She's My Mom

by Rebecca Winters

  No…

  A new wave of fear washed over her.

  Maybe word had gotten back to the man who’d wanted Martha out of the way that she was still alive. He could have hired this detective to track her down.

  She’d heard that mob types worked out deals with the police. Was this man an honest cop? How could she trust anyone?

  “Why are you asking me for help?” She wanted nothing but to run back inside the apartment, pack her bag and disappear.

  He studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. “Brett?” he called over his shoulder.

  Within seconds, a blond boy, probably junior-high age and as tall as her five-foot-seven height, materialized at the detective’s side. He carried what appeared to be an album of some kind under one arm.

  When he lifted his head, she blurted, “You!”

  The boy nodded, then gave her a tentative smile.

  Both he and the officer were staring at her so hard, she wondered if she’d suddenly grown scales or something.

  “We passed each other on the stairs at the hotel earlier tonight.” He broke the awkward silence first.

  “Yes. You were very polite and moved aside for me.”

  She’d thought him appealing then, and even more so now, especially with those soulful gray-blue eyes. “Are you in Las Vegas on vacation?”

  “No. I live here with my family. Earlier this evening my friend’s dad took us to dinner at the top of the Etoile. The elevators were so busy, we decided to take the stairs.”

  “I’m sure they were faster.”

  He nodded.

  She rubbed her damp palms against her hips. “Are you the person looking for someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brett?” The detective spoke up. “Meet Martha Walters. Is she the woman you’ve been trying to find?”

  “Yes. She’s the one.”

  This boy had been searching for her?

  After the Indian family had brought Martha into the women’s shelter, Colleen Wright, one of the staff, had checked with the police to find out if she’d been listed as a missing person.

  Using the resources available, she’d gone to great lengths to find out who Martha was and where she’d come from. When there were no results, speculation grew that Martha was one of those women who’d fallen through the cracks.

  The entertainment scene in Las Vegas was full of showgirls and the like who flocked to the desert city to make money. Long ago Martha had come to the conclusion that she must have fit into that category and then gotten involved with some sleazy underworld criminal.

  But not until now had anyone from her past come forward. She’d certainly never expected it to be a teenager. Afraid to get too excited for fear she might still learn something bad about herself, she proceeded with caution.

  “Have you been looking for a long time?”

  “Since August 20 of last year.”

  Martha had been dropped off at the women’s shelter on August 27—just one week later. Like a newborn babe, she’d arrived there with no memories and no past.

  “You honestly think we’ve met before?”

  “Yes.” The boy looked at the detective, who pulled a picture from his pocket and handed it to her. “Your hair’s different,” he explained. “You used to be blond and wore it long, but I’d know you anywhere.”

  Her heart started to pound.

  “After I saw you on the stairs, I colored in your hair with a brown marker and—”

  “What Brett’s trying to say,” the detective interrupted, “is that when we showed it to the hotel manager, he soon matched it with your application photo. We were too late to catch you before you went off duty, so he gave me your address and we drove right over.”

  “I see.”

  Martha glanced down at the picture. To her shock it was the same face that stared back at her in the mirror every morning. “Dear God—it is me!”

  The photo slipped out of her hands. In an instant the detective had retrieved it, but her eyes were riveted on the boy named Brett.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From our family photo album. I decided to bring it with me. Do you want to see some more?”

  The betraying eagerness in his voice alerted her that this was no idle question. If the police officer had brought anyone other than this vulnerable boy… It looked like she was going to have to trust him.

  “How well do we know each other?”

  He eyed her solemnly. “You’re my mom.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARTHA HEARD THE WORDS, but her brain couldn’t seem to accept the information. This boy had just told her he was her son.

  She had a son?

  “So that’s the reason I heard you say mom on the stairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you must’ve been speaking to your mother who’d gone down ahead of you.”

  “No. That was my friend Mike. When you thanked me for moving out of the way, I hoped you’d recognize me, but you didn’t.”

  She shook her head, unable to take any of this in. “I—I’m sorry. I—”

  “It’s okay.”

  No. It wasn’t okay. She could tell that from his tremulous response, but she was feeling very strange. The words wouldn’t come out right. It felt as if the floor was rising to meet her.

  A strong pair of arms caught her before she fell. The next thing she knew, the detective had carried her to the stairs. He set her down and told her to put her head between her legs until the dizziness passed.

  “Don’t try to move yet,” he cautioned when she made an effort to stand up. He kept a hand on the back of her neck.

  “I feel so foolish. I’m all right now. Really.”

  When the detective finally removed his hand, she sensed he’d done it with reluctance. He was probably afraid she’d topple over if he let go and she tried to stand.

  Her eyes darted to the boy. “What happened to your mother?”

  His anxious expression changed to one of pain. “You’re my mom,” he insisted. “Dad and I thought you died in a bomb blast, but your body was never found.”

