Not Her Daughter

by Rea Frey

  “I mean in cool places, smart-ass. And just think. Once we get into Montessoris, the Waldorf schools are next!”

  I laughed. “You know I’m just giving you a hard time, right? I like to put your negotiating skills to the test before we try and land a deal.”

  “How’d I do?”

  “You passed.”

  Madison scurried around, packing things for the road trip. Her ears were primed, but she knew to stay out of our banter.

  “And you are seriously the only one I will let get away with calling me a smart-ass. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “You love it.” He placed the papers and his computer in his designer messenger bag and draped it over one shoulder. “Are we ready now?”

  “Almost. Give me five minutes to wrap up a few things.”

  I finished some lingering emails while shoving files into my bag. At the front desk, Madison, Brad, and I waved to Travis, who was busy taking calls and responding to order requests from overseas clients.

  We promised to bring him back some fun Washington souvenirs and all mouthed goodbye as we headed to pack the TACK van. We counted and re-counted our kits and then piled in.

  I glanced at my pitch notes as we bumped onto the highway. I knew the challenges with Montessori—they had a very specific set of learning criteria. They believed in certain methods, work cycles, and building blocks to advancement. I wanted to show how we could be a complement to the method and not a deviation.

  We hit rush hour about thirty minutes outside our destination. “Any back roads we can take?”

  “If you know something Google Maps doesn’t, then by all means,” Brad snapped, his eyes on the road. He took the business of driving more seriously than anyone I’d ever met: no texting, no listening to loud music, barely talking. He hated the stress, but he always insisted on driving to every location.

  I smirked at Madison, and she raised her eyebrows. “Sensitive, sensitive man,” I murmured.

  “Really, Sarah? You’re going to bust my chops right now? I’m driving.”

  “You are? I hadn’t noticed how white your knuckles are, or that you’re sitting about two inches from the steering wheel, Grandma.”

  “Actually, I think my grandmother sits farther back than that,” Madison added.

  “All right, assholes, seriously.” He exhaled, sitting up even straighter, hands at ten and two.

  “You know, I actually read somewhere that your hands are supposed to be at eleven and three to be the safest—”

  “Get out! Both of you. Out of the car right now.”

  “I don’t know why you always insist on driving if you hate to drive!”

  “Because I don’t trust anyone else to get us there on time. Isn’t that obvious?”

  Madison and I laughed and helped him navigate. We knew when to push, but we also knew that Brad had a limit, and he was quickly approaching it. We pulled up to the school two minutes early, and I stared at the small ranch house with the bright red door. “Wait. This is it? Are we sure?” Across the street sat a church, but other than these two businesses, the only other buildings were the houses that dotted the busy street in a straight row.

  “This is it.” Brad groaned as he stacked ten kits high and set them on the cart to wheel inside.

  Madison and I helped arrange the kits, counting once more before checking in at the front office and locating the room for the pitch. Children of varying ages clustered around, ignoring the teacher’s instructions to sit and wait. We introduced ourselves and dove into the usual question-and-answer portion to get the kids interested before letting them explore the products.

  Despite all my busyness and constant traveling, I loved the pitch. I had created every single product, from concept to completion, obsessively researching, testing, and prototyping. Watching the children squeal with happiness brought me immense joy.

  Madison stayed after to chat with the teacher, as she was the best salesperson on our team. If she didn’t snag the deal, Brad would be the closer. Once the deal was done, I’d go over logistics: price, delivery, and a possible subscription service. I snapped photographs and told them I was taking a lap around to check out the school. I liked to grab as many photos as I could to showcase our location diversity on the site.

  I decided to walk up the street, wondering if a coffee shop or juice bar was nearby. I passed house after house, feeling my legs loosen and my body wake up.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!”

  I stopped. The sound of a child’s shriek pierced the morning like a siren. I slapped a hand to my chest and looked left and right, unable to locate where the scream had come from. I heard a loud bang and then another scream. I ran a few steps forward, my eyes scanning a row of three similar houses. I looked for movement, a sign. Another scream. Something.

