Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

  Most restaurants were like revolving doors. People worked a few shifts, then quit. Buster’s had a reliable crew. Tucker was our security. Sometimes he’d help us clean, but he mainly stood by the door and made sure no one got jumped for tips at the end of the night. There was a tall girl—I can’t remember her name all these years later—who worked only weekends. And there was Cliff. At twenty-five, he was a few years older than me, but his face still had that boyish charm. His spirit, too.

  He was the cut-up of the place, the one pulling pranks and making others, even customers, laugh. During the day, we had all sorts of people visit. Students from the university across town. Lots of young moms with their babies. When Cliff wasn’t making the moms laugh, I’d make funny faces at the children. I loved watching them giggle.

  As the mothers would strap their babies into strollers, I’d think to myself, that’s going to be me. I won’t be a screw-up anymore. One day, everything I’ve ever wanted will happen for me.

  You have to know, from the start, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Better for me, and the best for you.

  4 Marion

  Now

  Who is Baby Caroline?

  That’s the only question in my mind. I’m back in that trance I found myself in at the time of Mom’s arrest. As though I’m uprooted, falling in the world around me, struggling to find stability. The blue patches of sky, lush greenery lining the sidewalk and the unmistakable scent of the ocean surround me, a kaleidoscope I find dizzying.

  “Marion?”

  It’s Carmen’s voice I hear. My tongue, a dry lump in my mouth refusing to work.

  Who is Baby Caroline?

  “Marion?”

  I see her now. She’s kneeling in front of me. The dirty sidewalk will probably leave stains on her expensive pants, I think. She touches my arm.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “No. I don’t,” I say, shaking my head slightly. “The police have it wrong.”

  “They’ve been searching for Sarah Paxton for years and they believe Eileen might be her.” Carmen looks over her shoulder, back at the building. “I’ll need more time to figure out—”

  “Fix this.” I’m angry now. “Mom isn’t capable of something so horrific. It would mean she kidnapped me as a child. That she murdered a man. That she’s not even my real mother. They can’t possibly think that?”

  “Yes.” She looks down. “That’s exactly what they think.”

  “They’ve got the wrong person.”

  Carmen squeezes my hand. “I have to go back inside. Should I call Des?”

  “No. Don’t.” I raise my head to look at her; my beautiful friend looks abnormally pale. My own appearance must be frightening. “Just go.”

  She remains on her knees another moment, debating whether she should leave me. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more, okay?”

  I nod. She stands and brushes off her thighs before walking inside the police station. I’m alone again, trying to iron out the information I’ve just been given. The woman who has raised me, shown me nothing but a gentle hand, couldn’t be responsible for such crimes. It would mean my entire existence was no more than a fabrication. It would mean my mother… was something else. A deranged woman who stole me away, leaving a dead body and decades of mystery in her wake.

  Who is Baby Caroline?

  They’ve got the wrong person. They’ve made a mistake. Police fumble investigations all the time, don’t they? Every documentary leads you to think so. There’s no way my mother, the only parent I’ve ever known, could have done something so heinous. My mother is caring. Thoughtful. She puts everyone before herself, me more than anyone. She’s not the type of person who could have done something like this.

  A car door slams beside me. Two officers exit a vehicle and walk toward the station, their badges glinting as they pass. I take several deep breaths and stand. I’m not sure where I should go, but I know I have to leave. I need to think, list every reason why this outlandish accusation is false. They have the wrong person. That’s the best explanation—the only explanation.

  I drive past The Shack. The police cars have multiplied. Inside, they are no doubt tearing apart the business and Mom’s upstairs apartment. The place where I spent the bulk of my childhood. My home. The business quadrant of my brain has a fleeting thought about what a PR nightmare this could be. Holly Dale has probably posted on Facebook by now. I imagine the confused faces of our local customers when they realize their favorite restaurant isn’t an option for dinner tonight. I imagine their horror when they learn what I’ve just been told: that their neighbor and friend stole a child and raised her as her own.

  Who is Baby Caroline?

  I park my car in a vacant lot by the pier. I can’t deal with Ava’s needs or Des’ questions right now. I just can’t. I have to grapple with my own understanding of these allegations first. Besides, the beach has always been my personal place of refuge. I remain in the car, watching as the sun sinks into the water in the distance. It has always been so beautiful here in North Bay. There’s rarely a scandal; now my mother is immersed in one.

  The crime itself is so unnerving. I can’t quite grasp the horror of it, of walking into the nursery and finding an empty crib. My own heart leaps into my throat when I think of Ava being part of such an ordeal—it would be every parent’s worst nightmare. To one minute have your child safe at home, the next having that security ripped away from you. Being helpless to prevent it.

  I lean back the seat and pull out my phone. Baby Caroline. Already, there are articles being published—forty-five minutes ago, thirty-eight minutes ago—about the arrest, although Mom’s name hasn’t been released. Looking back further, I see several stories have been written about the case. There are numerous thirty-year anniversary features from a few years back. I begin reading, taking it all in.

