Not Her Daughter

by Rea Frey

  I waited for him to stop crying before pulling away. “How do you know she’s gone, Daddy? Maybe she just stayed out with her friends?”

  He took me by the hand, shaking his head like a madman, and ushered me to their bedroom. “There. Look.”

  I gazed into the contents of their bedroom: at the bed, the walls, and the dresser, looking for clues of any sort. “What?”

  “There, there, there! In the closet, in the bathroom, the car! Gone. All of it. She took everything she could get her hands on. I don’t know if she came in the night or not. I’m … I was asleep. I was asleep! I just can’t believe this is happening to me.”

  I spun around in a circle, hunting for signs, and went to her closet. They shared a small one, my mother claiming at least two-thirds. Her hangers, cloth-covered and plush, were mostly full, but a few were bare, while my father’s cheap standard wires were covered in button-downs and T-shirts. I shut the door and went to the bathroom to inspect her drawers. Her makeup and perfumes were gone, her jewelry too. Her stash of cigarettes, her stockings, her high heels … I ran to the garage and tripped on something that ripped into the flesh of my heel. I sat down and cradled my foot, trying not to scream. I had to keep it together for my father. I looked down for the offending object and saw it—my mother’s favorite necklace: her skeleton key on a thin, silver chain.

  My mother was a possessive, materialistic woman, so I put together a stash of her most prized possessions on the days and nights she didn’t come home: lipsticks, high heels, pendants, scarves. I would play with them all day, pressing my DNA into them, and then put them back exactly the way they’d been so she’d never know I had touched them. I just wanted to know the woman I should have already known but didn’t; I just wanted to covet what she coveted.

  It would destroy my father to see her favorite piece of jewelry abandoned like this. I greedily plucked the necklace from the gap in the wooden planks and stuffed it in the pocket of my pajamas. I wanted it. She’d never let me touch it before, and I couldn’t wait to slip it around my neck.

  I went outside and saw the old oil spot from her Beetle. Her car was gone. She’d taken most of her favorite things. Was there a note somewhere?

  I sat down on the steps and waited for all of this to come together in my head.

  My mother had taken her things. She’d made me pancakes yesterday. She’d kissed me—twice!—and gone out like normal last night. But she’d never come home, and now my father thought she’d left him and wasn’t coming back again.

  I stabbed the skeleton key in the dirt and drew pictures: a cat’s face, a small house, an ice-cream cone, a star. It was hot—even early morning in August the sun was still brutal—and pondered what all of this meant.

  Was she never coming back again? Would we not experience the mood swings, the terror, the instability of never knowing what side of her we would get? I covered my mouth with my hands and let out a muffled scream. I pulled myself off the stoop and began running around the side of my house and to the front, grinning until my cheeks hurt, feeling a lightness I’d never known.

  The source of all my problems had vanished. I’d asked for her to stay nice, and instead, the universe had simply plucked her out of it, doing me a bigger favor by taking her away from me. I would never have to please an unreasonable person again. I would never have to deal with one of her mood swings, or bags of ice on sore wounds, or justifying her bizarre and cruel behavior just to get on with my day. My father could move on with his life. He could be happy. We could be happy without her.

  I collapsed on the dewy grass and began making grass angels—a ridiculous movement that would have received a gallon of ridicule if my mother had been outside with me—and I continued to move my arms in that lazy pattern, up and down, up and down, as if I could fly right out of my body, zip up to the heavens, and thank them personally.

  during

  She does not sleep. Her eyelids stretch wide, as if pulled back with tape. She blinks in small bursts as the lights from other cars filter in and out of the windows. I have little explanation for where we are going or why. I just keep telling her to be patient. To wait.

  A few hours outside of Portland, I begin to relax. I find the Walmart I’ve been to a million times, and we park in the middle of two SUVs as I prepare myself for what to say. I turn to her, so wired in the backseat, metrical in her jumpiness, as my eyes search for people who can see she’s not in a car seat, even with the Tahoe’s tinted windows. I see her lower lip quiver. Her face begins to fold in on itself, and every part of me wants to hug her, but I’m afraid she’ll scream.

