Not Her Daughter

by Rea Frey

  “Are you hungry?”

  Emma nodded, and I moved to the kitchen, pulling out a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. She liked the sandwiches best when I fried them in coconut oil and mashed a banana in with the peanut butter. Over two weeks, and I knew her palate—how limited it was but how easy to fix her things she would eat. I tried to sneak in the veggies when I could, which was tough with the old Oster blender that could barely blend water, let alone hide chunks of broccoli or kale. Luckily, she loved sweet potatoes and carrots and had recently discovered she liked the crunch of red peppers dipped in hummus.

  As I heated the pan and scooped out a tablespoon of oil, watching the white blob melt into clear liquid, I tried to stay calm. What should I do? Call him? Beg him not to turn us in? Hope there was the slightest chance he didn’t know who she was?

  Ethan was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He watched the news every morning. Unless he was screwing old Blondie every waking second, then he’d seen it. He knew who Emma was. He knew what I’d done.

  Should we pack up and leave? Where would we even go? I told myself to stay calm—if I wasn’t calm, then I wouldn’t be able to think—and just wait. I grabbed my phone from the bedroom, making sure the ringer was turned all the way up. If he called, I would answer. I would tell him everything. I just hoped he would give me a chance to explain.

  * * *

  Despite the turn of events, we spent a calm afternoon by the water. I’d discovered that Emma didn’t know how to read yet, though she loved looking at all the pictures. We were studying sight words like and, the, for, and are, and she was starting to understand. I’d even ransacked my car, looking for a spare TACK kit.

  We were working on remembering the days of the week, the weeks in a month, the minutes in an hour, and important holidays and dates. She’d just turned five in April, though she couldn’t remember the exact day.

  “What did you do for your birthday party?”

  She scratched her nose. “What’s a birthday party?”

  “You’ve never had a birthday party?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, maybe you can have one next year.”

  “But what is it?”

  “It’s a celebration where all your friends get together and bring you presents and celebrate you turning another year older.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “It is fun. I think you’d love it.” I hugged her—I couldn’t help it—and held her there. She was young, so maybe birthday parties weren’t in the cards yet, but I was angry with her parents anyway. Birthday parties were some of the best parts of childhood. I hadn’t had many of my own, because my mother was always too tired or would just promise me we’d do it next year. Often, I’d eaten a store-bought cupcake with no candle, only a match that had been lit and stuck in the top to take its place. Just another way we were alike, Emma and I.

  We came back up to the cabin before dinner, shaking the water from our hair, careful not to step on sharp rocks or sticks. I checked the front, just to make sure Ethan hadn’t come back, and ushered Emma inside.

  “Do you want to help me make dinner?”

  She nodded—an eager nod—and we changed into dry clothes and then got to work. Emma dragged a dining room chair to the countertop and climbed on top of it, helping me peel and safely chop carrots, sweet potatoes, and chicken to drop into the pan.

  “Do you cook a lot at home?”

  “No. Mama never lets me help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she says I’m too little and I just mess things up.”

  “But how else are you supposed to learn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, cooking is messy, but that’s part of the fun. I promise you’re not going to mess anything up here. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I handed her the lettuce to throw into a bowl for our salad—would she eat salad?—and kept chopping tomatoes. “Do you miss your family?”

  She was silent, sifting through the greens before placing them in the white plastic bowl one leaf at a time. “Sometimes.”

  “Like when?”

  “In my dreams. I dream about them.”

  “Are they good dreams?”

  She nodded, a small smile. “My brother is laughing and so silly in my dreams.”

  “Your brother sounds funny.”

  “He is. He barely ever cries. Mama is so nice to him.”

  “Does that hurt your feelings because she’s not nice to you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Do you ever do anything fun with your mom?”

  “No. But I do with Daddy. He takes me to the playground.”

  “I love playgrounds.”

  She dropped the lettuce and looked at her damp fingers, before spreading them out on the cutting board. “But you’re a grown-up.”

  “So? Grown-ups can still play. I wish we had playgrounds for adults.”

  She scrunched up her face. “That would be crazy!” She popped a leaf into her mouth and crunched through it. “I love the slide and the monkey bars.”

  “Me too.”

  “Did you know what? I can go all the way across by myself.”

  “You can? Are you part monkey?”

  She laughed. “No, I’m a person!”

  “You are? I thought you were a monkey for sure. Let me see.” I inspected her arms and made her open her mouth wide. She laughed so hard she began hiccupping.

  “Well, monkeys don’t hiccup, so I guess you’re not a monkey.”

  “I told you!”

  “So, your dad takes you to the playground. And you’re not a monkey. When else are they nice to you?”

  “I don’t know. They leave me alone a lot.”

  I bristled. “But do they take you anywhere? Like out for ice cream? Or shopping for new toys? Or do they give you kisses and tell you what a smart little girl you are?”

  I handed her the tomatoes to sprinkle into the salad. She dropped a handful in and wiped her hands on her shorts. “No, not really.”

