“Well, it’s a dumb suggestion.”
He threw his hands up in surrender. “If you say so.”
“I say so,” I said, as I started running the dishwater, signaling an end to this conversation. I’d spent my whole life yearning for my father. I wasn’t even going to entertain the idea that he could possibly be alive.
Chapter 8
Today was going to be crazy. I could tell by the line that was out the door when I arrived at work. Our location was in a prime spot near the Galleria Mall, so we stayed busy. While I was grateful for my job, I would never understand how people paid five dollars for a cup of coffee every day, sometimes two and three times a day. I smiled at Tony because I was five minutes early and he just shook his head as he scrambled to fill an order. I don’t know what Mr. Logan had said to him, but I showed up the next day at work and Tony never mentioned my outburst again, so naturally, neither did I.
I took my place at the register and helped move the line along. I wasn’t put on this earth to be a Starbucks barista, but I was good at my job and it was paying the bills until I could get back on my feet.
I had just wrapped up a large order when I looked up to see the man from the other day. “Good afternoon, Mr. Logan,” I said as he approached my register.
“Remember, I asked you to call me Major,” he replied.
My mother had taught me to always show my elders respect by greeting them as Mr. and Mrs. So I wouldn’t be honoring his request, but I simply smiled. “Will you be having your usual tall, no-water chai?”
“Yes,” he said, fidgeting. He appeared nervous as he turned to glance back at a man who stood in back of him in what looked like a very expensive, tailored suit. The man nodded like he was encouraging Mr. Logan, who then turned back to me. “So, what time do you get off? Are you taking a break today?”
I hesitated. I hoped he didn’t think I was going to get back in the car with him, especially if his creepy wife was in there.
“I’m uh, actually I’m about to go on break in about thirty minutes. Why do you want to know?”
“Well, I would like to talk to you.”
“About what?” I asked. I wasn’t just going to follow him all willy-nilly this time.
“It’s . . . it’s very important,” he replied. He glanced around, leaned in and added, “And private. Do you mind if I just sit over here and enjoy my tea until you go on your break? I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
I shrugged, really wondering what this was all about. I knew the only way I would find out what he wanted was to talk to him. I was going to get some answers from Mr. Logan today or he could hang up the creepy meetings.
Thirty-five minutes later I went on my break and Mr. Logan was waiting patiently just like he’d said he would be. Now my curiosity was definitely piqued. I walked over to the corner table, where he was now sitting with the man in the tailored suit.
“So, what’s going on?” I asked as I slid into the chair. I tried to act nonchalant but I was dying to know this man’s end game.
Mr. Logan inhaled, like he was summoning up his strength. His manicured nails and well-groomed black and silver beard showed that he was a man of confidence and didn’t seem like the type who was easily rattled, so why he was acting nervous was beyond me.
After taking another deep breath, Mr. Logan began. “Well, as you know, I’ve been coming in here quite regularly for the last few months.”
I nodded but didn’t reply. I didn’t want to interrupt anything he was about to say.
“Someone else actually first told me about you and so I came to see for myself,” he continued.
Now my eyebrows rose and my eyes narrowed. Why would anybody be telling him about me? But I remained quiet as he continued. He nodded toward the man that was sitting across from him and the man took out a Manila envelope. Mr. Logan opened it and removed what looked like an eight-by-ten baby photo.
“In 1993, my daughter, Alicia, was kidnapped,” Mr. Logan said, as the other man slid the photo toward me.
I glanced at the picture of the fair-skinned baby with bright eyes and big dimples. Her curls peeked from under a white, ruffled hat. And she had on a long white dress that looked like it cost more than the most expensive thing in my closet. I looked up at Mr. Logan again but this time I said, “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter.”
The man in the suit pulled out another picture. Mr. Logan took that one, glanced at it, then slid it toward me.
“This is an age rendition photo.” He pointed to the first picture. “That was Alicia a month after she was born. A week before she was kidnapped.” He tapped the second picture. “This is what we believe she looks like, aged to her twenty-seven years.”
I took the picture that looked like it had been drawn by a sketch artist and held it up. From the tiny nose, the dimple on the right side, to the light brown naturally curly hair and deep hazel eyes . . . “Th-this looks like me,” I said in confusion.
A knowing smile spread across Mr. Logan’s face. “It does, doesn’t it? We’ve been circulating that photo for years. My friend who happened to see you working here knew about this picture and he told me about you.”
I shook my head trying to make sense of this. “Wait,” I finally said as it dawned on me what he was trying to say. “You think I’m your missing daughter?”
He slowly nodded. I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. The kind of laughter that starts in your belly and moves up into your chest and out of your mouth. “I’m sorry,” I said when I noticed I was the only one laughing. “I don’t mean to make light of the tragedy that you had in your life but trust me, I’m not your daughter.” I slid both pictures back toward him. “I may look like this picture that an artist drew, but that’s not me. No one kidnapped me. I’ve never been missing. But I do hope that you find your daughter.”
“We think that he already has,” the other man said, finally speaking.