  A bomb?

  “Take it easy,” she heard the detective whisper to him.

  “Can I look at your album, please?”

  “Sure.”

  She placed it on her knees.

  “This one has the most recent pictures,” he explained. “You and I put it together. Well, it was mostly you. I helped a little bit. Go ahead and look at them.”

  In a complete daze, she ran a trembling hand over the smooth brown leather cover. But her fingers stilled when they touched the gold lettering.

  The Corbitt Family.

  Corbitt. Where had she heard that name before?

  Holding her breath, she opened the album. There was only one color photograph on the first page. It was a five-by-seven, a posed family photo taken at home by a professional. The three people were formally dressed.

  There could be no question that it was Martha standing behind the couch with her arms around Brett and…and…

  Her head flew back, and she encountered the officer’s unwavering gaze. She remembered him saying, I’m Detective Corbitt from the Las Vegas Police Department.

  As if in slow motion, she put the album aside and got to her feet. Staring at the detective, she saw the same pain in his eyes that she’d seen in his son’s.

  Incredulous to learn that this striking man was her husband, she scrutinized his features, looking feverishly for something familiar. Anything that could make her feel a connection to him.

  “My name’s Grady.”

  “Do you believe us now?” Brett’s question shattered her concentration. She averted her eyes, unable to deal with any of their expectations just yet.

  She hugged the stair railing. “W-what’s my real name?”

  “Susan,” they said at the same time.

  “And my maiden name?”

  “Nilson,” the detective murmured.

  To find out s
he’d been a wife and mother rather than any of the untenable possibilities she’d been harboring in her mind over the last six months filled her with inexpressible joy.

  But the revelation had brought on a new bout of weakness. She needed time to assimilate what it all meant.

  “Please forgive me, but I’m feeling very tired and would like to go in now. If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”

  The detective didn’t budge. “I have no doubt you’re suffering from shock, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come home with us.”

  He spoke in such an authoritative tone, Martha’s head swerved around in stunned surprise.

  “Brett, will you go out to the car, please? Ms. Walters and I will join you in a minute. Here are the keys.”

  His son took them without saying anything. After picking up the album, which she’d left lying on the stairs, he hurried out.

  “Detective—”

  “We can’t talk here, Ms. Walters. I’m speaking as a police officer now, not as your husband.

  “The fact that you’re alive could mean you were the target of a murder attempt, but I don’t want Brett to know about that yet. Having just found the mother he thought was dead, he’s too fragile to cope with anything else tonight.”

  She nodded. “I understand your fear for him.”

  “Then you need to understand something else. I believe your life is in danger.”

  Martha had been convinced of it for a long time, too, yet she was almost more disturbed at the prospect of going anywhere with him. This man was her husband. He had needs and feelings he hadn’t forgotten. Memories of sharing everything with her, including their bed.

  “When we get home, where you’ll be safe, and you’ve had a good sleep, I’ll tell you as much as I can. For now, you’re going to have to go on faith that I’m being honest with you.

  “If you don’t feel comfortable spending the night with strangers, you can ask your roommate to come with us. I’d prefer if we didn’t have to involve her.”

  “So would I,” she assured him.

  “Then tell her I need your help on a missing-person case and that I’m driving you downtown to look through a lot of mug shots. Tell her it might take all night.”

  “All right.”

  “The important thing is to get you out of here before word spreads that I was making inquiries about Martha Walters. It could set off a sequence of events that might cause someone to come hunting for you. You don’t want to be here if that happens.”

  His words sent chills down her spine.

  “Did no one come up to you in the last six months thinking they recognized you?”

  “No. But part of me didn’t want them to because I was afraid someone might hurt me again, or worse.”

  He grimaced in reaction. “If you’re wondering whether or not I’m really a detective, you’re welcome to phone the police department. I’ll wait for you in the car. We’re out in front.” There was a pause. “You don’t need to pack a bag. I never could find the right moment to part with your things.”

  Martha watched him disappear out the doors of the apartment building in a few long, swift strides. She didn’t have to call anyone to verify that he worked in law enforcement. It was written all over him. A tough professional—on the outside, anyway.

  But for just a moment he’d let her have a glimpse inside. She saw and heard a man in tremendous pain, yet he’d done everything in his power to let her know she could trust him, even to the point of telling her she could invite her friend along.

  This man wasn’t only aware of her fears, he was considerate. She sensed that he was an unusually decent human being.

  Martha was so tired of being frightened, it sounded wonderful to know she could go to a place of safety, if only for tonight. She agreed with him that it would be best not to involve her roommates.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Tina teased when Martha entered the apartment. “What’s been going on out there?”

  More than you know, Tina. More than you know.

  “That detective is working on a missing-person case.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It, uh, has to do with someone who stayed in a room I cleaned. He asked a lot of questions. Now he wants me to go down to the station with him and look through some photographs. He says it might take all night.”