  “But you do know what a special little girl you are, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you are. I happen to know you are the most special little girl I have ever, ever met. And I’ve met a lot of little girls.”

  “Are you going to take me back?”

  The question stopped me cold. I set down my serrated knife and tried to breathe. “Do you want me to take you back?”

  “No, I love it here.”

  “You do?”

  “It makes my love light shine.”

  “What’s a love light?”

  “It’s this thing my teacher taught us, and when you do good things, it makes your love light shine, but when you do bad things, your love light dims. Mama makes my love light so dim.”

  “Emma, I want you to look at me and listen, okay? This is very important. Here.” I set her back on the ground and wiped my hands on a dish towel. I motioned to the couch in the living room, where we both sat.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Oh honey, no. Of course not. I just … I want to explain something. And it’s complicated. Do you know what complicated means?”

  “Like when something is hard?”

  “Yes, exactly like that. Um…” I didn’t know where to start. “When I saw your mom being very mean to you, I felt protective over you, like you were my responsibility. Almost like I felt like you were my daughter. Does that make sense?”

  “Like you were my mommy?”

  “Yes, just like that.”

  “But you would never be mean like Mommy.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Is my mommy going to get in trouble?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I could get in big trouble, because I’m not your mommy.”

  “But I like it here better. I don’t want to ever go back.”

  There. That’s what I’d been waiting for, after asking myself so many questions:
Did she prefer it here? Was she happy? Did she feel safe? I placed a hand on her hair and twirled a few strands before trailing my fingers across her cheek. “I like it here too, Emma. I just want to keep you safe. But we have to figure out what we’re going to do. Because if people find us here, then we could both get in trouble.”

  “Like that man?”

  “What man?”

  “Your friend. Could he get us in trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I sure hope not.”

  “Can we eat now? I’m hungry.”

  I laughed, a small one, and stood up from the couch. “Let’s finish our meal, master chef.”

  “I’m not a chef!”

  “Tonight, you’re a chef. The best chef.”

  She giggled, and we walked back to the kitchen, finishing our prep and enjoying a quiet meal in the country under the stars.

  * * *

  The next morning, we woke late, both of us now comfortably sleeping in the king bed—a mountain of room between us—and I began making coffee and breakfast.

  We rotated between oats, toast with peanut butter, pancakes, eggs, and smoothies. Emma never seemed to prefer one thing to the next, which made it easy to surprise her.

  I glanced at the clock—it was already ten!—and had just settled in to drink my second cup of coffee when I heard someone bang through the side garage door.

  “Oh fuck.”

  Emma turned her head sharply from her spot on the floor, shocked at my choice of words. “You said a bad—”

  “I know. I know, honey. I did. I’m sorry. Look. Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  I gripped my mug of coffee, trying not to slosh any onto the floor, and met Ethan in the hallway by the washer and dryer.

  His breath was labored, his face drawn, his hair disheveled. He looked like he hadn’t slept, which, if he’d driven all the way to Portland and back without stopping, I assumed he hadn’t.

  “I—”

  He took the mug from my hands and set it down on the washing machine. He grabbed my elbow—too firmly—and steered me into the garage. He loosened his grip, stared at my elbow where the imprint of his fingers was already fading, and mumbled an apology. After a dramatic sigh, he paced the garage in his work boots. I noticed the sweat rings under the arms of his gray T-shirt, the low-slung jeans, the slip of belly as he raked a hand through his hair.

  “I don’t even know what to say or where to begin,” he started, so softly I had to lean in. “Number one: You have no right to be here without my knowledge. We broke up. This is not your place.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “Do not talk. Do not say anything, Sarah—not one word—or I swear to God, I will lose it.”

  I closed my mouth and folded my arms across my chest.

  “Number two: If that little girl is who I think she is, you are either going to the police right now, or I will. Do you understand that by me even seeing her here, I could go to jail? That you could go to jail for the rest of your life? Unless you just stumbled upon her here in these woods and are on your way to the local authorities, you better start explaining yourself. Now.”

  I refrained from making a joke about being able to talk and instead rubbed both hands across my face. I needed to get my story straight. I needed to not have my heart thumping at seeing Ethan again over half a year later.

  “Let’s go inside. I don’t want to leave Emma by herself.”

  “Oh, Christ. So it is her?”

  I turned around and let the screen door shut. “What do you mean? You already knew that.”

  He slapped his open palm against a worktable. “I didn’t really want to believe that, Sarah! I was hoping—I don’t know—that you’d adopted a kid or something! Not that you kidnapped a child the whole country is looking for!”

  “Well, so sorry to disappoint you that I haven’t adopted a child. Just calm down. It’s not what it seems. I can promise you that much.”

  He lifted his hands in the air, his go-to exasperation move. I remembered that gesture well. “Oh, well thank God it’s not what it seems. I feel so much better having a kidnapper and her victim on my private property. My grandfather must be rolling over in his fucking grave.”

