I’m going to talk to Tess.
I’ll tell her I read the letter. Maybe we can actually have a conversation where she doesn’t threaten me the way she did at Laverne’s house? I’d like that. A lot, actually.
Since she spends a good sixty hours a week in her office, I decide to look for her there first.
“Tess?” I ask, knocking on her office door and pausing as it swings open of its own accord. The room is empty, sunlight slanting across her desk and over the typewriter with a nearly full page hanging out of it. I hesitate briefly, intending to turn around and go downstairs to look for her.
Instead, I find my eyes drawn to that page of blocky text, to the words that I used to admire so damn much. With every one of Tess’ books, my admiration grew. The way she weaves such beautiful words together, the humanity in her emotions, you’d never expect such a cold and distant person to be responsible. I’d even been looking ahead at her book tour schedule to see if I couldn’t make it to NYC or something to meet her.
Hah.
Now? I’d do almost anything to unmeet her.
Then I think of the letter, of the way it made me feel to have her pretty words directed at me. I could just glance at the page to see what she’s working on?
There’s something about it that calls to me, some lingering spark of admiration. If I read those beautiful words, maybe I can find a way to connect with her? Maybe something about her writing will reveal itself to me and I’ll understand her better, the same way I did with the letter?
It’s a stupid idea and really, shame on me for invading my bio mom’s privacy.
It’s inevitable, what happens next.
Each step I take into that room is like a knife, inching closer and closer to my heart. You never know when it’s going to happen, do you? That agonizing pain of betrayal, an emotional wound that rips open inside of you like a chasm. Beside the typewriter, there’s a stack of paper with a cover page: Returned Under the Guise of Night.
I pause in front of the desk, reaching out to straighten the curled length of the page, careful not to smudge the ink with my fingers.
Nothing about our reunion was what I thought it would be. The way she looked at me, the coldness and detachment in her gaze, it was what made the DNA test necessary. The girl was like a reflection of myself as a young woman, with eyes the color of damp earth, high cheekbones, and a proud nose. Her mouth and my mouth were matching shapes, even our hands were synonymous. Every part of her was like an extension of me and yet, I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear the idea that this person, this stranger, was my Mia.
Blood was drawn.
DNA was matched.
Not once, but three times.
I had to be sure, because my dreams and hopes were being dashed to pieces all around me. How could my daughter be alive and well and yet look at me like I was the enemy? How could my daughter look at me like the interloper in her life, like I was the true villain in this story, the real kidnapper.
She may be my child by blood, and my love might be eternal, but that doesn’t mean I have to like her. It doesn’t mean I can’t wish for things to be different, that I can’t have regrets. Sometimes—oftentimes, really—I wonder if it might’ve been better for both of us if we’d never found each other.
She’d have the fantasy of her false family; I would have my dreams.
For now, they are dashed. For now, I must live with the fact that this person, this Mia-impersonator, is the one that I am bound to, obligated to, related to. Because even as I find myself crying at night over the person I wish she was, I know that I will never be able to let her go.
Without thinking, I tear the page from the typewriter, holding it up to hazy eyes. I’m not sure if I’m tearing up or if I’m just angry or …
“What are you doing?” a voice asks from behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know that it’s Parrish. When a tear finally falls onto the page in front of me, I look back at him. There must be something in my face that mollifies his usual bitterness because he doesn’t mock me when the tears begin to flow like saltwater rivers, carving grooves of pain into my face.
I turn and move toward him, handing out the paper in my hand before sweeping past him without a word. I’m slipping into my room when he catches up to me, blocking the door from closing and stepping in behind me.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says, shaking the page like it’s thoroughly pissed him off. Clearly, it’s a follow up to Abducted Under a Noonday Sun; clearly, it’s based in reality. “It doesn’t.”
A small, wry smile takes over my mouth, but it just tastes like salt and misery when I lick it away. Did I think things were going okay here? I mean, school isn’t nearly as bad as I’d expected. But home? Home is much, much worse. That letter last night gave me false hope, but it was written three months ago, right? Things have changed since then.
Somehow, I’d been under the notion that no matter how much Tess and I squabbled, that there was some spark of unconditional love inside of her that would allow me to rebel and express my feelings without facing any repercussions. Somehow, I thought that I could fight back until I was too tired to fight anymore and she’d … I don’t know, be there to help pick up the pieces?
“Parrish,” I start, because I’m not really sure what else to say. Instead, I turn away from him and move over to the wall of windows, suddenly hating that I’ve got the lake view and he doesn’t. My fingers rest against the glass as I gaze out at the water and try to ignore the sick, hollow feeling inside my chest.
I put my forehead to the cool panes and close my eyes for a moment. I’m not sure what I expect out of Parrish, but it isn’t for him to leave. He does, however, storming out without another word and letting the door slam into the wall. He doesn’t even bother to close it.
That doesn’t mean I have to like her.
Tess’ words ring in my head like the chiming of a bell, a constant clanging that I can’t shut out, not even when I put my hands over my ears to drown out the sound. It’s impossible to escape from, a cacophony that exists only inside my own head.
As quickly as he left, Parrish comes back. As soon as I hear his footsteps, I open my eyes and look back, watching as he walks in and slams down the black metal trash can from his room. In his right hand is the stack of Tess’ manuscript. He throws it into the can and then looks up at me, slipping a lighter from his pocket.
“Here,” he says, holding it out to me on the palm of his hand. His face is impossible to read, a closed book with no cover, no title, no hint of genre. All that’s discernable there is that he has a story to tell, that he’s a book worth cracking open. “Burn it.”
“Burn it?” I repeat, feeling that hollowness inside of me echo with anger. How dare she?! How dare she tear me away from everything I’ve ever known and completely upend my life then have the audacity to hate me for my feelings toward her? It isn’t right; it isn’t fair.
Then again, nothing in life is fair, is it? It isn’t fair that Saffron’s baby—the real Dakota Banks—died. And it isn’t fair that Tess had her child stolen away because of it. It isn’t fair to the Banks who raised me and loved me and taught me so many things to lose me. It isn’t fair that I somehow got caught in the middle of it all.