  I stood rooted to the spot, a few cars passing by on their morning errands or commutes to work. I couldn’t see movement from any of the houses. Had I imagined it? Misinterpreted it? It hadn’t sounded like a playful shout.

  “Sarah!”

  I turned. Brad was running down the sidewalk, gasping. “There you are. Come on. We need you.”

  “Sorry, I was just exploring.” I trotted up to him.

  “I can’t believe you made me run.”

  “It won’t kill you.” I turned the camera over in my hands. “I just heard the craziest scream.”

  “Because I just screamed your name.”

  “No,” I shook my head and pulled the camera strap from my neck. “It sounded … pained. It sounded like a child.”

  “Probably just one of the kids outside. Which is where we’re going.”

  We moved back to the school and down the short hall to the back door. I could see the kids in one of the classrooms diving into our kits, while the teachers happily observed. Outside, an inventive playground fanned across the yard. There was a climbing wall, a garden, a rock oasis with a little stream, and even outdoor cubbies for rain boots, umbrellas, and backpacks.

  “This is amazing.”

  “Right? Told you Longview wouldn’t be bad.” Brad bumped his bony shoulder into mine.

  It was outside playtime for a few classrooms. Kids shoveled sand, dug dirt, held hands, and sang songs with no melody. Brad had brought a box of kits to set up on a picnic table, and there was a mad scramble of tiny feet as he announced it.

  I scanned the grounds for a teacher and walked over. “Hi. I’m here with TACK. We just gave a presentation in classroom B.”

  “Yes. Wonderful products.”

  “Thank you. Would it be possible if I snapped a few photos of the facility and the kids exploring the kits? Your director already has the release forms in case any children want to be included in the photos.”

  “Be my guest.”

  I thanked her, crouched, and angled the camera to catch some interesting shots of the children playing with the products, shots that would make viewers on our site want to know more and hopefully encourage other Montessoris to be involved too.

  “Hey, let me take over the role of photog, lady,” Madison said, reaching for the camera. “The director wants to talk to you. Big orders heading our way.”

  I unloaded the camera and located the director, who was talking to Brad. I smoothed my hair and crunched over the gravel to where she stood. “Rachel? Would you like to talk?”

  Her hand rested on Brad’s arm, and they were both laughing. She fixed her gaze on me, her eyes watering from laughter. “Oh sure, sure, Sarah. You’ve got a gem here with this one.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said. “He’s special.”

  Brad blushed. “Oh stop. But go on. But stop.”

  He stepped aside as we discussed business. Forty minutes later, the deal was done, orders were complete, and we were back in the car, packed and looking for lunch.

  “So, all in all, not a bad day, right?” Brad asked, much more relaxed in the passenger seat with Madison behind the wheel. He was always adamant about driving to locations b
ut never took the initiative on the way back.

  “Yes, Brad. You were right.” I rolled my eyes playfully and flipped through the photographs, deciding which, if any, I wanted to post on social media and to the site. I’d have to wait for the parents’ final approval first, as I never wanted to post—

  “Holy fuck.”

  “What?” Madison looked at me in the rearview as Brad turned to ask the same thing.

  “Did you forget something?”

  “I—no. I didn’t. I just remembered something I forgot to do. No worries. Sorry.”

  “Now who’s the drama queen?” Brad asked, sliding his sunglasses higher on his nose.

  My fingers shook on the shutter button as I looked down, enlarging the photo of the little girl in the sandbox. There were three shots: one from the back, the side, and the front. The red bow fluttered in the photo in various angles, as though it were a little bird taking flight. It could be any young girl, except it wasn’t. Those sad gray eyes, that downturned mouth—it was her. It was Emma. Did she wear the red bow like some sort of safety blanket? Was that really her? I looked again, knowing with 100 percent certainty it was. The closer I looked, the more it appeared she was even in the same dress.

  “I’m … you know what, guys?”

  “What?”

