Illusions (The Missing #1)

by A. M. Irvin

  Which was good because after that significant day she had started to lock me away, and during the sad, lonely nights it made me want to smile.

  So, watching the two women together, I recognized the adoring look on my mother’s face. It was an elusive expression I had only ever witnessed when she looked at her own reflection.

  Now it was given freely to the pretty, pretty woman in our kitchen as they drank coffee from cups I had never touched. Sitting in chairs I never sat in.

  They laughed together. They talked in excited whispers. My mother reached out and ran a hand down the side of the pretty, pretty woman’s face. A maternal gesture that left me aching.

  I hung back, not revealing myself. Shriveling as I watched my mother’s affection bestowed upon someone else.

  The daughter I knew that she wished she had.

  Then the beautiful woman with the long, dark hair, creamy white skin, and rosebud lips caught sight of me in the shadows. Her smile faded and her bright blue eyes went cold. So cold. Like ice that pierced my veins, spilling my blood.

  I remembered the feel of those cold, hateful eyes. I remembered how they turned murderous when she looked my way. As she stared at me with a hate I had never understood.

  “Nora,” Rosie said. Blue eyes. So cold. So much hate.

  My mother stopped laughing. Her happiness drifted away, snatched from her by the presence of an unwanted daughter. The two women stared at me with the same stony, detestable gaze. My mother and the girl, who had for while, been my sister.

  “Why are you just standing there, Nora? Don’t be rude. Come in and say hello to Rosie.” She chastised me like a child. And I felt like a naughty little girl with her head hung low and her shoulders stooped. Without a word, I shuffled into the kitchen.

  I was familiar with the scene that was about to play out in my kitchen. It was only one of thousands from the years since Rosie Allen had first found her way into my life.

  I had loved her once. In the beginning when she had shown up with her social worker. The pretty girl from the abusive home who, just by being normal, had wormed her way into my mother’s coal black heart.

  I hadn’t known that my new foster sister’s beautiful face hid an inner cruelty. Particularly towards poor, poor Nora Gilbert.

  “Your hair’s in your face again. I told you to keep it back.” My mother’s clipped tone chipped away at what little was left of my esteem. I tucked my hair behind my ears to appease her.

  My mother grabbed ahold of my chin and pulled my face around so that I was facing Rosie. “Doesn’t it look so much better? She finally has a face you can look at,” my mother stated. It. I was an it.

  Not a person.

  Not her daughter.

  Barely an entity.

  Definitely not an individual with emotions.

  Rosie’s plump lips pursed, and I hated how effortlessly attractive she was. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Her long, shiny hair that fell exactly how she wanted it to. She nodded at my mother’s words, agreeing with her.

  “So much better, Lesley. It’s amazing. You were right to insist on the operation,” Rosie simpered, her perfect voice pitched low. She smiled at my mother with so much warmth it made me ill. But her blue eyes were ice cold. Just for me.

  I jerked my chin away from my mother’s grip. An act of defiance that surprised us both. I backed away just a step and neither of the women knew the effort the small act cost me.

  “Rosie came by to bring us some fresh vegetables from the farm. Isn’t that nice of her? She always thinks of me. Of both of us. She has never forgotten how much I love fresh tomatoes off the vine.” My mother dropped a hand to Rosie’s shoulder. A casual regard that meant everything to Rosie and nothing to a woman like my mother. An insignificant gesture that hurt me more than I’d ever let on.

  “I remember how you would always cut up fresh tomatoes and sprinkle Parmesan cheese on the top. And when I told you that I had never eaten a tomato before, you pulled up a chair beside you and let me eat some off your plate. Ever since then I eat them all the time,” Rosie beamed at my mother, and I felt a knot lodge itself in my throat.

  I didn’t have such sweet memories of my mother. Not one. They were obviously reserved for other people and other experiences.

  The two women basked in their shared secrets and familiar stories. They knew things about each other. They were intimate in a way reserved for mothers and daughters.

