Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

  It never worked, and as I grew older, I made peace with the situation. Maybe there were things about my father she didn’t want me to know. Maybe it was easier for her to pretend he never existed. After a while, it didn’t bother me anymore. The not knowing. I was used to the dynamic of Mom and me against the world. I preferred it, really. But again, I can’t tell the police that.

  “Marion?”

  My mind is wandering, and Carmen’s waiting for an answer.

  “She never told me anything about him. Even when I asked. I don’t know anything. Sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” Carmen says, her tone kinder.

  I clear my throat, handing Ava a block just out of her reach. “It’s overwhelming having to sift through my entire life in a matter of minutes.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re talking now. It’s better to get the emotional stuff out of the way. When the police arrive this afternoon, it needs to be all facts.” Carmen shifts in her seat, placing her hand over mine. “Really, you’ve done nothing wrong here. Even if what they’re saying about Eileen is true—”

  “Do you think it’s true?” I stare at her, hoping she’ll be honest. Although, honesty is hard in this complicated situation. She’s my mother, and even I don’t know if I believe what they’re saying about her. I know I don’t want to believe it.

  “It’s never my responsibility to decide whether a person did the crime they’re accused of committing. My job is to argue reasonable doubt. I find the holes in the prosecution’s case and go from there.”

  “Do you think there is reasonable doubt? Are there holes in the case?”

  “You already know the police are alleging your mother’s birth name is Sarah Paxton. There has not been any sign of that woman since the late eighties. Her last known whereabouts were in the New Hutton area. That’s where Caroline Parker was kidnapped. She was only three months old. It was a media circus at the time. Bruce Parker was found dead at the scene. Trauma to the head.”

  “That’s all they have? That Mom might have gone by the name Sarah Paxton and lived in the same area?”

  “They’re comparing her DNA and fingerprints to what was found on the scene back then. Results could take a few more days. Other than that, they’re trying to find out as much as they can about Eileen’s past and compare it to Sarah’s.”

  Good luck with that, I think. Even I’m unsure about Mom’s history. It never seemed important until now.

  “And they think I’m Baby Caroline?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence fills the room.

  “Why now? It’s been so long.”

  “Any case that big is always a priority. Also, the parents were wealthy. The mother—” Carmen’s eyes dart to the left. I know what she’s thinking. Your mother. Maybe. “Mrs. Parker named Sarah Paxton as a suspect from the beginning. The two women met at a counseling center where Mrs. Parker worked. She believes Sarah developed an unhealthy obsession with her. Sarah broke into their home, attacked them and left with Caroline.”

  “All these years this woman has known who stole her baby? And she’s been trying to find her?”

  “She never stopped searching for answers. No telling how much money she has poured into dead ends over the years. An anonymous tip let them know Sarah Paxton was living in North Bay, which is what led them here. All they need is to prove you were… are Baby Caroline.”

  “I’ll do it right now,” I say, my body bucking with adrenaline, answers feeling within reach. “Let’s submit a DNA test.”

  “It would help Eileen’s case if you didn’t volunteer anything. A test is inevitable, but let the police come to you. No need to speed up the process. Your priority should be helping your mom.”

  I recall the look on Mom’s face as they cuffed her wrists behind her back. She was broken, afraid. I want to help her, but there is a knot of anger tangling in my gut. Maybe she’s not who they say she is, maybe I’m not who they say I am, but something isn’t adding up. After all these years, the police wouldn’t make a move unless they were confident they had found the right person. The fact Carmen insists I don’t take a test suggests she’s worried about what the results might be.

  “When will I get to speak with her?”

  “I’m hoping this afternoon. After your talk with the investigators.” Carmen looks down, pretends she’s fiddling with something, although her hands are empty. “Meanwhile, I’ll have Rick look into everything he can find about Sarah Paxton.”

  He’s been sitting with us the whole time in silence. Occasionally, he’ll scribble something on his notepad. He sits up, lifting his briefcase from off the floor and unlocking it.

  “I wanted to give you this,” he says, handing over a business card. “It’s got my cell phone number. If you run into any problems or feel like you’re not safe, call me. Day or night.”

  “Not safe?” I look to Carmen. “Why wouldn’t I be safe?”

  “Again, when a case is this big, it brings the crazies out,” she says. “I’m already trying to make the press back off.”

  “I’m leaving you with this, too,” Rick says. He pulls out a black baton. It looks like the type of weapon a policeman might carry on his utility belt.

  I release a quick laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t think I’ll really need that thing, do you?”

  The look on Carmen’s face is serious. “It wouldn’t hurt to carry it around. Leave it within arm’s reach whenever you’re inside the house. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  I exhale, taking the baton from Rick’s hand. Owning one of these is out of character, let alone having to use it. Then I remember the fruit being chucked at The Shack’s front window last night. I think of what other actions people might take to get my attention, or worse, punish us for what they think Mom has done. My life has become so bizarre in such a short amount of time.

  “I have a bad feeling,” I say. “This seems like a losing battle. How will we prove to the police they have the wrong person?”

