Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

Amelia’s face turned to the closed door. She looked like she might be ill. “I’ll tell him to leave. We’ll get him out of the house, long enough for us to decide what we need to do. Maybe we could reach out to your friend. Ask her for a name.”

  I nodded hurriedly. I knew she was taking a huge leap of faith, believing my outlandish accusation, but then again, he was her husband. Maybe a portion of the story I’d told her registered, made sense in some way. Maybe she already had suspicions. She certainly didn’t look happy when she had returned home to find the two of us alone in a room together.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, squeezing my hand. She walked to the patio door and stepped outside.

  When I arrived at their house, I believed I was making peace before my departure. Now, in the light of what I had uncovered about Amelia’s husband, I had a new purpose. If Bruce was dangerous, I couldn’t allow you to grow up under the same roof. He’d done it to other girls, Jamie’s voice rang in my ears. I paced through the living room, nibbling at my nails. The patio door opened, and I stopped, eager to hear what Amelia would say.

  But it wasn’t Amelia. Bruce walked inside, locking the door behind him.

  “Sarah, I think we should talk.”

  A hot flame of fear climbed my spine. For a few seconds, I stood there, mouth open, unable to speak.

  “Amelia seems to think you have me confused with someone else,” he said.

  “Why did you leave Phillips Academy?” I asked, wanting to focus on the few facts I knew.

  Bruce stiffened. “I told you. I started working for my father-in-law—”

  “Why did you really leave?”

  “That’s the truth,” he said, a bit too breathy.

  “What if I told you I know how you got that scar on your arm? And it wasn’t from a camping trip.”

  “That’s a lie,” he said.

  Wouldn’t a normal person ask questions, want to know more? An innocent person wouldn’t immediately dismiss the threat. He took a step back and an ugly cloud shadowed his features.

  “What is this? Some kind of a shakedown? Do you want money? A free ride to college isn’t enough for you, eh?”

  He raised his hand. In one forceful push, I was down on the couch.

  “What’s this about?” Bruce asked, standing over me. “Why are you really here?”

  “I’m here to see Caroline,” I said, scooting farther away from him, trying to create distance. “I’m calling the police.”

  I rolled my body, trying to squirm to the other end of the couch. Bruce grabbed my arm, his grip leaving white indentations on my arm, and pulled me back. He climbed on top of me, straddling me.

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Let go of me.”

  But he squeezed harder. I tried to wriggle away, but his weight was too much. Horror pulsed throughout my body, my mind conjuring sickening images of what he might do next. Of what he’d already done before. In this moment, there was no doubt in my mind he was the same predator who had traumatized Jamie all those years ago.

  “Stop moving,” Bruce yelled, his voice a deep roar. Gone was the polite socialite, and in his place was a monster.

  I kneed his groin. The jolt delivered enough pain to make him hunch forward, sinking more of his weight on top of me. My hand, now free, reached aimlessly for the side table. I felt the heavy stem of a lamp. With what little strength I had, I whacked him over the head with it. It was enough to get him off me. Now standing, I hit him again, waiting another second to make sure he wouldn’t move.

  I raced to the front door, but when I jiggled the handle, it wouldn’t budge. The door was locked. My breath quickened and I could feel a cool line of sweat developing on the back of my neck as I debated what to do. I still didn’t want to leave you, and I was unsure how to get out.

  I ran through the living room, making sure Bruce was still passed out on the floor. I opened the back door, clicking the lock behind me in case Bruce regained consciousness and came after me.

  A bean-shaped pool sat in the center of the concrete, and beyond that, was a perfect view of the setting sun. How wonderful it must be to spend long afternoons like this, relaxing as the day turned to night. I imagined you one day having holidays and parties at this very spot. I imagined you taking swimming lessons in this very pool. It all felt so useless now, an expensive varnish with no durability.

