by Hannah Jayne
When the doorbell rang, she sat bolt upright, not immediately recognizing the slow, melodic chimes.
No one had ever come to visit yet.
Heart thumping from the start, she picked her way down the stairs carefully, turning on lights as she went, each splashing a wash of yellow over the few family pictures that lined the walls.
“Who is it?” she called as she reached the door.
No one answered.
Riley paused, half crouched, her hand on the doorknob. She breathed hard before rolling up on her toes and squinting through the peephole.
There could have been someone there, but Riley couldn’t tell through the blackness. She couldn’t remember if the porch light had a bulb yet.
Had someone taken it? Had it ever been there to begin with?
Her heart started to pound, her mind throbbing, clogging with images: a police officer, come to take her away; Seamus and Abigail O’Leary, wringing their hands while looking for their daughter Jane; a lackey for her parents, certain they knew what Riley had found.
Stop being a paranoid freak, she commanded herself.
She was breathing hard now, her runaway mind pretzeling her body into a panic attack. She felt the telltale beads of sweat on her upper lip and at her hairline. Her chest felt as if it had been wrapped tight, every breath she tried to take an exhausting effort.
“I’m OK, I’m OK.” She spat out the mantra Dr. Morley had told her to say, and concentrating on the words did calm her, slowly, each syllable carefully chipping away at the block that held down Riley’s lungs. She paced the front room, peeking out the long window there to see that there was no one on the porch, no one parked on the streets.
A glitch, Riley decided. The bell had rung due to a mechanical glitch.
When she was breathing normally again, deep breaths in, long breaths out, she double-checked the lock on the door. It was locked. Riley had initially liked the thick, heavy bolt on the door, but that little niggling voice in the back of her head was suddenly wondering whether it was there to keep the bad people out—or in.
Back upstairs, Riley shoved the birth certificate aside and yanked her biology book closer. She was done being Nancy Drew—an errant doorbell had nearly made her pee her pants—but it was what was on her computer screen that caused the blood in her veins to run ice-water cold.
The headline letters were thick, an almost throbbing red. HAVE YOU SEEN ME? The picture underneath was a grainy black and white of a chubby, round-cheeked baby girl. There was no name, no contact number, no additional information.
“Oh my God,” Riley breathed. “My God.”
Riley didn’t recognize the baby—nothing about her seemed familiar—but her black eyes were round and wide.
Trusting.
My sister?
She found herself leaning in and pulling the laptop closer as she scrutinized the screen. Did this baby have her eyes, a lopsided smile like her own?
Her stomach started to churn, bile burning at the back of her throat.
Or is that me? The phrase zipped through Riley’s head, was gone before she had a chance to catch it.
She shoved the computer from her as though it were a snake, coiled and ready to bite. But it wasn’t the child or the missing poster that scared her the most—it was how the webpage ended up on her screen.
With trembling fingers, she pulled down her web browser history, alternately praying for some easy explanation or for the photo to disappear—or to never have existed at all. The history popped up as quickly as it faded out when the screen went black.
The lights zapped out.
Riley went to the window. Her heart was beating in her throat, pounding in her ears, the sound like thundering footsteps. Her whole body was humming with adrenaline electricity, but all of that stopped when she saw the figure in the front seat of the dark car parked in front of her driveway. Her breath was choked, strangling. She wanted to pound the window, she wanted to scream, but her voice was lost in the gunning engine of the car. Her cry was muffled by the pinching squeal of tires speeding off into the darkness.
• • •
Riley didn’t remember falling asleep.
She remembered being curled into a tight, uncomfortable ball underneath her bedroom window, the sound of those tires ricocheting through her skull until she couldn’t take it anymore. Every muscle in her body was tense and exhausted from hours on high alert. After the picture on the computer screen and the realization that someone might have been watching her, Riley waited, unmoving, for the lights to come back on in the house. She waited for her parents to come home. Somewhere between those two, she must have pulled herself into bed and fallen into an achingly deep sleep.
She dreamed of Jane Elizabeth O’Leary—a naked, chubby-faced baby girl with Riley’s features and Riley’s grin. In her dream, she was at the beach and baby Jane was sitting in the sand in front of her, the tide coming in and washing over her fat baby thighs. Baby Jane squealed and slapped at the shallow water, looking up at Riley as it receded. Riley felt herself grin until she saw the next wave coming in. It crashed a little later than the first one did, and the tide swallowed Jane’s thighs and came up to her chest, receding much more slowly this time. Another wave smacked the shore, and Riley knew that it would lift the baby from the sand and suck her backward out to sea. She couldn’t let that happen. Riley ran toward Jane as the water made its way in, but the sand was wet and heavy underneath her feet. She tried to warn Jane, but it was as if the sand had moved into her throat, snatching her breath, her voice. She sank deeper and deeper into the wet sand as the water snaked around Jane, narrow fingers snatching at her. Riley clawed at the ground, trying to move as the water whooshed over Jane’s head, slapping against the sand, teasing the tips of Riley’s fingers. When the water receded, Jane was gone.
