Missing Molly

by Natalie Barelli

  A flicker of relief passes across her face. “Yes, I do. Can you see why?”

  I pretend to consider it. “Because Peter is just Peter?”

  She nods and smiles. “That’s it, Rach.”

  “You aren’t in danger?”

  “No, hon. I’m not.”

  A long silence stretches. “Okay, I think I will call Barbara,” I say.

  She feels for my phone in my pocket, pulls it out, and hands it to me. I pretend to leave a voicemail about some emergency appointment, then I hang up.

  “I should go home.”

  She walks me all the way to my front door.

  “You will tell Matt, won’t you? When you get home?”

  I nod.

  “Do you want me to tell him for you?”

  “No! I’ll do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you mind not telling Peter about this?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” she says, but I can tell she will. You’ll never believe what Rachel said! She’ll say. And it occurs to me that I’ve just put my family in the most dangerous situation I possibly could. If he didn’t know who I am, he will now.

  And that I’m telling everyone who he really is.

  Thirty-Eight

  Matt is seated at the kitchen table when I get back, and I know that something is very wrong. It’s his posture. I bend forward a little and stare into his handsome face. He’s pale. His eyes are red, like he’s been crying. He doesn’t speak, just stares at me with a look filled with such sadness it makes my heart ache.

  “What have you done, babe?” he says, his voice raspy from tears.

  At first, I think that Vivian did call him after all, but then I see the book, the memory book. It’s opened flat on the table, its protective plastic wrapping on the floor at his feet. The cupboard beneath the sink is wide open, the flat metal sheeting hanging by a single screw.

  “We had another leak,” he says softly. “The plumber came, he checked behind the panel.”

  I nod slowly, I have no words. But maybe that’s not so bad. Maybe it’s time to grab the truth and be brave. I picture my daughter climbing up trees, jumping from walls. I take strength in her courage and make myself do the same. It’s time.

  “My name is Molly Forster.”

  I have waited twelve years to say that out loud. The words sound so right, and so wrong, all at the same time. I pull up a chair and sit down.

  “I couldn’t tell you before, I never wanted to tell you. I never wanted to tell anyone. Ever.” I reach out and lay my hand in the middle of the table, hoping for him to do the same. But he’s shaking his head slowly, from side to side, his mouth distorted with pain.

  “I love you, Matt, I love you more than my own life. I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want to put you in danger, you understand?”

  I grab his hand and squeeze it hard.

  “I am Molly Forster, and there are people looking for me. These people want to kill me because I saw—”

  A strange thing happens to me. I don’t panic, my breath is a little shallow, but not too bad, I don’t cry, I just tell it like it is.

  “I saw a man murder my family.”

  The page I printed the other day is on top of the messy pile, the one with a grainy photo of Hugo.

  I put the tip of my finger on the photo. “Him. His name is Hugo Hennessy. Can you see?” I tap it hard. “Do you see that’s Peter? It’s not, it’s Hugo Hennessy. But look, it’s Peter. He found me.”

  I turn the paper around so it’s facing him. I lift it up and bring it close to his face.

  “Can you see?” I ask.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my mobile. I snatch the page from him and point at the number I’ve scribbled on the margin.

  “That’s Hugo Hennessy’s number.” I punch the digits. “But he won’t be there, because he’s here, you see? He’s pretending to be Peter, but it’s him—yes hello, it’s Margaret Smith, can you put Hugo Hennessy on the phone please? It’s urgent. I’m returning his call. Yes, it’s urgent.”

  I shove the phone at Matt, hitting his torso. “Quick!” he almost drops it, then puts the phone against his ear.

  “Hello? Is this Hugo Hennessy? Right, my name is Matthew Kenny, I don’t understand why I’m calling you but—”

  I snatch the phone back from him and hang up.

  “Did it sound like Peter? What do you think? They might have linked the number to his mobile somehow. Was he surprised when you said your name?”

  “Rachel—”

  “I called the other day,” I slap my forehead with the palm of my hand. Hard, over and over. “That was stupid. I called his house, I spoke to his wife. Shit.”

  “Rachel, love, please—”

  Matt is crouched next to me, looking up at me, pleading. I swivel in the chair and take his face in my hands.

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  His mouth is distorted from the strength of my grip, I release him.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I—I don’t know, babe, you’re scaring me.” He wipes his face, then takes both my hands in his. His palms are moist from the tears.

  “Oh Matt, honey, don’t cry.”

  “It’s happening again, don’t you see?” he says, in a small voice. “You’re doing it again, like the last time.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are. You remember last time? You said people were looking for you, they were trying to kill you. You remember, baby?”

  He’s crying. He’s moved onto his knees and puts his hands on my lap.

  “It’s not the same,” I say. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “You were terrified. You took Gracie, and you disappeared. I didn’t know where you were. We looked for you. The police. Everyone. Remember, Rach?”

  “It’s not like that, I swear to you. I am Molly Forster.” I take his face in my hands again, urgently. Desperately.

  “You took her away, and you hid in that filthy place, that horrible, disgusting flat—”

  “Don’t, Matt.”