  “Oh, don’t use Bill in any of this. I’m not some creepy kidnapper, and she’s not some helpless victim heading to her demise. I’m not trying to harm her in any way. I’d think you, of all people, would know me better than that.”

  “Oh pl—”

  “And your grandfather would completely understand why I did this, for the record. If you’d give me two minutes to explain, you would too.”

  I let the screen door slam behind me and scooped up my coffee, taking a giant sip. I winced as the scalding liquid burned my throat and tongue.

  Emma was playing in the living room.

  “Hey, sweetie, remember my friend Ethan? He wants to talk to me for a few minutes. Do you think you could go downstairs and play for a bit?”

  She put down her toys. “By myself?” She swallowed, her eyes revealing the typical childhood fear of basements.

  “Or, you know what? Ethan and I are going to go right here—” I slid the patio door open and set my coffee cup on the folding table outside. “You just stay right there and play and just knock on the glass if you need something, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And eat those oaties.”

  She giggled and sat back down, taking a big spoonful and disappearing back into her play world. Ethan stood at the edge of the fireplace, his face registering what?—shock? acceptance? disbelief?—before stepping outside to the metal table and finally lowering himself into a chair.

  I slid the door shut and sighed.

  “I just can’t believe this is happening. Start talking.”

  And so I told him. I started with my work trip, my first sighting of her in the airport, how it stuck with me, but how I didn’t think much of it until we went on our job to Longview. I told him about the photographs Madison had taken, about going back just to check things out, about what I’d seen in her driveway, and later, after school in the woods.

  I told him I’d made a rash decision—even though I had plotted to come back—and that I’d just run with it. If Ethan knew anything, he knew I wasn’t overly spontaneous. If I did something like this, it was for good reason.

  “But why not just tell the authorities? Or take her somewhere official? Why not have the parents investigated?”

  I took another sip of coffee, now lukewarm. “Because the world doesn’t work like that, and you know it. They wouldn’t believe me, and even if they did, she’d be carted off to social services or put in foster care, or I’d be asked why I was even involved. Proving child abuse, neglect, or that the parents aren’t fit—I’m not the Department of Child and Family Services or a social worker, obviously—but even I know it’s almost impossible once you get the law involved. I mean, even drug addicts get to keep their babies, because they are their babies. It’s hard to go against biology.”

  He knew what I was saying; I could see it in his eyes. Even if he would never dream of doing the same thing, even if he didn’t agree with my choices, he had to understand why I did it.

  I glanced at Emma, who was still on the carpet, playing, her oats abandoned in exchange for conversation with a doll. “I mean, through all of this—she’s been so happy, Ethan. She’s eating. She’s sleeping. There are no more bruises. She doesn’t even want to go home. We’ve talked about it. That family, the way they are—I just can’t give her back knowing what kind of life she’s going to lead. What could happen to her.”

  “But you have to, Sarah. It’s not your choice. Do you even know how lucky you are that you haven’t been caught already? What a miracle that is? You still have a chance to do the right thing.”

  “And the right thing is…”

  “Giving her back to her family. Even if they’re awful, they are still her family. You are not her family. You will never be her family.”

  I
felt more like her family than he could possibly know. “So even if they’re harmful, that’s okay? Do you even hear yourself? As though biology excuses that type of behavior? This is an actual child we are talking about, Ethan. A human being. Not a piece of wood.”

  “Thanks for that clarification, Sarah. Christ.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “You don’t … you don’t really know how they are every day, though, not really. You might think you do, but you can’t really know. They could have been having a bad day or going through a stressful time. You’re just not … you’re not a parent, so you can’t possibly know what it’s like.”

  “But I do know what it’s like. I had a mother just like hers. A mother who left.”

  “Exactly. Emma didn’t choose to leave. You took her. There’s a difference.”

  “I know.” A mosquito landed on my arm, and I swatted it away. “Who was that girl, by the way?”

  He opened his mouth to speak and shut it. “Nobody. Just a friend.”

  “Uh-huh. She looked like a real buddy type of girl.”

  “Stop it, Sarah. It’s none of your business.”

  I cleared my throat. “Do I have to worry about her? Piecing this together, I mean?”

  “No. I don’t think so. She doesn’t watch the news.”

  “Not old enough to stay up?” I joked, bringing the cool coffee to my lips.

  “Funny.” He stood and stretched, his arms arcing wide over his head and then back down, heavy and relaxed, at his sides. “I need to sleep. I’ve been up for two days straight. Once I rest, we’ll figure this out. But not right now. I’m just … I just need a clear head. I can’t think. I’ll sleep downstairs.”

  “We?”

  “Well, we don’t have a choice, now do we, Sarah? Because you’ve magically pulled me into your sinister little web.”

  I shook my head and walked to the patio door, then paused. “You know, Ethan, you have no idea what these past six months have been like. No idea. So don’t you dare, for even one second, judge me. I did what I thought was right, and though I regret how I did it, I don’t regret what I did.”

  He turned away again and scanned the lake. “Are you talking about her or about us?”