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

Befriending Jamie and Cliff was a form of kismet, I still believe that. They came into my life at precisely the right time, helping me process all the parts of myself I needed to accept, the parts of myself I needed to expunge. It was interesting how our past struggles played into our present desires. Jamie was determined to fend for herself. Run Buster’s. Live alone. She was kind to me, but she was also hardened. Soft material sealed beneath a man-made shell.

Cliff was trying to prove he could do better than his family and his bullies, the people who had tormented him during his youth. He was on the right track, I’d tell him. But I think he was also fearful of that rage inside of him, the one that was brought to light that day in the alley.

And me. I was searching for family. For people who would love me unconditionally, and who I could protect in return. At night, I’d close my eyes and try to picture it, this future I might one day have.

Maybe I’d be like that Amelia lady at the center, I thought. All clean clothes and modest jewelry. I might not have it all right now, but I’d get it in time. If I was lucky.

11 MarionNow

I’m sitting alone in Carmen’s car while she tries to talk with investigators. She wants to make sure that Mom receives medical assistance before returning to her cell for the night. The breakdown I witnessed was much worse than anything I’ve ever seen from Mom before.

I’m feeling my own anxiety take over, a wave crashing into my mind, carrying with it memories of the woman I thought I knew. My breathing picks up and my vision blurs. I have to close my eyes, fight to keep my emotions from taking over my ability to think.

Mom’s admission is startling. Until now, I’d hoped the police had made a mistake, that they’d arrested the wrong person. Now that she’s admitted to being Sarah Paxton, I dread what other parts of her past she is covering up.

I’ve often joked about having two Moms.

Most people assume I’m talking about Des. In many ways, she’s like a second parent. She’s been Mom’s best friend and business partner almost my entire life, which means she’s been there when I’ve needed her. Des never married or had children of her own, so I think she enjoys stepping into that role, offering me guidance when Mom is not enough.

But I’m not referring to Des when I mention my second mother. I’m talking about the woman Mom is now, compared to the nervous, possessive woman I remember from my childhood. The two are completely different, almost separate entities.

I don’t think the label worrier would cut it. All parents worry. I know that now more than ever because I am one. But Mom’s nervousness was more intense, almost proprietorial. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without her, even reasonably safe places, like the local playground with Des. I didn’t have my first sleepover until I was in high school, and even then, it was only after I begged a teammate’s mother to convince her. I was sixteen. I had a driver’s license. Still, it was like she didn’t want to let me out of her sight for even one night.

Field trips were another point of contention. She’d sign permission slips for me to visit the local attractions. This was a whole new adventure to my younger self. Spending a few hours on a weekday exploring an aquarium or museum felt liberating, even if our teachers were only the next row over. In seventh grade, after watching a Christmas film at the local cinema before holiday break, I spotted Mom’s car in the parking lot. She was sitting inside it, watching me as I got on the bus for our return to school. I never mentioned seeing her, and thank goodness none of my friends noticed, but knowing she was there ripped away my notions of independence. Even when I thought she wasn’t watching me, I was wrong. I felt violated. Smothered. Like she somehow found me less capable than my peers.

If the trip meant venturing outside of North Bay, she wouldn’t allow it. No overnight trips. No visits to D.C. with the Honor’s Society. The weeklong trip to New York City my senior year of high school was out of the question.

And I hated her for it. That vitriol feels fresh even all these years later.

“Everyone is going,” I shouted at her. “Why can’t I?”

It was right after I told Mom I’d saved enough money to pay my own way. Des let me start working the cash register at The Shack once I entered high school. For almost an entire year, I saved every paycheck, making sure I’d have enough to pay the trip fee plus spending money.

“Those trips are overpriced,” Mom said, washing the dishes, an attempt to ignore me. “They hike up the prices for school groups to take advantage of you.”

“It’s not about the money. I already told you, I have it right here.” I dropped an envelope with cash on the counter. She barely looked at it.

“You’re not going.”

“But why? It’s a safe trip. There will be an adult chaperone with each group. They take a trip like this every year, and nothing has ever happened before.”

“New York isn’t going anywhere. Maybe we’ll plan a visit sometime—”

“Oh, come on! You never go anywhere. I’ve been asking you to take me places my whole life!”

“And you have your whole life ahead of you. You can go to New York and anywhere else you want.”

“But I want to go now. With my friends. It’s safe. I have the money. Please let me do this.”

“You’re not going.” She averted her eyes. Didn’t look at me for several days after that conversation, as I recall. “You’re a