“Yes,” I said, fondly remembering how much my mother loved that picture of her standing in front of Greater Sweet Home Baptist Church in Marshall. She was only about seven-months pregnant, but you could tell how happy she was.
“I was really upset when your mama turned up pregnant,” Aunt Marilyn continued. “But she was determined to give you the best life.”
“And she tried,” I said.
“Yes. Yes, she did.” That brought a smile to Aunt Marilyn’s face.
“Another question,” I said, knowing my time was limited. I knew my great-aunt. I only had a few more questions before she’d shut this conversation down completely. “So has anyone ever met my father?”
“No. You know we didn’t have a lot of money, so there wasn’t a whole bunch of traveling back and forth. Shoot, by the time we found out she was pregnant, she was almost due. Then when she moved home when you were about three months old, she said she and your daddy were no longer together.”
That gave me a bit of relief. If my mother was pregnant, then showed up with me a few months later, the timeline would make perfect sense. “So were they together when he died?”
Aunt Marilyn shrugged. “Your mama didn’t talk about your daddy much after that.”
“So, I was born in Marshall or here?”
“Well, you was born there because your mama was going to try and finish school but she couldn’t do both.”
“This isn’t making any sense. I thought I was born here in Houston,” I said, finding it strange that Mama would go into childbirth and not a single friend or family member was there with her.
“You know what? I’m getting confused. I’m not sure. I’m too old to remember this stuff.” She walked back over to the sink.
“Aunt Marilyn, this is important,” I said.
“Why?” She turned to me. “Why do you need to know all this now?”
I debated telling her about Major Logan and then decided against it. It wouldn’t do anything but upset her as well, and I knew the man was lying.
“No reason. I just was asking,” I said, releasing a heavy sigh. I was getting worked up for nothing. Things might not add up but if it was one thing that I was sure of—it was that I was Connie Harrison’s daughter.
Chapter 10
Today was a good day. My mother had Destiny cradled in her arms as they sat and watched The Princess and the Frog on TV. I didn’t know if my daughter even understood what was happening, but she was just as enamored with Princess Tiana as my mother, and watching the two of them brought a smile to my face. I was sitting at the kitchen table going through my laptop, looking for online schools, trying to see if there would be any way I could afford to go back in and finish my degree.
We had just about wrapped up the movie when I heard the key in the door turn. Malcolm walked in and I could tell from the look on his face something was wrong. Destiny had fallen asleep and my mother was now watching something on HGTV.
“Hey, y’all,” Malcolm mumbled as he tossed his keys on the bar.
“Hi, Malcolm,” my mother said and smiled. Her smile instantly brightened his mood.
He leaned down and kissed Destiny on the forehead, then asked my mother, “How are you feeling today?” His voice was filled with genuine concern.
“I’m good,” she replied. “Today has been a good day.”
He looked to me for confirmation and I nodded. “It really has.” I smiled at my mother. “They’ve been watching movies and I think we’re going to have to get your daughter a Princess Tiana doll because she is in love.”
He nodded, but I could tell by the look on his face, he was distracted. Finally, he said, “Mama Connie, do you mind going and taking Destiny to your room to lie down? I need to talk to Jill for a minute.”
“Of course,” my mother said. “She fell asleep during the movie. Jill didn’t think she’d understand it, but she just loved it.”
“That’s good,” he replied.
My mother eased up, careful not to wake the baby, and headed up the stairs to her bedroom. My first instinct was to follow her, but since it had been a good day, I figured everything would be fine.
“What’s going on?” I asked after they were out of earshot. I had hoped that it was news that he had gotten a job but his expression was troubled, so that couldn’t be it.
“Let’s go out on the patio so I can talk to you,” he whispered. Now my interest was really piqued.
“Okay.” I followed him, my nerves revving up because of the expression on his face and his tense demeanor.
Malcolm eased the patio door closed.
“Okay, what’s going on, Malcolm?” I asked him.
He sighed, then motioned for me to take a seat. “Please sit,” he said once I didn’t move.
“I’m good,” I said, waving his request off. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Malcolm had a habit of fidgeting whenever he didn’t know how to tell me something. Finally, he said, “Well, you know you told me about the Starbucks guy, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Is this what this is about? Let me guess, you googled and saw the whole story about the baby being kidnapped? Yeah, I saw it, too.”
“So, you did look it up?” he asked.
I nodded. For some reason, the story was intriguing to me. Not because I believed it, but because I could only imagine what it had to be like for a family to have their child kidnapped.
“Yes, I did look it up, and none of it adds up to me being that missing baby. I think because the time frame was around the same time, Mr. Logan and his wife are drawing these crazy conclusions. I was born in Marshall, Texas, when my mom was at Wiley College. This kidnapping happened in Beaumont. I don’t even know why the two would add up. Plus, how would my mother even know a family like the Logans?”
