by Mary Kubica
“It’s just that, I was, like, digging around on the internet, trying to figure out if cleft chins are one of those things that just goes away, you know? And they’re not.”
No matter what kids like Adam Beltner say, I’m no idiot. I know what Piper means by this. What I don’t know is how to feel about it.
Piper cut out the picture of you in the newspaper. The Hanakas might be the only people in the world who still get the actual, physical newspaper. She sets both pictures side by side, the one some asshole photographer shot yesterday, and the one of you when you were six. They’re mostly similar—red hair, green eyes—except for that cleft chin. I never noticed before that you had a cleft chin. It’s not something that’s super obvious. It’s on the small side as cleft chins go, the kind of thing you might not notice unless someone else pointed it out for you. But now that I know it’s there, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Except that on the picture taken yesterday, there’s no cleft chin. None at all. Not even a small one.
The bell rings. I look around and the halls are empty. We’re late for class.
Piper is backing away from me. She hugs her books to her. “Don’t be mad at me, Leo,” she says before she turns around and runs.
MEREDITH
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
“I have a confession to make,” Charlotte says. She’s on the other end of my phone. Her tone is somber. It’s evening. Josh and the kids have been home for hours. They’re in the next room, watching TV together on the sofa. Josh has a book open on his lap, but he’s laughing at the TV. It warms my heart, that a thirty-six-year-old man can find humor in preschool TV.
Charlotte says, “Something happened,” and there’s the sense that she knows what Bea and I did. I go into a flat spin. I’m losing control. I’m in the kitchen when it happens. I’ve just finished washing dishes and wiping down the table. I pull out a chair and sink into it.
“What’s that?” I ask. I’m short of breath. My heart pounds in my chest.
She says, “Someone has been picking on Leo,” before her voice cracks and she comes apart at the seams, saying, “Oh God, Meredith, I’m so sorry. I feel awful about it. I should have known.”
My mind doesn’t change course so quickly.
“How would you have known?”
“It’s my job to know these things. Especially after you called about the bruise. I should have paid more attention after that. I should have put more stock into what you said, but instead I cast it off as kids being kids. I’m so sorry, Meredith. I wish I’d known sooner that he was being picked on.”
“Picked on how?” I ask, still breathless. “And by whom?”
“Brody Parker,” she says.
The name doesn’t ring a bell. “What did this boy do to Leo?”
“Well,” she says, chastened. “I’m ashamed to admit this, Meredith. I hope you’ll forgive me, but this afternoon he locked Leo in the outdoor toy chest.”
I picture our own plastic toy chest. It’s maybe two feet high by two feet wide by three feet long. Leo, at his last exam, was thirty-eight inches tall. If Charlotte’s toy chest is about the same size as ours, that means Leo’s little legs wouldn’t have been able to stretch fully out inside it. He would have had to bend at the knees. But is there enough width inside the toy chest for that? And what about the toys inside it? Was he lying on them, too, or did this Brody Parker have the decency to remove those before forcing Leo in?
My mind is racing. But all I can say is, “It’s raining outside, Charlotte. They were playing outside?”
“Brody asked if they could get the Nerf guns and bring them in. I said yes, because with all this rain, we’re running out of things to do. Brody asked if Leo could help him carry the guns back in. I said yes. Then one of the toddlers wet herself, and I got all caught up in changing and washing her clothes. I didn’t know that Leo hadn’t come back in. Brody,” she says by way of explanation, “goes to the elementary school. We walk and pick him up, same as we do Delilah. We didn’t get home until close to three-thirty, and then the kids wanted a snack before they played, so...” Her voice drifts. She’s holding something back.
“What are you saying, Charlotte?” I ask.
“It was less than an hour that he had Leo locked inside that chest of mine,” and I gasp, imagining Leo trapped in a dark, cold toy chest all alone for an hour.
“What grade is Brody Parker in?” I ask, imagining him as a kindergartener, like Delilah.
“Fifth,” Charlotte says. This would make him ten or eleven. What kind of eleven-year-old boy picks on a four-year-old? I wonder if Leo was lured into that toy chest, if he was double-dog dared, or if this little hellion picked Leo up and forced him in.
“Why wouldn’t Leo just get out of the chest?” I ask. Leo may be shy, but he’s a capable boy. He could have just climbed out.
“It has a lock on it.”
“Dear God,” I say, pressing a hand to my mouth. I wonder if there are air holes in that toy chest, how much oxygen it holds. And then, because I can’t get her off my mind for anything, I go back to Shelby in the trunk, and whether she was dead before we put her in, or if she died inside.
Charlotte says, “When it came time to clean up, I realized he was missing. Leo is always the first to clean up. He’s such a good boy, Meredith. But Leo’s puzzle never got put away, and that’s when I knew something terrible had happened. I want you to know, I’ve already called Brody’s mother. I told her he’s not welcome here anymore.”
LEO
NOW
Over dinner I stare at you, wondering if the cleft chin only shows its face sometimes. But for as long as I stare, I never see it. It’s not there.
