“Sarah Paxton, you have the right to remain silent—”
“What are you doing?” I push the arresting officer’s arm away. “I just told you I don’t know a Sarah Paxton. This is my mother.”
The second officer, the one with the tight uniform, steps forward, pulling me back. “Miss, we’re going to need you to step away—”
“Not until you tell me what is going on. You’ve got the wrong person.”
“Marion?” Mom’s voice is broken, as though she has been underwater too long, and struggling to gulp air. I sense she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Or can’t.
“Mom, tell them who you are.”
Mom starts breathing fast and heavy. Her gasping continues as they walk her toward a police cruiser, opening up the back door. She’s having an anxiety attack. I’ve seen her have them in the past, but it has been years since the last one. Not since I graduated high school. I’m back in that moment, watching my mother turn fragile, feeling unequipped to do anything.
The second officer still has a hand on my arm, trying to keep me from approaching the car. “Miss, if you’ll go back inside—”
“Stop with the miss and ma’am routine,” I shout. I can feel my blood running hot beneath my skin, feel my heart thud faster and faster. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know Mom is in trouble, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Tell me what’s going on. Why are you arresting her?”
The officer takes a step back and holds up both hands. “Fine.” He walks to another officer, this one wearing a navy suit, and takes a folded stack of papers. He hands them to me. “This is the warrant. Everything you need to know should be in there.”
I hold the bundle in my hands, staring ahead. I watch, helplessly, as the squad car carrying Mom drives away.
2 Marion
Now
Out here, beneath the burning sun, I’m frozen. My mind is thawing, slowly familiarizing to this new world, the one where my mother has been placed in handcuffs and driven away in a police car.
A breeze whooshes past, carrying with it the scent of the sea, and crinkles the papers clenched between my fingers. I look down. The warrant. I’m too rattled to begin reading. Around me, more officers descend upon the parking lot. I see them clearly, but can’t grasp their reality, like they are a mirage, a side effect of the desperation and fatigue washing over my body.
“Marion. Are you okay?” It’s Carmen. Her heels smack against the pavement, the volume increasing as she approaches like a crescendo. The sound pulls me out of my own thoughts, back to the present.
Des is only a few steps behind her. “Where’s Eileen?”
“They took her.” My words drift without purpose, like I’m in a dream, a nightmare. I’m disconnected from this life that feels nothing like the one I was living ten short minutes ago.
“Who took her?” Carmen asks, her hand raised to block the sun’s glare, her head bowed, trying to get a better look at my face.
“The police.”
Only then does she seem to connect the dots. She looks at the police cars pulling into the restaurant lot, at the officers approaching the front door.
“They arrested her? What for?” Des looks from me to Carmen. Already, we are expecting answers from her. She’s the lawyer. This is her world, not ours.
I hand Carmen the papers. I’d read them myself, but I’m not in my right mind. It’s like I’m inhabiting an entirely different body, and my brain’s synapses are not fully firing. All I can think about is Mom being stuffed into the back seat of a squad car, her broken cries before the door slammed shut.
“They weren’t using her name,” I mumble, remembering. “They called her Sarah.”
Des, boiling with anger, looks around the parking lot, her gaze stopping on an officer in uniform. She marches toward him, but I don’t follow. I watch Carmen’s face as she reads over the arrest warrant, hoping she will have an explanation.
“What does it say?”
Carmen bites her bottom lip, holding the warrant in her hands, as though the ink and paper bear hieroglyphics, some indecipherable code. I’ve watched her practice opening and closing arguments a dozen times, usually from the comfort of her living room over glasses of wine. Typically, each word leaves her lips with confidence and intention. But not now. When she does speak, her tone is as shaky as my comprehension.
“There’s a list of charges. Custodial interference. Kidnapping. Murder.”
I’m not even sure what the first phrase means, but it doesn’t matter. All I can hear is that last word over and over again. Murder. The police think my mother murdered someone?
“Carmen, this can’t be right. There must be a mistake.” My stomach sinks further. “The name—”
We’re both distracted by the sound of Des’ yelling. She’s standing in front of The Shack entrance, her wide frame blocking the officers from walking inside.
“What are you doing?” I ask the officer, jogging toward him. He looks to be a decade my junior, his face free from any lines or creases.
“I tried telling her,” he says, nodding to Des. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
“But why?” I ask. “I don’t understand what you’re looking for.”
“The suspect is listed as an owner of this establishment.”
“Well, I own the building,” Des shouts, defiantly. “And I say you can’t come in.”
“It says here this is also her residence,” he says, pointing at another piece of paper. “Does she live here?”
“Upstairs,” I say. The word falls out.
“Desiree, please,” Carmen says, giving her a sympathetic stare. She turns to the officer. “I’m Carmen Banks, and I’ll be acting as Ms. Sams’ defense attorney. We’re in the middle of a private party. At least let us ask the guests to leave.”
The officer looks to his partner a few steps back, then nods at Carmen. “Five minutes. And I’ll be standing inside until everyone exits the building.”
“Thank you,” Carmen says, placing her hand on Des’ shoulder. “Let’s explain to the guests that something has come up.”
