Mother Loves Me

by Abby Davies

  We reached the second last step and stopped. Patrick stood at the bottom of the stairs looking concerned. In that moment, he looked huge and almost as terrifying as Mother.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey! Slow down, girls. What’s going on?’ he said, holding up his hands.

  I sucked in a quick breath, knowing I had to get this right, hoping he was a good person. ‘Please help us. She’s not our—’

  Mother’s voice cut across mine, drowning me out, ‘DON’T LET THEM OUTSIDE, PATRICK! THEY’RE ALLERGIC TO THE LIGHT! THEY’LL DIE!’

  Patrick sighed. ‘Girls, what’s going on?’ He crouched down at the foot of the stairs and smiled sympathetically.

  I pulled Emma close to my side and tried to sound as mature and clear as I could. ‘You have to find a way to get us out of here. We need to leave. She’s not our real mother. She’s—’

  ‘Now, now, slow down there, girl. You’re scaring your little sis.’ He reached out to pat my arm but I jerked back out of his reach. His eyebrows shot upwards and he chuckled and shook his head.

  ‘Look, I get it. You have this horrid, rare disorder and it must be mad awful having to stay cooped up inside here all the time, but it’s not your mother’s fault. She has to keep you inside. It’s her job to protect you.’

  I tried to stay calm, tried to ignore Mother’s ranting from above us. ‘Please, you have to believe me. She’s not our mother. She took me from my parents ten years ago. My real name’s Polly Dalton. And she took Emma from her parents not that long ago. Surely you heard about a missing girl? It must have been in the newspaper.’

  He looked like he hadn’t heard me. His eyes were on the ceiling, his attention on Mother’s words, not mine.

  I grabbed his arm and tugged. ‘Please, Patrick, please. You have to help us. The front door and the back door are locked. All of the downstairs windows are nailed shut, but maybe—’

  ‘I’m not from around here,’ he said, looking at my hand on his arm, ‘so I don’t know about any story like the one you’re talking about, but I have to say, it all sounds pretty far-fetched, you know?’

  I let my hand drop to my side. ‘Emma, you tell him. Tell the nice man what happened to you.’

  I looked down at Emma, whose face was buried in my side. Crouching down beside her, I whispered reassuring things and stroked her back, but she burst into tears.

  ‘I wa, wa, wa, want, my, mu, mu, mummy!’ she wailed.

  Mother heard Emma and shouted, ‘Don’t worry, Little Doll, Mummy’s right here!’

  I gritted my teeth and stood up. ‘Patrick, please, I know it sounds strange – and it is – I know how strange it sounds. I believed she was my mother until only a few days ago, but I’m telling you the truth. She’s crazy. She may seem normal, but she’s not. She’s insane. She kidnapped me and she kidnapped Emma.’

  Tears of desperation streamed down my cheeks. ‘Please, Patrick, I’m begging you. Please believe me.’

  His face creased with concern. ‘Has she hurt you? Does she … hit you?’

  ‘No, but, but I want to go home, back to my real parents. I shouldn’t be here. Emma shouldn’t be here. It’s not right.’

  Patrick began to nod. He tugged on his earlobe. A frown had etched itself into his forehead making him look older. Finally, he sighed and looked me dead in the eye.

  ‘OK. I’ve heard you. I’m not saying I believe you completely, but it does seem like one helluva a big lie for such a little girl to make up … but I’m not about to go around smashing windows or dismantling them. For all I know, you being cooped up in here could have made you so desperate to get outside that you don’t care any more about being allergic to light.’

  I opened my mouth to speak but he held up his hands. ‘Hang on, hang on. What I’m saying is, I’m going to go upstairs and talk to your mother.’

  ‘She isn’t—’

  ‘OK, OK – she isn’t your mother – I get that. So I’m going to talk to her, get her side of things, then I’ll see about what’s best.’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Please don’t let her talk to you. Please just help us get out of here. You could leave right now. Go to the closest town and get the police. Bring them here. They’ll know. They’ll sort it all out, then you don’t have to do anything wrong.’

