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

“You’re right. So what did you have in mind?”

He doesn’t ask who the test is for, but I suppose he doesn’t need to.

“Has Carmen said anything about me meeting Amelia Parker?” I know he was the person who told her about the picture at the pier.

“She might have some opinions.” The way he says this makes me think she addressed the topic with heavy disdain at a high volume.

“Amelia’s the one who suggested we get a test. She thinks we should get the whole knowing/not knowing out of the way.”

“Do you agree with her?”

“I’m growing impatient,” I say, my eyes fixed on his.

“All I need are samples. One from you, one from her. I can take the samples to a lab. No one would have to know you were involved.”

“What would work as a sample?”

“Anything containing saliva, or even hair follicles.”

“So, like a drinking glass?”

“Sure, if the sample is big enough.”

In my mind, I picture Amelia’s glass. I’ve stored it in a Ziploc bag and left it underneath my bathroom sink, but I don’t tell Rick yet. Not until I’m sure I want him to go through with it. Deep down, even though I’m longing for answers, I’m wondering if I can handle the results.

“How long would it take?”

“Most labs around here ship off their tests. Usually takes a day or so.”

“And they’re accurate?”

“As accurate as can be. You don’t have to share the outcome, if that’s what you’re worried about. The state will run their own tests. It would just give you peace of mind until then. Or not.”

In all the years I’ve known Rick, this is the most I’ve ever heard him speak. He’s not a big talker, but he gets things done. He’s effective. That’s why I reached out to him. I thought my biggest obstacle would be whether he’d give Carmen a head’s up about my plans.

“Give me a minute?” I stand.

“Take your time.”

Rick pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. He doesn’t seem concerned with what my decision will be.

I walk down the hallway leading to my room and sit on the bed, contemplating. A voice inside screams for me to go through with it, get it over with, but I’m still dreading what I might find out. Having concrete proof Mom isn’t my biological mother will destroy her case, but even that seems like an afterthought. I’m more worried about these results eliminating what little trust remains between us.

The pearl ring Mom gave me the day of Ava’s party sits in a little white bowl on my nightstand. I pick it up, twirling the jewelry between my fingers. Each pearl is so distinct, so unique, like the three of us—Mom, Ava and me. This symbol of unity now exists as a declaration of our differences moving forward. Our relationships, if not completely severed, will be forever changed based on what I decide.

As I walk into the bathroom, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I don’t look like myself. My ashen skin and disheveled hair remind me of how I looked when Ava was a newborn. My appearance, like my mental well-being, is withering away. I might not like the results. They might break me. But maybe that brokenness can lead to healing. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before the police force my hand. I’ll eventually have to confront it. What’s the point in dragging things out a bit longer? Nothing can be worse than the waiting.

I bend down and open the sink cabinet. My eyes scan the clutter, landing on the Ziploc bag in the corner. This is it. Only days away from knowing the truth and beginning to deal with the aftermath. And maybe I need this, to accept these results without the watchful eyes of so many around me. I’m deceiving everyone, it seems. Carmen. Amelia. Mom.

I must follow my intuition, the guide that led me to Ava and so many other monumental moments in my life. It’s never failed me before, and I’m relying on it now, as I walk into the living room and give Rick what he needs to submit the test.

30 MarionNow

I have to take my mind off the results. Rick says it will be at least twenty-four hours before he has any information, a timeline that seems excruciating.

I drive over to The Shack. According to Des, the place hasn’t been very busy, but I can at least show support by being there. As I pull into the parking lot, I can tell something is wrong. The windows at the front of the restaurant are streaked in red and black. I pull into a parking space. I lift Ava in her carrier as I move closer to investigate.

“What the hell?”

It looks like something was written on the glass, but the first layer has already been smudged. What remains are rivulets of paint and soapy water, pink suds on the base of the windowpane.

“Don’t worry. It will be gone before you open.”

Evan comes walking up behind me. He is carrying a bucket of water in one hand, a mop with the other.

“What happened?”

“Someone vandalized The Shack last night. Des called me this morning,” Evan says, resting the fresh bucket of water by the door. “I told her I’d clean it off.”

“What did it say?”

“Does it matter?” He hoists the mop into the water and begins scrubbing the glass. “I’ll have it cleaned before customers show up.”

I look around the parking lot. Beach towns tend to start early; people have likely already seen the damage. Not to mention the media parked across the street. It’s embarrassing, invasive and certainly doesn’t cast the business in the best light.

“Let me help you,” I say.

“It’s really a one-person job. If I were you, I’d check on Des. She’s upset.”

“We should be able to check the security cameras—”

“I already asked her about that. She says she’s not hooked them back up since the police search. Said something about paying the security company.” He looks over his shoulder at