My Name is Anna

by Lizzy Barber

  ‘What?’ I ask eventually, plucking a P from the bag and flipping an X and O around to make ‘pox’.

  ‘You know they’ll be here soon?’

  ‘May I swap these, please?’ The cream tiles in my palm look like fragments of bone.

  ‘Why won’t you talk about it?’ he asks.

  I take the bag myself and concentrate on the rattle of pieces as I pluck out a new pair. ‘Foxed.’ I spread the letters out on the board. ‘Double letter score on the X. Thirty-two points, please.’

  ‘Honey. You haven’t even mentioned your family since the call. What is it?’

  I finger the remaining tiles on my rack. My family. I chew the unfamiliar words around in my mouth like a hard piece of gum.

  The idea of this unit, fully formed, has existed for me only in some sort of alternate universe, something I didn’t quite think I would actually grasp hold of. But now they are a reality. They are coming for me. And I have a sister. Rosie. And a brother. Rob. What would it have been like, growing up with them – being a big sister? Would I have argued with my sister? Got mad at her for stealing my clothes? Taught her how to wear make-up and how to flirt with boys? Would I have loved my little brother, like William and his sisters, or found him annoying and exasperating and told him to get lost? I try to insert myself into their lives, imagining scenarios with my newly formed family of five. But I can’t seem to make the image stick.

  I spoke to her. My mother. They held the phone to my ear and I heard her English drawl breaking through the hysteria that kept overwhelming her, but it was like there was a disconnect between the woman in my mind and the one at the other end of the phone, a disconnect that left me feeling strangely numb.

  They tell me not to worry, that I’ll see her soon, in person.

  They don’t know that I saw Mamma.

  I knew she was there, in the hospital. I knew, from the fragments I’d gathered, that after she shot Father Paul, she’d gone back up to the attic, picked up all of those little white pills and taken them herself – every last one. She was slumped by the chair when they found her, the window still open. They got to her just in time.

  So I waited, until there was no one around. Unhooked my IV myself, ignoring the spots of blood that made the bile rise in my throat, and slipped into the corridor, my presence camouflaged by the beeping machines, the dull smell of disinfectant. The cops sitting outside the door made it obvious which room was hers. They were both asleep; I could see it from the slow rise and fall of their chests, the way their arms crossed around themselves and their heads lolled against their shoulders. I came right up to the door and they didn’t even move. Then I raised myself on tiptoes, pressed my face against the glass panel. And I looked.

  She seemed so small, against all that white. I’ve never seen her look so small. The machines, the screens whose wavy green lines mark the weak passage between dead and alive, were so at odds with the woman whose strong arms have wielded rakes and pulled up weeds. Pointed a gun; fired. I thought that she was asleep, too, but then she turned her head and, as if the last thread of maternal instinct was tugging at her, she looked back.

  ‘Go on.’ William’s voice intrudes. ‘You know you can tell me anything.’

  He watches me, expectantly, so I force out the hasty response, ‘What if they don’t like me?’

  He takes me into him, stroking the back of my head, and planting long-held-back kisses on my cheeks and forehead. And I let him. ‘Oh honey, how could you ever think that? How could they not?’ He draws his arms tightly around me and my fingers flex and curl, resisting the urge to push him away.

  Because I know this is what he needs: to overwhelm me with his affection, to suffocate me with love, to feel that he is helping. So there’s no need for him to know the other thought, the one that stutters inside me and makes me feel like I am in the middle of the ocean.

  Because I’m not just scared that they won’t like me. I’m scared that it’s me who won’t like them.

  ROSIE

  30

  It’s amazing how quickly you can get to the other side of the world when the world wants you to get there.

  A plane is put on standby. Bags are thrown together. Rob is fetched from school. We are on our way to Florida. We travel with Mark, our spokesman, and Sarah, the director of the trust, everyone high on nervous energy and talking in jagged, breathy voices.

  It’s all too weird for me to take in, the fact that I’m also flying long distance for the first time I can remember, let alone that I’m doing so in a private plane. Dad tried to tell them we’d be fine on a regular passenger jet, but Sarah touched his arm indulgently, ‘David, we’d never get past the press.’

