Not Her Daughter: A Novel

by Rea Frey

  “Tell me more,” she said. “Tell me more about me.”

  after

  Amy dropped her bags on her desk and took the Tupperware to the office kitchenette. Her coworkers, Mary and Christina, were already huddled around the coffeemaker, deep in gossip.

  They barely batted an eye as Amy squeezed behind them to put her labeled, preportioned lunch in the refrigerator. She was starting a diet—today. She’d had it with straining, sweating, and so much heaviness with every step and breath.

  The first time she’d tried to diet after Emma was born, she’d called her mother in an absolute panic about all the foods she had to give up. She always called her mother if there was a problem, because her mother wasn’t emotional and could highlight the ease of a task without all the feelings surrounding it. Her sturdy, blunt mother, true to form, had told her to close her damn mouth and start moving her legs. “Come out to the farm for a while. You’ll move so much you can eat anything you want.”

  Amy was trying Weight Watchers. It was the only plan where she could still have cheese and dessert and come in under her point tally. She turned to pour some coffee, but Mary blocked the way.

  “Can I?” She reached an arm toward the cabinet for a mug.

  Mary did not move. Amy looked at her, startled. Mary was many things, but she wasn’t rude. “Is there a problem?”

  Mary and Christina crossed their arms like a pair of preteen mean girls and studied Amy. “You know … I’ve spent the last two months feeling horrible for you, organizing search parties, trying to think of anything I could do to help,” Mary said. “And now this.”

  “I can’t believe you’re even here today,” Christina added.

  Amy looked back and forth between the two of them. “And now what? What are you talking about?”

  Christina shook her head. “We know what they are saying about you. Everyone knows. It’s all over the internet.”

  Amy’s fingers began to shake, and she shoved them into her pockets. “What’s all over the internet? That I’m a suspect? I would never, ever hurt my daughter. People who know me know that.”

  The women looked at each other, and Mary took a step closer. “We saw that video, Amy. The one from the market.”

  “What video?”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “The video. Of you and Emma with the grocery cart!”

  What were they talking about? There was a video of her and Emma? And a grocery cart? “I have no idea about any type of video.”

  “Just save it, Amy. You shouldn’t be here.”

  The two women left Amy facing the cabinets. She poured herself a cup of coffee and went to find Patrick, her boss. His door was closed, which meant he didn’t want interruptions, but she knocked anyway. After a few beats, he barked for her to come in.

  Amy shouldered the door open—it always stuck—and tried to keep her coffee from spilling. His face fell when he saw her. He sighed and motioned for her to sit.

  “What is it?”

  “I just had a few questions about the Delaney file,” Amy said. “I’m a little behind.”

  “Amy, look. I’ve been meaning to find you and talk.” He clipped the cap on his Montblanc and smoothed his tie. “I … we can’t have this publicity here right now. I know work is probably the only thing keeping you afloat, and I get that, I do, but this is just … it’s too serious an accusation. Until you get cleared, of course.”

  “Are you serious? You want me to go home?”

  “I think that would be best.”

  Amy spun the mug in her hands, a slow, hot circle. “But why now? They accused me in the beginning too. That’s what they do in these cases when they have no leads. They got some false traction and now they don’t have anything, so the investigation turns back to me. That’s all this is. They have nothing. They’re just pointing fingers.”

  “I get that, Amy. I do. But I have a company to protect.”

  “But how am I supposed to pay for things? Richard has totally lost it. He hasn’t been to work in over two months. I’m the only one supporting us right now.”

  He rolled the pen around in his fingers, a pen that cost more than she made in a month. “We’ll give you six weeks’ pay until this gets sorted. Okay? You’ve been here a long time. People are just … well, they’re reeling about these latest accusations. You know how the media is.”

  She nodded, thanked Patrick, walked back to the kitchen, and dumped the rest of her coffee in the sink. She scooped her Tupperware into her tote, collected a few things—her brand-new stapler, her laptop, her notebooks—and left with her head held high, the snickers and whispers of an office who barely used to know her name now filled with judgment.

  * * *

  Once in her car, she tapped the steering wheel and felt the absolute exhaustion of these past few months sift through her body like poison. Where could she go? She put the car in drive and headed straight to Ronnie’s office. He’d know exactly how to help.

  She’d set aside a chunk of her mother’s house fund to cover potential lawyer fees in case she had to prove her innocence. Even though Ronnie was a friend, he was still expensive. She wanted to be prepared.

  His office was small and unpretentious, with a reception desk and a single corner office flanked by windows, filing cabinets, and countless legal boxes. Ruth was answering a call and waved her back as she entered. She tapped on Ronnie’s door.

  He looked up, removed his small spectacles, and motioned for her to sit. “I wondered when you’d be coming in.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re the prime suspect.”

  Amy listened to the words leaving his mouth, the way they twisted the truth into something completely different. Because you’re the prime suspect. Amy had done so many things wrong as a mother, but the fact that this investigation had actually turned back to her boggled her mind.

  “Amy. Did you hear what I just said?”

  “What? Sorry.”

