In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  “Why wouldn’t you want us to meet her?” Mr. Fuller’s brow wrinkled in concern.

  “Because we’re not at that stage.”

  The man leaned in. “What stage are you in?” When Cash didn’t answer, he said, “Do you need … protection, because…”

  “No.” Cash realized his huge screwup in telling Mr. Fuller Chloe’s name. When the truth came out, he’d realize Cash had been dating his daughter.

  “Look, I know what happens after you’ve been dating awhile, so…”

  “I gotta … go.” Cash left.

  Driving to Chloe’s, he allowed himself one minute of worrying how his dating her would play out. Hell, if she was Emily, the Fullers would probably want her to date better.

  The farther he got from the Fullers’ house, the less he worried about that and the more he thought about Chloe. About how wonderful last night had been. He’d barely slept, remembering every touch, every laugh, every brush of her body against his. He’d never felt like this. Yeah, he’d been with girls. Enjoyed being with girls. But it wasn’t the same. This was more intense. Yet somehow more comfortable.

  Almost to her house, he realized he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Chloe’s mom. His gut said she didn’t like him.

  Pulling up in front of Chloe’s house, he pushed back his concerns. People are just like dogs, they can smell your fear!

  When he walked onto the porch, he saw Chloe’s mom through the window. She was wearing too-big jeans, a T-shirt, and a bandanna. She looked sick. God, he hoped her doctor was right about her being okay. He knocked. Ms. Holden opened the door.

  “Hi.” He offered what he hoped was a fearless smile.

  “I’m coming,” he heard Chloe call out.

  “Come in,” Ms. Holden said.

  “How are you doing?” He walked into the living room.

  “Okay.” She studied him with that look again. As if he wasn’t good enough. And she was right, but …

  Chloe walked out frowning and practically rushed him out the door.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She glanced back at the house, as if worried her mom would hear. “No.”

  No? They got in his Jeep. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Her words sank to the bottom of his chest. “Did I do something wrong last night?”

  “No. I mean the Emily thing.”

  “What happened?”

  She fell back against the seat. “I just don’t know how the Fullers will react or what they’ll expect from me.”

  He started driving. “You said last night you wanted to do this.”

  “I do, but…”

  “They’ll be ecstatic to have found you, and I don’t know what you mean about what they’ll expect.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To the park, to talk.” Silence followed them until they arrived. When he turned off the engine, he looked at her. He wanted to kiss her, but it didn’t feel right. “Why are you worried about this?”

  “It’s just…”

  “Are you scared your parents are the ones who kidnapped you?” As much as he wanted to believe it wasn’t them, and even as much as her perfect childhood didn’t paint them as the type to kidnap children, he had doubts.

  “No!” she snapped. “I told you my parents wouldn’t do that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She exhaled. “What if they blame me for not remembering them? For not finding my way home? Or what if they expect me to automatically love them like I love my mom and dad? I don’t know them.”

  “Blame you? You weren’t even three years old. And they’ll be so happy you’re alive that they won’t judge you for what you feel.”

  She wrung her hands in her lap. “What if they try to make me go live with them? I can’t leave Mom. I won’t.”

  “You’re almost eighteen. No one can make you do anything.”

  “They could still try and—”

  “Why don’t we not worry about that now. Let’s figure out if you’re really Emily first.”

  She bit down on her lip. “Only if you promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “That even if I end up being the Fullers’ child, it’s my choice if I want to tell them.”

  “What? Are you saying you might not tell them?”

  “I just don’t know how my mom’s going to take it. I need to know the truth, but I can’t let this hurt her. And…”

  “And what?” he asked, seeing her eyes tear up.

  “I feel … disloyal. As if wanting to know my real parents is like saying they weren’t enough. As if everything they’ve done for me didn’t matter.”

  “You’re not saying that.”

  “I know, but Mom’s hurting so much right now.”

  Cash stared at her. “You’re just scared.”

  “Yes, I’m scared. This whole thing is screwed up.”

  “Okay, I get it, but you can’t keep this from them.” Damn it, Chloe wasn’t seeing the whole picture. “You think the Fullers aren’t hurting? Do you know how many times I’ve heard her cry? If you’re their daughter, they deserve to know. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Neither did my parents,” she said. “And I’ll tell them eventually. I might even tell them when we find out. It’s just … if Mom is still like this, then I want to make sure she can handle it.” She sighed. “Please, Cash. Promise me you’ll leave that up to me.”

  21

  He gave me his word. But I can tell he wasn’t happy doing it. We leave the park and go to Whataburger. We order and are just sitting down when my phone dings with a text.

  It’s from Dad. I swipe it. An image appears. It takes a second to figure out what it is, but when I do, it pulls my heartstrings.

  It’s my room. My room! He moved my things back. Then I read the text: Paid car insurance. Sorry it was late. I smile, but tears fill my eyes.

  “What is it?” Cash asks.

  “My dad gave me my room back.” I try to blink away my tears. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ve seen me cry how many times? I know boys hate that.” I make a face.

