The Good Neighbor

by Cathryn Grant

  The third dream was about not being able to find something to eat. My stomach rumbled and ached while I climbed on counters, looking in every cabinet for a box of crackers or a can of soup. Sometimes I opened a bag of flour and ate it, choking on the fine powder, breathing it in so I sneezed and coughed at the same time. When I opened the refrigerator, it smelled funny, like something rotten. The smell made me feel like I wanted to throw up, but my stomach growled. There was nothing inside but a few cans of Coke and half a dried-out stick of butter that was a funny color. I couldn’t get my finger under the tab to open the can. I was so hungry I felt like I might eat that butter, wanting something to make the rumbling stop. At the end of the dream, I was crying and pushing my hands against my stomach, trying to collapse it so it wouldn’t feel so empty.

  When I woke from that dream, I was never hungry. That was the weird thing about it and the thing that made it the most confusing dream of all, because in the dream I thought I might faint from the emptiness filling the entire inside of me. Where did that feeling come from?

  I told my mother about my dreams, and she assured me that dreams are nothing but our fears turning into images and stories we can manage.

  When I told her I thought I remembered it really happening, she said that was possible, but not in this case. She said it didn’t mean anything and I shouldn’t dwell on it. She said the mind was a mysterious place and no one had it all figured out. Dreams were simply a mechanism for working out problems. They were not symbolic, they were not predictive, and they certainly were not giving me messages. She asked me a lot of questions about my friends, wondering whether they talked about dreams as if they had some sort of mystical meaning. I said they had. One girl had a book about dreams that told you what different dream images meant. My mother said I shouldn’t listen to that kind of nonsense, that I was too intelligent to believe superstitions like that.

  Talking to other kids about my dreams made me anxious. My friends didn’t have the same dreams over and over like I did. Their dreams were sometimes scary and sometimes simply a mixture of things that didn’t make sense, or memories from that day all jumbled together into a new story.

  I only had those three dreams. Because they kept coming over and over again, it was as if they really did want to tell me something.

  The dreams started before the shots.

  For some reason, although after a while I realized I didn’t remember her saying this, I thought the shots were to help get rid of the dreams. They didn’t.

  Once every two months my mother would sit me down on a chair she’d dragged into the bathroom. She unwrapped a syringe, wiped my arm with a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol, and stuck the needle into my arm. It hurt, but she said it was worth it. She never talked while she was giving me the injection, and I never asked any questions. I knew it was to help get rid of the dreams. She didn’t like how they upset me, and she said she wished she could find a way to stop them. The dreams made her cry, which I thought was a strange thing to say since I was the one dreaming them, not her. Why would my dreams make her cry?

  It made me mad that my dreams made her cry. She acted as if they were about her, like I didn’t matter as much.

  Even after three years, my dreams hadn’t changed at all. I had them just as often and they were exactly the same. When I asked my mother why the shots weren’t making the dreams stop, she didn’t say anything.

  Once, right before we moved to California, my father came into the bathroom while she was getting the syringe ready. They talked about the shot as if I weren’t there. The things they said sounded like they were talking in a secret code.

  My father leaned against the doorframe. “Still?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much longer?”

  “I can’t think about that,” my mother said.

  “You need to.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Moira, you can’t…”

  My mother stabbed the needle into my arm and I winced. My father walked away, and for some reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t think this was about my dreams at all. It seemed like it was about my mother.

  30

  Moira

  Taylor hadn’t said much, and I couldn’t get a read on what she might be thinking. My hands shook until I shoved them against my legs, digging my knuckles into my flesh. Alan would be furious with me, but there was no choice. She’d seen the birthmark. How had Crystal remembered it after all this time, in all the fog of dope? I suppose a mother never forgets. I should have known that. It’s a truth of the human race and, really, the entire animal kingdom. The mother’s fierce connection to her offspring. Even if a child is torn from her arms and she never holds her again, she remembers every cell of that precious being who was formed inside her and emerged from her body.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” I said. “Please.”

  I guessed Taylor was thinking what awful human beings we were. Once I told her the truth, she wouldn’t be able to argue that Brittany had been condemned to a terrible life with Crystal, most likely ending up a junkie herself, growing up hungry and neglected, living on the rough fringe of society, exposed to disease and abuse from a parade of gutter-dwelling men. I could see a glimmer of kindness in Taylor’s eyes, but I could also see that she felt something was very wrong. And she was the type that wanted to fix things that were wrong.

  “Please,” I said.

  She looked away from me.

  “Brittany has been loved so much. More than you can imagine. We’ve given her an extremely good life. She’s happy. Very, very happy.” I imagined Alan’s face when I told him what had happened. But he had to see that Taylor had been moments from telling Crystal we had her daughter. She already knew something wasn’t adding up, or she wouldn’t have stolen my keys and snuck into my house. In her gut, she’d already suspected the truth. She believed Crystal, and there was nothing I could do about that.