Malcolm’s eyes shifted down to his lap as he took a seat in one of our five-dollar lawn chairs—another steal from Goodwill. “Well, there are a lot of things that don’t add up,” he said. “Including some details surrounding your birth.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “My birth certificate shows I was born to Connie and Al Harrison.”
“But doesn’t your birth certificate say you were born in Houston?”
I hesitated, not wanting to deal with that piece of information. “Yes,” I finally replied.
“So why do you now say you were born in Marshall?” he asked.
“Because that’s what Aunt Marilyn told me. But I’m sure it’s all a mix-up.”
“That’s just it,” he sighed. “I knew that things didn’t add up. Between some of the stuff your mom says—”
“My mother suffers from dementia,” I said, cutting him off. “You cannot put a lot of stake into the things she says.”
“Yes, but some of the things she has said, she’s so sure about. We blow them off as the crazy talking. But I’ve been reading up, sometimes people suffering from dementia have trouble remembering lies.”
“So you’re calling my mother a liar?” I asked.
He held his hand up. “No, it’s not that,” he protested, then released another heavy sigh. “It’s this.” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket.
“What is that?” I asked.
“You know my cousin Francesca works at the Social Security office?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I know that,” I said, my words measured.
“Well, I had her pull your birth certificate.”
“You did what?” I screamed. “Why would you do that?”
“Because this isn’t adding up, and a wealthy man doesn’t come out of the blue trying to claim you as his child unless he really believes you’re his child.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said, stomping across the room. “You do know that, right?”
“I don’t know anything, except . . .” he paused, carefully weighing his next words. “Your birth certificate is a fake.”
I stopped my trek across our bedroom. “What?”
He h
anded me the paper. “There is no record of your birth.”
“Huh? There must be some kind of mistake,” I said, snatching the paper and quickly scanning it. It was an email from Francesca. Simple words that bore insurmountable weight:
Malcolm,
This birth certificate is fraudulent. It’s doesn’t even have the right seal on it. I checked all the databases in Texas and there is no record of a Jillian Harrison ever being born and the social security number belongs to a woman who died in 1961.
I glanced up at my husband. His face now mirrored mine—screaming the question what in the world was really going on?
Chapter 11
The picture glared at me. Almost as if it were taunting me. Almost as if it wanted to say, “You know I’m you.”
I fought back the lump in my throat as I fingered my computer screen like I could really feel the baby’s soft butterscotch skin. The headline blared: “Family desperate for answers.”
I reread the article that I could’ve had memorized by now.
Major and Elaine Logan plead for the kidnapper to return their child. The baby was kidnapped from an area park by a woman witnesses describe as an older black woman with a small gray afro, though authorities now believe the woman was wearing a disguise.
And as I’d done the last ten times I’d read the article, I stopped reading at the photo. Major Logan stood stoically, his face reeking of pain. But it was the face of the woman next to him that made my stomach turn. The face of the woman from the car. Her light brown hair that matched mine, her hazel eyes. Her white skin.
All my life, I had questioned my light skin next to my mother’s bronze complexion. But my mother had always made me feel at ease by telling me my father was from New Orleans, so I was part Creole. There was another girl who was Creole who lived on our street, and since our skin was the same color, that explanation had worked for me.
Could it be? Could I be part white, not part Creole?
No. I shook away that thought.
“There still has to be another explanation,” I mumbled. But there was no arguing the birth certificate. Why would my mother have faked my birth certificate? How would she have faked my birth certificate. And my social security number?
Malcolm knew that I was having a hard time processing everything. He’d left me alone with my thoughts and had gone to watch TV. And when I’d stomped through the living room, into the kitchen, grabbed a bottled water and stomped upstairs to our bedroom, he didn’t say a word.
I did momentarily ask myself why I was angry with my husband. Because he’d gone digging, trying to help me find answers? Or because I didn’t like what he had unearthed?
Later, Malcolm brought Destiny into our room, put her in her crib, then climbed in bed next to me and just held me. That was the beauty of our relationship. No matter how mad I got at him, he had a way of touching my soul. And for a moment, I was able to put aside the upheaval of my life and seek comfort in my husband’s touch.
Malcolm caressed my arm, and though my mind wanted to protest, my body welcomed his touch. I kept my back to him, though I did scoot back and snuggle a little closer. His caressing gave way to kissing and the silence became our aphrodisiac. He took his time, his mouth moving from my arm to the arch of my back. My heart was beating a New York marathon—all these years later and Malcolm could still make my heart race.
“Baby,” I said, turning over to face him. “I’m sure—”
His lips punctuated his silent rebuke. He moved his tongue along the wisps of my hairline, over to my ear. I savored the fact that no matter how bad things got on the outside, on the inside, when it was just the two of us, struggling to keep quiet so we didn’t wake our daughter, Malcolm and I could get lost in each other. He was unerringly gentle, caressing me like I was the painting to his Picasso. Every stroke reminded me why I loved this man. And there, in our full-sized bed, Malcolm took me back to the night of our honeymoon, when we made love, talked about our big dreams that lay ahead, then made love again.