  He frowned. ‘Yeah, but you’re forgetting one little itty bitty thing: the doors are locked and she’s got the keys. How am I going to get out without breaking something?’

  The question dangled in the air like a poised blade; he was right.

  I swallowed thickly. ‘Good point. All right then, but before you talk to her, please wait a second. There’s something in the attic that will prove what I’m saying is true. Please? Is that OK? It’ll only take me five minutes.’

  He sighed. Mother had gone silent. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugging on his earlobe. ‘OK. But be quick. She’s gone quiet and it’s worrying me.’

  ‘Thank you, Patrick. Thank you so much.’

  I pulled Emma from my side and told her to sit on the stairs and wait for me. She resisted a little, but after a few reassuring words she gave in and sank to the carpet with a sob.

  Patrick followed me up the stairs. I raced up, taking them two at a time, aware that I had to be quick or he might change his mind.

  Standing on my desk chair, I opened the attic door then pulled out the ladder. Patrick helped me lower it to the ground and held it firm as I ascended quickly, my heart thumping against my ribs. I reached the opening to the attic and heard Mother’s voice, urgent and low, directed at Patrick. She must have heard us climbing the stairs. I thought about turning around and telling Patrick to ignore her, but knew she would keep talking and he would feel compelled to listen, so I focused on quickly scanning the boxes. With a horrible moment of clarity, I remembered: I had tucked the evidence inside my pillowcase! The newspaper article wasn’t up here in the attic; it was down there in my bedroom.

  Cursing my forgetfulness, I clambered back down the ladder to hear Mother urging Patrick to get the key to the spare room off me and let her out. Patrick glanced from me to the spare room, clearly torn. Before he could decide what to do, I jumped off the ladder and ran into my bedroom. I shoved my hand into the pillowcase, terrified that she had somehow found and taken my evidence. My hand found nothing, nothing but pillow and cotton, and then – paper – the article. With sweaty fingers, I pulled out the piece of newspaper. Patrick had to believe me now. He had to. The resemblance between the now me and my three-year-old self was undeniable. I had barely changed. My face was thinner and I was obviously a lot taller; yet my big, almond-shaped eyes were exactly the same. And the tiny mole was identical. That girl was me. I was that girl.

  ‘Patrick! I found it! Look!’ I ran out of my room onto the landing.

  Patrick was standing close to the spare room door, his ear pressed against the wood. He was nodding, tugging his earlobe, frowning.

  ‘Patrick?’ I said, walking towards him.

  He turned slowly. His face looked different, harder somehow. I took a step back, suddenly worried. What had she said to him? Had she convinced him not to trust me?

  ‘Patrick, please, have a look …’

  ‘Where’s the key?’ he said. ‘She’s having an asthma attack. You have to let her out now.’

  ‘She doesn’t have asthma,’ I said, thrusting the newspaper article forward, ‘Please, just look. This is proof. If you don’t believe me after looking at this, I’ll give you the key. I promise.’

  ‘Help … me,’ Mother’s voice floated through the door.

  ‘She’s lying,’ I repeated as his head jerked towards her voice.

  He snatched the paper out of my hand. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at exactly?’

  I said nothing, just watched as he studied the picture of me. His eyebrows rose a fraction and he glanced at me then back at the black-and-white photograph, at me then back at the article. His eyes darted side to side as he read the article. A few moments later, his
back straightened and his eyes widened. He slipped the article into his pocket and looked back at the spare room. He put his finger to his lips and pointed to the stairs.

  Relief exploded in my chest – he understood! He was on my side. Our side. Mine and Emma’s. We were going to get out of here.

  I wanted to scream with joy but I kept quiet and followed him down the stairs to where Emma still sat, hugging her knees. I tapped her shoulder and put my finger to my lips. Patrick beckoned us to follow him into the kitchen and we did, hand in hand, Emma looking curiously up at me through wet, swollen eyes.

  Once we were in the kitchen, Patrick said, ‘I can’t believe it – it all seems so far out – but that is you. You’re her. The girl from the paper. The one who went missing all those years ago.’