I’m still in a state of shock, trying to process what is happening. I’m thankful for Carmen and that logical, beautiful head on her shoulders. She’s taking back control of this predicament, something I should be doing, but shock has restricted my abilities. She identified herself as Mom’s attorney. Hearing that title startled me. This is real. Whatever this is, it’s happening.
The party. Suddenly, I remember Ava. It’s as if for the past ten minutes she hasn’t existed. I’ve been so lost in this foreign predicament I’d forgotten about her, and the birthday celebration that has been ruined.
When I re-enter the restaurant, Michael is holding her, bouncing her rhythmically on one knee. She reaches for me, as she always does, oblivious to the tense air in the room. I hold her close, and, for several seconds, do nothing but breathe, allowing Carmen and Des to wrangle the remaining guests.
“Looks like quite the commotion out there,” Holly says, craning her neck to get a better look outside. I ignore her.
“Is everything okay?” Michael asks. He’s standing now, his eyes wide and full of confusion.
“I… I don’t know.” I squeeze Ava tighter, nuzzling my jaw against her soft curls.
People gather their belongings and leave. They must be curious, even shocked. The people here know me. They know Eileen Sams. Who is Sarah Paxton? I push the thought out of my mind, focusing instead on Ava. Her powdery smell, the confetti clinging to her dress.
I feel a hand on my back. I turn and see Carmen, but she is not looking at me. Her face is fixed on the front door, where the young officer is standing.
“I’m going to the police station.” Her eyes fall on Ava, but her smile is strained, pretending for both our sakes the situation isn’t as bad as it appears.
“I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t figure out what’s happening if you’re right beside me,” she says.
“Take Ava home. By the time you arrive at the station, hopefully I’ll have more information.”
I know Carmen is right, and she’s already thinking with her lawyer brain, not as my best friend, but I feel an unexplainable desire to be near my mother. I can’t erase the image of her sitting in the back seat of that police cruiser.
“I want to speak with her. I have to know she’s okay. You didn’t see her face when they arrested her. She was—”
“Just trust me to figure out what’s going on.” She gives Ava’s arm a gentle squeeze, then pats my back.
“I’ll drive you home,” Des says, jingling her key ring. “I can watch Ava when you leave for the station.”
“What about the restaurant?” I ask, disregarding the trail of police officers and technicians making their way inside.
“We’ve got bigger problems that need attending,” Des says, her eyes bouncing between Carmen and me. “That was my best friend in handcuffs.”
Des and Ava are safe at the condo. Carmen has had more than an hour’s head start at the station. I’m hoping she can make sense of this. Why Mom is being charged with kidnapping… and murder. Why the police are calling her a different name.
The guy behind the counter looks fresh out of the academy, even younger than the cop back at The Shack. He sees me standing, but purposely ignores me for a few seconds. When he finishes writing, he looks up. “Help you?”
“I need to see my mother. She was brought in earlier today.”
“Name?”
“Eileen Sams.” Or should I say Sarah Paxton? I don’t even know what name I should use.
“Your name?”
“Marion Sams.” I look past the cop. There are a few more uniformed officers standing around, chatting. No one seems to mirror my state of rush.
A door to my right opens, and Carmen walks out. I turn, no longer seeking assistance from the deputy at the desk.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask her.
“She’s still being processed. It’ll be a while before she can have visitors,” she says.
“I want to see her now.”
“Marion, you’re going to have to wait.”
“Have you at least figured out what’s going on?” My voice is louder than normal, almost a shriek. “Can you tell me anything?”
Carmen yanks my arm, leading me outside. A cement bench rests to the left of the door. She forces me to sit.
“I understand you’re upset right now, but from this moment forward you need to keep your emotions in check. Everything you say and do should be to help your mother’s case. You’re a big part of this, which means you’ll have to listen to me.”
“I’m a part of this—” I can’t even form a question. There are too many antagonistic thoughts at the forefront of my mind, fighting for priority. “Please, just tell me what’s going on. Who do they think she kidnapped? Who do they think she killed?”
Carmen takes a deep breath, looking over her shoulder before she continues.
“Back in the eighties, there was an infant abduction. A rich couple out of New Hutton. A woman broke into their home, attacked the mother and killed the father. Their three-month-old daughter was kidnapped. The press has aired several stories about it over the years. It’s known as the Baby Caroline case. Any of this sound familiar?”
Some of what she says connects, in the same way any high-profile mystery would. I’m not sure of the details. I don’t follow much media coverage, and anything on the crime channels gives me the creeps, especially after having Ava.
“I don’t know. What does any of this have to do with Mom?”
“A woman named Sarah Paxton is considered the prime suspect. The police are alleging your mother was responsible for that kidnapping.” She swallows hard, failing miserably at disguising her dread. “They think you’re Baby Caroline.”
3 Eileen
Then
Dear Marion,
I’m writing this letter in the hope you’ll never have to read it. I know that’s selfish, as many of my decisions must seem to you in this moment, but I hope that by reading this you’ll understand some of the selfless choices, too.
