Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

  A second Mom.

  I believe reaching adulthood means you’re able to view your parents as people, as the flawed, capable humans they are, not as mere authority figures. I accepted there were parts of Mom I’d never be able to change, parts of her past I’d never fully understand, but I didn’t need any of that to accept her for who she was. A woman. My mother. That’s when our friendship truly developed. Whatever the cause, she no longer felt compelled to protect me from the world, and together we could start living in it.

  Now that eighteenth birthday party holds significance for a different reason. Could it be, if what the police are alleging about Mom is true, that that was the end of her sentence? At eighteen, no one could send me to a foster home or ship me back to my biological family. That was the deadline after which I could no longer be taken away from her.

  I go over what I know about the Baby Caroline abduction in my mind. The type of person who could commit such an act would be the polar opposite of my mother. Manipulative. Ruthless. Violent. There would be a string of clues leading to their capture, a capture that should have happened a long time ago. Little mysteries surrounding that person. A warm, tingling feeling pulsates through my body.

  It whispers, Unless…

  But no, no. It can’t be true. If Mom—Eileen—Sarah—stole me, it would mean I’m someone else’s daughter. That can’t be possible. I’m in my thirties. I would know by now if my upbringing was rooted in such deception, wouldn’t I?

  Unless…

  The gall to commit such a crime is one thing, but to avoid detection for so many years would take another set of skills. The culprit would have to be careful about being seen, establishing residence in a normal but forgettable town. Like North Bay. We moved here when I was a toddler, and Mom never left. She never visited me when I went to college, always offering some excuse why she couldn’t pull herself away from The Shack.

  In fact, Mom never strays from routine. She’s never even been on vacation. She’d argue, Who needs a vacation when you live at the beach? Even Des went on the occasional cruise over the years, but Mom never joined her. As a child, I assumed Mom didn’t make enough money to fund a proper getaway, and as I got older, I labeled her a homebody. A creature of habit. An introvert.

  Unless…

  A woman capable of living the majority of her life under an alias would have to be strategic about where she put down roots. Like never buying property, which might explain why she’s continued to live above The Shack, even when she earned enough money to buy a bigger place. She’d need to concoct a backstory. Either her past would be non-existent or precisely detailed. When it comes to Mom, it’s the former. I don’t know anything about my grandparents or extended family. Details—exact places and dates and names—remain murky. She has always given me more excuses about her life than actual answers. She never uttered the name Sarah Paxton.

  These quirks and traits make Mom who she is, I thought. I learned to accept them, and it was that eventual acceptance that brought us closer as adults. No one would assume it meant their parent was on the run, avoiding punishment for a heinous crime.

  The brutality of the crime, the bloodshed involved, gives me pause. I’ve never seen Mom be violent or malicious. It’s hard to imagine her capable of bludgeoning Bruce Parker to death. But everything else getting away with this crime would entail—the lies, the secrecy, the compulsion—it feels like a betrayal to admit this, but it fits.

  My hands start to shake. Am I actually starting to think this? That it’s possible? I need to talk to someone. I need a phone call telling me this has been a mistake, that her admission is distorting my memories, forcing me to see the worst in my mother. If Mom did this horrible thing, took me from my biological parents so she could raise me as her own, it’s an unforgiveable act. She’s never—

  Unless…

  That word returns, carrying with it a thought too grisly to say aloud. We all have little mysteries surrounding our childhoods. Memories that are misremembered, stories that don’t seem to add up. Now, all those misunderstandings are shifting. The pieces of my life are coming together, making everything clear.

  She was hiding me.

  12 Marion

  Now

  In the time I’ve been waiting in this car, it feels like years have passed, and I suppose they have, as I analyze every piece of my life. If Mom were innocent, why won’t she try to prove it? Why won’t she talk to me?

  Carmen insists she’s under stress, still in shock from the arrest. But what about me? Her daughter. Didn’t she think I would be just as overwhelmed, just as desperate for answers?

  “You were too hard on her in there,” Carmen says as she drives us back to her house. Like me, she must be rehashing what happened.

  “All she had to do was talk to me. Answer my questions.”

  “It’s hard for her to do that right now. There’s a lot at stake. Her freedom, for one.”

  I turn to face Carmen. Passing streetlights cast shadows across her face.

  “What’s hard is hearing your entire childhood was a lie. I’m struggling to accept that the woman who raised me may not be my mother at all.”

  “Don’t start thinking like that—”

  “What am I supposed to think? She admitted her real name is Sarah Paxton. She’s the woman police have been searching for all these years.” I look out the window, at the pellets of rain sliding down the glass. “I know you’re her lawyer, but you don’t have to pretend for my sake. They wouldn’t have made an arrest if they didn’t have sufficient evidence.”

  Carmen knows I’m right. We sit in silence a while longer before she responds.

  “As your friend, I understand your anger. Eileen’s been protective of you, at times overprotective, and now you’re having to accept she might have been lying. But as your mother’s lawyer, I’m asking you to stay open-minded. There could be more to the story we don’t understand.”