  Baby Caroline, born Caroline Parker in 1987. An infant abduction. A woman named Sarah Paxton broke into the home of Amelia and Bruce Parker. Amelia was attacked, Bruce was murdered, and Baby Caroline was taken. Paxton’s whereabouts remain unknown. It was one of those cases that had a dozen different theories, breadcrumbs leading nowhere. Were the parents responsible? Unlikely, considering one of them was murdered and Amelia Parker was able to name a suspect. Was it human trafficking? An attempted ransom gone wrong? Endless possibilities, all fruitless and forgotten, until a slow news day brought the story back into the spotlight. Never any solid leads. Never any answers.

  At the end of the article, there is a picture of Sarah Paxton; it’s the only known picture of her. It was taken when she was seventeen, after she was arrested for a previous crime. I pinch the screen, zooming in on the girl’s face. The girl in the photo has a different hair color and a bitter scowl. Could it be Mom? Even I’m not sure. There is limited information about Sarah Paxton. In the few articles I’ve read, most of the information focuses on Baby Caroline’s parents.

  Amelia and Bruce Parker. I can’t imagine their heartache, and yet, I feel compelled to attach faces to their names. They are real people after all. Real victims of an unspeakable tragedy. Most of the pictures are of Amelia post-attack. She is wearing structured dresses, sitting in front of interviewers or standing behind a podium. In some photos, she is crying, yet somehow she appears stoic and calm. A determined woman on the hunt for answers, guided by hope.

  Finally, I find a photo of Bruce and Amelia together. It seems to have been taken on their wedding day. She’s not wearing the frivolous layers of the time, but her hair has just enough height to let you know it’s the eighties. Her décolleté is exposed, the hem folding beneath her shoulders, and the dress is fitted at the waist and ankles, giving her hips a classic pear shape.

  The couple look happy. Ready. Rich. It’s painful knowing what tragedy awaited them. You’d never know by looking at this picture. They didn’t know, and there’s a lump in my throat just thinking about it. I zoom in, squinting to take in every feature on Amelia’s face. Do we look alike?
Is it possible? We both have narrow noses and green eyes. Her hair is a mousy brown, the same color mine used to be. Is that coincidence, or connection? Do I look more like her, or Mom? Do I look like that young girl in the mugshot?

  Two Moms, I think with a shudder.

  I keep scrolling through online archives. We have so few pictures of my childhood before we moved here, but there are multitudes of Amelia’s family, the Boones, and Bruce’s, the Parkers. They were both wealthy families who, when not committed to charity, devoted their lives to leisure. There are tons of pictures from both sides of the family: picnics under trees, water skiing on lakes and horseback riding on beaches. That nugget of envy returns, the one I felt growing up, watching my friends go about life with their normal, traditional families.

  They think you’re Baby Caroline.

  I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, as though the secrets it contains are a contagion. I place my fingers against my temples, staring at the sinking sun in the sky. A mistake must have been made. An explanation must be imminent. And yet, there is a sinking feeling in my gut that I’m missing part of this story.

  I need to talk to Mom.

  5 Marion

  Now

  Hours seem to pass. I’m still staring at that same stretch of sky, noticing how it changes. Streaks of orange splash against the blue as evening begins, a view that, on any other night, would leave me feeling peaceful, appreciative. Like the world is exactly as it should be.

  The phone rings. It’s Carmen.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the beach. I needed some time alone to try and make sense of all this.”

  “You can’t see your mom tonight.” She drops the news, unceremoniously. The last thing she must want is to extend the uncertainty. “You should probably go home.”

  Your mom. Is she my mom? The police don’t think she is. Could she be anyone else?

  “I have to speak with her, Carmen. I’ve been looking into Baby Caroline and—”

  “It’s not a choice, Marion. Visiting hours are over. It’s been a long day, for her especially. She could probably use a night’s rest.”

  “Did you get to speak with her?”

  “A little.”

  “And? What did she say?”

  There’s a pause, which makes me nervous. “I think she’s still in shock. She’s not really answering any of my questions. Like I said, rest would do her good.”

  I close my eyes, wondering what Mom must be going through. She should have jumped at the opportunity to speak with Carmen, given her any information necessary to prove her innocence.

  “I might be able to set up something tomorrow,” Carmen says. “Right now, the best thing you can do is go home. Take care of Ava. Take care of yourself. The foreseeable future will be exhausting.”

  She pauses again. It’s like we’re thinking along the same track. Police. Press. If this case is what it’s looking like, the repercussions will be huge. Insurmountable.

  “Thank you for this, Carmen. Thank you for helping her.”

  The research I’ve been doing into the Baby Caroline case has left me with more questions than answers. I know little about the Parkers and their daughter and the mysterious Sarah Paxton. The only person I do know in all this is Mom, and what they’re saying about her can’t be true. With Carmen on our side, I’m hoping we’ll be able to prove it.

