Not Her Daughter

by Rea Frey

  She wasn’t cut out for this. It was like labor: she was so exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally—that she just wanted it to be over. Whether that meant a happy, healthy child or a horrific, unimaginable outcome, she just needed it to end.

  “But look. Look at this. From day three until day twenty-three—day twenty-fucking-three!—they focused solely on us as the suspects. They had no other leads. None. With the UCLA campus shooting, the Orlando nightclub shooting, the political endorsements, the health care bust, the news turned to other things. And our girl … she was just out there somewhere.”

  “Her story didn’t get buried because of worldwide events, Richard. It got buried because people have zero attention span. Do you know how many children have gone missing this year alone?”

  He blinked at her, a scrawny deer caught seconds before its death by hunter.

  “Eight hundred thousand. Eight hundred thousand! And that doesn’t even begin to count the sex trafficking or the—”

  He pressed his hands over his ears like a child and stomped his feet. “Stop! Stop it! I will not think about my little girl in a sex trafficking ring at five years old!” He ripped his hands from his ears and glared at her, his chest heaving. “Why would you even say that to me right now? Do Stan and Barry—does Frank know about things like this? Where did you even find this out? What’s the age group?” He disappeared from the living room to his laptop, which was scattered among loose printouts on the dining room table. Their entire house had been hijacked for the sole purpose of gathering information, when the only thing that mattered was the act of finding Emma.

  She looked for somewhere to sit and settled for the floor, her legs in front of her, her back rounded in a soft, cervical C. She laid all the way back and took deep breaths. When would this all be over? How would it end?

  Richard mumbled, cursed, stood, sat, and then walked around the dining room table.

  “Richard. Richard, come here.”

  He ignored her, so lost in doing sex trafficking research that she had to scream his name at the top of her lungs. She didn’t care if she woke Robert. This had to be said. He came to her after a full two minutes, rocking in the doorway. “What? Why are you laying like that? Did you fall?”

  She sighed, closed her eyes, and reopened them. “I want a divorce. After all of this is said and done, whatever the outcome, I want a divorce.” She rolled her head to look at Richard, at his bloodshot eyes, leaky nose, and beard that looked like it had been pieced together from pubic hair.

  He placed his hands on his hips, opened his mouth as wide as it would go, and bent forward until he was inches from her. After a moment of awkward, gaping silence, he screamed directly into her ear.

  She scooted away, protecting her right eardrum. “Jesus Christ, Richard! My ear!”

  “I fucking hate you, woman! I hate you! Don’t you know that?” He stood back up and raised his hands, like his favorite sports team had just won a championship. “I would love to get a divorce! Please! God, please, yes, let’s get a divorce! That’s the best news I’ve heard all year!” He started laughing then, high, like a hyena. He hitched his knees up as if dribbling a soccer ball and ran around and around her in celebration. She thought he had officially lost it, that he’d taken all her craziness and anger and transformed it to absolute hysteria. And here she was, left on the floor as the calm one, while her husband became officially unhinged.

  And then she realized: she was calm because Emma was gone. Emma was to her what she was to Richard. They were a toxic combination as a family. She knew that now. She would never admit it to anyone, but even with the chaos of this investigation and everything crumbling around them, not having the daily battles with her daughter had been an immense relief.

  She let him laugh, kick, and twirl and then turned her head back to stare at the ceiling. Who would get Robbie in the divorce? Especially after the type of mother she’d become known as in the press? She closed her eyes, blocked out the world, and reminded herself that this wasn’t her entire life, just a segment. It was too late for all of them as a family. She could see that now. Everything would be different, was different. But it wasn’t too late for her.

  The telephone rang, and Richard jumped all over it. “What? What? You’re kidding! Oh my God, oh my God, Amy! So … what does this mean? The other leads are? Okay, okay, we’ll come right down. Thank you so much, Frank. Thank you, thank you.” Richard screamed and bounded to where she still laid, their previous conversation having dropped from his blasted memory.

  “They have an actual lead. An actual lead! They have authorities working on it and didn’t want to tell us unless they thought it was real. But this time it’s real.”

  “How do they know it’s real?”

  “Because they saw Emma with the same woman. Different hair, but the same one! A cop in Montana got the woman’s license plate. And now they’re in Nebraska … a waitress spotted them at some diner or something.”

  Amy sat straight up. “Nebraska?”

  “Yes, with the same woman. It has to be her. It has to.”

  “Wait, wait. Please start at the beginning.” She was tempted to just call Frank himself, because Richard was behaving as though he’d had a mini-stroke and was trying hard to get on with it but couldn’t quite make sense of how things worked. He would scramble details, facts, and timelines. Sometimes, he hung up the phone on the oven or put the notepad in the freezer.

  “There was a waitress. Thought she looked familiar. It was her eyes. Those beautiful eyes of hers. I don’t know. But it’s her. I know it has to be!”

  “Where, Richard? What the hell are you talking about?” She pinched her forehead between her fingers and tried to remember how to talk to an imbecile. “Who is this woman? And how do we know it’s actually Emma?”