Riley couldn’t get the dream out of her mind. Who was Jane? Was Jane missing, out in the world, alone somewhere? Or was Riley really Jane? Could there be some truth to Shelby’s crazy stories?
Stolen. Riley could have been stolen; she could have been kidnapped.
“No,” she said to herself as she stepped into the shower. “I was not kidnapped. My parents aren’t criminals.”
Adopted?
The word shot through Riley’s mind, and she fought to press it down.
“You’re being ridiculous. Your parents are your parents. I was not kidnapped.” She repeated the words so many times they lost meaning, and the niggling feeling was back at the fringe of her mind, tapping: but what if?
She dressed quickly, finding herself validating her every move: the blue shirt. Her favorite color. Was it her favorite color? Her mother bought it for her. She remembered the wry grin as she handed it over and Riley—naïve, innocent Riley—held it to her chest.
“It’s blue—your favorite. I couldn’t resist.”
Riley narrowed her eyes. “Why? Are you trying to butter me up or something?”
“Can’t a mother pick up a shirt for her daughter?”
Her mother grinned then, a smile Riley once thought was a larger version of her own. But it wasn’t really. Her mother’s lips were pouty and full with a constant deep pink hue. Riley’s were pin thin and she was eternally painting them with Cool Coral lip gloss just so they would show up.
“Ry? Are you coming down? You’re going to be late!”
Riley stepped carefully down the stairs as if each one was a minefield—was she a missing child, stolen, or wasn’t she? She paused to study the few family pictures on the wall—her smiling as a toothless second grader, the family at the beach the year they lived near Carmel. Why had they moved again?
“Riley Allen Spencer, I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Sorry!” Riley said, entering the kitchen as she had done a thousand mornings before. Her parents were looking at her, and heat shot up the back of her ne
ck. Did they know what she found? Did they know what she suspected?
“What’s up, guys?” she asked, doing her best to act nonchalant.
“We could ask you the same thing,” her father said, eyes dropping back to his paper.
Riley snapped bolt upright. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” her mother said as she pulled out Riley’s chair, “that we don’t usually have to send in the brigade to get you out of bed.”
Riley felt her cheeks redden. “I guess I just overslept.”
“Well, eat up. You’re not going to school on an empty stomach. And you have the carnival tonight too, right?”
Her father looked up, eyes bright. “A carnival?”
“It’s a dumb school thing. Fund-raiser.”
“Eat.”
Riley reached for the cereal box and looked down at her bowl before she poured. It was the china she had remembered since—when? The napkin, the spoon, the juice glass—and the little white pill.
Every morning, Riley’s mother set the breakfast table, and every morning it looked this same way: cereal bowl, napkin, spoon, juice glass, little white pill. It was Klonopin, an antianxiety medication that the therapist back in Riley’s old neighborhood—where she lived next door to Shelby—had prescribed. It helped Riley focus, staved off her fears, and was supposed to keep the nightmares at bay. Every day, her mother set out the pill, and every day, Riley swallowed it. Every month, her mother refilled her prescription, and every month, Riley never questioned the white plastic bottle that her mother stashed in the medicine cabinet.
“Don’t forget your pill, hon.”
Riley’s stomach fluttered madly. This was crazy. This was her mother. The tiny white pill blurred and swam in front of Riley’s eyes. What if the doctor was in on it? What if this wasn’t even the pill he prescribed?
She scrutinized the thing, hoping that etched there across the face would be something to put her mind at ease: RILEY’S KLONOPIN FOR ANXIETY or NOT SOME SORT OF KNOCK-OUT DRUG.
“I’m no doctor, turnip, but I’m pretty sure the pill works best when you actually put it in your mouth and swallow it.”
Her father was smiling kindly, his glasses dipping down his nose as he eyed Riley.
“What if I don’t want to take it?”
Riley’s mouth was dry, and her pulse was pounding in her ears. How would they react?
“Well, if you don’t think you need to take them anymore, we can go see Dr. Morley.”
“Why do I need to see the doctor to stop taking them?”
“Because it could be dangerous, Ry. That’s why I give them to you every morning, you nut. If you skip doses, you can get a stomachache, your panic attacks could come back, or worse.”
Riley swung her head toward her mother. “What do you mean worse?”
“You’ll grow chest hair.” Her father folded the paper. “Now swallow that pill and that bowl of whats-it-snaps and let’s get in the car. You’re going to make me late for work.”
Riley popped the pill into her mouth and took a big gulp of juice, the bitter liquid burning her throat. She grabbed her backpack, and when her father leaned in to kiss her mother, Riley spat the slimy pill into her hand and tucked it into her jeans.
• • •
“The bus is leaving,” Riley’s father said, slamming the car door hard. The reverberation echoed through the quiet neighborhood. Riley was halfway into the passenger seat before she slapped her forehead.
“Crap. Forgot my purse.”
She pushed herself out of the car but was unable to escape her mother’s narrowed eyes as she stood in the doorway. “Sorry, Mom,” Riley mumbled as she jogged past her into the house.
