Mother Knows Best

by Kira Peikoff

  “If you’re busy, I can go.”

  “No, no!” He runs over to another armchair and clears a pile of paper off it. “Please, sit down. This is just such a surprise; I didn’t think …” He shakes his head, slowly smiling for the first time.

  I settle into the huge chair, my feet dangling above the floor. “Didn’t think what?”

  “Well, I didn’t think you were even alive.”

  I gasp. “Really?”

  “Things were such a mess back then. I figured the science wasn’t ready, so you didn’t make it.”

  My heart soars. He wouldn’t search for me if he thought I was dead.

  “Well …” I smile shyly. Here I am.

  “And you’re okay? You’re … normal?”

  I laugh. “I think so. I mean, unless you count my obsession with One Direction.”

  “Wow.” He leans back, still keeping his eyes on me. “What about physically?”

  “I haven’t been sick in years.”

  “Really?” He frowns. “I guess that scoundrel knew what he was doing?” His voice rises like he doesn’t trust the answer.

  I puff up my chest. “That scoundrel raised me.” For the moment, my anger melts away, because he’s the only father I’ve ever known.

  Ethan’s mouth opens in surprise. “He lives with you? Where?”

  “For my whole life, in Garrison. He and my mom are together.”

  This seems to shake him up. He gazes off into space, and his lips curve down.

  “I came because I need your help,” I tell him.

  “What for?”

  “He’s in deep trouble, but I can’t call the police, so I came here. I thought maybe you could help me? Since you’re my real dad.”

  The word dad sends a jolt through me. I’m sure he feels it, too. We’re two complete strangers but connected in the closest way. I want to find some physical proof of our relationship, so I can say that’s where I got it, but so far nothing jumps out. His eyes are brown, not blue; his skin tone is olive, not pale; and he doesn’t have a dimple like me.

  “What kind of trouble?” he asks. “Can’t your mom help?”

  “No, she’s in the hospital.”

  He sucks in a breath. “What happened?”

  “She’s having some mental issues and went to get treatment yesterday. Then, me and my dad were basically kidnapped by the woman who helped create me, Mrs. Mi—I mean, Jillian.”

  He mutters darkly, “I remember her well.”

  “She forced us to go to her house, and I snuck into the bathroom, but she stole my phone before I could call the police. Then she locked me in her basement all night.”

  “Are you serious? That’s insane!”

  “I know. But I got away and came here after I found out about you.” I think back to the fight I heard last night. “He might be hurt. She has a gun.”

  “Jesus.” He glances at the cuts on my arms and shoulders, which have already scabbed up. “Is that why you’re all cut up?”

  “Yeah. I broke a window. But could you help me rescue him? If I go to the police, he could be arrested.” I swallow hard as I imagine him stuck in that horrible cottage with her. “I don’t know who else to ask.”

  “You do realize that I’m the one who called for his arrest a long time ago, right?”

  My neck gets hot. I wonder if I have made a terrible mistake.

  “Please.” A tear leaks out despite my effort not to cry. “He doesn’t deserve to be punished for my birth. Does he?”

  Ethan says nothing. His silence can mean only one thing.

  “Thanks a lot.” Angrily, I jump to my feet. “Never mind.”

  “Wait.” He stops me by the door. “Let me get my car. I’ll take you there.”

  “Just so you can turn him in?”

  “No. To help.”

  “Why? You think I should never have been born.”

  I storm past him into the hallway, fighting a full-on sob.

  “Abigail, wait.”

  “Why?” I snap. “Forget it.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I did think that once, a long time ago, but I don’t anymore. Not after meeting you.”

  I hesitate; I want to believe him so badly.

  “What’s done is done,” he says. “I’m not sure who’s right or wrong anymore, but you’re my kid, you need my help, and I don’t want to turn my back on you again.”

  I’m still not sure whether to trust him, but I don’t have a lot of options, so I accept his help. He cancels his afternoon class, citing a “family emergency,” and ten minutes later we’re on the road in a Toyota Camry he keeps parked in a garage for weekend trips. His phone’s GPS says the drive to Jillian’s address will take fifty-five minutes. I hope we won’t be too late. My mind plays out awful scenes about what could be happening—what if he’s bleeding out? Or being tortured and drugged, then stuffed into her car …

  As Ethan merges onto the Palisades Parkway, I roll down my window for some fresh air. “Can you drive a little faster?” Luckily, traffic is light.

  “This good?” He speeds up a bit, but not quite enough. It will be a miracle if I manage not to have a panic attack on this drive. Would he think I was a freak then? Would he change his mind?

  I try to focus on the task ahead. “What will we do when we get there?”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” Keeping his eyes on the road, he pops open the glovebox. “See in there?”

  I pull out a black spray bottle with a red trigger.

  “Pepper spray,” he explains. “I carry it when I go hiking. It’s a pretty decent weapon if the target isn’t expecting it.”

  “So, you’ll just, like, walk in and spray her?”

  “I’ll feel it out. But if I can disarm her quickly, then Nash can go free, and we can call the cops. This woman kidnapped you, after all. She’s the one who should be arrested.”

