Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  Under his message was a link to the maternity and paternity test that Imogen had ordered from the DNA website. According to the date on this message, and the date of the test, she waited a month before deciding to find out. What made her want to do it then? I’ve been racking my brain for hours, reaching for memories, for an explanation. Did we have a fight? Did I make her so angry that she was convinced she couldn’t possibly be mine?

  I don’t know the answer. All I know is that she did the test and received the results the night she left.

  Between sending the test and getting the results, Imogen had replied to Brad’s message.

  Who are you? And what do you know? I sent the test … I have so many questions. Please tell me who you are!!

  His reply is time-stamped as just a few hours later.

  I will tell you absolutely everything, I promise. And I promise that if the test results come back and tell you what I think they will, there’s a place where you fit in perfectly, where you belong. A new family, who will love you exactly the way you are. But if anyone finds out about this, they’ll keep us apart. We need a way to talk that’s not traceable. Don’t message me, but keep an eye on your mail. I promise I’ll give you a way to contact me soon.

  The police think that he sent her a phone so they could communicate without anyone knowing. The idea of it makes me dizzy – the thought that my daughter was holding such an enormous secret, that she didn’t come to me with it, that she carried the weight of it alone. Not alone, I remind myself. With Brad.

  My stomach clenches as questions fly through my mind. How much does she know? Does she understand what we took her away from, what we shielded her from? Is she safe? Did she go with Brad willingly, or did he have to trick her into leaving us?

  The paper flutters from my hand. My head is pounding, in part from the endless stream of the unknown that’s running through my mind, and in part from the heat. I stand up wearily, feeling ten years older than I did just a few days ago. My body aches and groans with the effort of being alive, of moving forward when all I want to do is press rewind.

  I step back into the sterile chill of our home and refill my glass. As I chug the water in the kitchen, I think about what I’ve just read, about the man who sent those messages. What does he want with my daughter? What does he think stealing her away from us is going to achieve? He promised Imogen something in his messages, something about belonging. What was it?

  I dart over to the sliding door and heave it open, flinching as the hot air hits my face again. I lift the paper from the ground, feeling it crinkle between my fingers, and read Brad’s words again: There’s a place where you fit in perfectly, where you belong. A new family, who will love you exactly the way you are.

  He’s offering her what we can’t: a genetic family, verified by science.

  Despite the red-hot temperatures, my blood chills inside my veins. He can’t mean that. Maybe he’s just talking about himself. Maybe he wants the two of them to be a family. He can’t mean anything else by it. But now the idea has emerged, and it’s taken hold, making my nerves sing with fear.

  I run back inside and open my laptop, navigating to Google and typing Tim and Sally Sanders. The results load, and I shudder involuntarily. There at the top is a series of photos showing Tim, with his lank blond hair, intense blue eyes and lopsided smile, and Sally with her instantly recognisable pixie cut and dark-rimmed glasses, features that made her seem fragile and innocent. It was the thing that the whole nation was fixated on; the fact that she looked so sweet, and yet was capable of such evil. My stomach churns, and nausea threatens to overwhelm me. I close my eyes for a second, take a deep breath, and swallow the bile that’s rising up.

  When I open my eyes again, I stare hard at the photo, as I’ve done so many times before, wondering whether my parents were right, if we were reckless to take on a child who had had such horror branded on her life. I try to shake the thought aside, the way I’ve always done, never allowing the doubt to linger, never entertaining the possibility. But this time it sticks, clinging to my skin like sweat.

  For a few moments a battle rages inside my head, the habit of resistance struggling with the need to explore my deepest fears. They’ve been repressed for so long, pushed down deeper, further away from my consciousness as time passed, threatening to bubble to the surface occasionally, but never like this. Never with so much vehemence. Maybe it’s the tiredness. Maybe it was just bound to happen one day, but whatever it is, I give up. I let go of the struggle, and the thoughts and fears I’ve denied for so long bob to my consciousness with an alarming ease, like they’ve been straining to be released for all these years, knowing their time would come.

  I turn each thought over, inspect it and lay it carefully to the side to come back to later. Imogen was born to pure evil. No one really knows what made Tim and Sally into the monsters they are – was it their upbringings, undoubtedly tumultuous and cruel, that made them turn to violence and torture? Was it the combination of the two of them, the perfect recipe for malevolence, a kind of destruction that would never have thrived had they not met one another? Or were they both simply born that way? Does it run in their blood?

  If it’s the latter, then that means it runs in Imogen’s blood, too. It means that the vile, hateful things of Satan’s Ranch live somewhere deep inside my daughter, at a cellular level, ingrained in every single part of her. That’s what my parents believe. They made that clear when we broke the news to them all those years ago. A child had been matched with us! A baby girl! We had been overjoyed, choosing to see the positive in the situation, choosing to believe in nurture over nature.

  And we’d been right. Imogen is a good girl. Maybe I’ve watched her a bit too closely, maybe I’ve panicked when she’s lashed out in anger, or had a tantrum, or, well, punched someone at school. I don’t know what to make of the rumours the police mentioned, but even if they’re right, even if she has acted cruelly before, does that mean that she is capable of what her parents did? I want to believe she doesn’t have it in her, that, violent streak or not, she’s nothing like those monsters. I want to believe that we nurtured that out of her, that the strength of our love drove out any darkness. I have to choose to believe that.

