The Broken Ones

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “But you did,” I whisper.

  “I felt sick all that day. I walked to the end of the street. I was coming for you. But I kept thinking about the mortgage. We were going to lose the house.”

  “You chose me. Out of everything you could have done. Out of begging, whoring yourself, stealing—you chose to sell me.”

  “They took the wrong one,” she whispers.

  “We switched our jumpers to trick Mrs Ellis at school.”

  “I never meant for—”

  “She could be in the sex trade. She could have been sold to paedophiles and made to take drugs—”

  “No,” Mum interrupts. “It was a rich family in America who wanted to adopt but couldn’t because of the paperwork. He told me.”

  “And you believed the word of a man who trafficked little girls? Did you?” I shout. “You believed that scum. I can’t believe… I can’t believe any of this.” The truth is even worse than I could have imagined. My mother is a monster.

  The rage finally hits me, seeping into every pore and filling me up. It becomes a living thing that grows and expands, taking the place of my organs and my veins, plugging my heart and soul with its dirty need. It demands an outlet. I grab hold of a cushion from the end of the bed and dive towards my monster of a mother.

  She gasps and leans away from me. I hold the cushion an inch from her face with my heart pounding hard. Her eyes plead up to me.

  I could end this in a few minutes. I could end it all. I would be free.

  “Do it.”

  At first I think the voice came from Mum, but then I realise that her lips never moved. Then I think I whispered it to myself.

  I didn’t.

  The voice came from the doorway to the bedroom. I drop the cushion, and I turn away to be face-to-face with the shadow that has been stalking me for the last few months.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ADELINE

  Who shall I be today?

  There’s Boyfriend Guy in Brooklyn who thinks I’m plain old Katie. Good little Katie. She’ll cook macaroni and make his bed. She brightens up his dingy apartment with her glowing smile and leaves her panties drying over the side of the tub. Then there’s Summer Guy in the Hamptons who thinks I’m Serena, a girl from old money who dresses in pearls but gets dirty at night. And then I’m Roxanne for Party Guy, getting fucked up on Molly. Then we get fucked up on each other until the sun rises.

  To Mom and Dad, I was always Addy. They didn’t know about the others. I was their sweet miracle Addy who came to them when they thought they’d never have children. But they’re gone now.

  At their funeral I wasn’t Addy anymore, at least not to them. I was Adeline Burke, the grieving daughter, forced to hug and shake the hands of all the men who could easily have killed her parents. But none of them did, and I should know.

  Daddy tried to hide it, but I knew what he did. I used to sneak into his office and read his papers, carefully remembering the order and position of each one. His office was private, but I knew where he hid a spare key to get in. I knew about his schemes. I knew his corruption went beyond money laundering, beyond Wall Street, beyond politics. He was a criminal, but he was a criminal with connections, and—more importantly—money.

  I was being Roxanne with Party Guy when I heard about Mom and Dad’s car crash. I’m with him again when Ralph calls. Daddy’s lawyer.

  Party Guy has a trust fund, part of which went towards his Upper West Side apartment overlooking Central Park. It’s late afternoon when I wake, bleary-eyed, to the sound of my cell phone. It’s getting harder to be party girl Roxanne. Now that I’m in my thirties, it’s getting harder to be any of my alter egos. I might be able to keep Serena for a few more summers. Katie is getting tiresome, anyway.

  I wonder when I’ll get to be Adeline?

  My phone is hidden under Party Guy’s jeans, tossed between his sofa and the TV.

  “Yes.”

  “Adeline, it’s Ralph.”

  “Hey, Ralphio.”

  “We need to go over your parents’ wills. Can you get to my office at, say, 9am tomorrow?”

  I groan. “Does it have to be so early? You’re a goddamn sadist, Ralphie.”

