Chapter 8: The Girl Who Came Home
My grandmother arrived forty minutes later.
I watched her car pull through the mansion's front gates and stop beneath the white stone columns. She stepped out slowly, clutching her handbag against her chest.
At seventy-eight, she had become smaller than I remembered. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, and her pale blue coat was buttoned all the way to her throat.
But when she entered the foyer and saw Mae standing beside me, she stopped so abruptly that the handbag slipped down her arm.
For several seconds, neither woman moved.
Mae stared at her.
My grandmother stared back.
Then my grandmother whispered, “Elizabeth.””
Mae recoiled.
I felt my knees weaken.
“You know her,” I said.
My grandmother covered her mouth.
“Oh, God.””
I stepped between them.
“Don't do that. Don't say one word and then act as though the conversation is over. You owe us the truth.””
My grandmother looked at me with tears filling her eyes.
“I know.””
“Then tell me who she is.””
She turned toward Mae.
“I haven't seen you since you were a little girl.””
Mae gripped the edge of the console.
“Why?””
My grandmother began to cry.
“Because I was told you were gone.””
“Gone where?””
“I don't know.””
“Did you look for me?””
“Yes.””
“Did you stop?””
My grandmother flinched.
Mae's voice rose.
“Did you stop looking for me?””
“No,” my grandmother said, shaking her head.
“Never.””
“Then why was I alone?””
The question seemed to break something inside my grandmother.
She reached toward Mae, but Mae stepped back.
My grandmother let her hand fall.
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered.
Mae stared at her.
I felt a terrible pressure building behind my ribs.
“Grandma, you told me Rebecca disappeared. You never told me Elizabeth existed. You gave me that photograph and let me believe I had lost my mother.””
My grandmother turned toward me.
“I was trying to protect you.””
“From what?””
She looked at the key in my hand.
“From the truth about that night.””
I held the key up.
“Then tell us.””
My grandmother sank onto the sofa.
For a moment, she looked too exhausted to speak.
Then she folded her hands in her lap.
“Rebecca came to me when she was young. She was frightened, and she was carrying two little girls. She told me she needed help.””
“Why?”” I asked.
“She said someone was threatening to take her children away.””
“Who?””
My grandmother's lips tightened.
“She wouldn't tell me at first.””
“Was it my father?””
“No.””
“Was it someone from Rebecca's past?””
She nodded.
“Someone who believed he had a right to decide where those girls belonged.””
Mae looked down at her hands.
“I remember a man shouting.””
My grandmother turned toward her.
“What do you remember?””
“A door slamming. Someone crying. A little girl calling for her mother.””
My grandmother closed her eyes.
“That's enough for now.””
Mae's expression hardened.
“Stop telling me when it's enough.””
My grandmother looked at her in shock.
Mae stood straighter.
“I've lived with questions for longer than I can remember. I don't know my name. I don't know where I grew up. I don't know why I keep seeing the same hallway in my dreams.””
Her voice trembled.
“And now you're standing here telling me you thought I was dead. You don't get to ask me to stop remembering.””
My grandmother bowed her head.
“You're right.””
The admission surprised all of us.
She wiped her cheeks.
“You deserve the truth.””
I sat beside her.
“Start with the hospital.””
My grandmother took a shaky breath.
“On October seventeenth, twenty-three years ago, Rebecca brought the girls to the hospital. She said one of them had been hurt.””
Mae's hand flew to her mouth.
“What happened to the girl?””
“I don't know exactly. Rebecca told me the child was frightened and confused. She said the doctors needed to examine her.””
“Which girl?”” I asked.
My grandmother looked at me.
“That was the problem. By the time I arrived, nobody would give me a straight answer.””
I stared at her.
“You went to the hospital?””
“Yes.””
“Were both girls there?””
My grandmother nodded.
“For a little while.””
“What happened next?””
“Rebecca left with one of them. Thomas came looking for the other.””
“My father?””
“Yes.””
I felt the room tilt.
“Why would Dad take a child from the hospital?””
“He said he was following instructions.””
“Whose instructions?””
My grandmother shook her head.
“He wouldn't tell me.””
Mae began trembling.
I reached for her hand.
“It's all right.””
“No,” she whispered.
“It's not.””
My grandmother continued.
“Later that evening, Thomas came to my house alone. He told me Rebecca had taken one girl away, and the other had been placed somewhere safe.””
“Where?””
“He wouldn't say.””
“Why not?””
“He said the fewer people who knew, the safer the child would be.””
I stared at her.
“So he separated them.””
“Yes.””
“And nobody told me?””
My grandmother's tears fell freely now.
“You were young. Thomas believed you wouldn't remember enough to understand what had happened.””