I studied both of them for a moment, waiting for someone to burst out with an “April Fool’s” even though it was September.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of game y’all trying to run,” I said, getting a little irritated when I saw they were really serious, “but I’m the daughter of Connie and Al Harrison.”
The man was about to say something, but Mr. Logan held his hand up before he could get his words out.
“I understand that you were raised by Connie Harrison, though I’ve never heard of this Al Harrison,” Mr. Logan said.
“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t really care who you’ve heard of. I was raised by Connie, my mother. My father, Al, died when I was a baby.”
He exchanged more knowing looks with the man. Then, he looked back at me and leaned in on the table, his gaze meeting me head-on. “Well, the thing is, we believe you are our daughter, stolen from us when you were just a baby. And we would like to have you take a DNA test just to confirm our suspicion, though my wife is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt—you know, that whole mother’s intuition thing.”
“Well, your wife doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Now I was insulted. And pissed that I’d given these whack jobs any of my precious break time. “I don’t know if this is some kind of cult ring you’re trying to get me hooked up in, but I know who I belong to, and this foolishness that you’re talking to me about is just that, foolishness.” I stood. “Now I’m sorry you’ve been wasting your time coming to check me out, but I can assure you that I’m not your daughter.”
I turned to leave and Mr. Logan jumped up and grabbed my arm. “Wait,” he said, taking my hand.
I glared at his arm gripping mine and he instantly released his grip.
“Please?” he nodded and the man slid the envelope back to me. “Take the pictures. My information is in there. Just review everything and then come meet with us. Or better yet, ask your mother about it and see what she has to say.”
I wanted to tell him there was no way in hell I would take this nonsense back to
my mother, but instead I figured the sooner I could get away from him, the better off I’d be. “Okay, fine,” I said, taking the envelope.
“Please, seriously, look at this,” he repeated. “And I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t bother,” I replied as I tucked the envelope under my arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go enjoy what’s left of my break.”
I left without giving them a chance to reply. I headed to the break room, fighting the urge to toss the envelope with the photos into the trash. I knew I should’ve tossed them, but the little girl in the photo had me intrigued. Not because I really thought she was me, I knew better. But the tiny, clover-looking birthmark on her arm had me shook. Because it was just like mine.
Chapter 9
Out of all the crazy, cockamamie theories I’d heard in my life, this one took the cake. I don’t know what kind of scam or con game this Major Logan was running, but he was on some kind of potent drug if he thought I was going to be gullible enough to fall for his claim. My mother had pictures of her being pregnant. She had been there my whole life. If I had been kidnapped . . . well, the very idea was ludicrous.
But why in the world would they be targeting me? It’s not like I had anything to offer.
I dialed Malcolm’s cellphone. He didn’t answer so I left a message.
“Babe, you’re not going to believe this.” Before I could finish, his number came through on the other line. I didn’t finish my message as I clicked over.
“Hey, bae,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get to the phone in time. I was in the zone. I think I’ve figured out the semantics that kept giving me an error on this app design.” I could hear the excitement in his voice. “What’s up?”
“I’m leaving work,” I said, grateful that he didn’t go off on a tangent about his app.
“Why do you sound upset?” he asked.
“Because I am upset, frustrated, exasperated, along with everything else.” I huffed. “You remember the guy I told you that came by Starbucks acting all weird with his wife?”
“Yeah, what about him?” The excitement that filled his voice just moments ago shifted to full-on protective mode.
“Well, he showed back up today and you will not believe what he said.”
“What?” Malcolm asked. His voice was tense now as if he was preparing to defend his woman.
“He said that he believed I was his daughter who had been kidnapped at birth.” The words sounded crazy even coming out of my mouth.
Silence momentarily filled the phone. Then he said, “What?”
“He thinks I’m his long lost daughter,” I replied. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?” I wanted to tell him about the matching birthmark, but I’d chalked that up to coincidence so there was no need to even bring that up.
“Just because they have this age rendition photo that looks like me, they’ve gotten it into their head that I’m their daughter. That I was stolen when I was just a few weeks old . . .”
“What? They think you were kidnapped? Who is this dude?”
“I don’t know. I mean he seemed legitimate—the designer suit, luxury car, everything seemed legit—until he opened his mouth talking about some kidnapping,” I said.
Malcolm was quiet for a minute, like he was really thinking. Then he said, “You don’t think that’s really possible, do you?”
“Of course I don’t. That’s crazy.” I jumped at the sound of the driver blaring his horn as I tried to get over. I was so discombobulated that I didn’t even see him.
“Who does he think kidnapped you?” Malcolm asked, pulling me back into the conversation. “How did someone kidnap you? Why would someone take you?”
Malcolm was asking questions I had no idea how to answer, and I don’t know why, but it was extremely irritating. “Well, he never got to that part. But the very idea that my mother kidnapped me is just dumb because not only do I know my mother, I saw pictures of her when she was pregnant. I have so many ways just like my mother. I am my mother’s child.”
Silence filled the phone again until my husband said, “Wow. This is crazy. You know who you should ask about this, though? Your Aunt Marilyn,” Malcolm added.
“I don’t need to ask anybody about anything,” I snapped.
