Not My Mother, Miranda Smith [smart books to read txt] 📗

she has been in court again, but Carmen often dresses like a raven-haired Grace Kelly in a classic film. Confident and sleek, yet feminine. Her chic aura scatters when she collapses on the couch, overcome with exhaustion. The past twenty-four hours have clearly taken an emotional toll.

Before I close the door, Rick, Carmen’s assistant, walks in carrying a briefcase. That’s his title, at least. Over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, Rick looks more like he stepped off the football field than out of the courtroom. He’s basically a private investigator Carmen enlists when she needs information on people. I can only imagine the amount of digging he’ll be tasked with when it comes to Mom. More than thirty years’ worth.

“Marion.” Rick nods, then sits beside Carmen on the sofa, placing his case on the floor.

“Get any sleep?” she asks.

“Not enough. Still trying to wrap my mind around everything.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but police officers will be arriving soon. They’ll start asking questions. I’ll tell you everything I know, but it’s important we go over what you might say to them, too.”

“Where do we start?”

“Have you ever heard the name Sarah Paxton?” she asks, sitting upright on the couch.

“No,” I answer, honestly. “Not until yesterday.”

“Good. That’s good. Was your mother ever called anything else when you were growing up, that you can remember?”

“No. Eileen Sams. I’ve never known her under any other name.”

“Okay. Has she ever told you anything about your life before moving to North Bay? Do you remember living anywhere else?”

In the wee hours of the morning, I sat in bed trying to remember the exact same thing. We moved here when I was a toddler. I don’t have any memories before that time. It’s more like glimpses, a sensory connection to a certain song or smell. I don’t remember where we lived. When I was older, I asked Mom. She said we moved around a lot, usually based on her ability to find work. When something didn’t pan out, we’d pack up and move again. Then we found North Bay, our perfect place, she said, and stayed.

I tell Carmen all of this. She nods as she listens, taking notes. “What about New Hutton? Did she ever mention having lived there?”

“Never. She always said we lived in small towns. I think one might have been Ringold. Maybe East Ridge.”

“I’m guessing you don’t remember any people from these places?”

“My first memory of someone aside from Mom is meeting Des at The Shack.”

Our first week in North Bay was spent in a motel. I have vague memories of it; the vending machines right next to our room made it hard to sleep. I think the main reason I remember our first week here is because it was my first time seeing the ocean. I’d never seen anything so big, so beautiful. It’s like the landscape washed away any fragmented memories I had before.

After the week at the motel, we moved into the upstairs apartment at The Shack. Des hired Mom to work at the restaurant, which at the time was called something else. It would be another two years before Mom and Des decided to revamp the place together, making Mom a partial owner.

“Can you write down all the places your mom said you lived before North Bay?” Carmen pushes over a notepad and pen. I’d forgotten I was in the thick of an interrogation, preparing for an even bigger one.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Everything you say needs to be clear. It’s okay if you don’t remember all the details. You were young. But you don’t need to change anything you say. Got that?”

Carmen has been in full lawyer mode since the party, but there is a part of me that longs for her friendship. That longs for someone to tell me everything will be okay, even if it won’t be.

“You’ve told me a little bit about your father before,” she says, her tone softer. “But I need you to tell me everything you know. Specifically, everything your mom told you about him.”

“You know she’s not said much,” I say, looking down at Ava. “She said they weren’t married. They were young. He left before I was born.”

“Has she ever given you a name? Told you anything about his family?”

No and no. Not for lack of trying. When I was younger, the idea of not having a father didn’t bother me. I’d never known a family unit outside the one I had with Mom. As I got more involved with school, I realized something was off. Most of my friends had a dad. Even the ones with absent fathers knew something about them. Their mothers at least referenced them from time to time, calling them scumbag or deadbeat.

Mom actively avoided talking about my father, or any other family members, for that matter. Grandparents: dead. Father: gone. No siblings. No aunts and uncles. No cousins. It’s like Mom and I were the last two standing. Like we’d been plucked out of nothingness and placed in North Bay. But saying that definitely wouldn’t help Mom’s case.

As a teenager, I was more vocal with my questions. Every time Mom and I had a fight about curfew or her ironclad rules, I’d bring him up. It’s like I could use this person I’d never met against her. I knew this was hurtful, which during an argument was my aim, but I also hoped she might tell me something about my father in a fit of passion and rage, this man I knew nothing about.

It never worked, and as I grew older, I made peace with the situation. Maybe there were things about my father she didn’t want me to know. Maybe it was easier for her to pretend he never existed. After a while, it didn’t bother me anymore. The not knowing. I was used to the dynamic of Mom and me against the world. I preferred it, really. But again, I can’t tell the police that.

“Marion?”

My mind is wandering, and Carmen’s waiting