  “Oh sweetie, hey. Please don’t cry. Everything is going to be okay. Look at me.” I reach one hand into the darkness and touch her knee, which is covered with blond peach fuzz and crusted scabs. Her body begins to shake with sobs, and I am so sorry I am causing her more worry, more pain, more fear.

  “Hey, Emma. Can you look at me for just one second? Please? It’s important that you hear this.” I think about bribing her with a toy—please stop crying, and you can have any toy you want!—but I’m not that impatient. She opens her mouth and an anguished wail comes out, and I can’t help myself—I look around for suspicious eyes in the parking lot—but it is late at night, and no one is watching.

  I wait until she takes a few breaths, and then I rub her knee again, as if that’s helping. “I promise I’m here to help you. I just want to…” What? I dig deep, thinking of all the different ways I’ve ever connected to children from other countries, children whose languages I don’t speak, children who go without, entitled children who think the TACK kits are boring. But I’ve never had to deal with a child in a situation like this. “Hey, Emma. Do you have a favorite toy at home?”

  She brightens a fraction, and I think I’m on to something. “I bet you do, right? Do you have something that makes you feel better, that helps you calm down when you’re scared?”

  “Like a lovey?”

  “What’s a lovey?”

  “It’s a toy we bring to school to help us nap.”

  “Yes. Like a lovey. Do you have a favorite?”

  She nods and hiccups. “Share Bear.”

  “A Care Bear?”

  “Share Bear. She’s … eekup … she’s one of the, those Care Bears. Daddy got her for me.”

  “You know what? We are going to go in here and get you another Share Bear. I know it won’t be your exact Share Bear, but it will be close enough, okay? Would that make you feel a little bit better?”

  She nods. “But I’m not scared.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I’m afraid what Mommy is going to do to me since I ran away from her. She’s going to be so mad at me, I don’t know what she’ll do.” She cries as she says it, until snot is dripping into her mouth.

  “Oh, you sweet little girl. Listen to me.” I move to the backseat, unbuckle her seatbelt, and she jumps into my arms. I hold her there, shushing her as she cries. “Your mommy is not going to do anything or be angry at all, okay? I promise. You are with me for a reason. Do you know what that reason is?”

  She shakes her head and squeezes tighter.

  “I am here to keep you happy and safe. That is my only job. Doesn’t that sound like a fun job?”

  She shrugs.

  “And you know what else comes with that job? Getting you all kinds of fun things in this store to help you stay happy. But it’s been so long since I’ve had to shop for kid stuff, I don’t even know what to get! Do you think you could help me find the right things you need? And maybe we can get you some fun toys too? For being such a brave girl?”

  She pulls back, wipes her eyes, and nods, the idea of new toys starting to make sense in her brain. I take the hem of my shirt and gingerly blot her tears. I flip on the interior light and study her face, which is turning purple along her cheek and jaw. I dig
in my bag and find some cover-up. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, this is some magic medicine for your face that is going to help it not hurt so much. Can I?” I untwist the cap and shake some into my fingers. “Can I tap some of this on your cheek? And if it hurts, you can just tell me to stop, okay?” I begin to blend—lightly—and swipe until the purple turns to pink and then a beige that is one shade too dark for her skin. “Is that okay? Does that hurt?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  I place my hands on her shoulders and gently squeeze. “I just want you to relax and have fun. To have a summer vacation. Does that sound okay?” I think about lying. About telling her that her parents told me to take her on a trip, that I’m her new babysitter, a nanny, or a new teacher from her school. But I cannot lie to this child. I make a decision right here, in this car, that I will not lie to her about anything.

  “What’s a summer cation?” She hiccups again, saying it wrong, but she’s not pulling away from me.

