The Stolen Daughter

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  “Again, I can’t speak about ‘what ifs,’ ” I snapped. “This is my life.” I huffed and folded my arms across my chest. “So, you agree with them that I should walk away from my mother? Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”

  “No, of course I’m not saying that,” Malcolm said. “I’m just saying that you have to be respectful and understand where their anger is coming from.”

  “All you care about is the money,” I snapped. “They flash some dollar signs and you’re ready to toss my mother to the side.”

  He bit down on his bottom lip like he was trying to choose his words carefully. When he spoke, his words were slow and measured. “Of course I care about the money, Jill. What kind of husband and father would I be if I didn’t? That money will change our lives. Change Destiny’s life. And any future children we may have. We talked about having more children but at this rate, we can’t afford to. We wanted a big family. This would allow us the opportunity to have that. And you know, as much as I love the thought of having this money,” he pulled the check from his jacket pocket, “you know my first priority is your happiness. And if tearing this check up will make you happy, I’ll do that. If you don’t know anything else, you know that.”

  I sniffled and wiped the tears that had started trickling down my cheek. “Yes, I know,” I muttered.

  “So, I’m going to support whatever decision you want,” he continued. “But I want you to be realistic. We’d already discussed how we can’t afford to keep taking care of your mother as it is. Plus, you’ll need to hire an attorney because they will try to prosecute your mother. I don’t know what the answer is.”

  “I’m not walking away from my mother,” I said with finality.

  He let out a sigh and I could see his mind racing for options. “Maybe you can just tell them you’re walking away from her, but not really do it,” he finally said.

  “I’m not even lying about something like that. It’s not happening,” I said.

  He leaned back in the seat like he was still thinking. “Okay, why don’t you go back with a counteroffer?”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Tell them that they need to pay for your mother to go to a memory care center, or something like that. That way, they will feel like they get her out of the way and it will actually help her, not to mention take a huge burden off of us.”

  It made me sick to my stomach when he called my mother a burden. I knew that he didn’t mean it as harshly as it sounded but it still bothered me. “I don’t think they’re going to do that. They hate her.”

  “It’s a compromise. Emphasize how sick your mother is and tell them it won’t do anyone any good to lock her up. And it will only further the divide between you all. Go back and tell them your offer.”

  “So my counteroffer is to put my mother in a home?” I asked. Every time that thought entered my mind, I got sick to my stomach.

  Malcolm took my hand again. “We’d been talking about it, Jill. We can’t physically continue to care for her. Aunt Marilyn is old, she can’t do it. It’s causing everyone to suffer.”

  The somersaults in my stomach continued. “So now you’re talking like my mother is an inconvenience to everyone.”

  “The reality is, she would be so much better served in a facility. I’ve been saying that but we just couldn’t afford the best facility. We can now. And if that’s your counter, it doesn’t even have to come out of our newfound money.” He patted his jacket pocket again.

  “These people are not going to pay for her to go to a facility.” I shook my head. “If they hated my mother enough to demand that I never see her again, I can’t imagine them now doing anything to help her.”

  “Just tell them that you will meet them halfway if they send your mother to a facility. I believe their love for you will override their hatred of her.”

  My shoulders slumped. As much as I didn’t want to do it, I knew my husband was right. “I feel like I’m selling my soul. I can’t even think about this right now.” I started gathering my purse and jacket. “I need to try and get answers from my mom. I need to understand that first. None of this is making sense to me. Why would she do something like this? I get that the DNA test says that I’m their child, but I’m still praying that it is some big misunderstanding. Maybe there was a mix-up at the hospital.”

  My husband reached over and gently caressed my face. “You were kidnapped, Jill.” It’s as if he was hoping his touch would ease the pain of that reality.

  “Do you think my mother is just some cold, callous criminal?” I asked, my eyes moist with tears.

  Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know why. And babe,” he took my hand, “I agree that you should get answers. Otherwise, you will stay tormented. I don’t think you’re going to rest until you know why.”

  “But how do I get that answer?” I asked.

  He snapped his fingers as an idea popped into his head. “You know what? I was reading up on caregiving for dementia patients.”

  That brought a small smile on my face. It was little things like this that made me appreciate my husband even more. “You are so sweet.”

  “This is difficult, babe. It really is and I’m just trying to figure out how to make the best of this situation because I know how much this means to you. But the article said that sometimes when you take people back to places where they built a lot of memories, it will jog their memories.”

  “So what? Go back to the house I grew up in?” I asked. My mother had moved out of my childhood home when I’d started college. Unfortunately, the rent and upkeep just got to be too much, so she’d moved into a small government-subsidized apartment, where she had stayed until we had to move her in with us six months ago. The landlady was someone who had gone to church with my mother and it was my understanding that her son now lived in the house. Maybe if I explained everything, he would let me bring Mama by.

  Malcolm shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. Take her on one of the days that you think she is pretty lucid, try it and see if you can talk to her and get some answers.”