Riley’s hand was on the knob when a movement at the house across the street caught her eye. Riley squinted hard, trying to focus, but the glare of the sun bouncing off the glass hurt her eyes. She was only able to make out a shadowy silhouette—a person or a bundle of leftover construction stuff?
My God, Ry, you’re really going crazy now. Criminal parents, spies in empty houses…I’m going to kill Shelby when I get to school.
“Come on, Ry!” her father said.
Riley bounded into the car and belted herself in. As they backed down the driveway, she glanced up at the house again, but now there was nothing in the window.
“So, did someone move into the house across the street?”
“No,” her father said. “I don’t think it’s ready yet. I talked to one of the realtors last week, and she said the workers had broken a back window. Which reminds me—I promised your mother we’d go over the rules for your trip.”
Riley groaned. “I know Mom’s rules. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t take anything from strangers, never leave my Coke unattended. Stop, drop, and roll.” She grinned at the last one.
“Mom and I just don’t want you to forget. You were asleep by the time we got home last night, and you left the front door unlocked. A good gust of wind would have blown it wide open.”
THREE
Ice water shot through Riley’s veins, paralyzing every inch of her.
I locked the door, she wanted to shout. I know I did.
She bit her lower lip to hold back tears. Her dad must have seen her expression, because he leaned over and patted her thigh. “Don’t worry, hon. We’re not mad at you. It happens. Just make sure you don’t let it happen again.” His words sounded hollow though.
Riley nodded, clenching her jaw. She blinked, and the missing poster flashed behind her eyelids, those wide, dark eyes of the little girl burning into her soul.
“D-d-dad,” she started. Then, steeling herself, “Dad, there was some—”
What little voice she had was cut off by the shrill ring of her father’s phone. He held up a single finger to Riley and pressed the answer button on his earpiece.
“Glen Spencer.” He cocked his head for a microsecond while Riley tried to gather her thoughts and then start again. Sorry, he mouthed, client.
They made the rest of the drive in silence.
By three o’clock, Riley and Shelby had dumped their backpacks in Shelby’s trunk and were stuffing french fries in their mouth as they watched carnies snapping together rides in the back forty.
“I can’t believe we have to spend our whole night volunteering at this stupid thing. Don’t they know I have to pack?”
“Shelbs, we’re going to be gone for one night. How hard is it to pack for that?”
“It’s one night on a college campus. And why are you so gung ho on the carnival?” She pointed a fry at Riley. “Wait. Are you all into the carnival, or is your alter ego, Jane O’Leary, all into it?”
Riley rolled her eyes. “Neither of us are really into clowns and carnies, but both of us are into getting volunteer hours.”
“So you admit it! You’re one of those kids on a missing poster!”
Riley rolled her eyes. “You know what? I can’t wait until you get a concussion in the dunking booth. Anything to make you stop talking about the birth certificate. You have me freaking out and thinking horrible things about my parents.”
“They have done horrible things.” She made the universal face for “gag.” “Like buying rice chips and seaweed.”
Riley wiped her palms on her jeans and straightened her green and white Hawthorne Hornets bow. “Are you ready to go?”
Shelby leveled the giant hornet head over her own. “I really can’t believe they let you run the change booth and they made me the stupid hornet.”
“Hey!” Riley frowned. “Henry the Hornet is a beloved mascot. And if you didn’t fail math this year, Mr. Rose would trust you to count money. Your stinger is sagging, by the way.”
Shelby grunted inside the giant, fabric-covered hornet head. “Just for that, I’m sending all the creepy clowns to your booth.”
&nbs
p; Riley spent the evening making change and nursing a large Coke. Shelby hadn’t made good on her promise, but Riley kept an eye on her anyway, catching Henry’s giant hornet head as Shelby waddled through the crowd, her antennae bobbing with each step. The crowds were starting to die down, and Riley yawned then waved across the midway to where Shelby was hiding out—a little shadowed V underneath the Tilt-A-Whirl.
Riley beckoned her over.
“I can’t believe you’re still in that ridiculous costume. I thought you would have ditched it hours ago.”
Henry the Hornet shrugged.
“Can you watch my booth? I’ve had to pee since we walked in.” Riley edged her way out of the booth and beelined through the crowd, not waiting for Shelby to answer. She was halfway back when Shelby—sans Henry costume—sidled up next to her.
“Hey! Who’s watching my booth?”
Shelby shrugged. “I give up. Who’s watching your booth?”
“It’s not a joke; it’s a question. You were supposed to be watching it.”
Shelby’s eyebrows rose. “Did you find one of those vodka Slurpees?”
“Shelbs, I’m serious! How did you get out of your Henry costume so fast?”
“I’ve been out of that thing for hours. Paid Trevor Gallagher ten bucks to take over.”
Heat snaked up Riley’s spine. She pointed. “Trevor Gallagher is right there.”
“No, he’s—who the hell is wearing the Henry costume?”