That anger festered within me, only growing worse with time. Not all moms were this overprotective. Why did mine have to be? Was it because I was all she had?
For weeks, all my friends talked about was the trip. They bought special outfits and then came back with bucketloads of souvenirs and stories. All experiences I’d never have. I spent that week moping, working my regular shifts at The Shack. Des would never disagree with Mom in front of me, but I think even she questioned Mom’s stubbornness. Within a few months, I’d be off at college, if Mom would allow it. Why not give me this one week of freedom?
I first noticed the shift in Mom’s behavior right after I turned eighteen. Out of all my birthdays, that one remains the clearest in my mind, and not just because it signified my entry to adulthood. Since my birthday was close to the end of senior year, it turned into a pre-graduation celebration of sorts. Mom and Des didn’t spare any expense decorating The Shack. Des even set up a miniature bar in the back of the restaurant.
It was an all-around good night. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so loved or celebrated. And I don’t think I’d ever seen Mom look so proud. She seemed to float around the room, mingling with my friends and their parents. At previous parties, she always seemed to hang back. She avoided any small talk that could blossom into full-blown conversation.
But not at that party. She rejected her nervous ways, undressed her introverted layers. She laughed and danced. Danced! Even made herself a drink. It was the first time I’d seen Mom partake in the fun, not simply observe from a safe distance. From that point on, Mom became less possessive, more demonstrative. The panic attacks ceased. She became a different person.
A second Mom.
I believe reaching adulthood means you’re able to view your parents as people, as the flawed, capable humans they are, not as mere authority figures. I accepted there were parts of Mom I’d never be able to change, parts of her past I’d never fully understand, but I didn’t need any of that to accept her for who she was. A woman. My mother. That’s when our friendship truly developed. Whatever the cause, she no longer felt compelled to protect me from the world, and together we could start living in it.
Now that eighteenth birthday party holds significance for a different reason. Could it be, if what the police are alleging about Mom is true, that that was the end of her sentence? At eighteen, no one could send me to a foster home or ship me back to my biological family. That was the deadline after which I could no longer be taken away from her.
I go over what I know about the Baby Caroline abduction in my mind. The type of person who could commit such an act would be the polar opposite of my mother. Manipulative. Ruthless. Violent. There would be a string of clues leading to their capture, a capture that should have happened a long time ago. Little mysteries surrounding that person. A warm, tingling feeling pulsates through my body.
It whispers, Unless…
But no, no. It can’t be true. If Mom—Eileen—Sarah—stole me, it would mean I’m someone else’s daughter. That can’t be possible. I’m in my thirties. I would know by now if my upbringing was rooted in such deception, wouldn’t I?
Unless…
The gall to commit such a crime is one thing, but to avoid detection for so many years would take another set of skills. The culprit would have to be careful about being seen, establishing residence in a normal but forgettable town. Like North Bay. We moved here when I was a toddler, and Mom never left. She never visited me when I went to college, always offering some excuse why she couldn’t pull herself away from The Shack.
In fact, Mom never strays from routine. She’s never even been on vacation. She’d argue, Who needs a vacation when you live at the beach? Even Des went on the occasional cruise over the years, but Mom never joined her. As a child, I assumed Mom didn’t make enough money to fund a proper getaway, and as I got older, I labeled her a homebody. A creature of habit. An introvert.
Unless…
A woman capable of living the majority of her life under an alias would have to be strategic about where she put down roots. Like never buying property, which might explain why she’s continued to live above The Shack, even when she earned enough money to buy a bigger place. She’d need to concoct a backstory. Either her past would be non-existent or precisely detailed. When it comes to Mom, it’s the former. I don’t know anything about my grandparents or extended family. Details—exact places and dates and names—remain murky. She has always given me more excuses about her life than actual answers. She never uttered the name Sarah Paxton.
These quirks and traits make Mom who she is, I thought. I learned to accept them, and it was that eventual acceptance that brought us closer as adults. No one would assume it meant their parent was on the run, avoiding punishment for a heinous crime.
The brutality of the crime, the bloodshed involved, gives me pause. I’ve never seen Mom be violent or malicious. It’s hard to imagine her capable of bludgeoning Bruce Parker to death. But everything else getting away with this crime would entail—the lies, the secrecy, the compulsion—it feels like a betrayal to admit this, but it fits.
My hands start to shake. Am I actually starting to think this? That it’s possible? I need to talk to someone. I need a phone call telling me this has been a mistake, that her admission is distorting my memories, forcing me to see the worst in my mother. If Mom did this horrible thing, took me from my biological parents
