s third grade class photo, but when she saw Winnie, she made no move toward the phone.

  “Here,” Winnie said, extending it to her. She’d taken the time to open it first, the keypad ready to dial 911.

  “Ma’am...?” Winnie didn’t like calling women “ma’am”; women of her mother’s age especially hated it. “I’m sorry, Terry...
”

  “Your son, how old is he?”

  “I’m sorry?” she said again. Suddenly, she felt like little fingers were lightly touching her spine—warning fingers. Winnie retracted the hand offering the phone and took a step away.

  “My name is Terry Russel.”

  Terry Russel. That name landed in a loud gong in her head.

  “I thought you said your grandson was missing. What do you want?”

  Winnie held the phone tighter. She was the one in control here; she could call the police.

  “You tell me.” Terry Russel turned toward Winnie, a cold smile on her face, served with ice-blue eyes. She was walking on black kitten heels. It occurred to Winnie that no one would be walking in the park with their grandkid while wearing Prada kitten heels.

  “Tell you what? I have no idea what you’re talking about and if you don’t get out of my house, I’m going to call the police.”

  At this Terry smiled, reseating herself on Winnie’s foyer chair.

  “I think you should,” she said, crossing her legs. It looked like she was settling in for the night. “Tell them that Josalyn Russel’s mother is here, and that she would like a DNA test done on that boy!” The woman pointed at Samuel’s photo.

  The fingers on her spine turned into a heat that exploded inside Winnie’s chest. She heard herself stutter “Ja—joss—”

  Terry looked triumphant. “Josalyn,” she said, enunciating each syllable of the girl’s name, her eyes drilling accusatory holes into Winnie’s face. “My daughter.”

  Winnie didn’t know what to do. The sound of the dead girl’s name paralyzed her, and she stared at Terry Russel, feeling like her face had turned to plaster. How had Terry found her? Everything that had happened that night had felt like the sort of thing that would happen in the movies, the sort of mistakes a stupid character made that left you yelling “No!” at the TV.