  Their relationship was everything I’d never have with the person who had given me life but had made sure I never truly lived.

  Mother patted Rosie’s cheek before turning back to me, her smile dimming and her eyes turning frigid. “Rosie is here to take you to your follow-up doctor’s appointment.”

  I stiffened. “Why would she take me?” I asked, sounding hard and furious. Again, I surprised us both with my candor.

  “Because I have things to do around the house and Rosie offered. Be appreciative.” Rosie was watching me closely. I had always detested her inspection.

  “I can drive myself,” I pointed out, resisting the urge to cover my face with my hair or hands. I wanted to hide. Away from my mother’s harsh stare and Rosie’s mocking eyes.

  “You’re not driving my car. Rosie will take you. End of discussion.” My mother filled Rosie’s coffee mug. She never offered any to me. It wasn’t even a thought.

  The beautiful Rosie was being uncharacteristically quiet. I knew that she’d make up for it when we were alone.

  “We should get going then. Your appointment is across town,” Rosie said, giving me an insincere smile. A smile made of bitterness and false promises.

  “I have to go to my room. I’ll be back,” I said quickly, dashing from the kitchen and all but sprinting up the stairs. I threw open my door and hurried inside. Only when the door was closed was I able to breathe.

  “This is Rosie. She’s going to live with us. Isn’t she pretty, Nora? Such a pretty, pretty girl.” I stared through the strands of my hair as my mother took the petite girl’s hand and led her into the house. Dad wasn’t home yet so it was just us. Mother. Ugly Nora. And the very pretty Rosie.

  I wanted to smile at the new girl. Because she seemed scared and sad. All the things that I felt inside.

  “This is . . . Nora.” I hated the way my mother hesitated before saying my name. Like it was a bad word.

  Rosie looked at me, with my hair in my face, covering the ugly parts of me. The parts Mother didn’t want anyone to see. But I knew that Rosie saw me anyway. I was sure that I would never be able to hide from Rosie. She saw everything.

  Rosie never acknowledged me. She gripped my mother’s hand and looked right past me. As if I weren’t there.

  Invisible.

  Unseen.

  I should have been used to it. But it still hurt.

  I couldn’t stay too long in my room otherwise my mother would come looking for me. I grabbed my notebook and stuffed it into my purse before making my way back down the stairs.

  I could hear Rosie and Mother laughing again, and I waited by the front door, not wanting to intrude.

  Because I was always the stranger. The interloper. The unwanted.

  Particularly in my own house.

  I stood just outside the living room, peeking around the corner so that I could see them but they couldn’t see me.

  I had been home from school for over an hour, but my mother hadn’t come to ask me about my day. I had been excited too. Because my teacher had read my story to the class. She said it was imaginative with interesting characters.

  I couldn’t wait to read it to Mother and Dad. Dad didn’t get home until late so I had planned to share it with Mother first. And maybe Rosie if she was home.

  Rosie was a year older than I was and when she had moved in I had hoped that meant I’d have a new friend at school. Instead she ignored me. Some days she’d laugh at me with the friends she had made.

  So I learned to avoid her.

  Rosie wasn’t nice. Eve
n though she was pretty and had a laugh that sounded like bells, she was horrible on the inside.

  But Mother never saw it. It didn’t matter what I said, she couldn’t believe “pretty little Rosie” could be the nasty girl I told her about.

  Dad didn’t say much either. He just told me to stay out of Rosie’s way. As if that would stop her.

  Mother loved Rosie. She was the daughter that Mother always wanted. She wasn’t grossed out by her face. She didn’t look away when Rosie entered the room.

  I watched Rosie cuddle into my mother’s side as they laughed together over some silly program on television. Mother’s arm draped around Rosie’s shoulders. My heart seized at the sight of Mother softly stroking the girl’s hair.

  And then she leaned in and gently kissed the top of her foster daughter’s head.

  My heart broke that day.

  It never mended.

  My mother and Rosie finally came to meet me. I watched as Rosie hugged my mother. My mother smoothed her long, dark hair and patted her back. Easy. Comfortable. Love.

