Not My Mother by Miranda Smith (lightweight ebook reader .txt) 📕

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 MarionNow

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