  She grinned. “You mean looking at the pictures, or getting to know you better?”

  “Maybe a little of both,” Martha said, playing along.

  “I thought so. A guy like him doesn’t show up at your door every day. He’s the kind you want to take home and keep forever.”

  Her words haunted Martha. “I have to get my purse,” she said abruptly.

  She dashed into the bedroom and pulled it from the closet shelf. Much as she wanted to bring an overnight bag, she realized she couldn’t do that with Tina watching her every move.

  She made a detour to the bathroom for her toothbrush, then put it in a little plastic holder and stashed it in her purse. With that accomplished, she was ready to go.

  “Tina? If I don’t come home tonight, you’ll know why.”

  “I’m hoping you don’t show up until you have to report for work on Monday,” she teased again. “Paquita and I will expect a full report, okay?”

  Tina never knew when to give up. “Thanks for being my friend. See you later.” She locked the door behind her and left the apartment building.

  A dark blue Passat sat out in front. Before she reached the car, the man who was once her husband, who was still her husband despite her memory loss, got out to assist her into the passenger seat. He must have done it for her a thousand times before.

  It didn’t seem possible that she had no recollection of a life with him or their son. She took great care to avoid his unsettling gaze. One look and she would see his anguish. Nothing could be worse when she couldn’t do anything to relieve it.

  They drove in silence until they reached the parkway. “Are you hungry?” her husband asked. “We can stop for something to eat at a drive-in.”

  “You used to love the onion rings at Buddy’s,” Brett piped up from the back seat.

  “Thank you for asking, but I had dinner after I got home from work. Please don’t let that prevent you from eating if you want to, though.”

  The car continued to head south.

  “How did you get the name Martha?” Brett asked.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well, when I was driven to the women’s shelter, not knowing who I was or where I’d come from, there wasn’t much to do but watch TV.”

  The man at her side made some kind of tortured sound in his throat.

  “The first morning I was there, some of the other residents were watching a home show hosted by a woman named Martha.

  “It sounded like a nice name and I needed one, so I borrowed it. Later in the day, they watched this women’s panel, and there was a journalist with the last name of Walters. I thought, why not be Martha Walters.”

  “Dad? Did you hear that?” He patted his father on the shoulder.

  “I sure did.”

  Both of them appeared to be fighting smiles.

  “What have I said that’s so amusing?”

  “You never really liked either of those shows.”

  “I think I still don’t.”

  When they laughed, she couldn’t help but join in. The naturalness of the moment took her by complete surprise. However, it was over just as quickly, and an uneasy silence returned.

  “Do you remember when you were taken to the shelter?”

  “Yes. August 27.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the way her husband’s strong hands tightened on the steering wheel. He wore a gold wedding band on his ring finger.

  Had he never taken it off? Or had he slipped it back on tonight before driving over to her apartment? Turning her head away, she shivered with unease.

  Brett leaned
forward. “How did you meet the Indian family?”

  “It was more a case of them finding me.”

  “What happened?”

  “All I can remember is waking up in a clinic with such a painful headache, I wanted to die. An Indian woman named Maureen Benn sat by my bed. She told me she and her husband, Joseph, found me staggering around in a patch of wild grass with no identification. No clothes. Nothing…”

  “Dear Lord,” her husband whispered.

  She saw his gaze dart to her hands. In the photograph at the front of the album, she’d been wearing a wedding band and a diamond. They, too, were gone.

  “She said the back of my head had been bleeding, that it looked like someone had given me a direct blow. They covered me with a blanket and moved me to their truck. Then they drove me to a clinic and stayed with me all night.

  “When the doctor realized I couldn’t remember anything, he suggested I see a specialist in Las Vegas as soon as I felt well enough to travel. But Las Vegas meant nothing to me and I didn’t have any money.

  “The Benns took me home with them for a few days and took care of me until I could walk around without falling. Finally they drove me to the women’s shelter in Las Vegas where people could help me.” Just remembering their kindness, she felt her throat close up. “I would have died out there if they hadn’t found me.”

  She was aware of her husband’s searching glance. “Do you remember what direction you were coming from when they brought you to Las Vegas?”

  “No. But their house was in a town called Nopa or Popa. Something like that.”

  “Moapa!”

  She lowered her head. Everything about that week was so vague. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “The Moapa Paiute Indian Reservation starts about fifty-five miles northeast of Las Vegas. One day soon we’ll drive out there and thank them.”

  “I’ve been hoping to find them again and show them my appreciation.”

  “Who would have done that to you, Mom?”

  Mom.

  She still couldn’t comprehend it. None of it.

  Maybe she was in the middle of a dream, except it seemed to be a dream that had no end. She closed her eyes, feeling a sense of deep weariness.

  “We’re home now, Brett. I think we ought to dispense with any more questions for tonight. Your mother’s as exhausted as you are. It’s been a long day.”