Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

  “Just looking into a few things,” I say. “For the case.”

  “Do you need my help with anything?” Michael asks.

  “No, I’m fine. I just need a little bit of space.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Des says.

  Preston and Penny gather around Ava, helping her stack primary-colored blocks on the floor. I kiss her forehead before I leave.

  18 Marion

  Now

  Pier 15 is too far south for tourists, which is why it’s a local favorite. That and because Crabby’s Coffee is nearby. As usual, I take off my sandals, leaving them by the entry ramp so I can feel the sand beneath my feet. The sensation brings peace. So much of my life has been lived on this shore. Celebratory meals and firework shows and first dates. It never occurred to me it would also be the perfect place to hide away from the rest of the world.

  Crabby’s Coffee is about the size of a food truck. It’s painted bright blue with a few local artists’ murals coloring the sides. The large takeout window makes it easy for patrons to order drinks and snacks on the beach, and there are circular tables spread around for outdoor dining.

  That’s where I spot Amelia. She already has a drink in hand. She remains seated, watching me. Once I’ve ordered my coffee, I approach her, and she stands.

  “Would you like to sit?”

  “I thought a walk might be nice,” I say. I bring a hand to my forehead, blocking out the sun so I can see further down the beach. As expected, there aren’t many people.

  We begin walking. For several minutes we’re both silent, unsure where to start. How do you begin a conversation with someone who was meant to play a critical role in your life, who instead turned out to be a stranger? How do you get to know the child that for decades you feared you might never meet again?

  “Has the press been following you?” she asks. “I know you mentioned them when I first showed up at your place.”

  “You too?”

  “Not so much here, but the press has been a double-edged sword for me over the years. That’s how I found out there was a development in the case. Certain detectives are pretty good about staying in touch, but not this time. It was Carla Phelps from Channel 10 News.”

  “My gosh,” I say, raising a hand to my chest. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”

  “I’ve made the mistake of getting my hopes up over the years. There have been leads before which led to nothing. I’m happy this time was different.”

  I take a deep breath, slowly so she can’t see. I know Amelia is just being honest with me, but it’s still awkward trying to grasp what she’s been through. I’m the answer to the prayers she’s been whispering for all these years, and I feel unworthy.

  “Anyway,” she says, as though she senses my unease, “I thought maybe the press had been bothering you, too. Which is why you suggested meeting here.”

  “That’s part of the reason,” I say, squinting as the clouds part and the sun hovers ahead. “I also really love it here. I’ve always gone to the water when I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

  “I do love the ocean. I never travel as much as I used to, it seems.”

  We must be thinking the same thing. That this landscape is so different from the urban streets of New Hutton. Amelia’s life there likely differs from most. She probably lives in a fancy suburb. I wonder what it would be like to grow up in that environment. No ocean. No sand. No two-bedroom apartment above The Shack. Every aspect of my life is different, all because of what Mom did.

  “Tell me about yourself,” I say.

  There’s no rule book for how to reconnect with a woman you never knew was your mother, or a daughter you thought you might never see again. It’s an unusual predicament, but we persevere, trying to find common ground.

  “I’ve been around New Hutton my whole life, really. I attended the local university. That’s where I met your—” She stops and blinks, as though the sun has become unbearably bright. “That’s where I met Bruce.”

  I could finish her sentence. She was about to say your father but thought better of it.

  “After graduation, I worked as a counselor for troubled youth,” she continues. “Daddy owned a big business. Boone Enterprises. After I left the counseling center, I worked there for a few years helping with marketing.”

  “Are your parents still—”

  “No, no. They died about ten years back.”

  Amelia has withstood so much loss. Her husband. Her child. Her parents. And yet, you wouldn’t know by looking at her. Beyond the tailored clothes and highlighted hair, she looks kind. Understanding. Perhaps she’s just patient.

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “I was an only child, but Bruce was the youngest of five. I keep in touch with his family. I’m close with my nephews. Seven in total. They all remember Bruce as their wacky, fun-loving uncle, and I guess I try to keep up that role.”

  When she speaks of Bruce, it’s all I can do not to tear up. Together, they started a family that never came to fruition. A family that was finished before it really found its footing. A family destroyed by my mother.

  “What do you do now?” I ask, trying to direct the conversation into less emotional territory.

  “I left the family business ages ago. I do a lot of charity work and plan fundraisers for the community. For the past ten years or so, I’ve been involved with parents of missing children.”

  I find it comforting Amelia works with other parents unfortunate enough to be in the same situation as her. She shares more about the different charitable organizations she’s worked with over the years. She tells me about a trip she once took to Ghana to help access clean water and a mentor program Boone Enterprises started there. I love listening to her talk, imagining a life that seems more exciting than my own.

  I stand still, looking at the water. The waves are rougher, rising and falling in choppy breaks. I think I could stare at this view forever, in all its forms. It calms me, reminds me there’s a world out there much bigger than myself.

  “Care to sit?” I ask Amelia.

  “Sure.”