  “You look exhausted. Are you getting any rest?”

  “No, it’s not that. I basically just got fired from my job.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  People kept saying that—that they were sorry, that she should just go home, lie down, and get some rest. She’d never thought there could be something worse than being overweight, in a crappy marriage, or raising a difficult child, but this was it. People thought she was a murderer. She wasn’t sure how you bounced back from that. “And these girls … these girls at my work just now. They were talking about some video?”

  “What video?” Ronnie feared negative media attention the way other people feared the flu. He’d do anything not to catch it.

  “I don’t know. Some video of Emma and me in the grocery store? I mean, I don’t know why there would be a video. I never took a video.”

  “What’s on the video, Amy?”

  “I don’t know, Ronnie. That’s what I’m saying. I haven’t seen it.”

  He pecked away on his computer, squinting his eyes, his bushy white eyebrows like caterpillars on a slow mission to find each other. “Oh, Amy. Oh my God.” He hung his head and shook it, and she practically yanked his desktop screen her way.

  “What? What is it? What could someone possibly have…?”

  Ronnie stopped the video, restarted it, and twisted the screen further toward her. It had recently been uploaded to some mainstream media site, and now the local news was all over it. Amy was looking at a version of herself probably six or seven months ago. Robbie was in the cart, chewing on a toy. And Emma was beside the cart, a wad of her hair having somehow gotten caught between the handle and the body of the cart. Amy was pushing the cart, oblivious, yelling at Emma to stop screaming. Emma could barely keep up as she cried and attempted to pry her hair free. The person taking the video was muttering obscenities, and people in the aisle were clutching their canned soups and bagged chips, appalled.

  The video shut off. “Amy, I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Ro
nnie, I didn’t know her hair was stuck, I swear! I thought she was just, you know, being Emma and crying about something. Someone came over and let me know her hair was caught in the cart. I had no idea.”

  “But she was walking right beside you.”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “Ronnie, until you’ve worked a full day, then picked your kids up from day care, then had to go to the store to figure out what to get for dinner, all while being sleep-deprived, you can’t possibly tell me what I would and wouldn’t pay attention to. I was a professional at tuning her out when I needed to.”

  “But Amy…” He motioned to the screen.

  “Look, when we got there, she kept swinging her hair near the cart. I kept telling her to stop, and she didn’t. Her hair somehow got wound all the way around it. I thought she was just throwing a massive tantrum, like usual. As soon as someone pointed it out, I stopped and untangled it for her. Where’s the video of that? That I helped her?” She fanned herself. “I basically had to rip a handful of her hair out, and then I rubbed her head and trimmed her hair for her when we got home. I swear.”

  “Amy, it doesn’t matter what you did after. It matters what this makes you look like.” He shook his head again, the disappointed grandfather, and turned back to his computer.

  “This doesn’t make any sense. Where did this video come from? Why didn’t someone submit this months ago when I was first accused?”

  “I have no idea. Probably because other leads surfaced. When there was movement in Montana and Nebraska, I think people probably thought it was an actual kidnapping. But now that it’s turned back to you, well … you know how people are with their phones these days. People take videos of everything.”

  “But it is an actual kidnapping. I didn’t do anything.”

  “We’ve got to go on the defensive immediately. We might need you to issue a statement.”

  “What?” Amy recoiled. “I’m not issuing a statement about something that happened months ago and wasn’t even anything! I literally stopped seconds after that asshole stopped taking that video! I didn’t even know we were being filmed. I mean, isn’t that illegal?” She clutched her purse in her lap and squeezed. “I swear, I hate our world today. You can make anyone look like they are doing anything, and then sit back and just judge, write comments, and crucify parents who are, by the way, doing the hardest job imaginable—”

  “People think you killed your daughter, Amy. This just corroborates their story, establishes a pattern! Don’t you get that?” He rubbed a hand over his wrinkled forehead. “They’re after Richard to give up even more instances like this. It’s not good. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see what trouble you’re in? How they are turning everyone against you?”

  Amy took the cold, hard truth like icy water splashed in her face. “I’m sorry, Ronnie. Yes, you’re right.” She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, struggling to grab hold of an ankle. “What have you gotten from Richard in all this?”

  Ronnie shuffled through some papers and coughed. “Well, he’s … he’s struggling right now, Amy. He really is.”

  “Ronnie, please, I beg of you. Cut the shit. Just tell me.” She knew Richard didn’t trust her. In the past week, she’d caught him at night, duvet pulled up to his chin, staring at her. He’d started sleeping with a baseball bat. He cried all the time: in the shower, over coffee, putting on his thin socks. Frank had turned him. He believed them, not her.

  “He wants full custody of Robbie.”

  Amy sucked in her breath and rummaged in her purse for a cough drop. The menthol soothed her throat and opened her sinuses. “Can he do that?”

  Ronnie chewed his lip into embarrassed, tactful angles and shrugged. “Well, technically, with everything that’s happening right now? Yes. Yes, he can.”