  I took another step closer. “You have to understand how it was. We didn’t start out planning to make her our own. She was so lonely. So scared. So hungry! Have you ever seen a hungry child? Not a child who woke up cranky and wants her breakfast, but a child who’s gone all day without eating anything but a handful of fish crackers? It’s heartbreaking. Truly heartbreaking.”

  Taylor walked to the bed. She picked up the picture I’d placed facedown, where it sank into the soft bedding. She turned it over and looked at the image, touched the glass. She picked it up and went to the wall, settling the cracked frame back on its hook. She stepped away and looked carefully at each photograph, her head moving slowly as she studied the details. Finally she faced me again. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you understand. We did what was best for her. She came to us. All we did was love her. After a while, she didn’t want to go back to that crackhouse next door.”

  “Why didn’t you call Child Protective Services? That’s what people do.”

  “They didn’t do anything. They came out once and then disappeared.”

  “How hard did you try?”

  “We literally saved Brittany’s life. Do you get that? She wanted to be with us.”

  “It changes things.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe she did run away.”

  “No. I don’t believe that.”

  “Does she remember her mother?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “She was only four. Kids forget quite a lot at that age as the years pass. She loves us. She was never unhappy. She never asked about Crystal.”

  “How do you know she hasn’t been secretly missing her mother? How do you know she didn’t look for her online? She might have found enough information to go looking for her.”

  “She isn’t allowed to use the computer by herself, and she doesn’t have the password. She never said a word about missing Crystal. Even in the early days. She clung to us. You have no idea how damaged that little girl was.”r />
  Taylor slid her hands into her pockets, pulled out my keys, and handed them to me. “I suppose I can see that. A little. Maybe. It doesn’t make it right.”

  “It was right. You have to believe me. Maybe I haven’t explained how awful Crystal was…is. She put Brittany’s life in danger.”

  “She’s her mother, and you took her.”

  “Not against her will. It might not be legally right, but morally it was the right thing.”

  “Didn’t anyone try to find her when she disappeared?”

  “We kept her inside. Our home had an attic. I decorated it with all the things she loved—horses and lots of pink and purple. She loved being alone with me. Just being held was something she hadn’t experienced much of. It was so precious the way she would crawl onto my lap and sit for hours with her head on my chest while I read stories. We played board games, watched old movies, and she clung to me. Literally.”

  “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Keep looking for Brittany. When we find her, you can ask her yourself.” I regretted saying that, but I had to say something to get her on my side, and it was all I could think of. When we found Brittany, Taylor would forget all about the woman who had given her birth and then shoved her aside like a piece of trash. Alan and I would make plans to move somewhere else. Quickly.

  Alan’s job, running his own company, was perfect for the moves we’d had to make. Leaving Florida for upstate New York once the search for the missing child next door faded, and then to California for warmer weather. Alan’s team was located in several cities across the United States, and one office in London. He could work from anywhere, traveling when he needed to have face-to-face meetings. I knew he wouldn’t object to another move. A fresh start for Brittany would be healthy after the trauma she’d faced with her abductor. Getting out of here was the only way to be rid of Crystal, and to keep Taylor from interfering once Brittany was home.

  Finding Brittany was what mattered. It was the only thing that mattered and the only thing I needed Taylor’s help with.

  “I should get back to our guests,” Taylor said.

  I moved away from the bed.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked surprised, and pleased. After all this, she looked pleased.

  We left the bedroom and walked toward the front of the house. “I need your help,” I said. “More than ever. The police aren’t doing anything. I can’t believe she’s been gone so long and they haven’t made any progress. They’re just sitting around, or they’ve moved on to other things because they’re frustrated. I don’t know. You could be such a help if you pressed them to try harder.”

  “You kept calling Brittany your baby, your daughter, but she’s not. Why did you say those things?”

  “Because she is. She truly is. I’ve raised her. I’ve cared for her. I’ve loved her, every single moment. We both have.”

  We stepped into the courtyard. Taylor paused and stroked the petal of a pink hibiscus bloom growing near the outer door. “I don’t know what to do. I feel like Officer Carter should know about this. About Crystal.”

  “No!” I moved between Taylor and the door, blocking her way as she reached for the handle. “Please. You have to understand what that means. We’d be arrested. Brittany wouldn’t have anyone. You have to realize her mother is nonfunctional. She’s an addict. Do you know what that’s like? How people like that behave?”

  “It’s been ten years. Maybe she got cleaned up.”

  “I doubt it. Why would she? She was like that for years when we lived next door. Brittany doesn’t even know her now. You can’t just rip her out of our arms. That’s what they’d do.”

  Taylor looked at me, her eyes confused and uncertain.

  “Brittany would have died if she’d stayed with Crystal. You understand that, right?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Just…let’s focus on finding her. That’s the most important thing right now. We can’t lose sight of what really matters.”

  She nodded, hesitating slightly, then continued to move her head in agreement.

  “Just think about what she’s suffering right this minute while we stand here talking.” I began to cry. They weren’t false tears manufactured to win her over. Speaking those words had made me think about the abuse Brittany was surely suffering. Heartbreaking images of her flooded my mind, of her tied and gagged, chained to a post, sitting naked on a concrete floor. How long could she survive? With all their technology, why couldn’t they find her?

