Not My Mother Miranda Smith (chromebook ebook reader .TXT) 📖

“Has the press been following you?” she asks. “I know you mentioned them when I first showed up at your place.”

“You too?”

“Not so much here, but the press has been a double-edged sword for me over the years. That’s how I found out there was a development in the case. Certain detectives are pretty good about staying in touch, but not this time. It was Carla Phelps from Channel 10 News.”

“My gosh,” I say, raising a hand to my chest. “I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”

“I’ve made the mistake of getting my hopes up over the years. There have been leads before which led to nothing. I’m happy this time was different.”

I take a deep breath, slowly so she can’t see. I know Amelia is just being honest with me, but it’s still awkward trying to grasp what she’s been through. I’m the answer to the prayers she’s been whispering for all these years, and I feel unworthy.

“Anyway,” she says, as though she senses my unease, “I thought maybe the press had been bothering you, too. Which is why you suggested meeting here.”

“That’s part of the reason,” I say, squinting as the clouds part and the sun hovers ahead. “I also really love it here. I’ve always gone to the water when I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

“I do love the ocean. I never travel as much as I used to, it seems.”

We must be thinking the same thing. That this landscape is so different from the urban streets of New Hutton. Amelia’s life there likely differs from most. She probably lives in a fancy suburb. I wonder what it would be like to grow up in that environment. No ocean. No sand. No two-bedroom apartment above The Shack. Every aspect of my life is different, all because of what Mom did.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say.

There’s no rule book for how to reconnect with a woman you never knew was your mother, or a daughter you thought you might never see again. It’s an unusual predicament, but we persevere, trying to find common ground.

“I’ve been around New Hutton my whole life, really. I attended the local university. That’s where I met your—” She stops and blinks, as though the sun has become unbearably bright. “That’s where I met Bruce.”

I could finish her sentence. She was about to say your father but thought better of it.

“After graduation, I worked as a counselor for troubled youth,” she continues. “Daddy owned a big business. Boone Enterprises. After I left the counseling center, I worked there for a few years helping with marketing.”

“Are your parents still—”

“No, no. They died about ten years back.”

Amelia has withstood so much loss. Her husband. Her child. Her parents. And yet, you wouldn’t know by looking at her. Beyond the tailored clothes and highlighted hair, she looks kind. Understanding. Perhaps she’s just patient.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I was an only child, but Bruce was the youngest of five. I keep in touch with his family. I’m close with my nephews. Seven in total. They all remember Bruce as their wacky, fun-loving uncle, and I guess I try to keep up that role.”

When she speaks of Bruce, it’s all I can do not to tear up. Together, they started a family that never came to fruition. A family that was finished before it really found its footing. A family destroyed by my mother.

“What do you do now?” I ask, trying to direct the conversation into less emotional territory.

“I left the family business ages ago. I do a lot of charity work and plan fundraisers for the community. For the past ten years or so, I’ve been involved with parents of missing children.”

I find it comforting Amelia works with other parents unfortunate enough to be in the same situation as her. She shares more about the different charitable organizations she’s worked with over the years. She tells me about a trip she once took to Ghana to help access clean water and a mentor program Boone Enterprises started there. I love listening to her talk, imagining a life that seems more exciting than my own.

I stand still, looking at the water. The waves are rougher, rising and falling in choppy breaks. I think I could stare at this view forever, in all its forms. It calms me, reminds me there’s a world out there much bigger than myself.

“Care to sit?” I ask Amelia.

“Sure.”

We hunker down into the sand. In the distance, I see a few joggers. It’s a local’s haven, a quiet place, perfect for thinking hard with limited interruptions.

“Can you tell me what happened that day?” I ask, hoping it’s not too soon. I’m trying to be sensitive around Amelia, but I can’t help asking. Ever since Mom’s arrest, I’ve been dying to know the truth about that day. The truth about my life before.

Amelia tilts her head back. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to know—if you’d want to know.”

“I want to know everything,” I say, blankly, relieved Amelia is as desperate to approach the topic as I am.

She exhales shakily. She must have retold her story dozens of times, but that doesn’t make sharing it with me any easier.

“I met Sarah through the counseling center. I’d been working with her while she was on probation. She was a nice enough girl, in the beginning. The more time we spent together, she seemed to become obsessed with me and my life. She was always trying to concoct reasons for us to meet outside our sessions. I kept our relationship professional, but she wasn’t happy when I told her I was leaving the center to go on maternity leave.”

As she tells the story, her voice is calm. It doesn’t even crack. She’s had years of practice. This is the first time I’m hearing any of it, and I feel like I might be sick. It’s strange to picture