Not Her Daughter: A Novel

by Rea Frey

  It couldn’t be.

  The excitement crackled through my entire body. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, but what if it wasn’t a ring, and I was waiting for something that might never happen? Which would be worse?

  I heard the water turn off and stuffed all Ethan’s belongings back into his bag. I ran to the living room, turned on the television, and curled up on the sofa, as though asleep. My heartbeat vibrated my teeth. A thousand questions threatened my resolve. When did he do it? Where did he go? How had he gotten my ring size? I didn’t wear rings—didn’t even know what size my own ring finger was—but I knew Ethan well enough to know he was capable of figuring things out. Did he talk to Lisa? Did Lisa know about this? Did the team? Was it a wooden ring? Did he make it himself? Was he planning to do it soon? Why did he have it with him on the trip?

  Ethan walked into the room, and I challenged my lids to stop fluttering. He kissed me on the eyebrow and brushed the hair from my face.

  “Hey, Sarah. Sarah?” He rubbed my back, and I pretended to stir awake, looking at him as though I’d forgotten where I was.

  “Sorry. I guess I fell asleep for a second.”

  “Don’t apologize. Do you want to just make something here instead? We don’t have to go out.”

  I pulled him on top of me and kissed his neck, working my mouth up to his earlobe. “No, let’s go out. I’d love to get some breakfast with you.”

  He pulled me off the couch, and I reveled in the secret I now had to keep from him. Part of me was disappointed that I knew, but part of me felt immense relief. He loved me as much as I loved him. Now, it was all about the timing.

  * * *

  Five years, six months, and two days. That’s how long I’d waited. And still no ring. Not for the first time, I was absolutely kicking myself for not having opened the box. It obviously hadn’t been a ring, but he’d never given me anything remotely the same size as that box. Had that been a present for another woman? His mother? Had I been fooling myself all these years? Was he living some sort of double life?

  I sat upright in bed and flung Ethan’s arm to the side. I was angry this morning; I could feel it in my joints, which ached from a tough workout and too much sugar the day before. I padded to the bathroom and slammed the door. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and stomped to the kitchen, grinding the coffee instead of waiting for him to do it.

  In all these years, nothing had changed. He still slept over like we were casual daters, but he kept his place and would never leave his belongings at my house. He liked the autonomy, and most times, I did too, but not this long. This long was too long. I wanted the ultimate commitment, the merging of our lives.

  I’d never been one of those girls who needed to get married or to have any validation when it came to men. You love me? Great! I love you too. Let’s love each other until we don’t. But once you met the guy who wouldn’t give you all the things you thought you didn’t want? It’s all you wanted.

  Every birthday and anniversary, the excitement built. How would he do it? Where would we live? Would we have children immediately (hello, post-thirty egg decline!) or take our time? We’d both traveled so much in our separate lives and as a couple, I knew we were ready to just slow down, set some roots, and grow. It was time.

  The years slipped by. Our businesses grew. Looking forward to the unknown became a game and then a slow, resentful drip. Every day he didn’t propose was one where I grew angrier, some bitter, calcified version of myself.

  “Hey. Why all the noise, stompy?”

  Ethan ran one hand over his recently shaved head. It was the first time he’d had no hair—due to his recent obsession with triathlons—and I couldn’t stop running my fingers over it. Even now, as angry as I was, I wanted that fuzzy feeling against my palms.

  “I’m just pissy.”

  “Work?” He moved over to where I was shaking the coffee grounds into the Chemex filter and took over.

  “See? This is what I’m talking about.”

  “What? What is what you’re talking about?”

  “This.” I motioned to the filter. “You do everything better than I do. You fix things when they’re broken. You build tables from fucking tree branches. You make my coffee. And what’s the point if none of this is guaranteed?”

  “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

  “Us! I’m talking about us. I never wanted to be this girl, just so you know. This is important to know.”