Today you are ten years old, and you’ve come to me just now, asking a question. You wanted to know about our family. I assured you the term only applied to the two of us. In a selfish chamber of my heart, it’s true. But you’re becoming so bright and curious. You’re exactly as I always imagined you’d be, and that ushered in the realization you might one day be confronted with the truth. That’s why I want you to hear it from me, in my own words, and I’m writing everything down, in case I’m no longer around to tell you myself.
Before we get started, you must understand why the idea of family is so important to me. I’ve avoided telling you about my upbringing because one child shouldn’t have to live through it, let alone two. But now you need to know. To understand.
My father was a violent man. There wasn’t a deputy in our county who couldn’t recall some run-in with him. A bar fight they busted up. A high-speed chase down the narrow dirt roads that snaked around our house. But most often, they knew him from when they’d get a call from the neighbors. He was either beating on Mama or me, sometimes both.
Living like that, it wasn’t a family. Not a good one, anyway. From the time I was a little girl, I promised myself I’d have better. I wouldn’t cower in the corner, like Mama, or take out my anger on those smaller than me, like Daddy.
Of course, I stumbled a few times along the way. Being a screw-up is genetic, I think. It is as hereditary as any other trait. I come from a long line of screw-ups, and although I was able to persevere, I had my missteps. Like Mama, I fell into the trap of believing that maybe a man could solve my problems. I started dating Albert Crawford when I was sixteen. He convinced me to drop out of school and move into his apartment in New Hutton. I did it, mainly because I finally had a roof over my head that wasn’t owned by my father. But I also did it because it felt, in a sad, convoluted way, like I was one step closer to getting that family I’d always dreamed about.
As you’d expect, things with Albert didn’t last. He gave me more trouble than anything. He was the one who convinced me to rob that convenience store. Beer and smokes, he said. No one cares about beer and smokes. But once we got in there, he was reaching for the cash register. I didn’t know until the police showed up—turns out the lady behind the counter had one of those buttons that silently made them aware—that Albert was carrying a gun.
Screw-up.
Like I said, it was in my genes. I took that moment to evaluate where my life was headed if I didn’t start changing. I didn’t have any role models to look up to, so I had to put in the work myself. It was like rewiring the chambers of my brain, teaching my cells to operate in different ways. Screwing up felt so natural. I’d actually ask myself, What would Mama and Daddy do? Then I’d try the opposite.
My lucky break was that I was still seventeen at the time of the convenience store incident. And I think, deep down, the police believed me when I told them I didn’t know about the gun. I spent a couple of months at a juvenile facility—that’s where I began changing, started rewiring my brain—and I was released. I was sentenced to probation for the next five years, but all that meant was intermittent stints of community service and counseling. I was told if I did everything the way I was supposed to—if I didn’t screw up—my future employers wouldn’t be able to see my criminal record.
During those early years, I drifted. I lived in cheap apartments you could lease for six months or less and worked wherever I thought I could make my next buck. Honestly. I want to stress that part. I never asked for anything I didn’t deserve, and I certainly didn’t take.
I’d worked at five, maybe six, different places over the years when I got a job at Buster’s. It was a small eatery tucked between a few other nameless businesses in the downtown area. It was far from the Ritz, but it was in a nice enough part of town. There weren’t addicts and prostitutes camped outside the fron
t door, like at a few places I worked before. The food was good enough that we had some wealthier customers drive to our side of town for our famous toasted Italian. A hidden gem, locals called the place.
I didn’t see Buster’s like that at first. It was just another room, another place for me to work and make rent. I’d served in restaurants before, but I’d never done the cooking. At Buster’s, I did a little bit of everything. Took orders at the register and shoved subs into the oven. Mopped floors and scrubbed the urinals after closing. It was more than I was used to doing, but it also paid better. A whole $1.25 more per hour than my last job, plus tips, and I didn’t have to fight for more hours like I did at other places.
That’s not what I liked the most about Buster’s, though. It was the first place where I felt I was rubbing shoulders with people like me. In most settings, I was the poorest girl there, or the youngest. At Buster’s, I looked around and I saw myself. People in their early twenties, a little rough around the edges, but willing to work, trying to smile. Just like me.
Jamie was the one who hired me. She was petite, looked like a cheerleader you would see somersaulting through the air, except she dressed like she was in a punk rock band and constantly smelled of cigarettes. There was a hardness to her that let me know she understood the world around us. When I handed over my application, she ignored my credentials, reading me instead.
“Drug problem?” she asked.
“No.”
“Guy problem?”
“No.” I didn’t have time for guys, not since I left Albert.
“Got a car?”
“I only live three blocks away. I can walk.”
She held my gaze a few more seconds, then nodded. It was as good as a handshake. Just like that, I was hired to work six days a week, open to close.
Jamie was the manager of sorts, which struck me as odd because she was only a few years older than me. Her uncle owned the place, although I never met him in all the years I worked there. Jamie had all sorts of family, as it turned out. They’d come in the restaurant sometimes, but they rarely spoke, and they all looked the same with their dark hair and black coats.
Not My Mother Page 2