  He shook his head and sat down, cross-legged, on the floor. “Just let me think, let me think. Frank said … he said that this woman worked in a café or a restaurant or something and that Emma came in.”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “I don’t know. But the people—”

  “What people? Is she with someone other than a woman?” She wanted to strangle the answers from his scrawny body, but she knew the more she pushed, the less he’d reveal.

  “That same woman. Different hair. Officials are all over it. They’ve issued an AMBER Alert in Nebraska, I think. This woman better not have hurt her, Amy, or I swear to God—”

  “So what? Do we go to Nebraska? What do we do now? Are we supposed to just sit here?”

  “Frank said not to get our hopes up, but based on the description and the pattern of driving, it sounds solid. But … anyway. They’re talking to the waitress, so officials can talk to her, and then … well, I don’t know, but this just happened a few days ago, so they’re on top of it.”

  “This happened a few days ago? What do you mean? And they haven’t found her yet?”

  The constant running goose chase was making her crazy. All the ups, downs, twists, turns, accusations, and judgments. They were starting to define her.

  “I don’t know. One of us should go talk to Frank.”

  “I’ll go.” She had to get out of this house. Knowing Richard, he’d get into a head-on collision on the way and burn to a crisp before he got any definitive answers. “Are you okay to stay with Robbie?”

  He blinked, as though he’d forgotten who Robbie was. “Of course I will. Go. Record what he says. Use your phone.”

  “I’m not going to record what he says. That’s illegal.” She grabbed her purse and stepped outside, hoping there wouldn’t be people clustered in her front yard, waiting to bomb her with insults. What a horrible time this had been, the way the world knew the intimate lining of her life.

  She got in her car and drove the short distance to the station, parking and asking for Frank once inside. Ronda was working the front and motioned for her to go on back.

  Frank was sitting on the corner of his desk, on the phone. “Let me call
you right back,” he said. He hung up and turned to her.

  “Mrs. Townsend. Nice to see you.” He was being nicer now that there was an actual lead. Perhaps he was beginning to think she wasn’t responsible.

  “Richard just told me about Nebraska. I just wanted to get all the details.”

  He clenched his hands in his lap. “It’s the best lead we have. There was a house call in Montana about a report of a woman and a child. There was no child found, but the cop thought something was off and called in the license plate. It took awhile to make its way here, but the same car was spotted at a Nebraska diner a few days ago, where a waitress matched the description of the same woman in Montana, but she was with a little girl.”

  “And the little girl looks like Emma?”

  “Yes, let me see here.” He looked at a piece of paper. “It seems to be about the same description, but you know, Amy, sometimes these things are pretty vague.” He lowered the page. “Especially when there’s a cash reward involved.”

  “But it could be Emma.” She could feel the first signs of hope and dread flickering simultaneously. “What about her eyes? Everyone who meets Emma goes on and on about her eyes. Did this waitress get a good look at her? Richard said something about her eyes.” She swallowed. “Was she … injured?”

  “She was not visibly injured, no. That wasn’t reported.”

  “Did you get the diner’s exact location?”

  “Yes, we are working on that now.”

  “But this could be false, or…?”

  “It could be something, or it could be another false lead, yes. We don’t know yet.”

  “Does that happen? Is that what you think this is?”

  “False leads happen all the time. Look, Amy, we’re doing all that we can do. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise.”

  “But you’ve been saying that for over a month, Frank. And she’s out there somewhere, without us.”

  “I know that. I know. Just let us do our job. You and Richard should really try and get some rest. Get back on some sort of normal schedule.”

  She laughed, a dusty, hollow bark erupting from the back of her throat.

  “I know it’s tough. But I really feel we’re headed in the right direction.”

  “Is there … is there anything positive I can bring back to Richard? I’m not sure how much longer he can cope with all of this.”

  “I know it’s hard. But the moment I know any new details, you two will be the first to know. Now go home and take care of that son of yours. And get some rest.”

  She gave a stiff nod and walked out of the station, the familiar sounds of ringing phones, handcuffs, and bookings an odd comfort. She climbed into her car, both hands flexed around the wheel. Should she drive to Nebraska? Find this woman who called in the lead? Reorganize her house? Talk to a divorce lawyer?

  The ridiculous options of her stalled life flashed before her. She’d told her daughter she didn’t love her, and now her daughter had been gone for thirty-two days. Was this the world’s way of telling her she wasn’t fit to be a mother? Was she supposed to come out of this with the meaning of life under her expanding belt?

  She stopped at the local cheese shop on the way home. Virginia, the only woman who hadn’t completely turned on her, greeted her as she entered.

  “Amy, dear. How are you? The usual today?”

  Amy nodded, plucking a French baguette from the warm basket and paying for her cheese with cash. She ate it by the window, ripping off pieces of crusty bread and spreading the white, creamy cheese across each generous slice.

  She chewed and swallowed, the tears coming on so suddenly that at first, she thought there was a leak in the ceiling. The bite turned to white, lumpy slime in her mouth, and soon she was sobbing like Richard. Customers were looking, and then Virginia’s plump arms were around Amy’s even plumper body, and it all came tumbling out, here, in the middle of town, in her favorite cheese shop.

