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

The contents are usually auctioned, and you never know what you might find inside. A stack of old newspapers. Boxes of clothes, misshapen and stained. Or you might find an old record signed by The Beatles or a mason jar full of gold coins. A $200 bid could result in thousands of dollars in profit, if you’re lucky.

This unit wouldn’t have gone for very much. There’s barely anything inside. Only four plastic containers, each about four feet long. I sift through the boxes. Nothing miraculous. Clothes and papers and notebooks. Then, at the bottom of one, I find the green folder the caller mentioned on the phone.

I open the folder, holding my breath in fear that something disastrous might lie within. I look at the first page. It’s addressed to me.

Dear Marion,

I’m writing this letter in the hope you never have to read it…

It’s Mom’s handwriting. I flip through the pages. There is a series of handwritten notes, front and back. They’re all addressed to me, from Mom.

My phone beeps with a text message from Des. I don’t have to read it to know she’s probably bitching at me for being gone too long, and I still have close to an hour to get back. Even though all I want to do is read the letters, I know I need to go. Besides, that paranoid part of me doesn’t want to stay in this place one second longer than I must. I don’t know who told me to come here in the first place, or who might be watching me now.

I make sure all the papers are secured inside the folder, stuffing the packet under my arms. I lock the facility back up using the code, get in my car and leave.

38 MarionNow

As expected, Des complained from the moment I got back. I ignored her, mostly, focusing instead on the normality of being around customers again. And, of course, monitoring Ava in the back corner of the restaurant. But it was difficult pretending I wasn’t fazed by her or anything else, when all I could think about were those notes.

Handwritten by Mom.

Addressed to me.

More than once, I thought about sneaking into the bathroom and reading them, or coming up with another excuse to leave. But there’s no telling what those letters might contain, and what my reaction to reading them might be. So I waited.

Now, I’ve finished giving Ava her bath and put her to bed. It didn’t take long to rock her to sleep, and I’m hoping she’ll stay down the remainder of the night. Another annoying consequence of my lie earlier in the day is I’m starving. I scarf down the leftover sandwiches I made when Amelia visited, pour a glass of white wine and settle in on the living room sofa.

Alone in the corner of the living room, the overhead light shining down on me like a spotlight, I open the folder. I read the opening lines again.

Dear Marion,

I’m writing this letter in the hope you never have to read it…

Of course, that’s what she’d hoped. There’s been so much Mom has hidden from me over the years. She was concealing parts of my life—parts of her life. For almost two weeks, I’ve been comparing the mom I know against the person the police describe her to be. Comparing Eileen to Sarah Paxton, all the while thinking of every odd occurrence in my childhood, every bizarre story that didn’t add up. My father. My birthplace. The real reason she decided to stay here. The DNA test provided some answers, but there’s still a heavy mystery surrounding all of this, isn’t there? And despite my greatest desires, I’ve not been able to talk about any of this with Mom.

At first, she shut me out with a hysterical outburst in the jailhouse visiting room. Since then, she has been comatose, recovering from her attack. Alive, and yet, not really there.

Dear Marion…

Part of me is afraid to go beyond those words. For over a week I’ve been preparing myself for the truth, knowing on the other side of it, I might be left devastated. But heartache or relief, whatever new mysteries this letter might reveal, I have to know. I’m ready.

I begin to read.

39 EileenThen

By the time I exited the bathroom, I’d analyzed every possible way to handle the situation. If Bruce was dangerous, would he try to keep me here? Harm me? I even considered making an excuse to leave, call Jamie, and return, but I didn’t want to leave you alone with him if my suspicions were correct.

I didn’t want to start a confrontation. I doubted I would have the ability to fight him off. Instead, I decided I’d favor him with some more small talk. After a few minutes, I’d ask to use their telephone. I’d say I was calling someone from the rental company, when in reality I’d call the police. I didn’t have any evidence to support my claims, but at least then I could voice my suspicions to someone and not feel so vulnerable.

When I walked back into the living room, Bruce was sitting on the sofa in the room’s center. He held a wine glass in his hand. My glass, the one I’d said I didn’t want, sat on the coffee table. I took a seat on the sofa across from him.

“You know, you really look like her,” he said, getting up and picking up the glass to bring it closer to me. He sat down beside me. “You both have beautiful eyes.”

“Thank you.”

I’d come there to see you, but in that moment, I tried to push your image away. Thinking of you would only distract me, and I needed to know if my suspicions about Bruce were correct.

“What time will Amelia be home?”

“It’s unpredictable. She’s just recently started working for her father. We try to take turns, allowing one of us to stay with the baby. Hopefully she’ll be home soon.”

I wondered if that was true. What if she wasn’t