  Taylor put her arms around me. She put her mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Yes, finding Brittany is the most important thing. For now.”

  I had to accept it as good enough. For now.

  31

  Crystal

  It was pissing me off that this Taylor person didn’t believe me. She was so casual about even trying to look into what those people had done. Maybe because she had money too. They obviously lived in an expensive neighborhood. All of California was super expensive, at least that’s what I’d heard. Because of all the tech companies, everyone was rolling in it. People like that always stuck together. Taylor Stanwick probably thought I didn’t deserve to raise my own child. She wanted to protect a criminal because they were the same kind of women, rich, self-absorbed, and entitled.

  Still, I would not call the police unless I got desperate. Beyond desperate. It crossed my mind that the California police might not be as rude as the Florida police. They didn’t know me, and they might listen to me, but overall that seemed like a much too optimistic view of cops. I also didn’t want them sidetracked into paying attention to what those people did, investigating why they stole my daughter instead of looking for her now. There was plenty of time to turn them in once Brittany was okay.

  I’d decided I wanted to be in California. I wanted to be helping, handing out flyers and talking to kids who had known her, finding out about the people in her neighborhood. I didn’t want to live through a fucking Facebook page. I needed to be there. Brittany needed me to be there. Obviously the police, as usual, were not doing their jobs.

  All my interest in keeping up with other pages about missing children had worn off now that I’d found Brittany. I totally realized that’s what I’d really been doing all those years, even when I hadn’t known it. I thought I was addicted to other people’s tragedy, but it was my own feelings. My own grief that was looking for others who felt like me. Most of all, I was looking for my daughter. I was searching all those pages hoping to find one about her.

  Taylor Stanwick had logged back onto Facebook. I held my phone, touching the screen every few seconds to make sure it didn’t lock. I wanted to find out if she’d finally gotten off her ass and tried to find out what was going on. I wanted to see what she said the minute she posted about Brittany’s birthmark. I wanted to hear that she believed me now.

  A message popped up on my screen. Instead of telling me I was right, it was pompous and know-it-all.

  Taylor Stanwick: There is no birthmark. I’m sorry. Good luck finding your daughter.

  Good luck? Good luck? Who the fuck did she think she was? She made it sound like I was looking for a lost cell phone. There was no luck about it. I didn’t lose my daughter; she was ripped out of my life.

  Mrs. Green: You saw a clear picture of her shoulder?

  Taylor Stanwick: Yes.

  Mrs. Green: I don’t believe you.

  It was ten minutes before she condescended to answer me.

  Taylor Stanwick: That’s your choice. But I think it’s healthier if you don’t torment yourself with false hope.

  She had the gall to put a smiley face at the end of her sentence. She had some heavy-duty attitude, this Taylor Stanwick.

  Mrs. Green: I don’t imagine there are that many photographs that get a good look at her shoulder, now that I think about it. No one takes pictures like that.

  This time she waited fifteen minutes before she answered.

  T
aylor Stanwick: I have to sign off now. Like I said, good luck with your search. Please don’t post anything on the public page because we don’t want it to distract from the effort to find Brittany. I hope you’ll honor that, even though you’re searching for your own missing child.

  Mrs. Green: No need to search anymore. I found her.

  I was tempted to add a smiling face to mine, but that would cheapen things. This was serious and Ms. Taylor needed to take me more seriously. I was sick of her bullshit. True to her word, her face disappeared from the top of the app. She’d signed off. Off to drink a glass of California wine, probably. It would never cross her upscale mind that she was sort of like a junkie herself. A wine junkie. They think they’re better than us, rich people drowning in alcohol. But they’re not and it’s all the same thing. A way to dull the pain.

  I locked my phone and looked at the time displayed on the screen. It was four hours past when I usually needed another fix, and I’d managed to push myself this far. I felt proud of my strength.

  It was two in the morning. Eleven at night in California. I was pretty sure Taylor wasn’t coming back to Facebook. I turned down the volume on the TV and tried to think about what I could do. Her message was definitely trying to get rid of me. To shut me up. Good luck was the same as goodbye. Plus, she was lying. My money was on her not actually seeing Brittany’s shoulder. She hadn’t even tried to find out. She lied because she didn’t want to know the truth.

  Whatever her connection was to that woman who used to live next door to me and acted all nice and then did the worst thing a human being can do, Taylor wanted me to shut up and not make trouble. That’s not the kind of person I am. In fact, I was probably in this situation because I didn’t make enough trouble. I let those cops intimidate me.

  It’s true, if I hadn’t been high, I would have kept a better eye on my baby girl. It’s not that it was my fault she was kidnapped, absolutely not, but it would have been different. It’s not my fault at all. I coped with the pain of my back and my husband dying the best I could. Better than a lot of people, I think. Those snobs next door should have tried to help me, not ripped off my kid. Who does that?