“But I did remember.””
“I know.””
“You let me believe Rebecca had abandoned me.””
My grandmother reached for my hand.
“I was wrong.””
I pulled away.
“Why did you tell me she was gone?””
“Because Rebecca disappeared shortly afterward. I didn't know where she had gone, and Thomas refused to explain anything. He told me that if I spoke about the girls, I could put them both in danger.””
“Danger from whom?””
My grandmother looked at Mae.
“Someone who had been searching for Rebecca long before she came to our family.””
I turned toward David.
He stood near the doorway, silent and pale.
“Did your father know this person?”” I asked.
David nodded slowly.
“My father worked with Thomas.””
The room went quiet.
“What kind of work?”” I asked.
“Legal records. Property documents. Private arrangements.””
My grandmother looked up sharply.
“Your father told you that?””
“Not directly.””
David rubbed his jaw.
“When I was seventeen, I found a folder in his office. It had Rebecca's name on it. I asked him about it, and he told me never to mention it again.””
I stared at him.
“And you never told me?””
“I didn't know how much of it was true.””
“Did you keep the folder?””
“No.””
“Did you see it again?””
He hesitated.
“Yes.””
My grandmother closed her eyes.
“When?””
“Six years ago. After Thomas died, I found a copy of one of the documents among his belongings.””
“Where is it?”” I demanded.
“At my office.””
“Go get it.””
David looked at my grandmother.
She nodded.
“Bring it here.””
He left immediately.
Mae sank onto the sofa beside my grandmother, though she kept a small distance between them.
“Did Rebecca love me?”” she asked.
My grandmother looked at her as if the question had pierced her heart.
“Oh, Elizabeth. She loved you more than anything.””
“Then why didn't she come back?””
My grandmother's face crumpled.
“I don't know.””
Mae stared at the floor.
“I used to dream about a woman singing. I thought she was someone I had imagined.””
“She sang to both of you,” my grandmother whispered.
“Every night.””
Mae's lips trembled.
“What did she sing?””
My grandmother began humming softly.
A simple melody.
Four rising notes, followed by a gentle fall.
The sound was so familiar that my chest tightened before I understood why.
I knew that song.
Rebecca used to sing it while brushing my hair.
I joined in without thinking.
Mae lifted her head.
Her eyes widened.
Then she began humming the next four notes.
My grandmother stopped.
I stopped.
Mae stared at us, tears streaming down her face.
“I know that song.””
She pressed both hands against her chest.
“I know it.””
My grandmother reached toward her again.
This time, Mae didn't pull away.
She let my grandmother take her hand.
For a brief moment, the three of us sat together in the bright mansion, connected by a melody that had survived twenty-three years of silence.
Then David returned.
He carried a folded document in a plastic sleeve.
My grandmother stood immediately.
“Where did you get that?””
“From the locked cabinet in my office.””
“Read it,” I said.
David placed the document on the coffee table.
The top line contained my father's name, Rebecca's name, and the date of the hospital visit.
Beneath them was a sentence that made my stomach turn.
*Temporary guardianship transfer: one female minor, identity to remain confidential pending resolution of maternal custody dispute.*
I read the sentence twice.
“Who signed it?””
David turned the page.
My father's signature appeared at the bottom.
Beside it was another signature.
Rebecca's.
My grandmother covered her mouth.
I stared at the document.
“Rebecca agreed to this?””
“She signed it,” David said quietly.
“That isn't the same thing.””
He nodded.
The document contained one more line.
*Receiving party: Elizabeth Carter.*
I looked at Mae.
Then at my grandmother.
“Elizabeth Carter?””
My grandmother began shaking her head.
“No.””
I turned back to the document.
The receiving party's address had been written beneath the name.
It was an address I recognized.
The house where my father had lived before he married my mother.
The house where I had spent my first three birthdays.
The house he had told me we left because it was too small.
I looked at the final line.
It listed the name of the adult who had accepted the child.
*Thomas Carter.*
My father hadn't simply known about the missing girl.
He had signed for her.
He had taken responsibility for her.
And if the document was genuine, he had known exactly where she was supposed to go.
I looked at Mae.
“Did you ever live with my father?””
She stared at the paper, trembling.
Then she whispered, “I remember a man who smelled like peppermint.””
My grandmother's face went white.
“Thomas always carried peppermint candies,” she said.
Mae closed her eyes.
“I remember him telling me to call him Daddy.””
I felt the room spin.
My father had taken one of Rebecca's daughters.
But I still didn't know which one.
And when I looked at the date on the document, I realized something even worse.
May you like
The transfer had been signed three days before the hospital visit.
Which meant someone had planned for one of the girls to disappear long before that night ever began.