  Various people have patted me on the head. Told me what a Clever Girl I Am. How Brave. The photograph is apparently a Key Piece Of Evidence; taken away to be logged. The place in the photograph: Alachua – I didn’t realise that’s what it was at the time – is where she is, where she’s been all this time. Hidden in plain sight.

  But I don’t feel brave. A tiny, tiny part of me, a part that will never say so out loud, is disappointed. That I couldn’t have done more; couldn’t have found her myself. And yet found her we have. At least my discovery will ensure that the people who did this to her won’t get away with it.

  On the flight, Sarah gives Mum something to calm her down. ‘My husband’s a nervous flier; I come prepared.’ She hands her a round blue pill from a box marked ‘Diazepam’. That, plus the glass of whisky, sends her to sleep before we’re in the air.

  Dad folds and unfolds the paper without reading it, eventually throwing it to the side and spending the rest of the flight with his arms crossed, giving an occasional shake of his head and muttering, ‘Right there, the whole time,’ under his breath.

  Fifteen years of searching, and she was only an hour or so away from where she was taken. I picture the place where Emily has grown up, north-west Florida, with palm trees and sandy beaches, until Dad does a Google image search, and we see springs and alligators instead. I can barely begin to imagine what her life must have been like; how different it must have been from mine in London. How do I even begin knowing her?

  I ask Sarah, tentatively, if they’ve found the church leader, Father Paul. ‘And what about the church, The Lilies?’

  She gives me an indulgent smile over the laptop she is tapping away at. ‘We don’t know the full details of anything at the moment, Rosie sweetheart. We’re just overwhelmed by the fact that your sister is alive and well.’

  When we step out of the plane, I’m hit with a whack of humidity, and a sweet, grassy smell of plant life that lingers in the air.

  ‘That old familiar Florida heat.’ Mark steps out behind me, agitating his shirt collar.

  We’re in a small, regional airport, barely half an hour away from where Emily is staying. We’re met off the plane by a member of the British consulate, a woman in a tight black trouser suit despite the heat, who flew up herself from Miami earlier today. ‘Welcome to Gainesville. I’m Diana,’ she says in a brusque Scottish accent, handing each of us a bottle of water and ushering us into a long black car that’s waiting right there on the runway.

  In the car, she is businesslike, talking through details, the proceedings, paperwork. I watch Mum trying to take it all in through the last of her medicated fug.

  At last Dad holds up his hands. ‘Do you think we could save all this for tomorrow? At the moment, we’re focusing on seeing our daughter.’

  Chastened, Diana pursing her lips together, puts her laptop back in her bag.

  It’s 9 p.m. in Florida, but it’s two in the morning in London, and my head is swimming, not with tiredness necessarily, but with a foggy sense of displacement. My mouth is dry and has a tinny taste in it from the air conditioning on the plane, whatever air freshener they used. My eyes feel as if I’ve been in the pool for too long, raw and itchy.

  Rob’s been pretty silent since he was picked up from school, taking it all in with his normal stoicism
. I give him an elbow from my seat next to him. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he yawns. ‘Fucking weird though, isn’t it?’

  Fucking weird doesn’t even start to cover it.

  When the car finally comes to a halt, we’re on a residential street that looks like something out of a TV show: identikit, low-slung houses with fenced-in front gardens and wide, tree-lined pavements. A few of the houses have lights on in them, and I wonder how many of them know what is going on just a few feet away. My question is answered as, abruptly, hands knock on the car windows, and faces try to peer in through the tinted glass.

  ‘Bloody hacks,’ Diana mutters.

  Mark must see my body sharpen in alarm, because he suddenly leaps into control. ‘OK, people,’ he says, leaning forward and taking everyone into his eyeline. ‘It’s going to get a little crazy for a couple of seconds, but then we’re going to shut the door and it’s gone, right?’

  We each nod, ignoring the shouts from the press outside, ‘David, Susanne, is that you?’ ‘Do you have a statement?’ ‘How do you feel?’