  What? What could I say? Stop the car? Go back? “Nothing. Sorry. I’m just frazzled. Totally forgot about a project. Can we just head straight back to town?”

  I wanted to go back to the school. I wanted to talk to Emma, her parents, or her teachers. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she was there, and that I was there too. That her face was on my camera, sitting here in my lap.

  “What project?”

  “Yeah, we know about all the projects,” Madison added. “And it’s not like you to turn down food.”

  “Just drive, please. I need to get back.”

  We rode the rest of the way without speaking, my eyes fixed on the three photographs, studying her every angle, the shape of her face, the tip of her nose, those eyes, that bow.

  How long had it been? Two or three months since I last saw her? Why was she wearing the same outfit? I struggled to see her shoes, but her legs were folded and buried behind her in the sand. There were no other kids in the shot—just Emma.

  I wanted to ask Madison why she’d taken three shots of her, if she’d seen something that had made her focus solely on this little girl.

  As we neared the office, I was already looking up hotels in Kelso. I had to know if what I saw that day in the airport was a fluke or the real thing. If her mother was a monster or just having a bad day; if that little girl needed someone to stand up for her. To help.

  I didn’t even know what that help would look like—I wasn’t a social worker or a child psychologist, after all—and this wasn’t some bad Lifetime movie where I could make her parents see the errors of their ways. This was a real child in real life with real consequences. I knew I didn’t have any right to inject myself into her life, but I had to know she’d be okay. Somehow. Some way.

  during

  I load up the Tahoe and fasten my bike onto the rear bike rack. Ethan and I used to ride weekly, tackling the rainy streets and avoiding streetcars with as much precision as Tour de France cyclists. I’d become a bit of an expert, a city pro, but I wasn’t ever off my guard. I knew how easy it was to hit a pothole, let your mind wander, have a car make an illegal turn, and then down you’d tumble, tearing skin, shattering bones, and sawing the ends of your teeth against unforgiving concrete.

  I get an oil change for the Tahoe, have the tires rotated, and get my fluids topped off. I take out cash from two ATMs on two separate days and then opt for cash back whenever the option arises at the grocery store. My pockets are stuffed with green, my suitcase packed. I have always been a person who likes to pay in cash, to keep up with numbers and bills. But I’m putting thought into this, which is dangerous, which should tell me something, but I don’t yet know what. I just want to see for myself. Do a little stakeout. Gather some information. It’s all innocent. It’s no big deal. I’m doing nothing wrong.

  I tell the office I am going to visit my father, who lives in a remote city in Washington, in a small house that hasn’t been updated in at least fifteen years. I’ll just be gone for a bit; nothing to worry about. I’ll have my computer with me to tend to business as usual.

  Madison, Travis, and Brad practically push me out the door. They think it’s my job in life to revive him. What they don’t understand is that if he doesn’t want reviving, he won’t be revived. Heartbreak will do that to you, even decades later. Having lost Ethan, I can actually empathize with him, but I am not going to end up in a sad house, on a saggy couch, drinking myself to death. I am not my father.

  I tie up loose ends with impending orders, future sales, and go for a run before loading up the car. I don’t know what I’m doing. Am I so bored or distraught that I am inventing something to occupy my time?

  I’ve given the boutique hotel in Kelso a fake name. I’m paying in cash and purchased a store-bought Visa card to hold my reservation. I hope they won’t ask to see my ID; if they do, I will present it and pay cash anyway. I’ll smile sweetly and tell them the reservation is for my sister, and she’s coming soon, but I’m surprising her! And paying for it. How lovely! I know how to pour on the charm—thanks to TACK—and I will play my part appropriately.

  The hour drive goes fast, but my room is ready early. I leave my bike, helmet, and shoes in the car. I inspect my room—cute double beds with antique bedspreads, mismatched nightstands, a rotary phone, a gilded mirror—and head into town, hoping to find food. The hotel is close to the school, but I tell myself I’m simply a tourist stopping through.