  Amy bowed her head and sighed, accidentally sucking the lozenge into the back of her throat. She grabbed her neck and coughed, once, but it was lodged. She stood up and coughed as hard as she could. The blue mint rocketed out of her mouth and landed on the back of Ronnie’s wrist.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Ronnie. I was choking. I was…” She exploded into laughter, looking at that blue mint balanced on her lawyer’s aging, sun-spotted wrist. He smiled, pinched it with a tissue, and deposited it in the trash.

  “Amy, it’s fine. Are you okay? Do you need me to get you some water?”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she collapsed in the chair, laughing and rocking back and forth until she thought she might pee.

  “I’ll be right back. Just take a minute. I’ll get you some water, okay?”

  She couldn’t catch her breath. The whole world thought she was a killer. Her, a killer! Her husband now wanted to divorce her, and he wanted full custody of their other child. In a matter of a few months, everything about her life had changed. And isn’t that exactly what she’d wanted?

  Ronnie entered a few minutes later with a cup of water, and Amy thanked him and took it. “I’m so sorry about that. I think everything just caught up to me. I haven’t laughed in … God, I don’t know how long.”

  “Perfectly normal, Amy. Everyone handles situations like these in different ways.”

  Ronnie pulled up something on his computer.

  She set the glass on his mahogany desk, unable to locate a coaster. She slid a piece of paper under it as a courtesy. “Can I ask you something?”

  “What’s that?” He pressed enter and looked at her, that sloped smile—the result of a stroke a few years back—pulling his face down and to the left.

  “Do you think I killed Emma?”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “Amy, dear. No, of course not. I’ve known you for years. You have a temper, sure, and you don’t always paint yourself in the best light, but I know you would never kill a child.”

  She sat back, relieved. “Now, how do I prove that to the world?”

  “Listen.” He sat forward. “That’s my job, okay? And so far, they have nothing. They’ve dug up your backyard. They’ve taken DNA. They’ve searched in rivers, lakes, the woods, and anywhere else you could have gone in any direction within a three-hour radius. They have nothing. They have a neighbor who saw a fight you’ve already confessed to. You’ve been open about everything else. Well, except this video. This damn, dreadful video. But we’ll deal with that. We will.” He turned back to his computer, read something, then focused on her. “If you were guilty—and I know you’re not—you wouldn’t have painted such an unattractive picture of your mother-daughter relationship. You wouldn’t be so forthcoming about…”

  “About what?”

  He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand and went back to typing. “You know what I mean. The slap. What happened that night. Everything.”

  “So what now? I feel like I’m on trial. What am I supposed to do? I mean, is there going to be a trial?” The thought of courts and a jury made her feel instantly sick.

  “No, there won’t be a trial unless they can find some shred of concrete evidence to convict you. And I won’t let that happen. I promise.”

  She nodded. Someone was on her side. Someone was giving her assurance. Someone believed in her, and that’s all she needed to make it out of this alive.

  * * *

  On the way home, she stopped at the market to get eggs, cheese, and a loaf of bread. She wanted cheesy French toast—Virginia’s cheese shop was closed, so she’d have to settle for the cheap stuff—and a bad movie. Fuck the diet. Robbie was with Richard on a dad-son date, and this would be one of the first nights she’d ever been in their house alone since she’d had children. As she popped a loaf of bread into her cart and turned down the dairy aisle, she could hear someone snicker beside her. She turned to see one of the school moms glaring at her, jaw clenched.

  “May I help you?”

  “You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

  Amy looked at the cheese and butter in her hands. “For this? It could be worse. I’m already fat.” She scooped even more butter and gooey cheese off the s
helves and let them topple into the cart.

  The woman pulled her sweater tighter and walked away, leaving her cart in Amy’s way. Amy bumped it and grabbed a few more items before heading to the checkout.

  The cashier was gabbing away with the man in front of her, but when Amy unloaded her groceries on the belt, the woman didn’t say a single word. She took her groceries to her car herself—the checkout boy didn’t offer to help—and found three eggs splattered across the side of her van. She turned around in the parking lot, shame and anger working over her entire body. She got in, locked the doors, and sat there, her breath coming in gasps.

  She’d gone into labor with Robbie in this very parking lot. Emma had rubbed her belly, told her to breathe, and to do her “moz.” Emma had been so little, and in that moment, Amy thought that she could be a good mom, that she would be a good mom. It was a sweet moment, a rare moment, and the memory of her daughter’s small hands on her huge belly rocked through every bone in her body.

  She cleared her throat and put the car into reverse, making sure the doors were locked, almost afraid to go home, to see what was awaiting her. Should she buy a gun?

  As she pulled in to the driveway and the headlights flicked over the playhouse in the back, she had the same glimmer of hope she did every time she came home: Maybe tonight will be the night Emma returns.

  She crept out of the car and tiptoed toward the barren playhouse, opening the door. Dirt covered the interior. The entire plastic house reeked of mildew and loneliness. Tears pricked her eyes. All she needed was a chance. One chance to do it again, to start over, to be better.

  One more chance to make it right and show the world—and herself—that she was better than she’d been.

  sarah