  Next to Mark, Sarah has her phone pressed to her ear, talking, by the sound of it, to someone inside the house. ‘Mm-hm, on my signal.’

  ‘So, everyone,’ Mark continues, ‘get your things together, then we’re going to go: me, David, Rob, Susanne, Rosie, Sarah and finally Diana. Everyone keep your heads down; feel free to put a coat or a jumper over you if you’d prefer; and move straight towards the door. Pretend there’s no one there. Are you ready?’

  Yes, we all nod.

  ‘Sarah?’

  She nods and says, ‘OK, we’re coming. Now.’

  ‘Go,’ says Mark. He pushes open the car door, and the muffled voices become a sudden roar, battering me from both sides as we move as one towards the house, shielding our eyes from the flash of cameras, and our bodies from smartphones thrust in our faces. Looking up, I can see a door open in front of us, a figure propping it ajar, and I propel myself towards it until I am inside and press myself against the nearest wall, trying to get my breath back. My skin is damp with sweat, and adrenaline is pumping through me, making my arms and legs feel all quivery. The door shuts behind Diana, suffocating the noise like a candle being snuffed out, and our party look from one to another with wide, dazed expressions.

  When the shock of the outside world has subsided, a woman comes towards us. She’s tall and slim, with auburn hair tied back into a ponytail, a heart-shaped face and high, rounded cheekbones that immediately give a warmth to her features. She looks straight at Mum. ‘Susanne?’ She pronounces it Soo-zayne.

  Mum nods. Without speaking, the woman throws her arms around her, pulling her into a thick hug.

  ‘Well, it’s an honour to meet you all; it truly is.’ She steps back, but keeps hold of Mum’s shoulders. ‘I’m Hilary, William’s mother.’ Mum blinks, confused, as if she is mentally going through a contacts list of all the people we have met in these few short hours to work out who William is again. ‘Her fiancé.’ Mum breathes in a mixture of pleasure and shock. We knew this; we were told on the way here that Emily is engaged, and that it is his parents’ house where she is being looked after, but the realisation hits her physically all the same. Hilary threads an arm through the elbow of a man next to her; he has an equally kind expression, and a quiet, confident air to the way his body moves. ‘And this here’s my husband, Timothy. He’s a preacher over in Newberry.’

  He reaches out and shakes everyone’s hands. ‘She really is a special girl,’ he says, ‘you’re very lucky. We all love her to bits – especially my son, of course.’

  I can see Dad is already tiring of all the pleasantries. He’s moving from foot to foot, and glancing anxiously around the house as if expecting Emily to pop up from a cupboard at any moment. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, but could we …?’

  Hilary clutches a hand to her chest. ‘Lord, what on earth was I thinking? Go on, go! She’s upstairs, second door to the right. Will might be with her, but he hasn’t slept a wink since she was found, so he may well be having a rest. She’s been awfully tired, the poor thing, but I know she’ll be so overjoyed to see you.’ She ushers everyone else with her, into the kitchen I can see off to the right. ‘We’ll leave you to your privacy.’

  They’re gone. And for the first time in what seems like for ever, we are alone again; for the last time a family of four. We stand for a moment in silence, staring at each other. Then Dad reaches out and pulls us into a hug. I feel Mum shaking beside me, a crippling mass of emotions.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Dad asks, and Mum gulps down a sob beside him.

  ‘I’ve been ready for fifteen years,’ she says, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.

  Together, we climb the stairs. When we reach the closed door, second on the right, Dad, Rob and I stand back: we all know who should enter first.

  The room is lit by lamplight, and I expect to see her lying in bed, but I cast my eyes around the room and instead find her seated by the window, looking out at the street below. She’s thin – I can make out the points of her shoulders under the floral cotton bathrobe she’s wearing – with mid-length blonde hair that’s tied at the nape of her neck. When she hears the door, she turns, and I can’t help but scrutinise her neck, her jawline, her face, finding hints of all of us within them.