  “You’ve never taken a summer vacation before? Well, we are going to have to do so many fun things, then. Do you think you’re up for a little adventure?”

  She nods. There is almost a smile, and I think we are going to be okay—at least initially—if we can get far enough out of town. I know this is not some movie or book—there are real consequences here—and I’m trying to be careful not to push too much too soon. We will get the necessities we need. I will pay in cash. We will keep driving.

  The soft wash of the moon hangs high in the sky. It is late and well past a child’s normal bedtime, but we only have twenty-four hours max to get as far from Washington as possible—before the authorities are alerted and the real investigation unfolds. To people who see us, she will go from being a disgruntled child to a missing child, and if anyone makes the connection while she’s in my care, it’s all over before it’s even begun.

  I ease her out of the car and kneel down to her level, parking lot rocks imprinting into the flesh of my knees. I smooth the hair from her face, which is hot and damp from tears, and arrange it over her left cheek, just in case. “Are you ready to go buy some fun toys?”

  “Can I also get a doll? And some new clothes?”

  “Of course. Though I know how much you love your red dress.”

  She looks down at herself and fingers a sequin. “Mommy always makes me wear this.”

  “Why is that?”

  She shrugs. “Because I don’t have a lot of clothes. She says it’s easier this way.”

  “Well, I think it will be fun to get some new clothes. Don’t you?”

  She nods but does not make any move to come with me into the store. Only time will make her trust me, but I’m not sure we have any. I don’t know what I was expecting—for her to simply come with me, not ask questions, and not miss home? No child is wired like that, even the unhappy ones. I should know.

  I ask if I can hold her hand. She lets me, and then we are walking toward the big, bold lights of the store, our first public appearance as Sarah Walker and the Missing Girl.

  We enter the automatic doors. The chill of the store lifts the hair on my arms and makes every sense crack with caution. I pick her up and deposit her in a cart, struggling to get her legs through the slots. She begins kicking her heels against it, like we’ve done this a million times.

  Emma is here, in my bright blue cart, and I’m shopping for items to keep her for days, weeks, or even months. As I push the cart, Emma locks eyes with mine. Her tiny lips shift into a tentative smile. I smile back and feel something come loose in my chest.

  As we go through the aisles, I ask her simple questions: Are you allergic to anything? Peanuts? Dairy? Wheat? Do you take any regular medicine? Do you get headaches? Do you get earaches? Do you have a cough? Do you have asthma? She spouts off a series of no’s until it becomes like a game, and then I ask her silly questions: Do you have three heads? Do you have bananas for arms? Do you have a monkey’s butt? And Emma starts to laugh, a sweet, innocent giggle that burrows deep into my bones.

  It is late, and there are only a few workers aimlessly wandering about, the squawk of their walkie-talkies mingling with squeaky carts. I lead her into the dressing room, abandoning our supplies, and quickly change her into a set of new clothes. I rip off the tags and pocket them to give the cashier, and then ball her red dress to stuff into my purse.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “I thought you might be tired of being in those clothes. I’m going to wash your pretty red dress for you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We continue on through the aisles in a dizzying loop of our list—clothes, shoes, panties, wipes, first-aid kit, disposable cell phone, batteries, LeapFrog, games, snacks, toiletries, vitamins, socks, emergency pull-ups, books, Share Bear, Barbies, Legos. I keep pushing her from aisle to aisle, my eyes trained for anyone who gives us a lingering glance, hoping and praying that we can just get back in the car and keep driving before the alert hits out here, before “a few hours away from home” turns into an actual kidnapping.

  At the car seat aisle, I waver. Is she too old for a car seat? Too heavy? I look at her gangly limbs sticking out of the shopping cart. She has sharp elbows and knees, high cheekbones and a pointy chin. I read the weight limit for each seat. “Emma, do you sit in a car seat or a booster seat?”

  She shrugs. “Both. One for Daddy’s car and one for Mommy’s.”