  “Okay.” My stomach relaxes a tiny bit. We have a plan. There’s an adult on my side—I think. I don’t have to do this all by myself.

  I feel a sudden pang of loneliness for my mom. Thinking of her in the hospital reminds me of Colton … Ethan’s kid, too. It’s so weird to think about her being married to this guy, having a kid with him, a family before I ever existed.

  I wonder if he was as broken about Colton’s death as she was.

  “What was my brother like?” I ask.

  Ethan draws a fast breath. I’ve said something forbidden.

  “Sorry, we don’t have to talk about him.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He gives me the barest smile. “It’s just that no one’s asked me about him for years. Everyone else has moved on.”

  “Not my mom. That’s why she’s in the hospital now.”

  His smile disappears. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  There’s no ring on his left hand. I guess he’s not remarried.

  “Do you still hate her?” I ask.

  I don’t know why the answer matters, but it does.

  He sighs, switching hands on the wheel. “It’s complicated.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You really want to know?”

  I shrug, but the truth is, I’m dying of curiosity.

  “Your mother broke my heart,” he says flatly. “I didn’t expect to lose her too.”

  We sit in silence. It reminds me of being at a funeral. People are together, but no one talks because it would interrupt someone else’s precious memories.

  Eventually, he breathes out long and slow, forcing out some tired grief.

  Then a slight smile tugs at his lips. “He was so full of life, your brother. That was the ironic part.”

  I perk up. “Like how?”

  “He loved animals and nature. He loved to be outside, and he could tell you all about space. He read constantly. And he loved making up stories.” Ethan pauses. “All his fantasies had one thing in common.”

  “What?”

  “They were always about a kid discovering another world, like
on some other planet, or under the sea, or in his own backyard.”

  “Did they have happy endings?”

  “They did. They always ended with happily ever after.”

  “Not like in real life.”

  His voice goes quiet. “No.”

  “I’m sad I never got to meet him,” I say, surprising myself. I’ve spent a long time being jealous that my mother would never let him go. I’ve always wondered why she loved him more. But hearing what he was like … I probably would have liked him.

  “How old are you?” Ethan asks. “Around eleven?”

  “Just turned eleven in February.”

  “Amazing. You’ve already lived three years longer than him.”

  Neither of us says it, but I bet we’re both thinking the same thing: Thanks to my dad. The only one I knew before today.

  * * *

  When we turn onto the dirt lane leading to Jillian’s cottage, my panic spikes again. The sun is high overhead and the air outside is warm, but I’m literally shivering as he pulls up her driveway. And then I realize: her car is gone.

  “They already left.” A sob rises in my throat. “We’re too late.”

  “Are you sure?” He kills the engine and hops out with the pepper spray. “Stay here.”

  I watch him circle the house, peer in the windows, try the door handle. The place is dark. When he comes back, he mentions the broken window I smashed out. “That’s the only opening. But there’s a ton of glass.”

  “I’m not going back in there. They’re obviously gone.”

  “Yep.” He walks around to the driver’s side. “Now what?”

  I try to come up with another idea. The only other place I can think of is my house. She wouldn’t go back to school, but maybe she would take him to get his stuff before running away somewhere else. I suggest it to Ethan, and he agrees. It’s better than nothing.

  I’m also starving and have been wearing the same clothes for two straight days. If nothing else, at least I’ll take a quick shower and grab something to eat.

  The ride home takes ten minutes, and when we pull up to the house, both cars are in the driveway, just like we left them. Everything looks so normal, it’s hard to believe my life is totally out of control.

  Ethan parks on the curb and we head to the garage, where I punch in the code on the security panel outside.

  The door groans. I sneak underneath without waiting for it to open all the way.

  In the pitch black, I hear a familiar creak.

  The inside door is opening, too.

  Oh my God. I immediately drop to the ground, sure that I’m about to come face-to-face with Jillian and her gun.

  The lights flip on. And then I hear a shriek of joy.

  It’s my mom.

  CLAIRE

  At first, I’m terrified that my daughter is another fantasy conjured by my broken mind. How else to explain her sudden appearance?

  But she’s crouching in fear, shielding her face, and there are scratches all over her arms. None of my delusions have been this dark.

  She winces, peeking through her hands. “Mom?”

  I run over and lift her off the ground, cradling her head in my palm. “Oh honey.” I stroke her hair. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

  Rage flows hot through my veins. That psycho hurt my little girl.

  She buries her face in my neck. “I thought you were in the hospital!”

  “Not anymore. I was worried about you.”

  Before I can ask about her scrapes, someone nearby coughs. A man. I glance up, expecting to see my husband. Instead, this time, I am imagining things.

  It’s Ethan.

  My vision distorts. I feel like I’m swimming upstream, my movements labored, my breathing stunted. The air is a rip current sucking me under. My pulse thunders in my ears.

  I blink and set Abby down. He’s still there. His presence is incomprehensible here in my garage, next to the stacked bins of her old schoolwork and scrapbooks—memories he knows nothing about. I size him up, unsure if we’re still enemies at war, or merely two older and wearier people who once shared a tragic life.