  I twisted into itty, bitty knots.

  I followed Rosie out to her car, which was a beat up yellow Volvo. She waved to my mother one final time before getting into the driver’s seat.

  I climbed into the passenger side and quickly buckled my seatbelt. I was instantly encased in Rosie’s spiteful hatred. It clung to my skin and slithered its way down my throat. I tasted it in my mouth and could hear it ringing in my ears.

  A picture ID hung from a lanyard around the rearview mirror. I glanced at the picture of Rosie, not smiling, her eyes hard. And her name in clear, black letters irritated me.

  Rosie Gilbert.

  We all knew that wasn’t her name.

  She had come to us all those years ago as Rosie Allen. But it seemed my mother’s love wasn’t enough. She had to take something that actually belonged to me.

  “Lesley is amazing,” Rosie gushed with an edge to her voice. “She makes the best coffee, don’t you think? I always love our talks.” Sharp. Lethal. Her words were meant to maim.

  My mother never made me coffee. She and I never talked. We didn’t have an easy relationship of laughter and gossip.

  Rosie knew that. She delighted in it.

  My former foster sister glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, a smirk ever present on her lips. Her pretty, full lips.

  “It didn’t change anything, you know,” she mused. Cruel and triumphant, she was ready to strike.

  I turned my face towards the window. I tried to be subtle as I pushed my hair towards my face. An age-old reaction to her disgust and rage.

  “Hi,” I said softly, standing in the doorway. Mother had given Rosie the spare bedroom. It was painted pink and filled with everything a young girl could ever want. Stuffed animals were piled on top of the bed; posters of unicorns and fairies covered the walls. Something sparkled in the window and I noticed several prisms hung from the curtain rod.

  Her room was everything I had ever wanted mine to be. But my mother had said I couldn’t tape things to the walls otherwise it would strip the paint. And when I had asked for a stuffed dog I had seen at the store last month, Mother told me I was already spoiled enough.

  I tried to ignore the hatred that burned in my gut at the sight of that same dog on Rosie’s pillow.

  Mother loved her new daughter. Dad was never home enough to have much of an opinion. Even when I tried to talk to him about how mean Rosie was, he never spoke to Mother about it.

  He had learned his words fell on deaf ears.

  Because what Mother wanted, Mother got.

  And right now that was Rosie Allen.

  Rosie glanced up from the magazine she was reading, never acknowledging me. Without a word, she went back to reading.

  I wasn’t sure what possessed me, but I took a step inside. I was never allowed in her room. That rule had been made on the very first night and mother had firmly told me to give my new sister her space.

  “Get the fuck out of my room,” Rosie said, sounding bored. I gaped at her. She cursed all the time, but it was still shocking to hear such nasty words from her.

  “I just wanted to see if you wanted to watch TV—”

  Rosie rolled her eyes. “Why in the hell would I want to do anything with you?” she scoffed.

  I squared my shoulders. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

  Rosie laughed. “I don’t need you to be nice to me. Get your nasty face out of here.”

  Immediately I dropped my chin so that my hair formed a curtain between me and the not-so-nice girl who I had hoped would be my friend.

  “But we’re sisters,” I murmured.

  Suddenly there were hands ripping at my hair. Pulling it until my scalp burned. I didn’t yell or tell her to stop. I stood still and let her hurt me.

  Rosie’s mouth twisted and her blue eyes narrowed. “You’re ugly. The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. You are not my sister. You are nothing to me. You are nothing to Lesley. You are nothing to anyone!”

  Her words hurt. So much. More than the hair pulling. Then Rosie smiled and I wanted to smile too. Because she was beautiful even when she was cruel.

  “But I’m pretty. Your mother said so. I’m pretty and you’re ugly and she loves me more.”

  I wished I could cry. But what would be the point? Rosie only said the truth.

  Rosie turned into the parking lot outside of my doctor’s office, her words still hanging in the air. When she pulled into a spot and shut off the car, she looked at me and I saw that same expression on her face that had been there all those years before.