  “Bruce?” I heard Amelia’s voice before I saw her. “What happened? Did you get her to—”

  Amelia came around the corner. She froze when she saw me instead of her husband.

  “Sarah, where is Bruce?”

  “You said you were going to make him leave. I told you he was dangerous.”

  “I think what you’re doing right now is projecting. You have this story about Phillips Academy in your head, and now you’re using that to make yourself feel less guilty about leaving Caroline behind. You’re trying to make yourself feel better.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m doing. I really did come here to say goodbye. But I can’t just leave her—”

  “What do you mean you can’t leave her?”

  “I can’t leave her around a man like that. And you! You let him go back inside. You waited out here so he could attack me.”

  “I know my husband. What you are alleging is ridiculous.” But something in the way she said it made me wonder if she really thought that. She didn’t seem offended, the way I would be if someone were to make such a suggestion about Cliff, or someone else in my life. She seemed nervous.

  “Amelia, I’m sorry. This has all been a horrible mistake. I’m leaving and taking her with me. She’s my daughter.”

  “Caroline is my daughter,” Amelia corrected me. Her eyebrows arched. “There’s no evidence you ever gave birth to her. Her birth certificate lists me as her mother.”

  “But the hospital—”

  “New Hutton delivers dozens of babies a day. I’d be willing to bet they won’t be able to remember you.”

  “People know you didn’t give birth—”

  “People know I left the center for maternity leave. They know I had a private physician. They believe Caroline was born at home.”

  “But the adoption—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said, calmly. “There is no adoption. On paper, Caroline is our daughter. You’re nothing to her. And you sure as hell aren’t leaving with her.”

  We both turned when we heard the patio door shaking madly. Bruce was awake, and he was trying to get outside.

  Amelia ran toward me. We fell on top of each other. She was trying to hold me down long enough for Bruce to break down the door. I pulled back my foot and kicked her in the chest. She stumbled, hitting her head hard against the ground.

  By the time I made it to my feet, Bruce was coming after me. One hand was holding his injured head, but the other stretched away from his body, his fingers splayed. I knew he would grab me, strangle me, hurt me. Dozens of possibilities, but he’d never let me leave.

  I grabbed the wooden tray from the table and aimed for the other side of his head.

  He blocked my hit with his forearm. “You bitch!”

  This time, I held the board as high as I could, slamming it down on his shoulder, then the bridge of his nose. The pain sent him to his knees. Even then, he kept trying to grab at my ankles, his body squirming to gain even an inch in distance.

  I kept hitting him, closing my eyes, trying not to look. He cried out, calling me names and making threats, but I didn’t pay attention. In my mind, I was lost, unable to do anything but repeat that same physical action. Slamming the board into Bruce. Slamming the board into my father. Slamming the board into Albert. Slamming into every person who had taken advantage of me, determined never to be made a victim again, much like Cliff overpowered those bullies that day in the alley. I didn’t stop, until I noticed the lack of resistance.

  Cicadas buzzed around me, hurting my head. I looked down at Bruce, seeing what damage had been done. I
had to turn immediately to prevent myself from throwing up. There was blood seeping from the wound in his head, stretching across the concrete toward Amelia. She was unconscious, but her shallow breathing warned me I didn’t have long.

  She would be awake soon, whether it was another hour, or in the next thirty seconds. And I didn’t have it in me to harm her. Bruce had been an accident. It didn’t feel like a choice.

  I rushed back inside, startled by the cool temperature indoors. And the quiet. I ran upstairs, not even knowing which room was yours. When I pushed the far door, I saw your crib beside the open window, white curtains fastened at either side like something you’d see in a picture book. Yes, they’d succeeded in giving you a picturesque life, but what else would they give you? What nightmares lived behind the dream? You weren’t safe, and maybe deep down I had known that all along.

