With This Child.... Sally Carleen
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“No, of course not. I want her to be happy. I know she loves you. I have no intention of taking her from you.” In spite of her efforts to be strong, she knew that her voice had lost its certainty, that Sam would sense her weakness and take advantage of it. “I just want to be a part of her life. I want her to know I’m her mother.”
He sighed and looked away from her. “If you really did have a baby, and that baby died, I’m sorry. But if you think you’re going to take Kyla, you better think again.” He turned back to her, his hazel eyes blazing. “I want this insanity ended right now. I don’t want Kyla to ever find out about you. But if you think for one minute that’s going to stop me from calling the police and having you thrown in jail, you’re dead wrong. And I’m keeping those pictures and that letter as evidence.” He moved closer, so close she could see the tiny lines around his eyes, where a smile used to live. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my daughter from you.”
He whirled away, strode into the house and slammed the door behind him.
Marcie walked stiffly back to her car, away from her daughter’s home, where she wasn’t welcome, from Sam’s cold threat, his assertion that her baby needed to be protected from her.
She’d made a mistake, coming to McAlester and looking them up. She should have made firm, sensible plans. The lawyer she consulted had suggested she let him call first. That was what she should have done. She should never have given in to her impulse and driven by the house.
Her only excuse was that she’d wanted to be certain Kyla really was her daughter before she did anything. But having an excuse didn’t change the situation. Her mother had a roomful of excuses for what she’d done, and they didn’t change a thing.
She’d taken a step in the wrong direction, and life gave no opportunities for U-turns. The road chosen, whether by deliberation, impulse or accident, had to be traveled. She’d learned that years ago.
The drive home was going to be a long one. And she doubted that even when she got there she was going to feel safe. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling.
When Marcie finally walked into her condo, exhausted to the point of collapse, the light of the answering machine sitting on the kitchen bar seemed to blink a brighter red than she remembered, an ominous, threatening shade of red.
She hesitated for a moment, wanting only to go to bed. If she pressed that button, would she hear more cruel accusations from Sam? Or had he talked to the police and they were calling to warn her away from Kyla?
She made herself cross the room to the answering machine and press the button. Every muscle in her body tensed as she waited for it to rewind and begin to play.
“It’s me, sweetheart.” Though it was better than she’d expected, nevertheless, Marcie cringed as her mother’s overly bright voice grated along her nerves, prickling like a thousand tiny daggers. “Just checking in to say hi and see if you’ve found out when I’m going to get to meet my granddaughter.”
All the tension from the day returned, and anger Marcie hadn’t known she possessed burst from its hiding place. It was all well and good for her mother to be so interested in her granddaughter since Marcie had confronted her with the letter. But if she’d been a little more interested thirteen years ago, this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. If she hadn’t schemed and conspired and lied to get rid of that granddaughter, she’d have her today. Marcie wouldn’t have had to go through the grief of thinking her child had died. Kyla wouldn’t have spent the past thirteen years living a lie with a stranger who thought he was her father. Marcie wouldn’t now be faced with battling that stranger, hurting him and her daughter and herself.
She jabbed at the button to forward to the next message, to rid herself of her mother’s voice, her interference.
“End of messages,” the machine’s computerized voice announced.
Sam hadn’t called. The police hadn’t called.
The next move was hers.
She sank onto one of the stools. It had only been a short time ago that she sat at that bar, poring over pictures of a blonde girl, afraid to hope, afraid to let herself be happy, afraid to believe this could really be her child. Now it would seem she’d found her child and lost her in a remarkably short space of time, shorter than before. She’d had nine months before she lost her last time.
Briefly she wondered whether she should take Sam’s advice, leave her daughter alone, knowing she was happy. Would that be the loving thing to do? She and her child both had lives...good lives...without each other. For almost thirteen years, each of them had been unaware of the other’s existence.
Moving woodenly, she rose and went to the refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea.
When she lifted it to her lips, the taste recalled the glass of tea Kyla had given her, the thrill of sitting on the porch, looking at and listening to the child she’d thought dead.
She sipped the drink slowly, wanting to draw out the taste, the flavor of the memories it evoked.
There was no going back. Now she knew her daughter was out there. She’d seen her, talked to her, drunk tea with her. Maybe Sam would do whatever it took to keep her from her daughter, but she’d do whatever it took to get to her. Kyla had the right to know the truth, and only Kyla had the right to order her to stay away.
She stood silently in the kitchen, running her fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the breakfast bar, looking around, trying to find the secure, content feeling her home usually gave her.
Soft silvery carpet stretched across the living room, interrupted by the muted pastels of her sofa and chairs and the rich wood of her coffee and lamp tables. When she moved in four years ago, she’d decorated with comfort and serenity in mind. Since that time, she hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t added a picture or moved a piece of furniture.
Every time she opened the door, she knew exactly what to expect.
She’d organized her entire life that way—dependable and safe.
Except suddenly that safety was slipping away.
Her home looked different, somehow. Or maybe it only felt different.
On Monday she’d go to work in the same office with the same people she saw five days a week...seven during tax season. She’d dress the same way she always dressed. She’d tie her hair back the way she always did. She’d get a cup of coffee and go to her desk and turn on her computer... and nobody would know that her whole world had changed.
Marcie crossed her living room to her bedroom, then stopped and looked back at the faint footprints in her carpet. Just walking through the room had changed it. How much more of an effect would her daughter and Sam have on her life?
It was too late. She wouldn’t go back even if she could.
But going forward was damn scary.
Sam sat in his van, elbow on the open window, directly in front of the entrance to the Little Dixie Cinema. His gaze darted back and forth as he alternately checked the door for his daughter, and every car that went past, every movement in the shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.
He’d arrived half an hour early to wait for the movie to end, for Kyla and Rachel to come out.
That woman had him on his guard, edgy, afraid to take any chances that the girls might leave early and she or someone she’d hired might kidnap them. He’d been lucky when she returned for her pictures and letter. Kyla and Rachel had been off somewhere riding their bikes.
But he couldn’t count on that kind of luck every time.
He drummed his fingers nervously on the side of his van. Man, the crazies were everywhere, even here in this town he’d always thought of as a refuge from such things. That woman, Marcie Turner—if that was really her name—must be a loony. At first, she’d seemed normal,