  I nodded, waited for him to take charge.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Is there a spare key anywhere? For the front or the back door?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s have a quick look. If we can find a spare key, it’ll be a helluva a lot easier to get out of here, and she’s not going anywhere, crazy bitch – excuse my French.’

  ‘I’ll look upstairs in her bedroom. You two look down here,’ I said eagerly. I’d hunted high and low before, so I knew it was unlikely we’d find a spare front or back door key, but we had to try.

  He began opening the kitchen doors, directing Emma to look in the dining room for a key. I ran upstairs, making my steps as light as possible and entered Mother’s bedroom, pausing outside the spare room, surprised to hear nothing. I wondered briefly what she was up to then refocused on the task at hand: finding a spare key.

  I hunted high and low in both wardrobes – the normal one and the crazy, doll-filled one. Nothing. The bedside table drawer yielded nothing. I had a very quick glance under the bed and under her pillows, inside her pillowcases. Nothing.

  Sighing heavily, I went back downstairs to find Patrick checking the back of the photograph of Mother and her grandfather. He shook his head when he saw me.

  ‘Looks like I’m going to have to get these boards off the windows. Do you know where she keeps her tools?’

  ‘Cupboard under the stairs, I think.’

  He headed out of the room and Emma and I followed him. This was it. We were getting out of here. I began to relax. Patrick was an adult. He was going to help us escape. I smiled at Emma and gave her a hug.

  ‘Patrick’s going to help us get out now. We’re going home!’

  She gave me a small smile and hugged me back. We watched as Patrick charged into the living room with a hammer in his hand.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ I said, pulling Emma into the room.

  He shook his head. Sweat had beaded on his brow. His fingers were trembling and he looked pale.

  ‘Patrick, are you OK?’ I said.

  ‘Yep. Just hungry.’

  Needing something to do, I dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a piece of ham out of the fridge. I left the kitchen and hurried back into the living room. Using the claws at the end of the hammer, Patrick had managed to prise out two nails. Emma sat on the floor cross-legged watching him, rocking back and forth, sucking her nightgown. I handed him the ham and he gobbled it down with unbelievable speed; I don’t think he even chewed it.

  There were fifteen more nails to go. I tried to stand still but couldn’t. My legs wanted to move. I went to stand behind Emma and stroked her hair in an effort to soothe her.

  ‘Everything’s going to be OK, Emma,’ I said. ‘You’ll be able to see your mummy very soon.’

  As I said this, excitement stirred in my chest. I was going home. I was going to get away from here. Get to see the outside.

  ‘Patrick, are there wolves in the outside?’

  To my relief, he gave me a shocked look and said, ‘Wolves haven’t roamed England for centuries. No need to fret about that.’

  I blew out the breath I’d been holding. ‘That’s good to know.’

  Patrick prised out another nail.

  Eleven more nails to go and we’d be free.

  I began to smile but my face froze; Patrick, Emma and I turned in the direction of the front door at the sound of it being unlocked. Before any of us could move, Mother slammed the door shut and locked it. She pocketed the key and looked at us with a triumphant smile on her face.

  Chapter 24

  Blood poured from her knees, soaking through the denim of her jeans. Strands of short blond hair clung like yellow spiders’ legs to her sweaty cheeks and her hands were grazed. She smiled but the smile did not meet her eyes, which were wider than normal and distant, like they were not quite in this moment, or even like they were not quite human. Those wide, crazed eyes burned into mine and I took an involuntary step back as Patrick stepped in front of me and Emma, his arms relaxed by his sides, the hammer left on the edge of the window sill. He was only an inch or so taller than Mother, but far broader, far stronger. If it came to it – which I desperately hoped it wouldn’t – he would beat her in a fight.

  The silence stretched on, infinite and strangely deafening. I thought about speaking, just to break the tension, but I couldn’t find the right words. Words seemed to have shrivelled up and rolled deep down into the fuzzy dark part of my mind. Emma’s hand slipped into mine and I drew her close, stroking her hair. I wanted to whisper something reassuring to her but again words ran from me, spiralling down, down, down …

  It was Patrick who finally spoke. ‘Let’s all calm down and talk, shall we?’