The closeness that I felt as we exploded together then collapsed into each other’s arms gave me faith that this storm I was in would pass.
When the morning sun peeked in through our blinds, I eased from under Malcolm’s arm and slid out of the bed. It was back to reality, and back to my laptop, and the news article.
I read for another ten minutes, then decided to go for a run to try and clear my head. I wasn’t getting any answers just re-reading the same thing over and over.
On my forty-five-minute trek, I came to the conclusion that the only way I would get any answers was straight from the source, which is why after returning home and getting Destiny fed and settled, I’d awakened my mother and told her to get dressed so we could go out.
“I’m ready,” my mother said, appearing in the doorway.
I took in the sight of the woman I had loved since birth. When I was little, my mother used to dress me and her up in matching outfits and we had a regular date. Mother-daughter time was important to my mother and she made sure at least twice a month, we got our uninterrupted time to go do something special. Movies when she could afford it. Walks in the park when she couldn’t. I remembered many days when Mama would be called in for work at the hospital and she would tell them, “I can’t do it today. It’s Jill’s time.”
That had always made me feel special. Even though we needed the money, my mother would never budge when it came to her “Jill time.”
A slow tear trickled down my cheek as I thought about all the struggles we had endured in our lives. I was seven years old before I even realized that we were poor because of what my mother had given me. The love my mother showed me had been priceless.
“So where are we going?” my mother asked, not noticing my melancholy mood.
I took a deep breath, wiped away my budding tears, and stood. “We are going to have Mommy-Jill time.”
“Really?” she said. “Oh my God. We haven’t had that in years. Where’s Destiny?”
“Malcolm is going to take her to Miss Betty,” I said, referring to our sometimes-babysitter who lived two doors down. “I wanted to make sure that you and I had our uninterrupted time.”
That made my mother squeal in delight. “Let’s go then.” She didn’t even ask where we were going like she normally did. She was just happy to be going.
My mother and I had an amazing lunch, reminiscing about old times. Dementia had snatched her current memories, but her memories of the past remained intact. That’s what I was banking on to get answers about my birth.
When they first brought out our meals, I could tell my mother was getting a little flustered when she tried to eat her food with her knife. But other than that, I felt like she was lucid enough for us to have a meaningful conversation.
“So Mom, I have something I want to talk with you about,” I said, folding the napkin across my lap and struggling to find the words. “I know this is going to sound crazy.” I inhaled again before continuing, “but this man showed up at my job and he said, he thought, well, he believes that . . . I may be his daughter.”
My mother’s eyes bucked. “You’re . . . you’re my d-daughter,” she stammered.
“I know that,” I said. I placed my hand over hers, trying to ease her nerves before she got worked up. “But, he thinks that I’m his. His daughter that was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” She was emphatic as she added, “No. No. I gave birth to you. You’re my daughter.”
And then she began reciting the story of my birth. One that I’d heard countless times. One that I could recite right along with her.
“Your dad was away in the military. Nobody was there with me as I toiled seventeen long hours to bring you into this world,” she said. “I didn’t use any drugs. I wanted everything to be as natural as possible. And so as much as it hurt, I endured it in order to bring you into the world the right way.”
For the first time in all my years of hearing this story, I couldn’t help but note how it soun
ded . . . rehearsed.
“Okay, Mom. I know. You’ve told me about how you carried me and how you were alone.”
She slammed her palm on the table. “Exactly! I, alone, raised you.”
“I know, Mom. Don’t get worked up,” I calmly replied.
She slumped back down in her seat. Her voice cracked as she said, “Why is he doing this?” she asked. “You’re my daughter.”
“I don’t know why he would say something like that. That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I replied.
She seemed to calm down. “You believe him?” she asked. Her voice was soft like she was dreading my answer.
I wanted to say “of course not,” but after that fake birth certificate, I didn’t know what to believe.
“Mom, the issue that I’m having is that I’ve found out my birth certificate is a fake,” I gently said.
“Says who? That’s crazy. You got a job. How would you have gotten a job if your birth certificate was a fake?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, especially because it appears that my social security number isn’t real either.”
“Ridiculous,” she huffed. “You would’ve never been able to go to school or get a job with a fake birth certificate and social security number,” she added. Her eyebrows had furrowed as if she was trying to get me to see that this was an absurd claim. “Someone at the birth certificate office made a mistake. Your birth is real.”
Now she did have a point there, but still, there was so much that wasn’t adding up.
My mother’s anger gave way to tears as she fell back in her chair. “But if you want to be somebody else’s daughter, fine.”
“Mother. Stop,” I said. Next thing I knew, she was sobbing uncontrollably. “Mom.”
“You’re going to leave me,” she cried.
“I’m not leaving you,” I said, scooting my chair closer to her to console her, especially before people around us started staring more than they already were. “Remember what you used to tell me when I was a little girl? Love never leaves. I’m here forever and always, okay? I’m sorry I brought it up.”
The Stolen Daughter Page 6