  “You kept here there, filthy and hungry and—”

  “Don’t, please.”

  “—And when we found you, God, Rachel. She was dehydrated, filthy, in your arms and you were cowering in the corner. You hadn’t eaten anything in days. You were rambling. You didn’t know where you were, and—”

  I stand up so fast the chair tumbles back behind me. “Enough! Stop! It’s not like that! My name is Molly Forster, and these people, they’re coming after me, you understand?”

  “Please stop, Rach, please!”

  I sit back down, closing my hands into fists.

  “Matt, listen to me. You have to trust me, that’s all I ask. I know it’s hard. But the memory book, everything in it, it’s true. It’s me. It’s my life. And that’s why I panicked that other time, when Gracie was a baby. That’s why I always look over my shoulder. It’s why I’m like I am. Broken.”

  “I’m scared, Rachel.”

  “I know, love. Me too.”

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  I rest my forehead against his. “You won’t. But I need you to believe me. Promise me, you believe me.”

  “I’m trying. I don’t understand, but I’m trying.”

  “Matt?”

  “What, babe?”

  “I’m sorry honey, but we have to run.”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise, we’re all going to die.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Matt wants us to go to the police. He says if what I’m saying is true, then the police can interrogate Peter. I almost laugh in his face. “You have no idea who we’re dealing with.”

  I rush through the flat, giving instructions the entire time. “Your passport. Driver’s licence.” We’re in the bedroom. I’ve pulled the drawer so hard it’s fallen out. Matt’s passport is on the floor, along with all our important stuff. He picks it up.

  “We’ll have to change them late
r, but for now it’ll do.”

  His hands are shaking, everything about him is shaking, but he gathers his papers, our papers, things we think we cannot live without, because as I explain to him, anything we leave behind will be gone forever. We are never coming back. I put my hand on his shoulder and look into his face.

  “I promise you it’s going to be okay.”

  He shakes his head. I pull down the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and throw it on the bed.

  “You call the preschool. Tell them we’re going to pick up Gracie on the way, okay? We have to get out of here. Before he gets to us. He knows now, that his cover his blown. We have to move fast, okay, love?”

  I’ve pulled out clothes at random from various drawers and shoved them in the case. I run into Gracie’s room and empty drawers, wardrobes, throwing everything I don’t want or need onto the floor, and scoop the rest in my arms. First aid kit. Clothes. Her favourite stuffed animal—a baby jaguar she calls ‘cutey’—I shove all of it on top of the stuff already in the case. Matt comes back, holding the phone in his hand.

  “We can’t take the phones. We’ll have to leave them behind,” I say. I snatch it from him and turn it off.

  “I just called. They’ve gone on an excursion.” Matt’s face is white.

  “Who?”

  “The kids, Gracie.”

  “An excursion? Where?”

  “To the zoo.”

  “What? Now?”

  “I forgot to tell you, and I forgot it was today. I had to sign for it the other day. It’s a birthday breakfast thing. But they’re on their way back now.”

  I pause. “Okay.”

  “What do you want to do?” he asks. “Should we wait here?”

  “We’ll have to go to them,” I say. “Did you say they’re at the zoo?”

  “They’ve left already. They’re on their way back.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. We have to leave anyway. We’ll meet them at the preschool.”

  Matt swings back into action, checking the room for things we might need, putting more things in the case.

  “What else?” I do a quick scan of every room and grab a couple of things from the bathroom.

  “That’s enough,” I say, pushing the lid down. Matt lifts the case from the bed. In the kitchen I gather the loose pages and scraps of paper from the table and fold them inside the memory book. Taped against the back cover, on the inside flap, is an envelope. It contains two thousand pounds, a driver’s licence and a never-used credit card, both in the name of Sophia Durrante. I check that everything is intact and slip it in the inside pocket of my coat. I unzip a corner of the case and push the memory book inside. Matt stares at me, astonished.

  “You really prepared for this day.”

  “I had to.”

  I check my watch. “How long before they’re back?”

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty. We should wait ten minutes.”

  “No, we’ll leave now. We’ll wait near the preschool. After we pick her up we’ll go to the car rental place, using this,” I pat my pocket, “and then—”

  I heard it moments earlier but it was far enough away to be irrelevant. But now the siren is intruding on my brain, because it sounds as if it’s right outside. I look at Matt and watch his face crumble in misery.

  “Oh, Matt.”

  Forty

  I wake up in a room with white walls and cheap beige curtains drawn across a high window. I don’t know where I am exactly, but from the smell, I am in no doubt it’s some kind of hospital.

  I rub my hands on my face. Why can’t I remember? It’s as if my brain is swimming in fog. Snatches of memory make their way through. Matt crying. Me screaming that he needs to protect Gracie. I sit up. Where’s Gracie?

  It all comes flooding back in a rush of agony. Barb had been there at our flat. She was asking me to sit down.

  “Leave me alone!” I yelled, pushing her away. I kept screaming over and over: “I am Molly Forster! Why won’t you believe me? I am Molly Forster!”