  “And how are we supposed to get the full story if Mom refuses to speak with us?”

  “She’s probably afraid to talk to you. Afraid of disappointing you.”

  Carmen’s good at dissecting the opposite side of an argument. She’s made a career out of it. Prosecutors seek the truth, defense attorneys defend. This time she’ll have to do both.

  The kids wore Ava out. She is asleep before we pull onto the highway. The gentle purring of rain on the car helps. I calculate how long it has been since I’ve had a good night’s rest. I didn’t get much sleep before the party. I was frenetic, filled with nervous energy, bogged down with anxieties that no longer seem to matter. I’d wanted the party to be perfect for Ava. How terrible the whole thing turned out to be.

  My neighborhood is quiet. Carmen lodged a complaint to keep the media away from my complex. Now any news crews hoping for a picture have to park across the street from the community entrance, and it appears most have given up. They are still trying to contact me though; Des said the landline at The Shack hasn’t stopped ringing all day.

  As I pull up to the curb in front of my duplex, I see a man sitting on the front porch. He stands as I approach, the overhead light shining down to reveal his identity.

  It’s Evan.

  I kill the ignition and release a deep breath. I’ve been trying to avoid him, but that’s impossible now that he is in front of me. I step out of the car, leaning against it as he descends the steps. I purposely leave Ava in the back seat; I have no intention of introducing them tonight.

  “I tried calling you,” he says.

  He looks older, a few more lines around the eyes. It has been a long time since I’ve seen him in person. Now he is here, returning during one of the worst weeks of my life. All the things I’d imagined saying to him dissipate, like the moisture in the air.

  “How is your mom?” he asks.

  “I’m guessing you’ve talked to Des?”

  “First I saw it on the news. Then I called Des.” He stuffs his hands inside his jacket. “How is she?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know. She refuses to speak with me.”

  “I can’t believe they arrested her at Ava’s party like that.”

  It’s strange, hearing him say her name. Evan, who used to be the most important person in my life, has never met the little girl who seized that role. My beautiful, bouncing Ava.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. A genuine question. He’d tried reaching out to me earlier, but the fact he has arrived on my doorstep the same week they took Mom away in handcuffs seems more than coincidental.

  “I thought Cassie would have told you by now.”

  Cassie is his younger sister. She lives across town with her husband and two kids. We used to be close back when Evan and I were a couple. We keep in contact, but we don’t see each other much. The family resemblance is too strong. Seeing her used to make me miss him. I’d just started to get over that, and now he’s here.

  “We’ve not talked a lot lately. I’ve been so busy with Ava.”

  “That’s understandable.” His eyes fall on the back seat window. He’s looking inside, at where Ava is, but it’s so dark he can probably only see his own reflection. “I’m guessing that’s why you’ve missed my calls, too.”

  I’ve been avoiding his calls. Yesterday, because of the party. Today, because I was preparing to see Mom. Earlier, because… I don’t know. It’s difficult hearing his voice. Our breakup was ages ago but being around him now still feels raw. Evan is the most important romantic relationship I’ve ever had, and I’m his.

  “You’ve talked to Des. You know I have a lot on my plate right now.”

  “And I don’t want to add to it—”

  “Then why are you here?” I stare at him, my gaze unforgiving.

  He looks down, touching his forehead with his fingers. “Now isn’t the best time to tell you this considering everything going on with Eileen, but I thought you’d want to know I’m moving back to North Bay.”

  “Moving back?” I suspected a few reasons he might want to talk, but his moving back wasn’t one of them. “When? Why?”

  “This is my home.”

  That’s not what he said when he left me. That same argument that died ages ago has been resurrected. “I thought you weren’t happy here?”

  “Sometimes things change.”

  They sure do. The life I have now seems forever away from the one I was living two days ago, or the one from before when Evan was still my partner. My mind scrambles as I try to envision what this means, how the life I’ve worked hard to create will crumble knowing Evan is just down the street. I’d accepted him being gone. Now suddenly, he’s back. It takes a few seconds to register how rude my reaction probably sounds.

  “My mind is all over the place right now. Maybe I’ll talk to you later. After I find out what is going on with Mom.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go. Des told me to stop by. I wasn’t sure about it, but you know how Des is.”

  He laughs. We both know how Des can be. No isn’t in her vocabulary. The sound of his laugh makes me hurt in a place I didn’t know was still there.

  “Give me a call if you need anything,” he says, walking past me to get to his vehicle. “I’ll be around.”

  I remain leaning against the car, watching as he drives away. It’s a strange feeling, knowing how much our paths have divided in such a short amount of time. Now, it seems they’re intersecting again. I unbuckle Ava from her car seat. She’s still asleep, so I scamper down the hallway into her room, placing her little body in the crib as gently as I can.

  I watch her sleep. Her chest rises and falls. Her arms are outstretched, her fingers coiling and relaxing rhythmically. Sometimes in these moments of calm and quiet, it hits me. Just how much this tiny person is now the center of my world. How I’d do anything to protect her.