  “Right now, it’s like we’re getting pummeled with all the evidence the prosecution has already gathered. They’ve had a head start, after all.” Carmen leans back, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her stomach. “As hopeless as things might appear, there’s plenty of holes. The crime happened thirty years ago. That’s a lot of time for evidence to decay and stories to change. It won’t be a slam-dunk until—”

  “Until they do a DNA test.” It would take one flimsy cotton swab to determine whether or not Mom is my biological mother.

  “The test will come. Wait for it. If the results aren’t in our favor, we can think of other strategies.”

  Strategies. Carmen can predict how one outcome will bleed into the next. She knows what those results will do to me. The devastation I’ll feel. I wonder if Carmen is trying to gather as much information as she can from me now, before I’m a blubbering mess. It’s a manipulative tactic, but that’s what makes her good at her job.

  “Let’s start over,” she says, propping her elbows on her knees. “We’ll review the main questions again and again. Until you’re ready to share them with investigators.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  8 Marion

  Now

  Carmen’s visit did help prepare me for my conversation with investigators. By the time they arrived, I was able to retell what limited information I had in a calm, methodical manner. In fact, the detectives, both of them male and in their fifties, didn’t push too hard. They didn’t provide much information about Mom’s case, either. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that, whatever my mother had done, I was a victim. This was painful for me, and they weren’t wanting to add to that agony. They left with a warning there would be future conversations as the case developed.

  Now I’m riding in the passenger seat of Carmen’s Range Rover. Ava is buckled into her car seat behind me. The seat is rear facing, but I can hear the occasional sound of her babbling and cooing. I long for her oblivi
ousness. Ava’s life was also upended yesterday, but she doesn’t know it.

  “Are you sure Michael can handle the kids?” I ask. We’re taking Ava to Carmen’s house, so that we can go to the county jail and talk with Mom.

  “Probably not. But Esme is there, so they’ll be fine. Besides, he’ll have to get used to more time with the kids now that he’s not working.”

  In all that’s happened in the past two days, I’ve forgotten the Banks family is also going through a transition. Carmen’s job is demanding. She works long, unpredictable hours. Michael’s job was equally taxing, until he abruptly quit last month. He was some kind of financial advisor, which meant he spent a good portion of the month traveling outside North Bay. He grew tired of constantly being away from his family, so he quit and has been studying for his real estate license ever since.

  They still have extra help from Esme, a part-time nanny Carmen hired last year. It would be nice, having a second set of hands. Of course, Carmen and Michael had two large salaries to fund this expense; I make a decent living from The Shack, but as a single parent, I’m basically still getting by.

  “How is Michael doing?” I ask. “Does he miss his job yet?”

  “Sometimes.” Carmen, for the first time since the party, drops the lawyer role. “He won’t admit it, though. Everyone talks about wanting to take time off, but when you work the hours we do, you kind of get used to it. It becomes addictive. We’re hoping we can make it to the end of summer, go on a nice vacation before he starts working in the fall.”

  “That’s great.”

  Carmen has a lot of help. She has Esme and me and even Des, if she needed to ask. But it’s nice to know Michael also supports her. It’s important to have that person, the one who is always in your corner. I thought I had it with Mom, but now I’m not so sure.

  As though timed, my phone buzzes. It’s Evan again. He called yesterday during the party, but then chaos ensued. I never got back to him, and I’m still not sure I’m ready. I silence the phone, staring out the window as we pull into Carmen’s neighborhood.

  Carmen’s house also faces the water, but the single residence is almost the size of my entire complex. I carry Ava into the living room. Esme has just prepared dinner, some kind of pasta with a red sauce. As usual, Esme’s face lights up when she sees Ava. Babies are magical in that sense. They’re able to temporarily make people forget the negative aspects of the world, just with their bright eyes and pudgy rolls.

  Michael comes over. He kisses Carmen on the cheek, then pulls me in for a half hug.

  “I’m so sorry, Marion,” he whispers, quiet enough so the children can’t hear.

  “Thank you.”

  The last time I saw him was at the party. He was one of the many guests who watched the scandal unfold. The whole thing was so humiliating. Holly Dale and my friends from Mommy and Me were likely horrified. Yesterday seems like a lifetime ago.

  “Eileen is in good hands with Carmen,” he says. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Carmen and Michael lock eyes. I can tell she appreciates his comment but doesn’t want to blush too much in my presence. I always thought they were a compatible couple. They prioritize business, allow each other the independence needed to succeed in their given fields, but they also strive to make time for family. I hope to build a connection like that with someone one day.

  I can’t follow Michael’s instructions not to worry, though. Carmen is good at her job, but she is usually tasked with making a bad situation better. As hopeful as I try to be, I know Carmen won’t be able to restore the normalcy that was stolen yesterday. No one is that good.

  “Call us if you need anything,” Carmen says, her eyes flitting between Michael and Esme.

  Once we’re in the car, the magnitude of what is about to happen sets in. I’m about to ask my mother the truth about these charges. I’m about to ask her if she did the horrible things the police say she did. Did she steal me as an infant? Raise me in secret all these years? Did I—do I—belong to another family entirely? In my head, the answers to these questions is a resounding no, but I need to hear Mom say it.