  I rushed to you. You were still sleeping, your head turned to the side, your chest pumping up and down. You still felt so fragile in my arms. And when I saw there were patches of blood on my sleeve, I felt immediate regret that I’d already brought you into a mess you didn’t deserve. I’d screwed up again. Whether I’d caused this mess or not, it was my duty to get you out of it. I had to, as quickly as possible. You began to cry, which only heightened my anxiety. How was I supposed to protect you and comfort you all at the same time?

  I grabbed a blanket from your crib and a handful of diapers I saw sitting on a dresser. Did you drink formula? Milk? Again, all this was foreign to me at the time, but I knew the most important thing was getting you out of the house and away.

  I had almost reached the front door when it hit me: I didn’t have a car seat. I couldn’t very well drive down the road with you in my lap. Not only would it be unsafe, if anyone spotted me, I’d be pulled over in a second. And then the officer would notice the blood… I stopped myself from imagining all the ways this could go wrong and forced myself to think rationally.

  I ran all through the downstairs, poking my head into rooms and coming up empty. Finally, I tried a door by the kitchen. It led to a four-car garage. I exhaled in relief. I spotted your carrier in the backseat of one of the cars. I tried my best to unhook it while holding you at the same time.

  By this point, you’d stopped crying. Maybe my mad dash to get you out of the house stunned you. I strapped you in and turned to go back the way I came, then remembered the front door was locked. I looked around until I found the garage button, waited impatiently for the door to raise. It felt like I’d been standing there for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Had I done the right thing? Would I live to regret my actions?

  You made a tiny grunt, which reminded me the clock was ticking, coming dangerously close to running out of time. I needed to get you out of there.

  And that’s what I did.

  40 Marion

  Now

  By the time I stop reading, it’s nearing one in the morning. I didn’t think it would take this long, but I also took several breaks along the way. With each passing word, it feels like I’m meeting Mom for the first time, at least a part of her. I’m meeting Sarah, the woman she was before me. Before all of this.

  My emotions boomeranged as I read each section, trying to process everything she had written. The truth about her traumatic childhood. The truth about my father, Cliff—a name I’ve waited so long to hear. They were young. So very young. I remember those years of early adulthood. Thinking I was completely capable of taking on the world, trying to combat that voice in my head telling me I wasn’t enough.

  I can only imagine facing the decisions Mom had to make, and the sacrifices. The grief! To think her future would be one thing, whether she was truly ready for it or not, only to have it swiped away by something as cruel and unforgiving as death. To think—yet again, during this horrendous week—what my life might have been like if Cliff lived, if they had been able to start their life together. To imagine having a father, a young one, an impulsive one, but one who would have loved me. I have found him and lost him all in the same sitting.

  And of course, those letters held something else: the truth about Amelia Parker.

  I think back to everything she told me. She never once mentioned an adoption, or the truth about her relationship with Mom before my abduction. She even told me about being pregnant. She pushed for a DNA test, knowing what the results would be. Of course, she also offered to arrange it. I wonder, knowing the lengths she took back then, if she had some way of altering the results. This woman, who on the surface exceeds every ideal, can’t be so manipulative, can she? I’d prefer to think she treated Mom the way she did because she was acting on her own maternal instincts, that she wasn’t trying to intentionally deceive her. Maybe she was in denial about how dangerous Bruce could be.

  Really, Amelia’s motives don’t matter. What matters is that Mom is my protector. Always has been. She gave me to the Parkers because she believed she was making the best decision for me. When she realized how dangerous Bruce was, she fought like hell to get me back. We have been hiding ever since. Not because she wanted to control me, but because she wanted to shield me. Every decision, every lie has been a form of defense.

  Mom admitted she didn’t want me to know any of this. I would have been saved a mountain of heartache if I had never found out, but now that I know the truth, the clarity I have is more monumental than the pain I’ve experienced this past week; it takes away the uncertainties I’ve carried about Mom and myself throughout my life.