  She stands up, and I can feel Mum urging herself to run across the room and pull her into us, but instead she stiffens her limbs, letting my sister come to us. She walks slowly, as if it’s still an effort for her, and when she moves I see bandages peeking out the bottom of her sleeves.

  As she comes closer, she takes in each of us in turn, her eyes boring into us as she assesses our features one by one. I wonder if she is doing the same as me, looking for hints, for definite signs, that we really are her family. I try to read her expression. Her eyebrows have just a hint of a frown in them, and her brown eyes seem to be saying all kinds of things: curiosity, fear, maybe even a hint of anger.

  It all seems so ludicrous. That she is really here.

  My sister.

  Pictures flash into my mind: the baby in the pharmacy, the toddler at her second birthday, the composite sketches that never quite grasped ‘her’. All of them more familiar, somehow more real, than the girl standing in front of me now.

  And I don’t know if we can let go of all the trauma of the last fifteen years overnight. I am not so foolish as to think that this new, unimaginable present can whitewash over the past. But now, at last, we have a future. A future with Emily in it.

  She is right before us. I can smell the lavender on her skin, fresh and powdery. And something else too – something faintly chemical. We stand in silence, no one knowing what to do, or what to say.

  Finally, I see her shoulders twitch. Her arm moves as if going for a handshake, but then she seems to think better of it, and it flutters back to her side.

  Beside me, I hear the breath clutch in Mum’s throat. And then she’s rushing into the room, arms outstretched, closing the remaining gap between us and her. Strangled by sobs, she clutches Emily to her, squeezing so tight she may never let go. Dad encircles them both, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her ears.

  And I watch my sister. I see the rise and fall of her shoulders, grappling against my parents’ embrace. I see her eyes flutter open and close, her lips part. And then, for the first time in my living memory, I hear her voice.

  ‘My name …’ she swallows, addressing all of us and none of us at once, ‘my name is Anna.’

  There once was a little girl called Emily, whose parents loved her very much. They took her on a trip, far away to a magical land where machines flew and emerald glitter sparkled in the air. But when they got there, the little girl was taken away; stolen by a woman who wore two faces, who gave the girl a magic potion, to make her forget who she was. And the potion transformed her into another little girl. A girl called Anna.

  Over time, Anna’s memories of Emily faded away. The wo
man who stole her became her world. And together they were happy.

  But happiness is fragile, especially when it’s built on secrets.

  And so Anna had to be someone else entirely.

  Learning and unlearning yourself is a strange thing.

  I must approach everything anew; parse each decision or thought with the greatest intensity. The person I am no longer knows what I like or dislike, what I want or need. A simple question makes my palms sweat. An open one leaves me numb.

  But they have all been so very patient, with their encouragement, and their aphorisms; their ‘you’re doing so well’s and their ‘one day at a time’s.

  And I am grateful. But I am drowning in their love.

  I wake in the night, feel the weight of it pressing against my rib cage, filling my lungs. Choking me. Missing her. I want so badly to be what they want. Who they want. But who they want is Emily. And I don’t know who Emily is.

  And so I tell myself the story of my past. Because it is easier. Because it is the only thing I have that draws all the threads of my life together.

  Mother. Father. Sister. Brother. William.

  And her.

  Mamma.

  Emily, Anna, either, neither: whoever I am, I have been woven together from the scraps of their narrative. Her narrative.

  Because she is part of my story.

  She will always be.

  Part of me.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A year ago, a phone call disrupted my morning routine in the most unbelievable way.

  To the judges of the Daily Mail Penguin Random House First Novel Competition – Sandra Parsons, Simon Kernick, Selina Walker and Luigi Bonomi – thank you for believing in My Name is Anna, and for giving me such an incredible opportunity.

  Selina, thank you for your advice and guidance throughout – indeed to the entire Cornerstone team, especially Emily, Clare, Khan, Sonny, Becky, Elle, Ellie and Rachel – for the hard work you have done and continue to do on this book. Alison Rae, my copy-editor – thank you for your sharp eyes and for flagging my complete inability to count dates; a saving grace!