  I wheel her to where the scales are and shake one loose from its box. Emma watches me with interest, as I lift her up and out of the cart, step on the scale until I see a zero, and place her on it. She stands still as the numbers whir and then stop at 40.8.

  I take her back to the seats. Which is safer? I decide on a Graco booster seat with a back. For as many miles as we are driving, I want to be safe.

  The cashier makes small talk at the register—is it her birthday? are we moving? my, what a lucky girl to get all this new stuff!—and my heartbeat rattles my throat as I try to keep her talking about anything other than the child in my cart.

  The cashier is young, a gum chewer, sprinkled with tattoos and way too bored with her job to follow AMBER Alerts. In my nervousness, I forget to give her the tags to pay for Emma’s clothes. I hesitate once she gives me the total, but pay for all of our objects with cash, and push Emma into the night, a cool sweat having drenched my T-shirt.

  “Well, kiddo, you’ve got a lot of good stuff here.”

  Emma looks behind her in the cart brimming with plastic bags. “All this stuff is for me?”

  I nod. “Well, who else would it be for, silly?”

  “Really?” She claps her hands together, bounces in the seat, and smiles. “Thank you! I don’t know what to play with first.”

  “You can play with whatever you want.” I lift her out of the cart and into the car, and that’s the moment I know: no matter what part of my conscience exists, what part of me understands right from wrong, I will do whatever it takes to keep this little girl safe.

  That’s what I’m going with: my intention to keep her safe. In spite of the facts, in spite of what I’ve done. Because it feels right. Being with Emma feels right.

  It’s the only thing I trust.

  before

  “Why are we doing this again?”

  “Because it’s important to maintain local relationships,” Brad said, first adjusting his new readers and then his snakeskin belt.

  While Travis was my right-hand man and Madison my left, Brad was my entire torso. Nothing happened without his approval. He was my creative director, my negotiator, and my designer. I was lucky to snag him from a top branding agency down the street. I promised him endless PTO and that I would buy him whatever software he needed for the duration of his career.

  He pressed his hands to his hips and moved his pelvis forward with an exaggerated sigh. “Longview is in Washington but it’s close. It’s like two miles from Kelso, which has that awesome rustic street market you love so much.
Remember? We went to it last year and you kept going on and on about what a cute town it was? And then we ate sushi and stayed at the Hudson Manor Inn?”

  “God, that sushi was so good. But that was Kelso, not Longview. Who the hell goes to Longview?”

  “We go to Longview. You can practically walk to Kelso,” he exclaimed, slapping his folder against the desk. “When did you become such a location snob?”

  “I’m not a snob. Honestly, I’m just exhausted. I’m still trying to finish up all the orders from the trip and create an entire new line of kits.” I knew all the reasons why this was a good business move for us, positioning ourselves in new territory, but my schedule had been so packed since my overseas trip that I just wanted to hole up in my office and focus on nothing but digital.

  “Would you like for us to just go, then?”

  “No, I’ll go. It’s important. I was just hoping for an easy week.”

  He snorted, and Madison busied herself with looking at her phone. “When have you ever had an easy week?”

  “Point taken. It’s fine. Really. I just don’t know why we’re going somewhere so small, when Portland has like fifty million Montessori schools.”

  “Because they requested us. In Longview. Which is where we are going in about”—he flicked his wrist and adjusted his wooden watch, a thank-you gift I’d gotten him last Christmas—“twenty minutes.” He leaned over the paper on my desk, running his finger across a line of text until he spotted the name. “Montessori Children’s House. If someone requests your presence, you show up.”

  “See? You had to look at the itinerary because even you couldn’t remember the name of where we’re going.”

  “Listen, boss lady, it will be a quick zip down and back. This is our chance to get into Montessoris. Which, as you know, could be huge for us. And I’ll also make sure from now on we only go to the cool ones with the crazy high budgets.”

  “Aren’t all Montessoris cool? Isn’t that the whole point?”