  I imagine him smiling. His eyes started to wander to my intimate places after I hit fifteen and my breasts began to blossom. To me, he’s looked fifty for the last twenty years, probably because he’s been overweight and balding all that time. There’s a rustle on the other end of the line, and I know he’s reached for a napkin or handkerchief to mop his sweaty brow. I’ve thought about fucking Ralph a few times, mainly to piss off Daddy, and partly because I can. But I never did. I wonder if it was the thought of those sweaty handkerchiefs that put me off.

  “We need to get it sorted out, Addy. You’re inheriting a lot of money. We need to discuss your trust fund and potential investments. We need to talk about your father’s business.”

  “I told you, I’m not taking it over. I’m not running it. I just want the money.” Translation: I don’t want the hassle of the Feds snooping through my finances. They’ve been lurking for years. They know Daddy was dirty, but he was always quicker and smarter. They never got even close to catching him.

  “Yeah, I know. But you’re still coming in to talk to me. 9am sharp.”

  The corner of my mouth turns up. I like it when he’s bossy. It’s like Daddy’s still here. “All right. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’ll be there.”

  “Good girl.”

  Party Guy rolls over and moans. I pat him on the forehead, gather my clothes, and light a cigarette on the way out.

  “I hope you weren’t smoking in the elevator again,” the doorman admonishes. “One of these days, Roxie…”

  “It’s cool. I put my hand over the sensor.”

  “Have a good day, now.” He grins as he opens the door for me.

  I give him a wink on the way out, and that grin only widens.

  It’s 4pm and the city is bustling. I haven’t eaten all day and my head is thumping, so I pick up strong coffee and a pretzel. I could call my driver, but I’d rather get the subway back to Tribeca. Daddy wanted me to move to Fifth Avenue, but I didn’t fit in with the Fifth Avenue crowd. I don’t want to stand out. I like the feeling of melting into the background so I can be no one. New York is perfect for that.

  So, who should I be today? Should I be Adeline? The woman without a purpose, without a direction? A woman who for some reason has lived to be thirty-five and still doesn’t feel whole? Or should I be no one, disappearing into the crowds on the subway, waiting for the next mask to wear? Yes, I think I’ll be that person.

  *

  Ralph Scalzi sits behind a mahogany desk. A stereotypical show of masculine power. I’ve often wondered if the overcompensation of large cars for small-dicked men applies to desks, too. It wouldn’t surprise me, not with Ralph. But then, he’s always tried to appear bigger, more imposing than he really is.

  Scalzi, the genius lawyer—if there’s a loophole, he’ll find one; if there’s a favour to be cashed in, he’ll do it—has worked with high-ranking mobsters, corrupt politicians, and crooked businessmen. And my father, who could be considered a little of all of the above. But he’s a small man with a large frame—short and squat—and a face that reddens at even the slightest of exertion. Whenever I meet with him, I can’t get rid of the mental image of him huffing and puffing on top of me. It used to make me giggle. But now I see him and imagine what my future could bring. Party Guy could soon be a thing of the past, replaced with Sweaty, Balding Guy.

  I shudder.

  “Addy, you made it. And look at that, only five minutes late.” He gestures to the chair in front of his desk.

  “It’s a personal record.”

  “How are you doing?”

  I let out a sigh. Ralph should know better than to ask me that. He isn’t one of the pitying many who tilt their heads at me when they mention my parents. I’m not that person. I’m not someone to eve
r be pitied.

  “I’m fine.”

  “If you need anything—”

  I put up my hands, cutting him off. “I’m fine.”

  I can’t help but notice how his eyes trail down past the cleavage revealed by the loose-fitting red dress I threw on this morning. To give Ralph some credit, those wandering eyes have never ceased, not even after I turned thirty. Most men seemed to lose interest after I hit the big 3-0. I haven’t gotten as many free drinks, despite keeping my figure all these years. I’ve often wondered if Ralph is harbouring more than just a secret boner for my body. I wonder if he’d had real feelings for me over the years. I also wonder what his wife would think about that.