  Her brother, though … I don’t know him. I don’t know his nature. I do know he wasn’t nurtured. And that frightens me.

  I stare at Brad in the only family photo that was ever released to the press, the one taken a few months before the couple was arrested, before their surviving children were assessed, before the kids were placed into care and, in the case of fourteen-year-old Kimberley, into a psychiatric facility. The five of them are in the back garden of Satan’s Ranch, all facing the camera, which must have been set to self-timer mode, and all except Brad smiling widely. Peeking out from behind them are colourful bursts of pink, white, yellow and red, the cheery rose bushes concealing secrets so dark and tragic that when I think about them – about the tiny, broken bodies lying beneath those delicate flowers – I can’t seem to fill my lungs with enough oxygen.

  I try to focus, to keep my eyes on the faces in the photograph, to breathe. Imogen – Amy, as she was known then – is being held by Brad, who has a soft toy stuffed into the waistband of his jeans. Beside him is Kimberley, the girl who testified against her parents at the trial before being taken into psychiatric care, and behind her are the murderers who were found guilty on every count. Proud, smiling, looking for all the world like a happy, normal family.

  After the adoption was finalised, I had done my best to forget about them, for Imogen’s sake – she was a Braidwood, not a Sanders, and I wanted nothing more than to free her from her past – and perhaps, if I’m honest, a little bit for my own sake, too. To appease the guilt, the sadness, that I felt for the other children. They’d endured so much in their short lives, and although being taken from their parents was the right thing, the best thing, for them, it was just another trauma for them to live through. It was too painful for me to dwell on, and
so I’d trained myself to not remember, to not be curious for information.

  But now, I need to know.

  I ignore the criminal Wiki entry and click the ‘News’ category. I select a year-old article titled ‘Satan’s Ranch – Tim and Sally Sanders: Where are they now?’ with a ball of dread growing in the pit of my stomach. I scroll through the information as quickly as I can, past the festive family portrait and chilling images of the couple in their early years until I find what I’m looking for.

  Tim Sanders, now 72, is serving a life sentence without parole in Port Phillip maximum security prison in Victoria, and his wife, Sally Sanders, 55, is one of only five women in Australia serving life without parole. She is incarcerated in Dame Phyllis Frost Centre in Deer Park, Victoria. The identities of their three surviving children were changed at the time of the couple’s sentencing.

  I slam the laptop shut, sickened by the memories that have emerged thanks to the images and headlines on my screen, and relieved that the couple are still in prison with no hope of being released.

  But that doesn’t stop the prickling on the back of my neck. Brad promised my daughter a place where she belongs, a new family. I don’t know where Kimberley ended up, but if Brad is somehow trying to get the Sanders children together again – and if he’s managed to get hold of Imogen, there’s no reason to believe he couldn’t find Kimberley, too – then there’s someone I might be able to speak to who might just know what he’s got planned.

  I clench my jaw.

  The police told me to stay put, to trust them. They’d never agree to this plan. They’d never help me. Even Dylan would tell me I’m crazy. But I need answers. I need to find my daughter.

  And I know someone who can help me.

  Chapter 32

  IMOGEN

  The slow drip, drip, drip that marked the passing of time had become hypnotic, mesmerising. Imogen let her body relax completely and her arms floated to the surface, her hair fanning out like a halo around her head. With her ears submerged, she could hear her own heartbeat between the soft plink sound of the water droplets that leaked from the ancient tap at her feet.

  Plink, whump, plink, whump, plink, whump. You’re adopted, Amy.

  Imogen’s eyes flew open, her focus settling on the cobweb-encrusted bulb that hung from the ceiling. She had a new name, and along with it a whole new existence to unearth.

  Amy. She rolled the word around in her mouth, getting to know it, tasting the letters. It was so short, so open-ended. Nothing like Imogen, all pointy sounds, with a finality to it. She liked it, she decided. She could get used to Amy. Adopted Amy.

  Every time her mind drifted from the stark facts of her new-found life, the word adopted would come hurtling towards her, colliding with her chest and taking her breath away. The truth echoed in her mind, haunting her, filling up the spaces between her thoughts.

  And it had become so much more than just a word, in the few hours since she had remembered that those seven letters applied to her. It was her identity now, as much a part of her as her blood type, or her fingerprint, or her DNA. The DNA that was a zero per cent match to Kat and Dylan’s. Now that the fog in her brain was clearing, she could remember more about the night she’d run. She remembered the feeling of total isolation, when she realised that the one place where she should automatically belong had never really been hers.

  It shouldn’t have shocked her as much as it did. After all, she’d been the one to order the test, hurrying to check the mailbox every day after school before Kat or Jemima could get to it, sneaking into Kat and Dylan’s en suite bathroom to collect hairs, telling them she was going to meet Paige when really she was going to the post office with her completed kit and all the accompanying paperwork.