  “What girl?” He motioned to the bedroom. “What happened from the time we went to bed until now?”

  “The girl who always needs something, who isn’t just happy with what she has or the way things are. Look.” I leaned against the countertop and crossed my arms. “I don’t need proof that you love me, because I know you do. But I want proof, and I hate myself for wanting it. And I hate you a little for making me want it.” I wanted to mention the ring box. I wanted to know the truth about what I’d found all those years ago. But what if the truth was something else entirely?

  He set the beaker down and came to me, arms outstretched. I attempted to push him away, but I couldn’t. I collapsed into his warm chest and gripped his bare back, turning my head so I could hear the rush of blood whooshing through his sternum. “It just sucks. I don’t know why you don’t want to marry me. I want you too much. I love you too much. It’s exhausting.” Silence filled my kitchen. I waited for him to say something or to reassure me. His heart began to pound against my cheek.

  “Who says I don’t want to marry you?”

  I pulled away, my face incredulous. “Are you kidding? How about almost six years of not getting engaged?”

  “Since when are you so obsessed with getting engaged?”

  “Since you haven’t proposed. Since nothing has changed. You either know or you don’t know, right? Isn’t that what everyone says?”

  He pulled away from me completely. “Well, that’s your opinion. That’s not a fact.”

  “Oh really? The facts aren’t in the actions—or in your case, the inactions?”

  “Sarah, we’ve talked about this. That’s just your opinion. And it’s just not been the right—”

  “Oh, please. Don’t talk about it not being the ‘right time’—see? Look at me! I’m even that asshole who uses air quotes. Who am I?” I dropped my fingers and squeezed them into fists. “Screw the right time. Seriously. It’s all just such a bullshit excuse. If everyone waited for the right time, no one would ever get married, have children, take risks, or start new careers. There is no right time. There’s just … what you want to do and what you’re going to do. And what you don’t want to do. I just wish you’d be man enough to admit I’m not the one. You don’t want to marry me. End of story. Next!”

  He paced the kitchen, his pajama pants slung low around his hips, his palms moving back and forth over his buzzed head. “It’s not that simple, Sarah.”

  I hopped up on my kitchen island and kicked the drawers with my heels like a child. “What’s not that simple? Getting married? I feel like a bully, Ethan. Do you know how awful that is? Even if you ever proposed, which, let’s face it, is never going to happen, it would be ruined because I’ve talked about it so much and pushed so hard. And I don’t even like weddings.”

  He smiled in an attempt to change the mood and shift the charged air. But I was at my breaking point. I couldn’t sleep with him, wake up with him, give him my whole life, and just get maybes in return. Or the intention of “someday.” I wanted now. I needed definites. I needed an investment. I looked at him and swallowed the crater in my throat. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but—”

  “Don’t.” He lifted his hand. “Don’t you dare break up with me because we aren’t engaged yet. Don’t you fucking dare.”

  “What else am I supposed to do? Do you think I want to break up with you? I’m sitting here telling you that I want to marry you. That you are the only man I have ever wanted. I don’t want to give you an ultimat
um. That’s what I’m saying. I’ve become this girl, and I hate her. I literally hate her.”

  “Aghhhh!” Ethan screamed, a loud pierce that filled my silent, white, clean kitchen. “Why can’t you ever just do things at my pace, Sarah? Why?”

  I dropped down from the island and moved to him, craning my head to meet his eyes. “I’ve done nothing but love you from basically the first day we met. I literally can’t live without you. I don’t want to live without you. But I can’t just live with you … without something more.”

  Despite the situation, he laughed. “Is that like a word problem?”

  I squeezed his arm. I watched the imprint of my fingers appear after a few seconds, long, tapered, and pink.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just the way I feel. I can’t help it.”

  “Sarah, come on,” he whispered. “Please don’t do this.” His voice was husky.