  We hunker down into the sand. In the distance, I see a few joggers. It’s a local’s haven, a quiet place, perfect for thinking hard with limited interruptions.

  “Can you tell me what happened that day?” I ask, hoping it’s not too soon. I’m trying to be sensitive around Amelia, but I can’t help asking. Ever since Mom’s arrest, I’ve been dying to know the truth about that day. The truth about my life before.

  Amelia tilts her head back. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to know—if you’d want to know.”

  “I want to know everything,” I say, blankly, relieved Amelia is as desperate to approach the topic as I am.

  She exhales shakily. She must have retold her story dozens of times, but that doesn’t make sharing it with me any easier.

  “I met Sarah through the counseling center. I’d been working with her while she was on probation. She was a nice enough girl, in the beginning. The more time we spent together, she seemed to become obsessed with me and my life. She was always trying to concoct reasons for us to meet outside our sessions. I kept our relationship professional, but she wasn’t happy when I told her I was leaving the center to go on maternity leave.”

  As she tells the story, her voice is calm. It doesn’t even crack. She’s had years of practice. This is the first time I’m hearing any of it, and I feel like I might be sick. It’s strange to picture my mother as a neurotic young girl. I’ve never known her to be reckless, but I also never knew her as Sarah Paxton.

  “I had a difficult pregnancy and had to spend most of the time on bed rest,” she continues. “Bruce and I had already been trying to get pregnant for over two years. It rarely took. Sometimes it did, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I had about accepted the reality we wouldn’t get pregnant before you came along.” She looks down, clawing the sand with her hands, letting it fal
l. “Of course, I was nervous the first several months. By the time we entered the third trimester, it really hit me. It’s happening. I’m going to be a mother.”

  I remember having the same feelings about Ava. In fact, most of Amelia’s story resembles mine. I can remember the gnawing uncertainty of whether or not motherhood would ever happen for me. It almost felt like trickery, knowing something I wanted so intensely was finally on its way.

  “Every mother says this, I know,” Amelia continues, “but you were the best baby. All the books try to prepare you for a newborn, and people almost scare you out of it with their horror stories, but once you were here, you were just… perfect. You rarely cried. All you needed was a few cuddles to make you happy again. I couldn’t believe how lucky we were. You were worth the wait in every aspect.

  “You were three months old when it happened. It was one of those perfect summer days. I can still remember how clear the sky was, how the breeze seemed to slice through the heat. I remember being so happy.” She pauses, her smile fading. “Sarah showed up at the house. I hadn’t seen her in months, not since I left the center. I had no idea she knew where I lived. She told me she had a gift for you. For the baby. I told her she needed to leave, that her arriving unannounced made me feel uncomfortable. When she refused, I threatened to call the police. Sarah forced her way into the house and followed me to the backyard. I’m not sure what happened. She must have hit me, and I blacked out. My next memory was waking up and finding Bruce. Then I went searching the house, but you—Caroline—my baby was gone.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to react to her story. I imagine the sudden shift from an idyllic day to a tragedy. Amelia’s confusion, then fear as she struggled to find her child. Of course, as she tells the story, I’m picturing Ava, how my world would be entirely lost if someone took her from me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  They are the only words I can muster. Beneath the sadness, is rising anger toward Mom. How could she do it? There’s not an excuse in the world that could justify putting another person through such pain. And Amelia, of all people. A woman who struggled so hard to have a child in the first place. Nothing about this is right or fair or tolerable.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says, placing a hand on my knee.

  It’s warm and soft, and I feel a bit better knowing she’s here to comfort me, even though she’s the one who has lost so much.

  19 Marion

  Now

  We wander away from the beach, back to the lot where both our cars are parked. An awkward silence falls between us. Where do we go from here? I’m not sure what either of us wants.

  “Thank you for meeting with me today,” Amelia says. She leans in for a hug, which I slowly accept.

  “Thank you for telling me what happened.” I realize that’s what I’ve wanted most since Mom’s arrest. To understand the truth about what occurred that day.

  We exchange phone numbers, but don’t make plans to meet again. Our relationship to each other still feels fresh. I think we’re both aware of the boundary between us; we don’t want to push the other away.

  Amelia seems stoic about the whole thing, but I know that’s a front she’s putting on for me. How couldn’t she be devastated by what she has been through? Her daughter stolen. Her husband murdered. It’s unbelievable she’s had to live through such things, and it’s equally incredible to ponder how different my own life could have been.

  Instead of the two-bedroom and shared bath I grew up in above The Shack, I could have lived in a house. I could have gone on vacations and visited other parts of the country, other parts of the planet. Amelia wouldn’t have been scared to let me explore what was out there; she wasn’t hiding from the world, unlike Mom. I could have had cousins. Cousins! Maybe even a brother or sister, had Amelia’s life taken a happier turn. I remember all the other extras I asked for over the years: violin lessons and summer camps. Mom denied me all these things, blaming finances, when in reality, it was probably just another way to keep me unseen, keep me hidden.

