by Hannah Jayne
She turned off the shower and dressed, not bothering to flick on the radio like she usually did. She didn’t even dry her hair, opting instead to weave the wet strands into some semblance of a bun. She picked her way down the stairs as if she were a stranger in her own house, averting her eyes at the memory wall her mother had finished—pictures of Riley and her parents at a park, at Disneyland, a three-year-old Riley hugging Mickey Mouse, her eyes the size of saucers.
Nothing before three years old, that same suspicious voice in her head breathed. Because Riley Alan Spencer didn’t exist before that?
She shook off the thought and walked into the kitchen where her father glanced up at her over the edge of his newspaper. Her mother was scrubbing something more intently than she needed to, and Riley pulled a chair from the table, sitting down silently. Her mother had left her a bowl and a spoon, her pill and her juice, and now she turned, setting the “end of” cereal container in front of Riley. It was Riley’s favorite—a big plastic container that contained all the leftovers of cereal boxes when there wasn’t enough for a respectable bowl. Everything got shoved in there willy-nilly, and Riley loved the surprise, loved the taste of sweet-crunchy-healthy-marshmallow packed into every bite.
But now it made her stomach roil.
Her mother sat down wordlessly and poked a knife into a grapefruit half while Riley chewed her cereal, biting down until it was paste, her jaws aching after four bites. She glanced at her father, who snapped his newspaper and turned the page. She could see her mother in her peripheral sight, hear the sound of the serrated knife sawing through grapefruit flesh. She could hear the pulse of her own heart, throbbing in her ears. Everyone was so deathly silent, but the silence was so deafeningly loud. Riley reached into her pocket and fingered the edge of the birth certificate. On a whim, she had pulled it from under her laptop and stashed it there. She set her spoon down.
“Why are there no pictures of me from before I was a toddler?”
Her mother looked up, her eyelashes fluttering as though she were stunned. “What do you mean, Riley? You know about the flood.”
Riley sucked her teeth, taking in a deep, slow breath. “Dad said the roof leaked.”
She didn’t bother to look up, but Riley knew her father did. She heard his newspaper as he laid it on the table.
“What’s this about, Riley?”
“Before we moved to the house on Kemper, where did we live?”
Her mother laughed, and Riley couldn’t help dissecting it—a guilty laugh, trying in vain to cover up her nerves? A standard giggle because Riley had asked the question before? She didn’t want to examine her parents the way she was, but everything inside her told her that something was wrong.
Her father carefully set his hands on the table and leveled his gaze at Riley. “Before we moved to Crescent City, we lived in Chicago. Do you remember the tiny apartment there?”
“Tiny?” her mother giggled. “Do you remember, before we brought Riley home, how big we thought that place was?”
Riley’s head snapped up. “Brought me home from where?”
Her mother’s stare was steady, her lips held in a thin line. “From the hospital, honey. You were too young to remember—you probably don’t remember that little place at all. We left when you were—”
“We left when I was three, because the roof leaked,” Riley finished. “And then what?”
“Well,” her father cut in, “we left that place as fast as our little legs could carry us. The roof almost came in—in winter in Chicago! You have no idea how cold the weather can actually get. You’ve been way too spoiled by the weather out here.”
He smiled jovially at Riley, but every part of her was tense, focusing.
Riley’s mother stepped in. “We moved in with one of your father’s colleagues for a short time while we looked for a place of our own—big enough for all three of us. And then your father got the offer out here. Oh, we were so relieved. Your dad would get to run his own store.”
Riley blinked at her mother, feeling her own mouth tighten as disbelief set in. “And my grandparents?”
“Your grandparents passed away. Mom’s parents and my mother before you were born, and my father when you were much too small to remember.” He spoke slowly as if trying to make sure that Riley understood, could make the connections—or as though he were speaking from a script, carefully trying to make sure every line was right.
Riley felt herself bristle, and her father slipped back into that easy, relaxed smile.
“Riley, why are you all of a sudden so interested in all of this? You know all of it. You were born in Chicago. We moved to California when you were about three—” Her father started to recount everything they had just said while a flicker of interest turned into a white-hot fire in Riley. Her blood was pulsing as if every lie her parents told her—everything so carefully rehearsed—thrummed under Riley’s skin.
“It’s not true,” Riley said to her cereal bowl.
“What’s that, hon?”
Riley swallowed, earnestly trying to keep her heart from slamming against her ribcage. She felt faint. Her skin felt tight and hot. She tried to steady her breath as much as possible.
“Who’s Jane Elizabeth O’Leary?”
The sentence was out before Riley knew she’d said it. It hung out there in the air between her parents and herself, an untouched thing with a heft and a weight, a life all its own.
The room was deathly silent.
Riley’s heart clanged like a fire bell.
Her father’s eyebrows shot up. Her mother’s hands fluttered over the grapefruit knife, leaving it stabbed in a center section. She clasped both hands together, folding them into her lap. The silence could have gone on for five seconds or five hours—Riley had no idea. All she could see was her parents’ eyes on her, their breaths coming in tight little wisps.