  She had known it was possible, or she never would have ordered the test, never would have gone through with it. When Brad had first asked her if she felt like she fitted in, if she ever felt like an outsider, it was like he had been reading her mind. It wasn’t just the physical differences: their dark hair versus her blonde locks, her lean physique versus their curves, their hazel eyes versus her golden ones, their tanned skin versus her pale complexion. It was the other things that made her stand out. Her complete inability to hold a tune. Her raspy laugh. The way she scrunched her nose when she was concentrating.

  The truth really shouldn’t have shocked her. And yet it had completely turned her inside out, her entire life changing in the split second when she read the words on her screen:

  Probability of paternity: 0%

  Probability of maternity: 0%

  Imogen slowly sat up, water splashing over the side of the tub and onto the tiles below. She reached for the bottle of shampoo on the side of the bath and squeezed, too hard, the liquid in her hand spilling over and into the water. She rubbed her hands together and lathered the shampoo into her sweaty, greasy hair, relief flooding her.

  After her memory had returned the previous day, she’d wanted Brad to stay with her, telling her everything, until her entire history had been unfolded, nothing left hidden within its creases. But her body had betrayed her, and her eyes had grown heavy once again, her thoughts muddling until she passed out, her energy sapped.

  She’d woken up again with bright light streaming onto her, something sharp and pungent making her nose wrinkle up. It had only taken a few seconds to realise that the smell was coming from her sweaty, fevered body. Appalled, she’d sat up, momentarily delighted by the return of her strength, until another realisation filled her with burning shame. Since she’d arrived at Brad’s place, she hadn’t been to the bathroom. Or at least, she couldn’t remember having been. Which meant …

  She’d buried her face in her hands, and wished once again for death to claim her. She was mortified, but she needed to go, and she knew she didn’t have the strength to walk.

  ‘Brad!’ she’d called.

  He’d been by her side within seconds.

  ‘What do you need, little one?’ he’d asked.

  She’d felt her cheeks flushing.

  ‘Could you show me where the bathroom is, please? I don’t think I can walk.’

  Gently – so, so gently – her big brother had lifted her from the bed and carried her, like a child slung across his arms, down the corridor. She looked around as they moved together, taking in her new surroundings, hungry for anything that might betray a piece of information about her brother, about her family. The hallway was dimly lit, with dark, floral wallpaper peeling off the walls in thick strips, like a bad sunburn. The bathroom was only a few steps from the bedroom, a grimy space with mould growing in the grout and a thick layer of dust and dead flies on the small windowsill.

  She scrunched her nose up at the filth, but immediately felt ashamed of herself for her reaction. Brad was looking after her without a word of complaint, and here she was, worrying about a bit of mould. Besides, she told herself, she’d dealt with worse. The only difference was, the Braidwood brand of dirt was invisible. She knew which one she’d rather live with.

  Brad had carefully lowered her legs, still supporting her body, and she’d gripped the sink for balance.

  ‘I’ve got it from here,’ she said, uncertain, but far too embarrassed to ask for help.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll be just outside, so shout if you need me.’

  A simple task, usually completed without any kind of thought or effort, was suddenly a monumental hurdle to overcome. But slowly, painfully, she’d managed it.

  As she washed her hands, sitting on the lid of the toilet and reaching across to the sink, Brad knocked and, when she answered, peered around the door.

  ‘I can run you a bath if you’d like?’

  She’d almost wept with gratitude. The smell coming from her skin was putrid, and she could hardly bear to face him, knowing he’d cared for her while she was in such a terrible state, knowing how kind he’d been not to mention it, not to turn away from the smell or sight of her.

  The bath was cold – not because she�
�d been in it for too long, but because it was so hot outside that she’d requested it be run that way – and a film of dirt had floated to the top of the water, creating an oily sheen.

  As Imogen rinsed her hair, slowly and methodically massaging her scalp, she wondered how her parents – no, Kat and Dylan – had kept the truth from her for so long. Maybe in some countries people could be adopted without knowing, but in Australia, people knew. It wasn’t hidden from them. She’d read up on the policies, when Brad had first sent her the test, when she’d been trying to convince herself that it was impossible. She’d discovered that once an adopted child turned eighteen they could request all of the information on their biological parents. According to the government, they were entitled to find out the whole truth. Imogen also read about how rare it was for adoptions to even happen; something like three in a busy year, in the whole state. So how had she been so spectacularly unlucky to end up with adoptive parents who were willing to throw policy to the wind to keep her in the dark? How had they lied to her for so long, about something so huge? And, more importantly, why? She’d had a brother this whole time, and they’d kept him a secret. They’d stolen that from her.

  As their betrayal settled over her and became a solid reality, anger rumbled, a dark storm visible only on the horizon, brewing inside her, ready to burst.

  Chapter 33

  KAT

  Fifteen Years Ago

  ‘I have to warn you, though, it’s extremely rare for an adoption to happen in South Australia. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’

  It’s too late. Our hopes are already through the roof.

  Since we first uttered the ‘A’ word all those months ago, giggling on the kitchen floor to mask our grief, our hopes have inflated and risen, far beyond our expectations.