  “I don’t mind. Not if a girl has a real reason. You’ve got a lot of stuff going on right now.” He looks down at his drink and turns his straw. “Did you not cry in front of Alex?”

  I recall when Dad left and even when Mom got cancer, I mostly bottled everything up inside. Only once did I really lose it in front of Alex. It was when Mom was diagnosed. He’d picked me up, and when I got in the car, I started crying.

  He hugged me real awkward-like and said he’d understand if I didn’t want to go to his house. Which was his way of saying he was okay if we didn’t have sex. At the time, I saw that as support. But now I recall how he took me home an hour after that. It was as if he didn’t know how to deal with my being upset.

  I compare that to how I’ve lost it in front of Cash several times. Then I remember how I apologized for barfing my problems all over him. What was it he said? I can handle a little barf.

  Glancing up, I realize Cash is waiting for an answer. “No. Alex didn’t rate too high on giving or being sympathetic.”

  “I knew I didn’t like him.” There’s a tease to Cash’s tone, but also a touch of truth.

  Our cheeseburgers and fries come.

  I eat a fry and feel ketchup drip onto the corner of my mouth. I grab a napkin, but Cash reaches over, swipes it away. Our eyes meet, hold. The memory of kissing him last night, of his hands on my bare back, brings a warmth to my chest. And from the heat in his green eyes, I know he’s thinking about it, too.

  * * *

  The following Sunday, I’m getting dressed to go out with Cash again. This week I’ve been caught in a roller coaster of emotions. Worry about Mom, about Dad, about being Emily. I’ve even started waking up feeling afraid. Almost as if I’m reliving something. I try hard to ignore that. No use going to the past to
find problems. A past that may or may not be nothing more than a child’s imagination. I have plenty of problems in the present to hash over. That said, when I’m with Cash, I’m walking on clouds.

  Because Mr. Fuller took some time off work, Cash wasn’t able to get his hands on the file until this morning when the Fullers went out for breakfast. Cash is more upset about the delay than I am. Not that I don’t want to do this, but Mom’s not getting any better. I even offered to walk with her, but she said no.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asks when I step out of my room.

  “I’m hanging out with Cash. I told you yesterday.”

  “I forgot.” She reclines on the sofa.

  She’s forgetting a lot lately.

  I hear Cash pull up, and because Mom’s still in her pajamas, I meet him outside.

  We kiss when I get in his Jeep. “You okay?” he asks.

  He’s good at picking up on my moods. “Yeah. Just Mom. She’s still down.”

  “Sorry.” He heads to the print shop. “I downloaded everything on a stick. Their printer has a memory card on it.”

  Their printer. I look at him. “You always say ‘their house’ or ‘their printer,’ as if it’s not yours.”

  “It’s not mine,” he says as if he doesn’t understand what I mean.

  “I know, but it’s as if … Are you not comfortable there?”

  He hesitates. “I’m comfortable.”

  “But you don’t feel at home, do you?” And if he doesn’t, I know I won’t. Not that I’d go live with them, but is that the type of people they are?

  The question seems to annoy him. “They are taking care of me for the state.”

  I try to grasp what he’s saying. “So they treat you like a foster kid?”

  He frowns. “I am a foster kid.” His tone yanks at my heartstrings.

  He pulls up at the store and parks. Then he looks at me. “They don’t treat me badly. They’re too good to me. I just don’t belong there.”

  “Why don’t you belong?”

  He stares out the windshield. “They deserve their real kid. They deserve you.”

  “We don’t know I’m Emily.”

  “Okay, they deserve someone like you. Someone good.”

  “You aren’t good?”

  His frown deepens. “You don’t get it, because you haven’t been in foster care.”

  She had been, according to her mom, but she didn’t remember, so it didn’t count.

  “This is the fourth family I’ve been with. You learn not to start thinking of it as your home, because things change.”

  A lump forms in my chest. “I can’t imagine growing up that way.”

  “It’s not … I’m just explaining why things are different. The last thing I want is for you to start feeling sorry for me. I hate that.” He gets out of his Jeep.

  I do the same. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” I lie.

  We walk to the back counter. “Can I help you?” the young guy asks me.

  Cash speaks up. “I need to print some copies off my memory stick.”

  “Yeah.” The guy’s gaze stays on me. “I can do it for you.”

  “No. I got it,” Cash says. “I’ve done it before.”

  The guy nods and finally looks at Cash. “I’ll turn on number one.”

  In a few seconds, Cash connects his memory stick to the computer and types on the keyboard. The printer starts spitting out papers.

  Cash slips his hand in mine. “You want to go grab something to drink, and we can go through them?”

  “Sure. But I need to be home by four. I have some homework.”

  “You should have brought it. We could’ve done it together.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t want Mom to be alone that long.”

  “Okay.” The computer stops printing. Cash gathers up the papers and takes his memory stick.

  “I can check you out,” the guy behind the counter says.

  “I’ll pay up front.” As we go, Cash whispers, “I needed a chisel to get his eyes off you.”

  “What?”

  “That guy had the hots for you.”