“Were you going through your father and my things? You know you are not supposed to go through our things without asking.”
“I found her birth certificate by mistake.”
Her mother took a slow, metered breath as if she were counting to ten, trying to pull herself together.
“By mistake?”
“It was in my baby book.”
“Which I know is in my closet, which I know I didn’t give you permission to rifle through.” Her mother worked to keep her voice even and steady, but Riley could detect a slight tremble in it.
“OK, I’m sorry. But the birth certificate was in my baby book. Don’t I have the right to look through my own baby book? It’s about my life.” Riley licked her bottom lip, suddenly completely unsure. “Isn’t it?”
Her father picked up his newspaper, his eyes flicking from Riley back to it as he folded the paper into a perfect rectangle. He touched Riley’s mother’s hand and they exchanged a look that Riley couldn’t recognize.
“Nadine, Riley has every right to see her baby book.”
“I don’t care about the baby book,” Riley said, louder than she intended. “I want to know about the birth certificate. This birth certificate.” She slapped the paper on the table and felt like she was being punched in the stomach when she saw her mother’s eyes go to it and immediately start to tear up.
“Glen,” she whispered.
“Riley,” her father started, “this birth certificate is not important. You don’t need to bother with Jane Elizabeth.” He reached out and began to slide the birth certificate toward him.
Riley’s arm shot out like a cobra attacking. She smacked her palm on the table, on the birth certificate, stopping her father, surprising even herself.
“Who is she?”
Her father swung his head. “Riley, just trust us. It’s nothing you need to bother with.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?” she exploded. “If it’s nothing, if it’s just some birth certificate you fo
und, why won’t you tell me?” Her heart hammered and leapt into her throat as she locked eyes with first her mother then her father. “Is it because it’s mine?”
She hadn’t meant to say the last part but it was there now, out. A sob choked in Riley’s throat.
“Did you kidnap me?”
EIGHT
The silence was palpable, and Riley’s mind was racing. What will happen now? Will they admit it? Will I be reunited with my “real” parents? Will these parents go to prison?
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want a new family; she didn’t want to live with anyone else.
Riley’s heart started to thud. Her father ran a printing store. He helped giddy brides pick out wedding invitations and donated a banner to the Crescent City Little League team every year. She couldn’t imagine him caged, like an animal, with all those criminals.
But if he kidnapped me, he is a criminal.
She thought about her mother, now sitting primly at the table. She was an elementary school nurse who wore horrible, holiday-themed turtlenecks underneath her sterile white smock. She had a whole drawer stocked with Sponge Bob and princess-themed Band-Aids. She got cards and drawings from the kids at the school and tacked them up on the fridge, right next to Riley’s stuff.
Not criminals…
“Oh, Riley,” her mother said finally, breaking the silence. “Honey.”
Riley began to shake her head, fear like she had never felt crashing through her body, making her break out in a cold sweat.
“Did I have a family? Are they looking for me? Did they ever come looking for me?”
Her mother started to shake her head and her father opened his mouth as if to say something, but shut it. Instead, he looked to his wife, to the tears flowing down her cheeks.
Riley’s palms were wet. Her stomach folded in on itself.
I just accused my parents of kidnapping.
And her mother was—laughing?
Riley swung her head, incredulous. Tears flowed over her mother’s cheeks, landing with tiny little thuds on her bare plate. But her shoulders shook, and she was pressing her hand against her open mouth, trying to stifle the giggles.
“No, Riley,” her father said, resting his hand on her mom’s shoulder, “we didn’t kidnap you. You’re our daughter. We’re your parents.”
Relief washed over Riley and suddenly she felt light, silly. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at her hands. “It’s just that I couldn’t find any information about the baby and the parents and—who does it belong to, anyway? Who’s Jane?”
Her mother immediately stopped laughing and her father’s eyes went wide. “Did you ask anyone about Jane?”
“Well, no. I mean, I—”
“Riley, this is very important. Did you talk to anyone about Jane? Or about the O’Leary’s?”
Riley’s nerves kicked up again. “Well, Shelby was with me when I found the birth certificate.” Riley bit her lip, considering. There was no reason to tell her parents about JD. No reason to tell them about her visit to the hospital or the hall of records. She shrugged, hoping it came off nonchalant. “That’s it.”
“How did you conduct your search?”
“What do you mean—?”
Her father hung his head, pressing his fingers against his temples. His tone was stern, impatient. “How, Riley?”
“Just on the Internet, geez. But I couldn’t find Jane O’Leary. Who is she?”
Again, her parents exchanged a glance. This one was clearly stern, clearly questioning. Her father gave a short nod and pressed his chair away from the table, standing. “I’m going to call Mr. Hempstead,” he said before leaving the kitchen.
“Mom, what is Dad—?”
Her mother put her hand on Riley’s shoulder and turned her chair to face her. “Ry, you are Jane Elizabeth O’Leary.”
Someone sucked all the air out of the room. Riley wanted to cry, to scream, to question, but all she could do was sit there, stone-faced, staring at her mother. After what seemed like hours, she was able to get her lips to move.