  It takes a minute to recover my voice.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I found him,” Abby says.

  I whirl on her. “What?”

  Ethan walks toward us but stops a few feet away and clasps his hands. It strikes me as a sign of respect.

  “She showed up at my office this morning. It was quite the shock.” He shakes his head with a faint smile that quells my fear: he apparently no longer resents her existence. His vengefulness of the past has given way to something softer, but maybe no less painful; he regards me with what seems like sadness.

  “I told him what happened,” says Abby. “And he agreed to help me, because, you know, he’s my real dad.” An edge creeps in her voice that sounds accusatory, but I ignore it.

  “How did you know about him?” I demand.

  “I found out last night.”

  “How? What happened?” A looming dread is gathering in the pit of my stomach. I quickly scan the garage and the driveway behind Ethan, but Rob is nowhere to be found.

  Abby proceeds to tell me that Jillian kidnapped them both after posing as her art teacher at school and luring them to her house.

  I am completely taken aback. Once again, Jillian has me beat. Breaking in like a regular criminal would be too straightforward. Her weapon of choice is manipulation. She’s a virtuoso, and she played us all.

  “It was really bad.” Abby’s voice quivers. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to get out.”

  “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” My anger intensifies, if that is even possible. “Why didn’t Daddy protect you?”

  “She had a gun.”

  “Oh, no.” My horror drags me to the ground. “No.”

  Ethan approaches me and bends down.

  “Look, if there’s anything I can do …? I heard you’re sick again.”

  “You don’t have to stay. But thank you for bringing her home.”

  “I’m staying. You guys need help.”

  “But you hate us,” I protest, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice. “Why would you want to help?” The last I heard, nine or ten years ago, Ethan was still campaigning for our arrest, trying to reenergize the feds’ abandoned witch hunt.

  “That was a long time ago. A lot’s changed. I could explain …”

  I hesitate. There’s so much unfinished business between us, I don’t know where to start. But now is not the time to hash things out. The man I love is in harm’s way, and nothing else matters until he is home safe and sound.

  “Go get my phone,” I tell Abby. “It’s on the kitchen counter.” When she runs into the house, I return my attention to Ethan and fold my arms.

  “Give me one reason I should trust you.”

  “Because I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  I am speechless. He averts his gaze, waiting for me to end the silence.

  “Um.” I cough. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I know. But I’ve spent all these years wondering what happened to you, and now I know he was a big reason you ended up okay.”

  “He’s the only reason,” I correct him.

  Ethan smiles. “I can’t believe we have a daughter. A few hours ago, I thought that was literally impossible.”

  Abby dashes back into the garage with my cell. “Here. Are you gonna call the cops?”

  “I have a better idea.”

  “Oh really?” Her face clouds with doubt. Given my recent struggles, I can understand. But she doesn’t realize that before she was born, I was the best damn investigative reporter around. I still remember one trick of the trade: build on the trust you already have. Information will follow.

  I call the school, thinking of Carla, the sweet, bubbly secretary I’ve known since Abby was in kindergarten. As the phone rings, I picture the messy watercolors taped up in her office like prized artworks. She is surrounded by a wo
rld of innocence that could work in my favor.

  “Garrison Union Free School,” she answers. “How may I help you?”

  Her singsong tone contrasts with my somber one. “Carla, hi, it’s Abby’s mom.”

  “Oh, hi.” Her voice lowers to match mine. “We were worried about Abby. Is she feeling any better?”

  “No, unfortunately. As you know, I was out of town, but I came home when I heard she was sick.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there anything we can do?”

  “Actually, yes. Last night, Abby had dinner with the new art teacher, Mrs. Miller, and it seems they both came down with food poisoning. They’re both throwing up and dehydrated, and we might take them to the hospital.”

  “Oh no! Oh my gosh, that’s terrible! In fact, Mrs. Miller did call in sick today, too. We had to scramble to get a substitute.”

  “Do you know if she has an emergency contact? Anyone we could call for her?”

  “Let me check her file; hang on.” The line switches to classical music. Abby and Ethan watch me pace around the garage with the phone on speaker. Come on.

  Finally, Carla returns. “There is someone she listed: Sharon Hendricks at River Road Academy. Ready for the number?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I repeat the digits aloud for Ethan to note on his phone.

  “Good luck!” Carla says. “I hope they feel better soon!”

  “Me too. Thanks so much.”

  After I hang up, Abby wrinkles her nose. “What’s River Road Academy?”

  “Isn’t it that fancy prep school? Ethan, can you Google it?”

  He reads aloud from the website, which pictures a sprawling colonial manor overlooking a vast lawn. “A world-class educational institution dedicated to shaping the next generation of thinkers and leaders … Maybe she has a sister who works there?”

  “True.” The woman Sharon does share her real last name.

  “Call them.” He hands me his iPhone, which is already primed with the number. I put it on speaker.

  “Hi,” I say when the receptionist answers. “Can I please speak with Sharon Hendricks?”

  “Headmaster Hendricks is in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”

  “Um, can you tell her it’s a family emergency?”

  I’m swinging blindly, but my gambit appears to work.

  “Hang on.”