  “I have to.” Our lives together flashed in sequence: walking into his furniture shop all those years ago and asking him out; our first date hiking, where I’d twisted my ankle and he’d carried me down the mountain on his back; the time we’d both had food poisoning and he’d managed to drag himself to the store for broth and crackers; the night a piece of wood in his shop had crushed his shin and I’d had to take him to the emergency room to get stitches; the day his mother told me he’d never been this in love with a woman; the afternoon he’d helped my dad after he drank too much and couldn’t drive home. All of the real moments—not just the happy times—gave me pause. There was so much substance here, so much time put in, so many memories. Was I willing to give all that up because I didn’t have a ring?

  He grabbed the back of my neck and leaned in. I let him kiss me, my love trapped by frustration, longing, disappointment, and fear. He yanked at my clothes, and they tumbled to the tile as we made love in the kitchen.

  After, we laid together, his fingers stroking my cheeks and hair.

  “I love you, Sarah.”

  “I love you too.” But it wasn’t enough. I knew loving him wouldn’t fill the void. Not anymore.

  Three hours later, Ethan left my condo for the last time.

  during

  The woods form a blooming, visible line behind the school and blocks of houses. It seems so easy that children would go missing here: one moment playing in their backyards, the next being swallowed by the trees.

  I ride my bike around the block, another row of houses on the other side of the forest, the trees a dividing line down the center. This means the woods aren’t thick; to come out of them, you have to cross over into someone’s backyard. It isn’t a good cover and makes it impossible for children not to be found.

  I check my watch a thousand times as I ride, making loop after senseless loop. I know that Emma’s house is the twelfth down on the left from the school. I know to get there, I have a decent trek through those woods, and even then, I don’t know if I will be able to see her. I do not know where the woods begin at the edge of her backyard, or if she will even be in her backyard. I know I have to be on foot for this—a bike just won’t do—but I have no idea what my intentions are or what I’m after yet.

  At ten, I ride back to the hotel. I shower, check messages, eat, wait until afternoon, then load up my bike and head toward the school. I park several blocks away, halfway between the hotel and the school, sliding my Tahoe in among other similar cars on the street. My bags are still at the hotel—a glaring oversight—but I don’t have time to go back. I lock my car and start walking, searching for an opening to the woods. My only way in is at either corner. The woods start where the school begins and end about half a mile down. Above, the clouds are thickening and changing shape, blocking out what little sun has been on display.

  I’ve never much liked the woods. Perhaps it’s the cautionary tales we’re told as children, how bad things happen to good little girls and boys in those dark, unmarked trails. I like tree houses, camping, open fires, crispy bacon, and coffee in a hot tin cup, but there is always something sinister about rows of trees that muffle sounds, house creatures, and bury secrets.

  I rework my scarf, suddenly aware that it could get caught on a tree branch and rip. I wrap it tightly around my throat and tuck the ends into my long-sleeved black shirt. I do not want to go in, but this is the only way.

  At the end of the block, I stare directly at the forest. I start to wonder what the difference is between a forest and the woods. This stretch of trees doesn’t seem long enough or dense enough to be classified as a forest. I shake my head—always the distractions—and study the side of the school on my left and the bank of houses on my right. The woods dissect both, cutting off what would have been bigger backyards in exchange for coniferous trees blasting in a dense line into the sky.

  I casually step onto the grass, keeping my eyes peeled for passersby. I come to the opening of the woods, toeing the line, and then I slip inside, everything becoming black, cool, and damp. I blink, let my eyes adjust, and shuffle forward, feeling branches like tiny bones snap beneath my shoes. I move to the left, because that’s where the school is—just a few feet ahead. I can already hear the children, outside for their afternoon play. I push branches out of my way and come to the edge of the tree line. I can make out the privacy fence, but I can’t see the children running, climbing, and shouting on the other side, like tiny primates.

  A shudder of disgust takes hold. I hope no one with sinister intentions has ever stood just where I’m standing. I retreat, suddenly breathing hard, as contempt rots my insides. What the fuck am I doing?