  I creep down the hallway to Ava’s room. I push open the door and peek into her crib. She sleeps peacefully. I think about how much I love her. How I would do anything in my power to keep her safe. I realize, now, that is all Mom ever wanted to do for me.

  And I shudder when I think of how I let Amelia get so close.

  Desperation pushed me toward Amelia more than anything. After Mom’s arrest, I was untethered, isolated in a lonely world. I was convinced Mom was a liar, a kidnapper, a murderer. Amelia’s presence stabilized me, provided the hope and optimism Mom wasn’t capable of giving. Now I see Amelia was trying to stay in control of the Baby Caroline narrative she had written years ago. She never came forward with her true connection to Mom, never admitted she agreed to an adoption. She is using the same tricks to manipulate me now that she used on Mom back then.

  The silence in the living room bothers me. I’ve just uncovered all this information, everything I’ve ever wanted to know about my past, and there’s no one I can share these new discoveries with.

  Carmen needs to read these letters. It’s only my mother’s version of events, secrets she’s spent an entire lifetime guarding, but there is a possibility this information could help her case. If she is believed, that is. Identifying the person who called the hospital would help. I can’t know for sure, but I wonder if Mom’s friend Jamie might have tipped me off. Maybe she saw the media circus and knew it was time the truth came out.

  Yes, Carmen will have to know, and I’m sure she’ll instruct Rick to start digging. Des also deserves the truth. She’s respected Mom’s boundaries to this point and been nothing but loyal since the arrest. In the morning, I’ll call them both.

  Tonight, I need to do more than simply plan Mom’s next step. I’m still absorbing the information I’ve been given, and I need someone who is willing to let me do that. Be still with these shaky thoughts.

  I think of Evan.

  I’m here if you need me, he told me after he finished cleaning graffiti off The Shack’s windows.

  I need him tonight. I really do.

  41 Marion

  Now

  Evan pretends I didn’t wake him, but his appearance gives him away.

  He sits beside me on the living room sofa wearing maroon sweatpants and a top with a Sanderson logo. His hair sits on one side of his head, like it was brushed hurriedly, and he’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses. He only takes his contacts out right before bed, and sometimes he forgets and sleeps with them in, or so I remember. />
  Even if he was asleep when I called, he’s attentive now. He listens to my every word, as I tell him about finding the letters, sneaking behind Des’ back earlier today to retrieve them. I tell him about Mom’s life before me, about the choices she was faced with making. I tell him about my father, this young man I never got the chance to know. And I tell him how Bruce and Amelia Parker play into all of this.

  “It’s unbelievable,” he says, after several seconds of silence. He has been thinking, his gaze deliberately avoiding mine. “And yet, it makes sense of everything, doesn’t it?”

  I’ve thought the same thing. Mom’s protectiveness, her paranoia. It wasn’t because she was afraid of what dangers might be out in the world—she had already been confronted by them. She knew Amelia was still out there and possessed more credibility than a twenty-something convicted criminal ever would. She must have lived in constant fear that one day Amelia would return for me.

  “Do you remember me telling you about my eighteenth birthday party?” I ask. He nods, smiling. “That’s why she finally loosened up. Became a different person. She knew I couldn’t be taken away from her anymore.”

  “She knew you were safe.”

  “And I keep thinking about all those times I asked her questions about my father. A part of me hated her for never telling me who he was. It made me think he was some dirtbag. That he decided to walk away from us. From the sounds of this,” I say, lifting the letter, “he was a decent person. Why didn’t she ever tell me that?”

  “Given the circumstances, she probably wanted to put as much distance between you and her past as possible. If she had told you the truth about him, even his name, and you looked into it, someone might have tracked the two of you down much sooner. Whatever happened in New Hutton back then, it must have been traumatic. I doubt her letters accurately portray the terror she felt.”

  I look down, the words on the paper blurring together.

  “You’re a lawyer now,” I say, with a nervous laugh. “Will any of this help Mom? Or is her case still a lost cause?”