  Carmen’s told me I can’t ask direct questions, of course. Any admission Mom gives could be used against her at trial. But I’m not about to sit across from her without asking. If anyone deserves the truth, it’s me.

  There isn’t any music playing in the car. I only hear the whistling wind as we zoom along quiet streets. The sun is setting, an orange orb dipping into the gray waters on the horizon. As much as I’ve thought about Mom in the past twenty-four hours, she’s not the only person on my mind.

  “Tell me about them. About the Parkers.”

  Carmen, cool as ever, doesn’t flinch. She keeps her eyes on the road.

  “I don’t know much. It appears Amelia Parker worked as a counselor. Bruce Parker worked for her father, at Boone Enterprises. She comes from big money.” She clears her throat. “Mr. Parker was killed on the same day Caroline was kidnapped. Mrs. Parker was attacked, too, but survived. She’s spent a small fortune trying to track down leads over the years.”

  I know Carmen is trying to sound objective, but I can hear a hint of sympathy in her voice. She feels sorry for them. For this poor woman who found her husband dead and daughter missing. For this woman who has lived without answers for over thirty years. I’m buckling from stress after only a day of this. I can’t imagine if suddenly Ava was taken from me.

  I stop. I can’t go down this road again. It’s a horror I can’t fathom, and I don’t envy anyone who has lived it.

  “Did Amelia Parker have any other children?”

  Carmen shakes her head. “She never remarried. No kids, either.” Carmen’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Maybe talking to Eileen right now isn’t the best—”

  “I have to see her, Carmen. I’m going crazy reading theory after bizarre theory. She’s the only person who can make sense of this.”

  Carmen’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows nothing can talk me out of having this conversation.

  9 Marion

  Now

  It’s not until I enter the waiting room that I really think about what the last twenty-four hours must have been like for my mother. Over the years, Carmen has whispered details about the criminal justice system. What really happens when you are arrested, on trial, convicted. I imagine my mother’s fingertips dipped in ink, her squinting under the bright flash from the camera for a mugshot that will forever document this accusation. She has been stripped and searched, dressed in stiff clothes and uncomfortable shoes. Last night, she slept alongside a dozen strangers, or more likely, didn’t sleep. She probably stayed awake, contemplating how many more nights like this were to come. Contemplating so much.

  All of this runs through my mind as I wait for Carmen to invite me into the meeting room. She has pulled some strings, allowing me to visit Mom privately, instead of in the rowdy visiting room.

  A deputy taps on the glass door in front of me, nodding for me to follow.

  “Ms. Banks wants you to wait here,” he says, as I stand in the vestibule on the other side of the door. It’s colder here, it seems. Or maybe it’s just my nerves. I pull on the sleeves of my shirt, finding it difficult to look anywhere other than the floor.

  A door opens. I enter the room and see Mom sitting behind a table, Carmen standing at her back. Whatever anger and fear I have felt leading to this moment dissipates. As Mom stands, I rush to her.

  “Are you okay?”

  It’s like my nerves have transferred to her. Suddenly, she’s shaking, like it’s taking all the strength she has left just to stand. She doesn’t answer. She only nods, before whispering in that broken tone: “I’m sorry.”

  I hold her a second longer, wanting her to see I’m strong. I’m with her. But as I sit in the chair across from her, I can already feel my buried curiosity returning. There is so much I need to ask her. There is so much she needs to tell me.

  “Are you okay
?” I repeat.

  Now composed, Mom takes a deep breath, wiping her cheeks with her hand. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say. Rather, I don’t know how to say it effectively. We’ve both been through trauma in the past two days, and all she can say is I shouldn’t have come?

  “Mom, you need to tell me what’s going on. I’ve read up on the Baby Caroline case, but I need to know why the police think you’re involved.”

  Suddenly, she’s shaking again. First her arms, then her head. Like she’s trying to wipe this moment away. “I can’t do this. Not here. Not like this.”

  “We aren’t left with many options,” I say, leaning across the table to be closer to her. “What they’re saying isn’t true, is it?”

  “We can’t discuss specifics of the case,” Carmen says, a simple but stern reminder.

  I ignore her, focusing instead on Mom.

  “The police are saying your real name is Sarah Paxton,” I begin, but I’m distracted by Mom’s manic behavior.

  Her head still shaking, she covers her ears. “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Mom, please.” I lurch closer, the table between us. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through. You have to tell me something. The police have you mixed up with someone else, right? Your name isn’t Sarah Paxton, is it?”

  “Yes.” The word, a whisper. She puts a hand to her mouth, like she can somehow take it back. And she begins to cry.

  I’m stunned. The hope I had that the police had the wrong person is gone. There must be some truth to these accusations, but she’s refusing to tell me.

  “What about everything else they’ve been saying? That you kidnapped me? That I’m not your daughter?”

  “I can’t.” Mom stands so quickly the chair clatters against the tile floor. She backs toward the door against the far wall.

  “Mom, calm down,” I say, and now I’m standing too. “I’ll support you either way. Nothing will ever change what you mean to me. But I need to know the truth.”