  I sit on the ground, which is shockingly damp and soaks through the back of my jeans. I drop my head to my knees and breathe in an attempt to figure this out.

  I should stand up, walk back through those trees, get in my car, check out of the hotel, and go home. Go back to my life and my business. Get on with everything. Get over the breakup. Put myself out there. Meet someone new. Move on, move up, move away. Just move.

  I stand and brush off my jeans, checking the back to see just how wet they have become, when I hear a teacher’s voice. My ears twitch, and my stomach churns. I move closer to the edge of the trees.

  “Emma!”

  At the sound of her name, my heart wrenches in my chest. I press my hand over it, as though that will calm my most erratic organ, and listen.

  “Your sitter is here!”

  I go slack with relief—a sitter! she has a sitter!—and move back, knowing I have ground to cover to get to her house. If I stay close to the tree line, I can make out the houses on the left.

  I start to walk, far enough back that no one in their garden, fence-free, sees the crazy lady on the move. What will I see when I get there? The fact that she has a sitter makes me wonder if life is really so bad. She’s at school during the day; she has a sitter in the afternoons. Maybe dinner and bedtime aren’t awful. Maybe I have it all wrong.

  But I just want to see her one last time. I want to see her playing, jovial and happy. I want to see her sitter engaged, to have verification that someone is on her side. I want to watch her mom come home, witness the exchange, see just one hug, an arm around her shoulder, something to assure me that this girl will grow up and prosper. I keep count of the houses, watching the different hues and styles pass by. Four, five, six …

  I don’t know if I will beat them there, if she will go outside today, or if she’s even allowed outdoor play once she’s home. Does she get a snack? Does she need to rest? Does she just sit in front of the television until Mommy or Daddy appear?

  Suddenly, I am running, watching for knotted roots or branches. I want to get there before they do. My foot catches on something and twists, hard. I slow down, my ankle throbbing, and keep moving, calming myself. I check my watch—I’ve only been moving for a few minutes. I’ve got three houses to go.

  I take deep breaths and trot past the last few houses, ignoring the dull pain near my Achilles tendon.

  Almost there, I tell myself. Almost.

  * * *
>
  The backyard is messy. The grass is at least ankle height, and patchy. I believe you can tell a lot by someone’s backyard, how they really live. The front yard is easy to keep pristine. It’s visible to the world—you get judged if it’s not manicured. But the backyard is like the inside of a home—a truthful afterthought, a catchall for the remains of your daily exhaustion.

  The yard is small, shaped like a rectangle, and angles up toward the woods. They have no fence, which is surprising with two young children. The woods are only about twenty feet out, but I can see clearly. Old, plastic toys litter the yard, as if someone took a sack of forgotten parts and flung them into the grass. There’s a Big Wheel—did they still make those?—a kid-sized plastic table and chairs, a red and yellow playhouse sheathed in mud, a soggy teddy bear, and a lawn mower. Their patio is bare and dusty, except for a pair of rain boots. The yard sweeps onto a gravel drive, a toolshed, and those few battered toys.

  I’ve been moving for fifteen minutes. I crouch at the edge of the woods, my knees popping, and wait. I finger the skin over my ankle, checking for swelling. My other foot bumps into something under the dirt. I move it with my toe and realize it’s a beaded necklace. I scan the ground and see a few more toys, half buried, suggesting time spent in these woods. Emma?

  I’m careful not to touch anything, not to disrupt the story these woods tell. I glance again at my watch and strain to see with this much tree coverage. I’m assuming the sitter walks her home; they should be arriving shortly. I can imagine Emma chattering as she skips, showing her sitter the pictures she drew, telling her all about the friends she had fun with or what she learned today. It’s my favorite thing about children—their wild, unbridled enthusiasm—but even as I imagine it, I can’t quite picture Emma like that. She’s not animated, this much I know, even from the short time I glimpsed her in the airport.