  “Did not,” I say.

  Fifteen minutes later, we sit at a small diner and he pulls the papers from the envelope and puts them into two stacks. “I got two copies so we can each have one.”

  I watch the stacks grow with what looks like copies of newspaper articles. Some of them have baby pictures of Emily Fuller. I’m shocked again at how much they look like the images that were in my grandmother’s album.

  He finally has two equal stacks, but he’s holding one extra sheet. “Crap. We’re missing one.”

  “You think it spilled out of the backseat?”

  “I hope so.” He sounds concerned.

  “Is it a problem if we lost it?”

  “No, it’s just … you should never leave crumb trails?”

  “Crumb trails?”

  He glances up. “Just something my dad used to say.”

  It’s the first time since we met that I’ve heard him mention his dad in casual conversation. “Do you miss him?”

  “Huh?” His brow tightens.

  “You mentioned your dad, and I … I wondered if you still miss him.”

  “No.” His tone is brust.

  I remember Paul mentioning the rumor that Cash had killed his dad. I didn’t believe it then, and Cash told me his father died in a car crash, but for some reason, he hadn’t seemed … mournful.

  “Was he a good father?”

  “No.” He studied the sheet in his hand.

  A sharp pain hits my chest. “What did he do?”

  Cash looks up. “If there was a rule book on how to be a good father, he never read it.”

  I want to ask for specifics, but my gut says he doesn’t want to give any more. I guess if something really bad had happened, I wouldn’t want to talk about it either. Then again, something kind of did. I was either given away because someone didn’t want me, or I was kidnapped. Either way, it’s bad.

  Cash studies the stacks of paper. “There has to be something in here to help us.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Something that might … trigger your memory.”

  I flinch remembering waking up afraid. Do I want my memory triggered? I do. I don’t. I rub the back of my neck.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m scared, but it’s nuts. I’m not scared for me today. It’s as if I’m terrified for me when I was young. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I think it does.” He rests his hand on mine. “Sometimes the past haunts you.”

  I look at him and I get a glimpse of his pain. “What haunts you?”

  He shakes his head. “Let’s get working on this. My gut says something in here will show us where to look for answers.” He picks up a sheet. “Remember I told you we needed to talk to the nanny?”

  “Yeah.” I lean a little closer.

  “I was reading one article on the computer that implied the police suspected she was part of the kidnapping.”

  “Was she arrested?”

  “No, they didn’t have proof. What’s weird is that she even described a man who she said spoke to you at the park that day. I’m guessing the police didn’t believe her. I’m hoping to find something in here that helps us find her because with her name, Carmen Gonzales, she might as well be Jane Smith. And I want to either call her or, even better, go see her to ask questions.”

  The thought scares me. “But if she was part of the kidnapping, she won’t tell us anything.”

  “If she refuses to talk, that’ll tell us something.”

  “But isn’t she going to wonder why you’re asking questions? You can’t tell her about me.”

  “I won’t. I’ll make something up. Like maybe my sister went missing at the same time and I’m looking for any similarities in the kidnapping. Or I had a foster sister who thought she was Emily Fuller and she’s in California now and I told her I’d look int
o it.”

  His answer stops me. “Wow. You’re good at—” I almost say lying. “—coming up with stories.”

  “I told you we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  I pick up a sheet that has a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller on it. Some of them are the same articles I read at the library. “I used to wonder what my real parents looked like. And when I’d meet other kids who kind of looked like me, I’d wonder if they were my siblings. If my parents gave me away, maybe they gave other kids away. Up until I was, like, eight or nine, every time Mom or Dad would get upset with me, I’d worry they’d give me away like my other parents.”

  I breathe around the heavy lump in my chest and realize that was probably what Cash felt like all his life, too.

  “So you always knew you were adopted? It’s not like they just told you one day?”

  “I don’t ever remember not knowing.” My mind takes me back, back to a collage of I’m-adopted memories. Most of them painful. “In the second grade, my teacher was pregnant. One day, I came home crying because she seemed so happy to have the baby in her belly, and I was afraid my mom couldn’t love me as much as my teacher was going to love her baby, because I was never in her belly.”

  “What did your mom say?” he asked.

  “That a person loves with their heart, and you don’t have to be in someone’s belly to be in their heart. She asked me if I loved her less because I knew I wasn’t in her belly.”

  He dropped his hand on mine. “Sounds like she said the right thing.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “Yeah, she always said the right thing. They love me. But … I still questioned it. There was always that empty spot.” I put my hand in the center of my chest. “When Dad left and Mom and I came here, I felt it even more.” I swallow. “I think that’s what I want to come from all this. To not feel this spot anymore.”

  He squeezes my hand. “We can do it.”

  His tone is so caring, his smile so assuring, that I know I never got this from Alex. I lean forward and kiss him. He kisses me back.

  When it ends, we’re both smiling. I put my hand on his chest. “What can I do to help fill your spot?”

  He looks surprised. “I don’t have one.”

  I don’t argue with him, but I know it’s a lie. I’m pretty sure his spot is bigger than mine.