Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  Could Brad be lying? She couldn’t think of a reason why he would. He’d been so kind, so gentle, putting up with her throwing up on his carpet and sweating on his sheets and not being able to take herself to the toilet. He’d been nothing but generous and sweet to her. And, Imogen reminded herself, he’d moved across the country to find her. That wasn’t the sort of thing someone would do unless they had your best interests at heart.

  Kat, on the other hand, was already a proven liar. She’d been hiding the truth for Imogen’s entire life. She’d kept her from knowing her brother, her own flesh and blood. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she didn’t really want Imogen, anyway. Maybe the fact that she wasn’t Kat’s real daughter meant that she was disposable, somehow.

  ‘You don’t have to believe me,’ Brad said quietly. ‘I probably wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘No,’ she hurried to reassure him. ‘It’s not that, I believe you, I just …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, didn’t know where to go from there.

  ‘You can see if you want,’ he said earnestly. ‘I mean, I can’t show you on Facebook because I can’t get online here, but I took a screenshot.’

  He dug in his back pocket for his phone and stretched out to pass it to Imogen. Her hand shook as she accepted it, the blue glare from the screen causing her tender eyes to ache. She blinked a few times until the screen came into focus.

  There she was, in the tiny circle at the top next to the name Kat Braidwood. The picture was one that Jemima had taken of her on their last family holiday to the Gold Coast. Kat was smiling, the ocean in the background, her hair flying over her shoulder. She didn’t look like the kind of person who was living a lie. But then again, Imogen thought, lying was second nature after all these years.

  She couldn’t scroll through the full message, but she could see the end of Brad’s in the block of blue text at the top:

  … making a good recovery and she should be up for visitors in the next couple of days. I’m sure she’d love to see you, and I’m sure you have a lot to talk about. Let me know if you want to talk on the phone in the meantime, or I can come and meet you? I just want what’s best for my sister. Brad.

  Kat’s reply was below, and as Imogen read, her eyes stung and the words blurred together.

  We’ve always known that Amy was an ungrateful, wilful child. We did our best – we really did try – but Amy is damaged, and we can’t have her rubbing off on our daughter. Jemima’s our priority, and now that we know that Amy is safe with her real family, we can all move on and live our lives where we belong.

  Imogen’s heart cracked wide open, and as the sobs burst from her, deep and raw and heavy with grief, she let herself be held by the only person who understood.

  The only person who cared.

  Chapter 38

  KAT

  Fifteen Years Ago

  I’m blow-drying my hair when the phone rings. I tut.

  ‘Dylan! Can you get that please?’ I yell in no particular direction. I have no idea where he is – as usual he’s ready ages before I am, and he’s been banished from our room so I can preen in peace without him hurrying me along. We’re due at the restaurant in half an hour, and it takes almost that long to get there. I’m worried we’ll lose our reservation, although I suppose if we do, we can always rebook for another night.

  It’s been months since we were approved to adopt a child, and we’re learning to be patient. We’re doing our best to enjoy the time we have left without responsibilities, without being constantly tired, without having to find a babysitter. We can’t wait to be parents, to have all of the complications that come along with it, but we made a pact to make the most of this time; to see it as something to be enjoyed rather than endured.

  That had been Dylan’s idea, obviously. He’d had enough of me anxiously waiting around for the phone to ring, and one evening a few months ago, he stepped through the door after work and ordered me to put on a nice dress. I’d argued at first, but eventually he’d got me out the door and we’d spent the evening sipping wine in a fancy bar with a view of flapping sails and glassy water. I’d been tense in the beginning, unable to stop myself from picturing the phone at home ringing out, until the adoption agency got tired of trying and moved on to another, more available, couple. But it didn’t take me long to realise that I was being silly, that we had an answering machine, that I wasn’t hurrying our adoption process along by becoming a hermit, that having fun wouldn’t ruin our chances of being matched with a baby.

  And so we’ve made our date night a regular tradition, an evening each week where we don’t talk about adoption or children, where we just focus on being Kat and Dylan. Until we arrive home and I practically dive for the answering machine to check for messages.

  ‘Dyl?’ I yell, turning off the hair dryer to hear his response. There isn’t one.

  Frustrated, I stomp down the hallway to pick up the landline, too distracted by Dylan’s unresponsiveness to consider that this could be the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ says a pleasant female voice. ‘Is this Mrs Kathryn Braidwood?’

  ‘Yes. Speaking.’

  ‘Hi there, this is Monica from Adoption South Australia.’

  My mouth drops open in surprise. I’m so taken aback that I have no idea how to react, or what to say.

  ‘Oh. Hi,’ I say, completely incapable of coming up with anything more sophisticated.

  ‘We have some great news for you,’ she continues. ‘A child has provisionally been matched with you and your husband, Mrs Braidwood.’

  I lean on the side table for support and hear myself making a noise that’s somewhere between a gurgle and a squeak.

  ‘Are you OK? I know this is significant news, but before you get too excited, there are some details about the child’s situation that we need to discuss with you and your husband before you make a decision. As I said, the match is just provisional at this stage.’