  Gleeful viciousness.

  “You’re still ugly. And no amount of surgery will ever change that.”

  I let her words pour over me, sinking in. I curled my fingers around the seat, feeling my nails bend backwards, cracking and breaking.

  “I know,” I said softly, agreeing with her because there was nothing else I could say. Nothing to change the truth.

  Rosie rotated the thin, silver band on her right ring finger over and over again. The ring was etched in continuous, looping designs. Infinity. Forever.

  My mother had given her the ring when she had lived with us. My nine-year-old heart had broken into a thousand sharp pieces the day I saw it on Rosie’s finger. I had gone to my room and made my own ring out of paper and had worn it until it tore and had to be thrown away. My sad, pathetic paper ring. It hadn’t been silver. It hadn’t been engraved with intricate symbols.

  It had been a fake. Easily torn and lost. Worthless.

  Turning. Twisting. Rosie’s fingers were never still. I could tell that she was agitated, though I wasn’t sure why. She was doing what she loved. Tearing me down.

  “Get out,” Rosie barked when I didn’t say anything else.

  I stared at the woman beside me and wished there was just a part of her that cared about me. Because there had been a time that I had truly cared about her.

  She had been my sister for a short while, and even though she loathed me, I had embraced her as part of my family.

  Until I ran out of love to give. Until things changed so that two girls who could have been friends became the worst kind of enemies.

  “Your last name isn’t Gilbert,” I pointed out, nodding my head towards the ID badge hanging from the mirror.

  Rosie’s face flushed red and she snatched the lanyard and hid it in her lap. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who felt the need to keep things a secret.

  “Get out of my fucking car, Nora.” There was a clear threat in her voice. A threat I had heard a hundred times before.

  And it still had the power to terrify me.

  I scrambled out of the car and hurried into my doctor’s office. Away from the woman who wanted things that would never be hers.

  I hated her.

  She hated me.

  We were more alike than either of us cared to admit.

  Day 3

  The Present

  I wandered lonely a
s a cloud

  My shock had worn off.

  I was now officially angry.

  And very, very freaked out.

  I peeled off my shirt and stood in the middle of the room in just my bra and jeans. I ate my potato chips, one at a time, and drank the water sparingly.

  I wished I could pour it over my sticky, dirty skin, but I couldn’t waste it. I didn’t know if I’d be given anymore.

  I had just relieved myself in the corner and had to hold my breath so I wouldn’t gag on the stench that was starting to overtake the room.

  I had woken up to the song. That dreadful, horrid song. But this time I didn’t scream. I let the person sing. I let them tell their painfully familiar story. And when it was over and the person tormenting me had retreated, I began to plan.

  I had to get out of there.

  I tried to think back to those last few moments. I needed to remember something, anything that would give me the clues I needed.

  But my memory was patchy. There were holes that hadn’t been there before. Pieces of recollection that seemed disjointed and not connected to anything real.

  Walking down a dark street. Wind on my face, blowing my hair back. And I didn’t care. I tipped my face to the sky and felt like howling. But not in fear. In something that felt a lot like happiness.

  My heart slammed in my chest. In fear. In excitement. Trepidation that was delicious and new.

  I couldn’t wait . . .

  I ran my hands through my stringy hair and gave it a tug at the scalp. “Think, Nora!” I growled. My stomach rumbled, and the hunger gnawed at my insides, making me dizzy.

  I held my hands out in front of me and walked slowly across the room until my palms came into contact with the hard, uneven wood. It was daytime. Sun streamed through the window, allowing just enough light to deepen the shadows. My blurred vision was incapable of giving me anything clear.

  I stood in front of the window, trying desperately to see outside. I could make out fuzzy images that could be either trees or buildings. Tentatively I knocked on the glass. Then waited. I strained to hear but heard nothing.

  Again I knocked on the glass, louder this time. I stopped and waited. Would someone hear me? Was there anyone out there?