  He shuffles his papers, and a ripple of tension works along his jaw. Ralph isn’t exactly easygoing, but he seems even more tense than usual today. A bead of sweat runs along his temple. He starts to reach for the handkerchief in his top jacket pocket, then thinks better of it and clears his throat. “Addy, there’s a lot to talk about today. There are things in your parents’ wills that I have to tell you, and they might come as a shock.”

  I feign surprise. “Daddy was a crook. I already know that. Were they in debt? Did they spend all the money?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. And you can’t say anything like that about your father in this room. I’m your lawyer, remember?”

  I shrug. “Sure. So, what’s the big deal? What’s going on with Daddy’s money?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to do with that. Both your mother and father left you a substantial amount in your trust fund, along with the apartment on the Upper East Side and the summer house in Southampton. The details are all in the will. What I wanted to talk to you about is your adoption.”

  “My adoption?” I lean forward in the chair. “What? But I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

  Ralph fingers a manila envelope. He taps the desk twice, something I’ve noticed he does as a nervous tic. “What I’m about to tell you is information that even I didn’t learn until after your parents’ death.”

  Now I’m interested.

  “You see, your father couldn’t have told me while he was alive because it would have been admitting a felony to me. You weren’t adopted, Adeline. You were bought.”

  The word hits me like a fist. Thwack. I was bought?

  For once, I’m speechless. Mom used to say it would take a miracle to shut me up; that I came out of the womb talking. Huh. I guess that was a lie too.

  “The details of the… err… sale are in this envelope. All I know is that your father paid a group of men to smuggle you into the country from England. Your parents lived upstate at the time. Your mother had a criminal record, which is why they could never adopt legally. When your parents moved away from their old life, they passed you off as their own and registered you as their child. Strings had to be pulled, apparently, but it wasn’t me who arranged it all.”

  I lean back in my chair, blown sideways by the news. The Molly and the alcohol from the other night must be catching up with me, because my stomach is roiling like an old washing machine.

  “I can’t believe this. So, where do I come from?”

  He passes me the envelope. “London. From a single parent who couldn’t afford to keep you. Arrangements were made for you to be snatched from a park and smuggled into the country.”

  A low, simmering rage builds up from my churning gut. I haven’t felt that for a long time, and it frightens me. I clench and unclench my fist, trying to keep the beast in check. “And how much did I cost? How much did this woman get?”

  Ralph squirms in his seat. “I don’t know.”

  I rip open the envelope and begin to thumb through the contents. I glance up at Ralph. “Know any good private detectives?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ADELINE

  Daddy was a tall man. Mom always said that was one of the reasons that people trusted him. Men are meant to be tall. They’re meant to tower over women and command respect. That doesn’t mean women have to be weak. There are Amazons among us. There are also quietly fierce women you wouldn’t mess with. Mom could have been one of those women, if she hadn’t met my father. She grew up on scraps in a poverty-stricken family of seven kids. She was hooked on drugs until she met Daddy and he got her clean, but not before she’d been in and out of jail.

  You see, Daddy loved nothing more than a wounded bird, and that’s why I know it’s all true. He would’ve loved the idea of taking in a child unloved enough to be sold by her own mother.

  Since my meeting with Ralph, I’ve had the same dream over and over again. I’m little, about five years old, I’m tired and hungry and self-conscious of how bad I smell. There’s a tall man staring at me, a man with blue eyes. He’s talking to me.

  “We’re going to have to get rid of that accent.”

  I reply, but I can’t hear the words.

  “Loud little thing. You’ve got some spunk, don’t you?”

  I can’t remember if I agreed or disagreed.

  I didn’t feel anything when my parents died. You see, Daddy loved wounded birds, but he liked breaking them, too. It was a cycle with him. The women in his life should be broken, then fixed, then broken again. He liked them broken more, so that they never got ahead of themselves.

  And Mom never did anything to stop it. I guess she had her own problems when Daddy drank too much and beat her, but she never left him and she never stopped him. She deserved it.