  Dylan strolls in from the back garden a few minutes later to find me still standing in the hallway, staring at the phone, now back in its cradle, with my hand over my mouth.

  ‘You’re not ready yet? Kat, we need to leave or we’ll miss our booking.’

  I look up, still lost for words, but I don’t need them. I don’t know what’s written across my face, but whatever it is, it stops my husband in his tracks.

  ‘What is it? What happened?’

  I’m almost too scared to say the words out loud, in case I scare the truth away.

  ‘It was the adoption agency,’ I whisper. ‘We’ve been matched.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Dylan’s eyes have grown wide, and his mouth is open in a silent scream.

  I nod.

  ‘But they said …’ I pause. I can’t actually remember what they said. ‘Something about it being provisional. We have to go and see them tomorrow morning.’

  Dylan lets out a shout of joy and runs at me, grabbing me around my waist and lifting me over his shoulder. I squeal and laugh as he runs up the hallway, whooping and laughing until we reach the living room, where he throws me onto the sofa and shoots his arms in the air like he’s just won an Olympic medal.

  I’m still laughing, until somehow I’m crying – great, shaking sobs that come from somewhere deep inside me, and then Dylan’s beside me, propping me up, arms around me, laughing and crying and every few seconds saying, ‘Oh my God.’

  We stay like that until I’m all cried out, and then the giggles begin again. We’re smiling so hard that our cheeks ache, and we completely forget about our reservation, about our fancy dinner, because none of that matters any more. We’re going to be parents.

  The next morning, we’re trying to contain our elation when we arrive at the adoption agency, exhausted from lack of sleep but buoyed by what’s to come. After the initial pleasantries, we’re ushered into Monica’s office.

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ she says, and we nod gleefully. ‘The reason I wanted to meet with you is because the circumstances
surrounding this particular adoption are extremely complicated, and totally unprecedented. There are certain things you learned in your training that we’d have to revise if you do decide to go ahead.’

  I frown, as nervousness creeps along the edges of my joy. ‘Why wouldn’t we go ahead? This is what we’ve been wanting for so long.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘the other four couples ahead of you on the list have been waiting for much longer and they all chose not to proceed. In fact, we couldn’t find anyone who was willing to adopt in the state the child is from, which is why we’re trying our list here in South Australia.’

  My chest burns with anger. What kind of people, desperate for a child, would turn a baby away?

  ‘You’ve already signed non-disclosure agreements as part of your application,’ Monica says, ‘but I’d like to remind you that what we discuss today is highly sensitive and should not be discussed with anyone at this point.’

  I can’t imagine what she’s about to tell us, but it’s obvious that this is serious. What have we got ourselves into? I squeeze Dylan’s hand. His palm is sweaty.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the news surrounding Tim and Sally Sanders, and the Satan’s Ranch case?’

  My mind doesn’t grasp what she’s saying in time to understand, in time to prepare myself.

  ‘The children we’re looking to have adopted … they’re the Sanders kids.’

  It’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. My breath whooshes out of me, and I struggle to fill my lungs again. There’s no time to get my head around it though, as Monica keeps talking. I try to catch her words.

  ‘Now, we understand that you have applied for a single child, an infant. One of the children removed from the Sanders home is a baby girl; she’s eleven months old. She’s our priority at this stage, so if we can find a placement for her that’s our main goal for now.’

  A baby girl. The child of a killer. Even in my shock, I can’t escape the irony of the fact that, just a few months ago, I was sitting on my sofa thinking that I deserved children, while Sally Sanders didn’t. Now I’m being offered her child, her flesh and blood, a baby whose parents live and breathe evil.

  ‘As I mentioned already, some of our regular procedures won’t apply in this case. As an example, our policy is to always be honest with a child about their birth family and to make sure they know that they’re adopted. In this case, however, we believe that any contact with her family could be harmful to her, mentally, and maybe even physically. We also don’t believe it’s in her best interest to be identified by the public, given the general feelings towards her parents. So we’d need to meet to discuss in detail how to handle this. And, of course, there would be therapy and counselling required. She is still a baby, but that doesn’t mean that she hasn’t been affected by the trauma she’s experienced.’

  I sit in silence as the gravity of what Monica is telling us gradually sinks in. I take a deep, shaking breath.

  ‘Of course, this is a lot to process, and it’s not a decision to be taken lightly. So we’ll give you some time to think this over, and you can come back to us with whatever questions you may have. Then we can work through the details before you make a final decision.’

  My body knows my response before the words come out. My heart begins pounding, faster, more insistently, and a sense of inevitability is building inside me, growing larger and larger until I’m certain I might burst.

  I glance over at Dylan. He’s looking straight at me, his eyes meeting mine, the connection sparking like an electric shock. When Dylan and I met, it wasn’t love at first sight. We were friends first, and so by the time we started dating we had that easy familiarity, which meant that we didn’t feel the fireworks that some people describe when they fall in love. But here, in this room, I’m completely in tune with him in a way I never have been before. I know, with just one look, that we’re perfectly aligned. It’s better than any romance I could dream up.