  “No, you’re not. You’re Rachel Holloway.” Her voice was soft, she meant it to soothe me, but all it did was enrage me. “That’s not me! I stole that name! I took it from the real Rachel Holloway! My name is Molly Forster, take some DNA!” I implored with them all to believe me. Matt, Barbara, the male nurses who were holding me down, one on each side, “Take a blood test, it’s a DNA match to my family!” I saw the needle go into my arm.

  I don’t know if I ever felt such despair, even with everything that has happened to me. I watched the agony on Matt’s face as they lay me down on a gurney, Barbara whispering to him, probably words of comfort. It’s going to be okay.

  It’s not, Matt, it’s not going to be okay, not now. Not anymore.

  “You’re awake!”

  Her name-tag says Dr Cavanagh. She’s smiling at me, both hands in the pockets of her white coat.

  “How long have I been here?” My tongue feels thick. My eyes dart around the room, and she hands me the plastic cup of water from the side table. I snatch it from her and greedily gulp the cool water.

  “Your psychiatrist is here. She’ll see you in a minute, I’ll just take a look at you first. How are you feeling?” She takes my wrist, presses two fingers against the veins.

  “How do you think?”

  “Confused, I know. Your pulse is a bit slow but that’s to be expected.” She checks the drip next to the bed and makes a couple of adjustments.

  I stare at the ceiling. “Where am I?”

  “St Vincent’s Psychiatrist Hospital. You’ve been here before?”

  “No. How long have I been here?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll find out.”

  I sit up. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  The door swings open and Barbara walks into the room.

  “Hello, Rachel.” She sounds more cheery than she looks. Dr Cavanagh puts the chart back at the bottom of the bed and after a brief, “Call me if you need me,” she leaves the room.

  “Where’s Grace?”

  “She’s fine, she’s with Matt. They’re staying with Matt’s mother.”

  I take a breath and feel an ache in my chest, like a stitch. I exhale slowly. I put my palm on my face, but the sobs come anyway.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  “You’re going to need some rest, you’ve had an extreme psychotic episode.”

  She sits next to me. I stare at the ceiling.

  “Why am I here?”

  She takes a moment to consider, then she says, “It seems like the podcast you’ve been working on triggered the extreme reaction you’ve been experiencing. You’ve become afflicted with a dissociative personality disorder.”

  “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “I don’t know, Rachel. It depends on your progress.”

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “We don’t use that word anymore.”

  I wipe the tears off my cheek with one hand. “What’s my name?” I ask.

  “Your name is Rachel Holloway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You mean, apart from your birth certificate? Your husband’s word?” She smiles. “We spoke to your father.”

  “My father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Australia. Matt tracked him down. He’s living in Sydney. He’s going to come over to see you.”

  “My father.”

  “He hasn’t heard from you in years,” she says, smiling. “He’s very relieved, let me tell you. He thought you were dead, Rachel. Now he finds out not just that his daughter is alive, but he has a grandchild.”

  “Oh God. How is it possible? That I would believe I’m someone else?”

  “If I knew the answer to that, I’d be a very rich woman. It’s a psychotic disorder. A person starts
to believe they’re someone else, sometimes more than one person.”

  “But a real person? Like I did?”

  “There was a German woman by the name of Ana Anderson. She’s probably the most famous case of an identity dissociation disorder. She woke up in a hospital believing she was Anastasia Romanova, the sole survivor of the ruling family murdered in Russia.”

  “That sounds familiar,” I quip, thinking of my own murdered family, but she misunderstands since it means nothing to her.

  “It’s a famous story,” she goes on, “she managed to convince distant relatives, she claimed she could speak Russian, and that she remembered her life up to the massacre in vivid detail.”

  “But it wasn’t her.”

  “No, after her death the bodies of two Romanovs were exhumed, and tests proved that she wasn’t related. But there’s no doubt she believed that she was Anastasia Romanova. Technically, she wasn’t lying.”

  I nod. “So how do I know so much about Molly? I thought I could remember in horrific detail everything that happened to that family.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not as difficult as you’d think. It was all over the news for months. You’ve had some degree of fascination for that case for a long time. That’s clear from the amount of information you’ve collected. You have newspaper clippings in your possession that date back years. After Grace was born, you experienced extreme postpartum depression. Again, your case is not unique. But when you took Grace—”

  I flinch, and she notices.

  “It was a long time ago,” I say.

  “I know. Postnatal depression can be so serious that mothers become convinced their baby is going to be taken away, or that some harm will come to them. This is what happened to you, Rachel. But every case is different and with your psychosis, you convinced yourself that you and Grace were both in danger. You remember that, don’t you?”

  I nod. I trust Barbara. She’s my psychiatrist and it’s true that I screwed up when Gracie was born. I became paranoid. I started getting anxiety attacks, and Barbara has helped me, she still does. But it’s not the truth exactly, and there’s no point in trying to explain. She’ll never understand. She’ll have me locked up if she believes that potentially, the danger to myself and my child was, is, real.