“My parents?”
“We’re your parents. We’re the O’Learys.”
It started low in her belly. A flicker, a flame. A fire. Riley tried to hold herself, hugging her arms across her chest. It was all so ridiculous. She started to giggle, just like her mother. A maniacal, loose, bobbing giggle that weakened her entire body, made it shake throughout.
“What do you mean, we’re the O’Learys? We’re the Spencers. I’m not Jane, I’m Riley.”
Riley became very aware of her mother’s hands on hers, gripping tighter. “It’s not important, Riley. None of this is. You’re our daughter, we’re your parents. Forget all the rest of this.”
“But—”
Riley’s mother shook her head, batting at the air like her whole confession was an annoying gnat at her ear—nothing more. “Don’t worry about it. Please, Riley, just trust us.”
Riley yanked her hands free and sat back in her chair. “Trust you about what? You didn’t tell me anything except that Jane Elizabeth is me. Why do I have a different name? Why do we all have different names and I have a fake birth certificate? Are you my birth parents? I don’t understand.”
Riley saw her father pacing in the next room, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He didn’t look like a stranger. He looked like her father who was a goof and called her turnip and did horrible Jimmy Stewart impressions at Christmastime. She saw him mutter something into the phone and then he took it from his ear, pushing it into his back pocket. When he turned to face Riley, he was still her father but his face was ashen and worn, as though he had aged ten years in the walk from the kitchen to the den.
“Riley, you’re going to be late for school.” He picked up her backpack and held it out to her. Riley stared at it blankly.
“What? You tell me I’m—I’m a different person and—and I’m just supposed to go to school and act like nothing happened?”
Her father’s eyes were flat and emotionless. His face was stern, but otherwise void of anything Riley could recognize. “You need to trust us, Riley.”
Riley felt the tears stinging at the back of her eyes as she looked from her mother to her father.
She snatched her backpack. “I don’t see what I am supposed to trust about you two. You haven’t told me anything true. You haven’t told me anything that makes any sense at all!” The tears were falling freely now, heat breaking over her cheeks. “‘We have this fake birth certificate for you, but you should just trust us.’ ‘We’ve been lying to you your whole life, but you just have to trust us’?”
“Riley, we’re still your parents—”
“Are you? How do I know that? Why would my own parents change my name and my birthday? Why would my own parents hide a birth certificate for a girl who doesn’t exist?”
Her father grabbed her shoulder. Riley couldn’t tell if she was hyper aware or if her father’s grip was more severe that he meant. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, saw the desperation in his eyes as they skimmed over her then went to his wife.
“Glen, she shouldn’t go to school today. We should keep her here with us until Mr. Hempstead can get here.”
“Why can’t you just tell me right now? Why do we have to wait for some guy I don’t even know?”
“Please, Riley. It’ll be easier this way. Mr. Hempstead—”
“Forget it. I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to be here with people who are lying to me!”
Riley snatched her jacket and hiked up her backpack, clearing the kitchen in three long strides. She threw open the front door and pounded through it, slamming it with a tremendous snap behind her.
Hands fisted, tears rolling down her cheeks and sliding over her chin, Riley ran down the sidewalk, loving the lone echo of her sneakers as they hit the concrete. It was somehow
soothing to know that the sound that reflected back was her own—even if she wasn’t entirely sure who she was.
She heard the garage door opening somewhere behind her. The faint sound of car doors snapping shut, of an engine being revved.
Riley couldn’t stand it.
She crossed behind a bank of nearly finished houses, skipping through backyards that hadn’t been fenced yet, until she was up against the wrought iron bars of the Blackwood Hills Estates. She tossed her backpack over the top and shimmied through the bars, taking one last look over her shoulder. She saw her parents in their car, slowly driving away from the house, her mother scanning the sidewalks, her hands pressed against her cheeks. Riley waited for the familiar pang of guilt or sadness but got nothing. She just pressed her legs harder, face against the wind, and took off running.
It didn’t take long for her breath to burn in her lungs and for Riley to meet up with the street. Her parents, had they gone toward the school, would have already passed her, so Riley walked along the road, backpack hiked up. She was huffing and out of breath, but her anger pushed her forward.
• • •
Riley spent the entire day curled on the closet floor of one of the model homes that lined the front of the Blackwood Hills Estates. When the fog swallowed the sun and turned the sky a smoky gray, she slipped out of the closet and into the street, unsure whether she was ready to face her parents.
She heard a car engine moving slowly up the street and her heartbeat mirrored her heavy footfalls. Her parents. They must have been out looking all day. But the car’s engine revved and it sped past her, a black blur taking the curve in front of her house with a little too much speed. The screech of the wheels echoed and Riley rolled her eyes then sucked in a breath, steadying herself on her front porch.
The whole house was dark and she had to step into the meager yellow beam of streetlight as she searched for her keys.
“Damn,” she muttered when she realized that they were lying on the kitchen table. She beelined back up the walk and pushed the doorbell, listening to the stupid chime as it echoed.