  ‘We’d like to adopt her,’ I blurt out, the words spilling out of me before I’ve properly thought them through. But I’ve never meant anything more in my life, and I know that we’ll work through any complications that come our way.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want more time to consider this?’

  ‘No,’ Dylan says firmly. ‘We know it’s a complicated adoption, but we want to go ahead. We’re sure.’

  ‘OK,’ Monica says, nodding at us. ‘We’ll get some meetings set up to go through the particulars, and once those details are ironed out, we’ll have some paperwork for you. There is just one more thing, though.’

  She swallows, presses her lips together, then takes a deep breath.

  ‘She has a brother. Would you consider adopting a second child as well?’

  Chapter 39

  KAT

  My phone buzzes violently in my pocket. I take it out and look at the screen. It’s Dylan. I reject the call and switch the device to airplane mode before shoving it into the glovebox and stepping out of the car.

  He’s frantic. I messaged him from the petrol station yesterday afternoon, telling him I wouldn’t be able to pick Jemima up, and could he please do it for me? He replied that he could, but I ignored the part where he asked what I was up to. I decided it was better to avoid him than lie to him. Later, when I had reached the motel closest to the prison, paid for a room for the night and appeased my growling stomach with leftover Tim Tams I’d packed for the trip and Pringles from the vending machine, I’d messaged him again.

  I won’t be home tonight, sorry. I am trying to find Immy, but can’t say any more. Will explain tomorrow.

  He’d tried to call me again. I’d rejected each one of his calls, too much of a coward to answer. If I spoke to him, I knew he’d get the truth out of me. And I couldn’t risk that. He’d call the police. They’d intervene. And I’m fairly sure Sally won’t tell the cops if she knows something. She has no reason to give them what they want. But maybe – and I know it’s a very big maybe, but still – I can appeal to her as a mother. Not just any mother: Imogen’s mother. We have something in common, and that’s the best chance I have.

  Dylan sent me a text after about seven rejected calls.

  Where are you, Kat? Please don’t do anything stupid. Please tell me where you are.

  My reply had been short and sweet.

  You always ask me to trust you more. Now I need you to trust me. Please.

  I knew it was hypocritical. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be climbing the walls. I want to trust my family, I really do. But if I don’t know where they are, then how can I protect them? I could see the irony in it even as I sent the message, and I knew I was being emotionally manipulative, but I’d deal with the consequences later. This was more important.

  Dylan had tried to get through to me all night, but I’d turned my phone off. When I turned it on again this morning after a night of fitful sleep, I had three voicemails, seventeen text messages and a voice note. I ignored all of them. He’s still trying now. I know he’ll be a wreck not knowing what I’m doing, but I have bigger things to worry about than his feelings.

  I stand in the car park and inhale deeply, trying to muster the courage to walk towards the dull white building across the burning bitumen. Trees and shrubs are dotted around the parking lot, as though someone made a half-hearted effort to make the place look welcoming, but they’re neglected and scorched, so instead the space has an air of desolation. It’s isolated, too; its only neighbour a men’s correctional centre next door.

  Steeling myself, I walk towards the bright blue sign that reads Dame Phyllis Frost Centre, dread growing like a tumour beneath my skin as I step towards the unknown.

  The interior is no more inspiring. The word institutional screams at me when I walk nervously through the doors. The walls are painted grey, with a ring of smudges at toddler height all the way around, and signage is plastered at eye level explaining security procedures and visiting hours. A couple of children are running around, screaming
and whingeing, while an exhausted-looking mother watches on, unmotivated to stop the disruption. I wonder what it’s like to be familiar with these grim surroundings as a child. And then I think, with a shudder, how close Imogen could have been to living a life like that. If things had only been slightly different, if the trial hadn’t gone the way it did, she’d have known her parents through weekly visits, where physical contact was monitored, and where she had to live with the knowledge of what they did, of who they are.

  Shaking the thought away – imagining how Imogen’s life could have been isn’t going to help find her – I step towards the reception window, which is covered in – presumably – bulletproof glass.

  I lean into the microphone. ‘Kathryn Braidwood, here to visit Sally Sanders.’

  I’m certain that the temperature in the room drops a couple of degrees. Even over the noise of the children, I can make out a sharp intake of breath from someone behind me. I ignore it, but my shoulders tense and my back straightens in defence.

  I fill in some paperwork, and then I’m told to sit and wait until my name is called. I scan the room for a spare seat. Everyone is staring at me, eyes narrowed, as though I’m a monster myself, simply by association. I keep my focus fixed on the grimy carpet as I walk to the seat furthest from anyone else, avoiding eye contact as I sit.

  The minutes tick by, and doubt begins to trickle into my thoughts. When I decided to come here, I was so convinced that Sally would hold the answers, that she’d be able to tell me where to find Imogen. But now I can’t remember any of the reasons why I believed that. For a second, I consider getting up, walking out, getting back into my car and driving home, forgetting this whole insane idea. But I know I can’t. If there’s even the tiniest chance that Sally knows something that can help, it’ll be worthwhile. And if not … well, at least I’ll know. At least I will have tried.