  I nodded and then reached in to hug my husband. He’d done what he’d been the master at doing since the day we met—calmed my nerves and given me hope.

  Chapter 23

  The years had not been kind to my old neighborhood. So much had changed in the ten years since I’d last set foot in Almeda Plaza. Not only was the neighborhood itself dilapidated and run down, the businesses that sat at the front of my childhood neighborhood were now boarded up and closed.

  I smiled as I remembered the beauty shop where my mother would bring me to get my hair braided; the record store I used to go to with my friends. The snowball place where we used to get sno cones in all our favorite flavors. The U Tote Em convenience store, where Old Man Waddell used to give us all free candy. He created such a family atmosphere, such a brotherhood in the neighborhood, that no one dared steal from him.

  This place would always be home.

  Thankfully, the landlady, Mrs. Willis, had put me in touch with her son. When I explained about my mother, he’d been more than happy to let us come visit. I’d texted him to let him know we were on the way and he’d left the key under the mat while he ran a quick errand.

  “Where are we going?” my mother asked as we pulled onto Dragonwick Street. She leaned forward and studied the surroundings. “Is this our neighborhood?” she said with a nostalgic smile.

  “It is,” I replied.

  “Oh my God. Look at our house,” she exclaimed as I pulled into the driveway of our old home. Obviously, Mrs. Willis’s son was taking good care of the place. The grass was freshly cut and colorful plants sat on the porch.

  “Do you remember what I used to draw on the driveway all the time?” I asked after we’d stepped out of the car. Like a Mad Lib, I want her to fill in the blanks.

  She bit her lip and I could tell she was reaching into the recesses of her mind for the answer.

  “No, what?” she a
sked.

  The singsong tone of my own voice reminded me of when I try and get Destiny to understand what I’m saying. “You remember how I would draw pictures of our family?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah.” She flashed a wide smile. “You would draw these giant stick figures of me, you, and your daddy.”

  A twinge raced through my heart. “That’s right.” I sighed. “Okay, let’s go in.”

  “What if someone is living there?”

  I swallowed my emotions and said, “Someone does, but I talked to him and he said that we could come visit.”

  She frowned. “Why don’t I live here?”

  “Because you can’t live alone.”

  “Then why don’t you live here with me?”

  “Because I have a family,” I said, not wanting to get into the fact that Malcolm and I agreed that we wanted to raise our child in a neighborhood where she would have kids her own age to play with.

  “Be careful on that front step,” my mother said as we approached the house.

  The fact that she remembered that was a promising sign. I stretched over the step that had almost broken my ankle when I was twelve. It looked like it had been fixed, but I was careful anyway.

  I got the key from under the mat, put it in the lock, then jimmied it until the door opened.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been here in so long. I stepped to the side and allowed my mother to enter. She slowly went through the house, touching walls, running her fingers along the countertops, trying to touch the memories of our past.

  She studied the stairs as though seeing them for the first time, even though she’d walked past them several times a day for more than fifteen years.

  “Do you remember when you tumbled down those stairs when you were seven and scraped your leg, but screamed like you’d broken it?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I laughed. “I was a little extra, wasn’t I?”

  She nodded. “Yes, you were. I haven’t lost that memory,” she said with a smile. And then that smile faded as she added, “Yet.”

  Like my mother, I took my time looking through the house. Much had changed. The wall between the tiny kitchen and the formal dining room had come down, creating a contemporary eating and dining space. The outdated bathroom and a small closet had merged into a luxurious spa. Some things remained just as they were in my childhood, though. The tile in the main floor bathroom was still the ancient, thin, powder blue strips with fleur-de-lis accents. I wandered back out to the front and over to the sunny picture window in the living room where I used to listen to my Destiny’s Child records on my mother’s stereo. I squinted to block out the new silver-blue paint, trying to make the room look just as it had two decades ago. The tiny wood-paneled den held memories of a childhood filled with love.

  “Do you remember the time I sat you here and did your hair for Easter?” she asked as she pointed to the kitchen counter. “When you wore those pretty pigtails and red yarn ribbons for the Easter program?”

  I nodded, impressed that she remembered such details. “I do. I remember that.” I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m glad that you do, too.”

  She kept her smile, though her eyes turned sad. “All of these memories live within me. It’s the newer ones that I struggle with.”

  She continued making her way through the house. I gave her her space, hoping the familiarity would in turn breed answers.

  After about fifteen minutes, I said, “Mama, I have some things I’d like you to go through.” I reached in the tote bag that I had brought in with me and pulled out a box.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Our picture box,” I replied as I set the box on the kitchen table. “Remember, this is where you kept them all?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “I hadn’t seen those in years.”

  I motioned for her to take a seat at the table. Together we sat and went through the pictures in the box. My baptism. My kindergarten graduation. When I lost my first tooth. My high school prom. With each picture my mother turned nostalgic.

  “I remember all of these,” she said, caressing the photos, her touch speaking volumes on her love.