“Hey, don’t get testy with me,” he said. “I’m just trying to help you make sense of it.”
“Yeah, well, there is nothing to make sense of, because the very idea is ludicrous.” The fact that Malcolm hadn’t immediately jumped on my ‘this is asinine’ bandwagon had aggravated me, so I was ready to get off the phone. “I don’t even want to talk about this anymore. I’m going to get my mother,” I said, stressing her title. “And we’ll be home in a little bit.”
I hung up the phone and continued making my way to the adult day care facility, and then at the last minute, I decided to turn right instead of going left down the road that took me to the facility. Maybe Malcolm was right and Aunt Marilyn could help me figure out what Mr. Logan’s game was.
Ten minutes later I was pulling up in front of my aunt’s dilapidated home. She had a son who was a doctor in Louisiana and he tried on multiple occasions to fix her home up but she was content with it just like it was.
“Hey, baby girl,” Aunt Marilyn said when she saw me walking in her kitchen, “you’re just in time to help me shell peas.”
“Aunt Marilyn, nobody shells peas anymore,” I said, chuckling as I took a seat at the table across from her.
“You do,” she said, sliding the bowl toward me.
I chuckled as I picked up the vegetable and began cracking it open. “Why don’t you just buy your peas already shelled?” I asked, dropping the peas into a bowl the way she’d taught me when I was a little girl.
“Because they come with pesticides and all other kind of stuff that I don’t want in my body. Besides, fresh is always better.” She snapped a pea and tossed it into the ceramic bowl. “So what brings you over here?”
I wrestled with how to say what was on my mind. “Well, I have some things I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Talk away,” she said, then nodded toward my hands, that had paused shelling, “but shell as you talk.”
I laughed as I picked up another pea. “So, you basically raised Mama after her parents died, right?” I snapped a pea, then tossed it in the bowl as I tried to gauge her reaction.
Aunt Marilyn nodded. “Yes, but you know this already.”
“So, can you tell me a little bit about when she found out she was pregnant with me?” I asked.
Aunt Marilyn shrugged and said, “You know my memory is bad. I can’t remember all of that.”
“Aunt Marilyn, please?”
She titled her head like she was studying me. “What you want to know, baby?”
What did I want to know? ‘There isn’t any chance that I was stolen, is there?’ just didn’t seem like the right question to ask my elderly aunt.
“I want to know how old Mama was when she had me. And did you ever meet my daddy? Just anything you can tell me,” I said, suddenly realizing how desperate I was for Aunt Marilyn to shed some light on the crazy that had waltzed into my life the past few hours.
She paused like she was thinking, then she said, “Well, your mama went away to school.”
“At Wiley College in Marshall, right?”
“Yeah. Too bad she didn’t finish,” Aunt Marilyn tsked.
“So, my daddy was a student there?”
“I believe so,” Aunt Marilyn said. “She was so in love with that boy. Always writing home about him. I wanted her to focus on her studies and not some boy.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
Aunt Marilyn shook her head. “No. I think that was part of my issue with him. Marshall is only three hours away and I felt like if he couldn’t make time to come meet her people, how great could he really be. But you couldn’t say that to your mama. She loved that man something fierce. After her first year, I assumed they’d broken u
p, because your mama kind of disappeared.”
I frowned. “Disappeared? What does that mean?”
“It means she disappeared. She came home right when school was out and she was so sad, would barely get out of bed. Spent the whole summer moping, talking about she was sick. And when I tried to talk about your daddy, she would just burst into tears. I knew those tears. Those were heartbroken tears.”
“They must’ve gotten back together, then?” I said.
Aunt Marilyn looked like she was thinking. Then she replied, “Well, obviously, because here you are.”
“When did Mama snap out of her sadness?” I asked.
“Toward the end of the summer. She finally got up out that bed and was always gone in the streets. Like I said, she would just disappear. Oh, I fussed but she was grown and I didn’t have the energy to keep up with her. Besides, I was just happy she wasn’t so sad and moping anymore. Then one day, about three weeks before school was supposed to start back up, she announced that she was going back to school.” Aunt Marilyn stood and walked over to the stove. “You want some tea, sugar?”
I just wanted her to finish this story. I don’t know why I’d never heard it.
“No thank you,” I replied. “So she got back with Daddy when she went back to school?”
My aunt lit a match, put it to the gas stove and waited for the flame to flicker on. Then she filled the teapot with water and set it on the fire.
“Yeah, I’m guessing so,” she said once the water was heating up. “Because next thing I know, she come talking about she’s with child. Near ’bout broke my heart. I felt like I’d let her mama down by letting her get pregnant out of wedlock.”
“But you saw her when she was pregnant, right?”
Aunt Marilyn frowned like she didn’t understand the question.
“Jillian, why are you asking me all of this? What’s going on?” she said, putting her hands on her round hips.
“I just want to know,” I said.
She folded her arms across her chest like she didn’t believe me. “Of course I saw her when she was pregnant.” She hesitated and her eyes went to the top of her head like she was trying to recall. “I mean, I think I did. But don’t you have a picture at home of when she was pregnant?”
The Stolen Daughter Page 5