  I grew up all broken inside. What scares me more than anything in this world is that all the pieces that are broken up inside me will one day come to the surface and everyone will see who I really am. They screwed me up bad, which is why I figured I might as well get some money out of it all. They broke me, but I killed them.

  It was a hit and run.

  But I know who to pay. I know which palms to grease with the dirty money Daddy earned for me. I should have done it years ago. I should have paid for my freedom. It’s only now that I realise what he took from me. What he bought.

  It’s time to find the women who broke me first. According to the envelope Ralph gave me, my real name is Sophie Howland and I was born in suburban London to Maureen and Geoff Howland. My father committed suicide four years after I was born. Maureen sold me a year after that. But it gets worse. The part that I can’t wrap my head around is that I have a twin sister named Becca Howland.

  A twin.

  There are no pictures. That’s what I want more than anything: to see the face of the mother who sold me to the highest bidder. The woman who didn’t care if I ended up in the sex trade, or was sold to a man who liked to break the will of little girls. She simply didn’t care.

  Ralph gives me the number of a John Ashley, a private detective he trusts. If Ralph trusts him, I trust him. To a point, anyway. There isn’t a human being on this Earth that I trust with my whole heart.

  I arrange it all over the phone, though I’m desperate to know what this John Ashley looks like. I prefer to be able to imagine the people I’m speaking to; otherwise the suspense becomes too much. I resolve to Google him on the internet once I’m off the phone.

  It’s a fairly simple transaction. I give him the details about Maureen Howland and wire him a bunch of money. He tells me he’ll be in touch. And then I wait.

  Except I don’t.

  I do my own digging. I put the name Maureen Howland into Facebook and set the parameters to London. There are a few dozen profiles, but only five or six are the right age. Most have their accounts set to private, showing little more than their profile pictures. I have no way of knowing which of them could be my mother, so I decide to hate them all with the same ferocity.

  Then I try Becca Howland. I scour every profile, but none of them resemble me, so I shut down the computer and pace the apartment.

  There’s someone out there walking and talking and looking like me. Is she more comfortable in my skin than I am? Has she had the life I deserved? Has she been loved and cuddled and tucked in at night? Safe and
warm in the true love of a mother?

  I can’t stand knowing she’s out there.

  *

  My dreams change. I no longer dream about the first moment I met Daddy. I dream about her. Becca. We’re in school, at the back of the classroom. I remember the hole in my shoe that let in water, and the wonky home haircut I used to sport. Becca and I had almost identical wonky hair because our mother always used to veer to the right with her scissors. I remember that now. It’s a small piece of knowledge that I knew, but hadn’t accessed for years.

  In my dreams, we’re at the back of the classroom and our heads are bent low so that we can whisper to each other. We’re giggling. We have an idea.

  “One, two, now you,” I say.

  That’s our cue. It’s our code that means we’re about to do a dare. This time, while the teacher has her back to us, we whip off our sweaters and swap them. Then we swap places. For the rest of the class, I’m Becca and she’s Sophie. I’m beaming, full of glowing confidence, because I know that Becca wants to be me. Everyone does. I make people laugh and smile. I can get people to do things for me by being cheeky.

  “Come on, Shadow,” I say to Becca as we wait outside the school gates. “If we don’t hurry up, they’ll make us wait inside the school and Mum will get in trouble.”

  “I don’t know if we should,” Becca replies.

  I take her hand in mine and lead her away from the school.

  That’s when I wake up in a puddle of my own sweat. I don’t like these dreams. I don’t like remembering that I had a relationship with my sister, one that contained a great deal of affection. I press my knuckles against my skull, wishing all the memories away. But they won’t go. They plague me.

  It’s a week before John Ashley calls me. I meet with him immediately, no longer able to stand the suspense. I sit in his office on Long Island, tapping his desk with a pen, full of enough nervous energy for stadium full of virgins on prom night.