  Before she got too lost in her brain, I pulled out another picture and slid it toward her. “Do you remember this picture, Mama?” I asked.

  “Oh my God. Of course I do,” she said with a wide smile. “I was eight months pregnant.”

  I nodded, unsure of how I felt, because if the DNA test was accurate, my mother was boldly lying to my face. And that deception hurt just as much as the thought that I’d been stolen. “It’s a beautiful photo,” I told her. “You look so happy.”

  “I was,” she said, stroking the picture.

  I took a deep breath. “The problem is, Mom,” I turned the picture over, “this picture is dated July 1991. I wasn’t born until August of 1993.” I watched my mother’s face turn up in confusion. I’d seen this picture many times before, but had never paid attention to the date until I began the quest for answers about my past.

  “M-maybe the d-date is wrong,” my mother stammered. I couldn’t tell if she really believed that or if she was covering a lie. That in and of itself made me sad.

  “Mother, I need you to tell me the truth. If that’s not me you’re pregnant with, who is it? Are you even really pregnant?”

  “Of course I was pregnant,” she snapped. “Do you think I would fake that?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Mama.”

  Suddenly, she began fanning herself. “Oh, it’s so hot in here. Maybe we should get going. I don’t want either of us having a heat stroke.” She tried to stand.

  “No,” I said, grabbing her arm to stop her. I must have startled her because she jumped.

  “Please don’t yell at me,” she said.

  I stood so that I was face to face with her. “I’m not yelling, but, Mama, if you ever loved me . . .”

  “You know I love you,” she said, appalled.

  “If you love me,” I continued, “I need you to tell me the truth. I told you I met this couple who says that I am their child. They are adamant that you kidnapped me when I was a baby, and I need to know the truth.” I stared at my mother, trying to take in every flinch, every twist, everything that might give me a clue to the truth.

  “I-I’ve told you the truth,” she stammered again, her eyes wide as she quickly looked away.

  I stomped to emphasize my frustration, especially now that I could tell this wasn’t a memory issue. My mother was straight up lying. “No you haven’t.”

  My mother was shivering but I couldn’t muster the sympathy that always caused me to let complicated issues go.

  “I want to know the truth,” I demanded. “I have been in contact with them and everything they are saying is adding up. I swear, Mama—”

  “You’ve been in contact with Major?” she asked.

  Goosebumps made an instant trek up my arms. “How do you know his name?” I asked. My expression dared her to lie some more.

  My mothered stuttered and for a moment, it looked like she was contemplating feigning confusion again. But then her shoulders sank in defeat. “They don’t deserve you,” she mumbled.

  My voice was hoarse, just above a whisper as I placed my hand on her arm and said, “What do you mean, they don’t deserve me?”

  My mother jerked away from me and walked over to the living room window. She stood with her back to me. “She didn’t deserve you. That woman. You were supposed to be my baby. He and I were supposed to be your parents.”

  I fell back against the wall. “Oh my God, Mama. What are you saying? Do you know Major Logan?”

  My mother let out a sob as she buried her face in her hands. “Can we go home? Please? I can’t do this.”

  “No,” I said. “No, we cannot go home. I need answers and I need them now. What these people are saying and what I thought I knew are not adding up.” My voice rose several octaves. “And you owe me the truth.”

  I don’t think I’d ever spoken so ha
rshly to my mother. But it was time out for kid-gloved conversations.

  “What if I can’t remember?” she sniffed. She looked up at me as if she was pleading with me to drop this. That only made me want to know more.

  “But you do remember,” I told her. I took a step toward her so that we were eye-to-eye. “And I need you to tell me before those memories are gone.”

  She swallowed her defeat, released a long sigh, then said, “Take me home. I have something for you. It should give you all the answers you need.”

  I don’t know why, but I didn’t ask any more questions as I locked the house back up and led my mother back to the car.

  Chapter 24

  I had come to the park that had once brought me so much joy. The park where my mother used to bring me as a child. She’d push me on the swings or spin me around on the merry-go-round and I’d feel like I was at Six Flags.

  Normally, that memory would make me smile. Today, it made me cry. If my mother hadn’t done what she’d done, my life could’ve been filled with trips to the real Six Flags, exotic destinations, and who knows where else. I would’ve had a completely different past, present, and future.

  Now, I could only hope that this faded yellow journal would help me to understand why I had the life I had. When we returned home, my mother had gone straight to her room, retrieved the journal, came back, handed it to me, and said, “This will tell you what you want to know. Go read it someplace private,” then she had turned and headed back to her room.

  I had fought the urge to read it right there in my living room as I tiptoed back out and headed to the park. I don’t know what made me drive all the way back over to our old neighborhood to read this, but I needed to be someplace safe as I read what I now believed was something that was about to turn my world off its axis.

  I held the tattered book close to my chest. My heart was racing as I wondered what secrets it would reveal. I didn’t see how anything could ever change my view of my mother, but if this held the key to my past and shed a bad light on my mother in the process, I didn’t know how I was supposed to react.