  I must have sat in that parking lot for hours. During that time, the police completed their search of The Shack. Des insisted on looking over the place, checking what, if any, damage had been done. She took Ava with her, so I go there to meet them.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting the place to look like. It’s not been this bad since the renovation. I can see where they’ve pulled up the tiles in certain areas of the floor, not taking the time to put them back. They’ve moved the furniture around, sifted through every drawer and left the contents strewn on the counters. They’ve taken the computer we use to track orders and process payments. I’m sure they did more damage upstairs, where Mom lives, but I don’t think I have the energy to walk up the steps. I used what little I had left to tell Des everything I knew about the case, watching her bewildered reaction.

  “The police have got it wrong. I’ve never heard the name Sarah Paxton in my life,” Des says, passionately. “I think I would know if my best friend used a different name.”

  She pours a cup of coffee and slides it in front of me. To my right, Ava sways in her baby swing. It remained untouched by the police. As usual, she’s in her happy, infant daze, nearing the edge of sleep. I hope she won’t put up a fight tonight.

  “Thanks,” I say, my fingertip stroking the warm ceramic before I take a sip.

  “I’m putting in a pizza for us, too.”

  At least the appliances work. It will take several days of labor before we’re able to open the dining room back to the public, not to mention the cost of repurchasing our computer equipment. Even then, I’m not sure how many customers we’ll have left. These accusations are severe. I wouldn’t blame people for wanting to stay clear of the restaurant right now.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat something. I bet you’ve not put anything in your stomach since the party.”

  She’s right. Food has been the last thing on my mind, but I know there’s no sense in arguing with Des. I watch as she prepares the pizza from scratch. Pounding the dough, curving her hands to make the crust. Staying busy is her coping mechanism, whether she’s making food or offering childcare.

  “I still can’t believe any of this,” I say, watching Ava across the room.

  “Eileen has no business being thrown in a cage with a bunch of criminals. Don’t you worry. Carmen will get her out.”

  It sounds like Des is trying to calm herself as much as she is me. Thing is, Mom’s charges are as severe as you can get. Kidnap and murder. North Bay doesn’t have a lot of crime. It’s mostly civil violations. I’ll read about a domestic abuse arrest in the paper from time to time, but there aren’t random shootings and stabbings. There’s more activity in the summer months, but that’s usually tourists getting a little too bold.

  “What do you think about all this?” I ask, needing some honest input from someone who knows Mom as well as I do.

  “Which part?”

  “Do you think the things people are saying about her could be true? Do you think she kidnapped me? Murdered my biological father?”

  Des turns, reaching into the ingredients’ galley for toppings. Did she turn intentionally? I wonder. She literally doesn’t want to face me.

  “I have no reason to think any of it’s true. The Eileen I know isn’t capable of such violence.”

  “You’ve been friends with Mom for a long time. Since we moved here. Did she ever talk to you about where we lived before? Did she tell you anything?”

  “Nothing about kidnapping and murder.”

  Again, her subdued reaction tells me she’s deflecting. She knows something but won’t say what. “Des, I need someone to be honest with me. I need answers.”

  She turns around, keeping her eyes low. “When I met Eileen, all I saw was a young mother and her bright-eyed little girl. It was obvious she didn’t come from much, but she needed a place to stay, which is why I rented her the apartment. I assumed she’d been through something, but she never told me what. And I didn’t ask.”

  “But what about after that? You’ve been friends for over thirty years. She never opened up about her life before North Bay?”

  “Friends tell each other everything. Better friends know when to stay quiet.”

  Des is a confrontational person, but she’s not nosy. Damn it. I believe her when she says she didn’t pry into Mom’s past. Still… surely… there must be something.

  “Did she tell you about my father?”

  “She said he wasn’t in the picture. Said it was just the two of you.”

  That’s the same thing she told me. That my father took off when she told him a
bout the pregnancy. They were both young, and I was better off not having him around. When I asked for a name, she refused to tell me. Half my life I’ve suspected there was more to the story, but as with any other lingering questions about my childhood, I let it go. Out of respect for Mom and all she’d done for me. Now the police are saying Mom murdered my real father. They’re saying she had to kill him in order to take me.

  And that woman. Baby Caroline’s mother. I can’t imagine her pain. Losing a husband. Losing a child. Never knowing what happened until your daughter was already grown, an adult and mother herself. An entire lifetime stolen. Whoever did that to her is a monster, but I can’t believe Mom is that person.

  “Do you think the police have arrested the wrong woman?”

  Des has the raw pizza centered on a wooden spatula. She slides the pizza into the industrial oven and the door creaks closed. After setting the timer, she walks toward the table. She’s about to sit, when a loud noise startles us.

  Clack.

  We jump, turning toward the front window where the sound originated. Something has been thrown against the building. I can’t tell what it is. Some kind of fruit, possibly. It’s a mushy mound slowly sliding down the glass.

  “Son. Of a. Bitch.”

  Des investigates, opening the front door and using a nearby broom to slide the mass to the ground. I can hear another commotion outside. It sounds like voices and footsteps. Des closes the door and pushes the lock.

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “A bunch of hooligans,” she says, still looking out the window. “There’s some press out there, too. They know we’re in here now.”

  Press. They’ve found the restaurant. How much longer until they show up at the condo? The Baby Caroline story is gaining traction. I fear what people will have to say about Mom. And me.