That night I do some digging on the internet. I see the same thing Piper saw. The only way to get rid of a cleft chin is through surgery. That costs about two or three thousand dollars. I seriously doubt those meth heads forked over a couple grand for a chin implant for you. I’m also doubting there’s a plastic surgeon anywhere near Michael that could have done it.
I compare the two pictures side by side. There are far more similarities than not. Most of the differences could be chalked up to time, like the way your nose has widened or your face narrowed. That happens as we grow up. Your hair is also darker. The sun lightens hair. Where you were at, there was no sun.
But then there’s that cleft chin, also known by the internet as the incomplete fusion of the symphysis menti during fetal development. In layman’s terms: a butt chin. It’s rare. It’s genetic. It’s gone. You don’t have it anymore. It isn’t that you lost it.
It’s that you are not my sister.
I don’t know what to do with this information. Do I tell Dad and break his heart? Or let him go on believing this pipe dream of his? The odds of my sister ever coming home now are slim to none. As long as Dad thinks you’re her, he’s happy. He can get on with his life. He can have closure, albeit phony. You, whoever you are, who lived locked in someone’s basement for eleven years, can have a better life. Dad will take care of you. He’ll give you everything you need.
Except that you probably have your own folks out there. Maybe you have a kid brother, too. They’re probably missing you.
I wait two days before I show Dad the pictures Piper showed me. At first he flies off the handle, mad mostly at me for making shit up.
But the longer he stares at those pictures, he sees.
“The DNA test, Leo,” he says, “was conclusive. The DNA test confirmed that she’s Delilah. DNA tests don’t lie.”
That is a major question mark. Because DNA tests almost always get it right. There are rare errors that can be chalked up to the quality of the sample or the way the sample was handled, or the results interpreted.
We go to the police station. With you in another room, Dad corners the lady cop and one of her henchmen. He shows her the pictures. She’s dismissive a
t first. “You can’t just think she’d look the exact same as she did when she was six. People change, Josh. They grow up. That baby fat disappears and features become more defined. That’s all that’s happening here.”
She ascribes Dad’s fears to some form of PTSD, thinking that after all these years of missing Delilah, he has anxiety over losing her again.
It’s not that simple. I printed out the articles online that say cleft chins don’t just vanish; they’re here for life. She reads the article and her face goes white.
“What if the DNA test got it wrong?” Dad asks.
“DNA tests are lauded as extremely reliable, almost one hundred percent.”
“I’d like to see those results,” Dad says, thinking the lab fucked up. There are things called a false positive and a coincidental match.
The lady cop doesn’t move. She holds stock-still.
“Carmen?” he asks. “I’d like to see the results, please.” Though why, I don’t know, because it’s not like Dad, an investment banker, can make heads or tails of a DNA report.
“I can get it,” the henchman says.
“No,” the lady cop says quickly. “Let me.” She walks away. Dad’s eyes follow her. She’s not that bad-looking, for an older lady. Like Dad, she’s got to be pushing fifty, though she takes better care of herself than Dad does. She looks like she works out, eats healthy and all that. Under her clothes, she’s probably ripped.
When she comes back, she’s shaking her head. Her hands are empty. She says decisively, “It wasn’t there.”
“Ma’am?” the henchman asks.
“It wasn’t there. The DNA report wasn’t in the file.” She is phlegmatic. Her voice is flat. She stares at the henchman, then Dad, unblinking.
“Maybe you missed it. Those papers have a tendency to stick together. I can double-check, if you’d like, ma’am.”
“It wasn’t there. I didn’t miss it.” She’s pissed now, for two things: one, that the report is missing, and two, that the henchman second-guessed her in front of Dad and me.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
The henchman offers to pull up the report online. “I can do it myself,” she says. We follow her to a desk. She sits at the computer, fingers pecking away on the keyboard. Neither Dad nor I can see what’s happening on the screen because we’re on the wrong side of it.
She stops typing. Her fingers hover above the keyboard.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asks.
“I just...” she starts. “I forgot my password, that’s all. Just give me a minute.” We do. It doesn’t help. A minute later she still can’t remember her password to whatever software cops use.
“Let me try mine,” the henchman says, reaching past her for the keyboard.
“Don’t,” she snaps at him. “Just don’t.” It’s loud enough that people stare. Some other cop walks over and asks if everything is all right.
Detective Rowlings is the undemonstrative type. She’s seen everything there is to see in her line of work. She’s become desensitized to all things bad.
But still, you can see a tiny breach in her shell. It’s visible.
She looks at Dad. “We’ve been together from the very beginning, Josh. All the ups and downs of this case. I’ve watched you cope with the unbearable loss of your wife and child. I’ve seen firsthand your hope and resilience every time you thought there was a lead as to where Delilah might be. You never gave up on her.” Her voice cracks. “You were hell-bent on searching until Delilah came home, and I told myself long ago that I was in this for the long haul. If you weren’t giving up, neither was I. I grew fond of you over the years, Josh, and wanted more than anything to bring your little girl home to you. This wasn’t just a case for me—it was personal. I should know better than that. You’re never supposed to let it get personal. There’s a line. You don’t cross it. I did.