  13 Marion

  Now

  My phone rings. The sun burns orange across my eyelids, announcing a new day, but I don’t feel rested at all. My body aches for more sleep.

  The phone continues vibrating. I slap the covers, trying to find it.

  It’s Carmen.

  “Marion, you need to get to the hospital. There was an incident at the jail.”

  My body jolts forward. Just like that, back to that adrenal state it’s occupied for the past two days. “With Mom? Is she okay?”

  “Eileen was stabbed by another inmate. She’s going into surgery right now.”

  The phone slides down my hand, landing on the tangled sheets. I’m motionless, thoughtless, trying to catch my breath. I’ve gone from losing Mom as the woman I thought she was to, possibly, losing her entirely.

  Ava is cranky when I wake her. I rush to put her in a clean onesie, throw the diaper bag over my shoulder and get in the car. Before leaving the complex, I text Des and tell her to meet us at the hospital. Hopefully, she can take Ava if I need to stay. Waiting for her to get here feels impossible. My need to get to Mom is urgent.

  Just last night, I was bruised by her deception. I’m still angry. But buried beneath that fury is the love I still have for her, regardless of what lies she might have told and horrible deeds she might have committed. She might be a kidnapper. A murderer. A liar. But she’s still the woman who raised me, and that’s the woman I’m racing to see.

  The process of parking and finding the right floor takes forever, but now I’m standing at the hospital check-in desk, trying to find information. The lobby is too big, too bright with the morning sun shooting in through the windowed walls. There aren’t many people here to help fill the space this early in the morning. The receptionist seems annoyed, if not by the muddled details I provide, then by Ava’s wailing.

  “Her name is Eileen Sams,” I say, failing to calm Ava by bouncing her on my hip. “Or Sarah Paxton.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I… I don’t know. I’m not sure what name they admitted her under.”

  The woman continues typing, the computer screen reflecting off her round spectacles. Her eyebrows arch. “I see who you’re trying to find. What’s your relation?”

  “I’m her daughter.”

  That much is true. No matter what information is yet to be uncovered, our relationship to one another can’t be erased overnight, and in this moment, I’m the person who cares most about her recovery.

  The receptionist’s eyes wash over Ava, whose face is red and splotchy. My methodical bobbing does little to soothe her.

  “You can’t take a child back there.”

  “I have someone coming.”

  Her eyes fall across my hands, bare of any rings. “Is it the father?”

  I get this all the time. Nosy people with their assuming minds. They like to write my story without knowing it. I’m a careless girl who found herself in trouble. Some miserable woman who couldn’t keep a husband, let alone a father for her child.

  “Does it matter?” My eyes narrow at this judgmental stranger. “Tell me what happened to my mother.”

  “I can’t release any information. You’ll have to speak with a doctor. Someone will come out shortly.”

  I sit by the far wall, the sun at my back casting shadows on the floor. I rock Ava, trying desperately to calm her. She must sense my own agitation and it’s upsetting her, that and the fact I woke her so abruptly. After a few minutes, she’s no longer crying. Her head rests on my shoulder, and I can feel her breathing begin to mellow.

  “Everything is okay,” I tell her, half telling myself. Even in the aftermath of a public tantrum, I’m grateful for her. Soothing her stops me from driving myself crazy with worry for Mom.

  Across the room, the automatic doors slide open, and Carmen walks in. She clearly ran out of the house as fast as I did, without bothering to get herself ready. It makes me love my friend a little more knowing she is willing to drop everything to be here for me. Eileen is more than a client to her.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “There was an altercation at the jail last night. I’ve already asked for security video to try and figure it out
myself. I don’t know all the details, but Eileen was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” I’m being hit with one unbelievable situation after the next. The arrest, the charges, now this. My mother, who rarely raises her voice, not even during my rebellious teenage years, stands accused of murder and has now been the victim of violence. “I don’t understand. She was at the county jail. Surely she was being watched. How could this happen?”

  “All the inmates are thrown together until they’re transferred elsewhere before trial. It’s impossible to watch them at all times.” Inmates. She catches her use of the word, too, and blushes. “I don’t know what provoked the fight, but I can guarantee you I’ll find out.”

  “Do you think she might have been targeted? The media is already running this story everywhere.”

  “It’s hard to say. This isn’t the first time around for most of the women in the jail. They might have decided to start messing with her. But I also don’t know where Eileen is mentally right now.”

  That rising panic returns, as I imagine what might have heralded this attack. “She was upset after we spoke to her last night. Do you think she might have gone in there and started something?”

  “I’m not saying that—”

  “Do you think this happened because I pushed her too hard?”

  Carmen rests her hand on my knee.

  “Don’t do this. What happened isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.” She pauses to let me know she’s not only talking about the attack. “Everything I’ve told you came from the police station. I don’t know anything about her medical condition because I’m not family. But she’s here, so that has to be a good sign, right?”

  It’s impossible not to blame myself. Carmen tried to tell me Mom’s state of mind was shaky, weary. Instead of accepting that, I pushed her further.