  She struggled between crying and swallowing and hung tightly to Virginia’s yeasty shoulder as she let everything out—her grief, her remorse, her ineptitude, her guilt, her love, her uncertainty—all of it real, hard, and imperfect, like her.

  before

  The airport had been a disaster. Richard, as always, was zero help. She rarely traveled with the kids, or ever, for that matter, but this was necessary, and they were finally here.

  Richard complained as he pulled the luggage from the rental car, leaving Amy to get the kids out of their car seats. It had been two years since she’d been back to Iowa. Her mother had guilt-tripped her about it often in her cursive, handwritten letters she sent once a month. She never told Richard about the letters—because they were hers—and he was scared of her mother anyway.

  Betty was a gruff, stout, matter-of-fact farmer’s daughter who’d worked her entire life without so much as a single complaint. She wore overalls to dinner and often had hay stuck in her gray, cropped hair. Her skin looked like it was made of leather, and her calves were the size of baby watermelons.

  Amy had been raised on farm-fresh bacon, grits, and fried eggs, but Amy wasn’t a worker like her mother. Betty was sturdy where Amy was soft, and she had always envied her mother because of it. Despite their differences—and there were many—when the two of them got together, drinking pots of coffee and reminiscing about their other, current lives, Amy felt understood, seen.

  Amy was an only child, a fatherless child, and now, tragically, a motherless daughter. The only time she’d asked Betty about her real father, she’d gotten a sharp crack across the cheek. But Amy, stubborn as a young girl, had gone snooping through her mother’s things and fished one photo from her wallet. It was a crumpled black-and-white that had been folded three times. She’d taken the photograph into her room to study it. Upon closer inspection, the sight of the man standing beside her mother had disappointed Amy. She’d expected some farmer with lanky limbs, mischief in his eyes, or a craggy face marked by the sun.

  Instead, the man staring back at her was shaped like a smear. He had no definitive edges; the weight of him simply poured outside the sharpness of his joints, so that it was hard to figure out where he ended or began. But she recognized herself in this man. This man was her biological father all right. She took the photo to her aunt to confirm it. He had died when she was only a baby, and her mother never spoke of him again.

  “This is going to be weird.”

  Amy snapped out of her thoughts and turned toward Richard. “What’s going to be weird?”

  “You know. Staying in your mother’s house. Without your mother.”

  “It’s not like she died in the house, Richard. She was in the barn.” The farmhouse was beautiful. It was cavernous, warm, and everything she’d imagined she’d want when she’d first started a family. If it had been somewhere besides Malcolm, with all of its nosy neighbors, tough memories, and rundown businesses, she’d just uproot everyone and move straight in.

  She almost said as much, the thought on her lips, as she turned on all the lights and rubbed her hands over her arms. The kids took off, and she didn’t even tell them not to. A stack of fresh firewood rested by the fireplace, as though her mother, even after death, had been expecting her. She tended to the fire, a full blaze roaring in less than a minute. Richard whistled.

  “What?”

  “That’s impressive.” He smiled and gestured toward the blaze. “The way you just did that.”

  She clapped the soot from her hands. “If we had a real fireplace, I’d be doing this all the time.”

  She walked through all the rooms. Her mother was a tidy woman, thank God. She emptied out the fridge, sorted through the bills, and watched Emma chase Robbie outside. A huge white picket fence marked the perimeter. Maybe she’d take them to see the horses and pigs in a bit. Feed the chickens. They could have fresh omelets for dinner.

  “What time is the funeral tomorrow?”

  “It’s at ten.” She sighed. “I’ll need to go to the funeral home to check on
arrangements in a bit. Do you think you can watch them?”

  “Of course I can. Sure.”

  She hesitated then locked eyes with him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He took one step closer to her. “You seem—and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—but you seem different here. More relaxed. Not that these are happy circumstances or anything—”

  She cut him off, gave him a lifeline. “No, you’re right. I am. It’s the only place in the whole world where I can just be myself. It’s always been like that here. I’m not sure why.”

  “Because you grew up here, I’m sure.” Richard looked at the ceiling, composed entirely of wood. “This is a truly stunning home. Are you sure you want to sell?”

  She nodded. “It’s just too much to take care of. There’s no way we could handle the upkeep.” She checked her watch and tied up the garbage bag full of old food. “I’m going to dump this and head to the funeral home. I should be back in time for dinner. Can you handle things here?”

  “Yes. Call me if you need anything.”

  Richard slipped out the back. Emma squealed and ran from him while Robbie chuckled. She smiled, feeling, if only for a moment, like a real family that was temporarily unbreakable.

  * * *

  The service was long, painful, and impersonal, as they usually were. Her mother would have hated it. Amy shifted on the pew, adjusted her tight black dress, and blotted her face with a tissue. Aunt Sally sat next to her and clutched her knee with a death grip. Veins ran an obstacle course under her aged skin, and Amy began to count the veins in an effort to keep from crying. Uncle Ted was on the other side of Sally, Richard and the kids to her left. Emma was playing with the hem of her dress, the thread beginning to unravel. She shot her a look, but Emma didn’t even acknowledge her.