  I got over the limitations of my childhood years ago. I accepted my mother and the life we lived, tried to focus on the positive things she gave me instead of everything I lacked. But now I realize, maybe, I shouldn’t have accepted it. I should have pushed for more. Pushed for answers. It wasn’t that Mom couldn’t provide them. Mom took those opportunities away from me, stole them from me, just as she stole me from Amelia.

  By now, it’s late afternoon. Des told me Carmen picked up Ava once she got out of court, giving her more time to work at the restaurant. As usual, my body leaps at the idea of seeing Ava, but I still can’t shake my conversation with Amelia. I’m disgusted, still in disbelief over what my mother has done.

  I exhale, puffing out my cheeks. I can’t seem agitated when I walk inside. I don’t want Carmen to know I’ve spoken to Amelia. She might predict my biological mother will want to get in touch, but her brain is busy strategizing for Mom’s defense. I go in through the front door, winding past the stone columns in the entryway. Carmen is sitting at the breakfast bar eating a sandwich, her phone in her hand. When she sees me, she puts it down and stands.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, dryly. “Why?”

  “I was worried when Michael told me you dropped off Ava. I thought maybe something was wrong.”

  “I just needed to get away.”

  I look around. I’m not exactly lying, but if Carmen looks closely enough, she’ll see there is more I’m not telling her. The far wall in the living room is a series of windows overlooking the backyard and the beach beyond that. Preston and Penny are playing in the fenced-in grassy area. Esme watches over them from a lounge chair in the shade.

  “Where’s Ava?”

  “Just finished her nap,” Michael says, walking in holding Ava. He hands her to me.

  She folds into my arms, resting her head on my shoulder. Despite all the chaos around us, I feel so complete with her. Close to me. A part of me never wants to let her go.

  “Thank you for watching her,” I say. “You know, this whole Daddy Day Care bit might suit you, if real estate doesn’t work out.”

  “I’m exhausted. That’s for sure.”

  “Did you get anything done at the restaurant?”

  “I worked until Des told me to quit.” Michael leans against a counter and stretches his neck to the side. “That woman must have been some kind of military sergeant in a past life.”

  “How’s the place look?”

  “Good as new, really. Des is considering opening tomorrow.”

  “That sounds a bit soon.”

  “You don’t want to stay closed for too long,” Carmen says. She carries her plate into the kitchen and leaves it by the sink. “Reopening sends a message to the community that everything is on track.”

  But nothing is on track, I think. After speaking to Amelia, I’m not sure sending the message we support Mom is the best move. She committed awful crimes. Whatever messages we want out there, it’s only a matter of time until the truth is revealed.

  My phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. A week ago, I would have ignored such a call, assuming it was another sketchy operator calling about my car’s extended warranty, but now there is no telling who it could be.

  I answer.

  “This is Doctor Raul at North Bay Hospital. May I speak with Marion Sams?”

  “Just a minute,” I say, already handing Ava over to Michael again. The guilt stays with me, knowing these constant interruptions keep her at a distance. I enter the guest bedroom down the hall, cracking the door so I can focus. “I’m here.”

  “Your mother had a second surgery this morning. It went well. The preliminary scans are promising.”

  I blink hard, warm tears in my eyes. Beneath my mounting anger, there is undeniable love for this woman. For Mom. Eileen. The woman who spent what little she had to give me the best life she could. She did an awful thing, but I’m not r
eady to let her go.

  “When will she be allowed visitors?”

  “We’re keeping her sedated for the time being. The surgery was successful, but we need to make sure her body can withstand the healing process. Her oncologist has a series of tests he’d like to run—”

  “Wait,” I say, unsure I’m hearing correctly. “Oncologist?”

  “Yes. We want to make sure the stress of surgery won’t interfere with her ongoing chemotherapy.”

  Ongoing chemotherapy. My heart starts pounding faster, like I’ve balanced on a wave, only to be knocked down by another.

  “You’re calling about Eileen Sams, correct?”

  “Yes. Your mother was brought to us after her attack in the county jail.”

  “Right. This is the first I’m hearing about chemotherapy.”

  “According to her medical records, she’s been receiving treatments for the past three months. To combat the breast cancer.”

  I lean against the wall, resting my head back. My mouth is open, but it seems impossible to breathe. I’m stuck here, in this awful moment. The doctor continues talking, and I do my best to process what he is saying, but I keep returning to those words. Oncologist. Chemotherapy. Cancer.

  “I understand. Thank you for the update.”

  The words, like so many I’ve spoken these past few days, don’t sound like my own. They’re not a true expression of what I’m feeling, more a cursory impulse of politeness. I hang up, sliding down the wall until I hit the floor.

  After several minutes, I leave the bedroom. Carmen is now holding Ava, and Michael has joined the children outside. Such a normal, beautiful day for the Banks family, in their upscale house by the sea. What a shame my own world is falling apart against the same charming backdrop.

  “How’s Eileen?” Carmen asks.