  I find a sandwich shop, grab a turkey club, bag of chips, and wash them down with a fresh-squeezed lemonade. I go for a walk, instantly regretting the greasy chips, and pull up the map to check out Longview. It’s less than half a mile away. I want to go there now, but I want the timing to be right. I want to arrive before dismissal and scope out who picks Emma up from school. I don’t know if I will be more obvious on a bike or on foot, but I’m going for the bike. With my hair tucked in a helmet and an androgynous jersey, hopefully no one will give me a second thought.

  I check my watch when I return to the hotel. It’s two. I know from our prior visit that dismissal is at three-thirty, and I have no way of knowing if Emma stays for aftercare.

  I decide to throw on my bike clothes under my dress and walk to my car, which is parked on the street. I get in, remove my dress, and pop my keys and cell phone into my back pocket. I slip on my shoes and loosen my bike from the rack, positioning my water bottle in its holder, wedging on my helmet, and looking at the directions one more time before clipping in. It’s a short ride, but the urgency takes hold. I just want to see her again. I want to get to her. I want to know she’s okay.

  Minutes later, I’m circling the school, thankful for the nice weather. It’s eerily silent except for the children’s voices that rise and fall from the playground. I think again about the child’s scream I heard—how piercing it was, how anguished.

  I cycle down the block, taking inventory of the houses, and wonder if Emma lives close or far. What if she lives thirty minutes from here? I won’t ever be able to keep up on a bike. At three I decide to grab an espresso at a café I find three blocks from the school. I thank the owner, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself, and down the shot before racing back. I can’t quite see into the back of the school without waltzing right up to the privacy fence and trying to peer through the cracks. I think about going through the woods and wading my way through the shrubbery and trees, but I don’t want to be seen.

  Cars start lining up in front of the school at three-fifteen. There seems to be a decent order for child retrieval, as cars idle, music blasts, and parents jabber away on their cell phones. I pedal across the street and unclip, crouching down as though examining my back tire.

  I keep my
eyes alert, searching for Emma or her mother, but I don’t see them. What if this is all a mistake? What if the girl in the photograph isn’t Emma?

  Three-thirty comes and goes. There’s no Emma and no mom. No praying mantis of a father. No baby brother. I wait until four-thirty, circling the block, wondering every time I go around if I’ve somehow missed her.

  When five comes, I’ve had enough. The espresso has left me jittery and hungry; I cycle back to the hotel as fast as I can, eager to beat rush hour, eager to figure out if what I’m doing is crazy, if I’ve imagined everything, if I need to go back home to my life in Portland and forget about this little girl for good.

  * * *

  Once I’m off my bike and back in the room, I call Madison to get a daily update. She answers on the first ring.

  “How’s your dad?” She’s fumbling with something in the background, and I pull the phone away from my ear.

  “He’s … fine. You know, the same as always.” I’m disgruntled, frustrated, and unsure of my next move. It’s not yet dark, and I want to walk by the school one more time, combing through the neighborhood to see if I missed something.

  I’ve already been on the Montessori Facebook page. You can’t see the posts unless you’re invited to the page, and I’m not a parent and don’t want to request access. I’ve googled “Emma Grace,” “Amy,” and “Longview” and come up with nothing.

  “Earth to Sarah. Did you hear me?”

  “What? Sorry. My dad was asking me something. What did you say?”

  “Oh, I said the research came back from both Ethiopia and Senegal. All rave reviews from both, except a few little snags in Senegal.” She pores over the notes, and I switch back to work, giving her suggestions on what to say, outlining actionable tasks for Travis tomorrow.

  “When are you coming back? Not that there’s any rush,” she adds. “You should be with your dad.”

  “I’m not sure yet. Hopefully, it will be just a quick visit. Thanks for holding down the fort while I’m gone.”

  We hang up, and I shower and head down to the bar. I can have a drink, a meal, and go to bed, or I can walk through the neighborhood and try to find some clue I missed. I decide food can wait and set out on foot, noticing several neighbors out walking their dogs, enjoying the budding summer heat.