  Mother’s eyes shifted from mine to his, remaining oddly wide. She tilted her head to the side and smiled sweetly, smoothing down her wild hair. ‘What’s there to talk about? Mirabelle played a silly little prank because she was trying to show off and everything’s got out of hand. Why don’t I go and cook us a lovely roast dinner, crackling and all?’

  ‘My name’s not Mirabelle,’ I said, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. ‘It’s Polly. Polly Dalton.’

  Mother’s whole body jerked as if she’d been shot. Somehow her false smile stayed on her face; she didn’t even look at me. She took a small step towards Patrick. ‘See, Patrick, she’s not well. She’s very, very confused. It’s not her fault and I try to be patient, but sometimes it really gets to me. She has these strange ideas – did she tell you I’m not her mother? Did she tell you that I kidnapped her? She’s very muddled up, bless her, and I know I shouldn’t lose my temper and get so angry, but I’m only human and dealing with her on my own has been hard. So hard, really.

  ‘Poor little dot was diagnosed with light allergy disorder when she was three years old. The doctors couldn’t explain what caused it or how it came along. I cried for I don’t know how many days. I didn’t know what to do – Mirabelle’s father, bless his soul, died when she was only two so that left just me on my own to cope with it all. Luckily, my grandfather left this cottage to me, along with enough money to keep us going without me having to work, so I’ve home-schooled Mirabelle ever since. She’s such a brave, resilient child, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise that not being able to go outside has finally got to her, but, as you can see, it clearly has …’

  Her eyes shifted to mine, the fire and anger gone in an instant. Now she was all love and warmth and kindness. ‘Mirabelle, sweetheart, I’m sorry I lost my temper. Please forgive me, and I should not have focused so much on Clarabelle these past weeks. I know you’ve been confused and maybe even a little jealous, but everything’s going to go back to how it was, OK, Little Doll?’

  I didn’t say anything. I was too angry to speak. I glared at her, unable to say all that I wanted to, unable to correct her lies.

  Patrick put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the newspaper article. With slow hands, he unfolded and smoothed out the paper.

  ‘How do you explain this?’ he said, thrusting the paper towards her.

  She frowned as if confused and stepped forward to get a closer look at my evidence. A moment passed and another and another. He
r head was bowed over the article so I couldn’t see her face. I wondered what she was thinking; she must know her lies were blown; she must know Patrick would never believe her now. I tried to predict what she would do now that she knew it was impossible to get Patrick on her side, but she was hard to predict. I had never been able to put myself in her shoes and think forward to her next move. Never. Again I found myself stuck in uncertainty.

  Patrick glanced round at me and gave me a reassuring smile. I nodded back and pulled Emma even closer. We were getting out of here soon. I just had to be patient.

  Mother looked up, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Why that was my friend’s little girl who went missing all those years ago. She was the pure image of Mirabelle, so I can see why, in her distress and confusion, poor Mirabelle thinks that’s her.’ She looked back at me, her eyes welling up with tears, her face crumpling with misery. ‘Is that why you’ve been staying away from me the last few days? You poor little thing – you thought that I …’ she trailed off, her wet eyes searching Patrick’s.

  ‘What about Emma?’ Patrick said, although he sounded less certain of himself now.

  ‘Emma?’ she said, clearly confused.

  At last, I found my words. Rage and fear burst out of me in one hot flow, ‘You kidnapped me! You kidnapped Emma! You’re lying now! You’re insane. Anyone can take one look at that photograph and know it’s me!’

  Patrick withdrew his outstretched arm. I could tell he was examining the article. Horror crept up my spine – was he doubting it?

  Mother lowered her voice, making it sound soft and soothing: ‘Mirabelle, sweetie, calm down. This isn’t doing your health any good. Come with me and I’ll tuck you up in bed.’

  I stepped forward and grabbed Patrick’s arm. ‘Surely you don’t believe her? Patrick? Please—’

  ‘Ask Clarabelle,’ Mother said quietly.

  Patrick looked down at me and shifted his weight. His fingers tugged his earlobe – a habit that I suddenly found the most irritating thing on earth. He shook his head, ‘I’m sorry, but …’