“And then I got the call we’d been waiting for for eleven years. I was so certain she was Delilah, Josh. She checked off all the boxes. She looked like her. She said she was her. Unlike the imposters we’ve seen, this one was one hundred percent legit. I could feel it in my bones. We’d done it. We’d found Delilah. I saw the relief and the euphoria in your eyes. This meant everything to you.
“And then the results came back. Negative. Not a match. I was incredulous. I was devastated. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. I thought of how I’d tell you, the words I’d say. I practiced. But when the time came, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take her away from you again. I’m so sorry, Josh. In some inane way, I thought I was doing the right thing, for you, for her. I thought if no one knew the truth, what harm would it do?”
Dad openly cries. I can’t bad-mouth him this time because I feel it, too, a black hole inside me.
The one question remaining now is why you thought Dad was your dad when he’s not.
We go into the room with you. It’s like taking that long final walk to the execution chamber. I sit down in a chair next to you. Dad sits across from me. He can’t bring himself to look at you. The lady cop doesn’t come in with us. After her confession, she was led away by some superior officer with her head hung low. There will be some form of discipline for what she’s done. Not only did she lie, but she tampered with police records. She’ll probably get canned. Maybe have charges pressed against her, too. I don’t know.
Instead of her, it’s someone else asking the questions now, a man cop. He doesn’t sit at all. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “What made you believe this man is your father?”
There’s a tremor to your voice. “He’s not?”
Your face falls. You’re helpless, confused. Your eyes go to Dad, who’s crying. That’s your answer.
“No. He’s not.”
You blink over and over again like there’s an eyelash in your eye. You’re mute at first. You pull your legs into you. You rock on the chair. It’s raw, primal. It’s hard to watch. Tears pool in your eyes and then slip down your cheeks. That’s how I know you’re not lying. You honest to God believe him to be your dad. You say to him, “You are. You are my daddy,” and then even I’m crying, too.
MEREDITH
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
In the middle of the night, Delilah cries out for me. It’s a strangled cry, and then she’s sobbing, gulping through her tears. I spring out of bed. I rush to her room, where I find Delilah sitting upright in bed, eyes like saucers. I go to her. At first touch, I know what’s wrong. Delilah has spiked a fever. She’s sweating through her sheets, despite the fact that she shivers violently. “Oh, sweetie,” I say, stroking her damp hair. Her skin is clammy; her pajamas stick to her.
Delilah’s eyes are fixed on the corner of the room. I look, but there’s nothing there but a lamp. The lamp is a kids’ floor lamp, tall, with three acrylic shades that look like balloons.
Delilah’s hand rises up from beneath her soggy sheets to point at it.
“What, baby?” I ask, dropping down on the edge of the bed. “What do you see?”
“Someone’s there,” she says, voice hoarse. I look again, feeling my heartbeats quicken, though of course no one is there. It’s Delilah’s fever speaking. What she sees is the floor lamp, and she’s mistaken one of the balloon-shaped lampshades for a head, the tall, narrow tube for a body.
“No one’s there,” I assure her. “It’s just your lamp. Want me to turn it on and show you?” I ask as I press up from the bed and make my way toward the lamp. I don’t wait for her to answer, because Delilah is looking at me strangely. I reach a hand out for the switch. Delilah coughs. It’s a barky, croup-like cough. Delilah has had croup before.
I turn on the lamp. Yellow light floods the purple room. I look around, glance under the bed, inside the closet, make a big show of saying, “See? No one’s here. It’s just you and me.”
Delilah sounds so sure w
hen she says, “They left, Mommy.”
I know that can’t be.
“Who was it?” I ask Delilah, humoring her. She blinks at me, unspeaking. Her stare is vacant, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t say. Her red hair droops. Along the hairline, it’s dark with sweat. I let it go, knowing no one was here. I reach a hand back out to turn off the lamp switch.
I retrieve the thermometer from Leo and Delilah’s bathroom, and the children’s Tylenol from downstairs. I take Delilah’s temperature first. It’s nearing one hundred and three degrees. I double-check the dosing on the Tylenol, and then give it to her. Delilah has sweat through the sheets. I make her get out of bed long enough for me to change them. She gets back in. I lie beside her.
I stay with Delilah until she falls back to sleep. Then I go back to my own bed. I slip in beside a still-sound-asleep Josh. Josh has the ability to sleep through anything. I don’t wake him because Delilah gets sick all the time. She’s our germ magnet. If someone in her class is sick, you can bet your life Delilah will be, too. Delilah’s fever isn’t breaking news. I can tell him in the morning.
As I lie there, I notice that our bedroom window is open a crack. Josh runs warm. Even in the winter, he wants to open the bedroom window at night, otherwise he overheats. The cool spring air wafts in, blowing the gauzy curtains into the room. The rain falls lightly outside. The sound of it is peaceful. If not for thoughts of Shelby that torment me, it would be anesthetizing. But instead I lie there dwelling on how Grace Tebow will never have a mother to tend to her at night. It’s all my fault. It makes me sick to think of. It makes me sick to know that, while I lay in my soft, warm bed under the weight of my husband’s arm, Shelby lies alone in the woods, her body being devoured by maggots and flies.