“Hey, Emma. It looks like this project is going to run late, so you’ll need to pick up Josie from day camp. I’ll do drop off tomorrow morning instead.”
I was just shocked by the voicemail. It wasn’t that it was unlike Mike to impose on my time and expect him to fix his problems. In fact that was a large part of the reason he was my ex; but to think I was going to drop everything and pick up some random kid after we’d split six years ago was over the top even for him. After listening to the message, I called and told him as much. This isn’t funny, Emma. Just because it’s my day to pick up our child, you’re going to pretend that -. I cut him off and asked if he’d meant to call me or if he had gotten involved with a different Emma, because I didn’t have a kid, certainly not with him of all people. “Oh, so now you’re going to pretend you’re not Emma Sanders. You’re so fucking childish sometimes,” he said before hanging up. I blocked the number figuring it was probably some prank. Maybe he’d finally started that podcast he’d been dreaming of while we were together, while not actually putting forth any effort into making it a reality, and this was material for it.
Not five minutes later, the phone rang again. My mom. Convenient, since I was about to call her anyway to vent. “Mike called and asked me to get Josie, because he said you wouldn’t? What’s going on?” the room tilted, and it felt like something sharp pierced my heart. Mike might try gaslighting me, I guess, but my own mother? Never. Gulping back a sob, I insisted that I didn’t know any Josie. I wasn’t a mother at all. Why were she and Mike doing this to me? She didn’t even like him, and now she was pretending we had a lifetime connection in the form of a little girl? I’m not sure how much of my speech was coherent, because she didn’t respond to any of it. She urged me to stay where I was, and she assured me she was on her way. When she arrived, only the driver’s door popped open. That was good. My relief was short-lived, because she stepped inside and announced that she’d dropped Josie off to play with my friend Carmen and her son.
“Are you feeling alright? Did you hit your head recently?” Genuine concern was etched on her face. I’m ashamed to admit I grabbed my mom and dragged her though the house, demanding she show me one sign that I shared it with a child. She skidded to a stop in front of the spare room and asked me what I’d done with Josephine’s things. “Jesus, Emma. When did you have time to dismantle the furniture? Wasn’t Josie here this morning? Where has she been sleeping?”
It’s an incredibly helpless feeling when your lifelong source of comfort delivers a massive dose of pain and confusion. I wanted her out, but couldn’t bring myself to say it. Even in my frazzled state, I knew that if she walked toward the door, I’d throw myself in front of it and beg her not to leave. When she put her arm around me and half walked me, half carried me to bed, I didn’t object. My night was plagued with dreams of a child with a smooth featureless face framed by hair that had Mike’s ash-brown coloring and my waves.
The scent of breakfast filled the air. My mom met me in the hall and whispered that Carmen had dropped Josephine off, because Mike was coming to take her to camp. She asked if I felt any better and looked crushed to learn that I still had no memories of her granddaughter. She announced that when Mike and Josie were gone, she was going to take me to the hospital. Sounded good to me. At least one of us needed to be evaluated, and I was going to ask to see the records of this supposed birth. Part of me wanted to hide in my room, but I needed to see this child. “Don’t say anything to upset her, please.” The statement was gentle, but with a hint of warning, and it rattled me. I was used to being the recipient of that protective streak, not being treated like a potential source of harm. I brushed past Mom and glanced around. Kitchen, empty. Living room was the same.
I winced as my mom’s bony elbow jabbed me in the ribs. “Say something!,” she hissed. “Your daughter said good morning.” I’d briefly entertained the possibility that I was afflicted by some kind of amnesia, but my eyesight and hearing were just fine. Nobody said anything. There was nobody else here to say anything. There were two plates of pancakes on the table. How did Mom explain that?
“Josie doesn’t like pancakes, Em,” she patiently explained. “She had a banana.”
I was unraveling. My head felt like it was on fire. “Oh, and where’s the peel? Let me guess, it’s in the garbage. Just like her bed and her mattress and all her fictional toys!”
“Yes. I threw the peel away. I didn’t know you’d need evidence of your child eating.”
My mom had entered the kitchen, kneeling down and circling her arms loosely in front of her. Cradling an invisible body. I couldn’t help it. I went over and waved my hand through the empty space. Horrified, my mom acted like she was hefting something up into her arms and rushed from the room. I felt suffocated and the only thing on my mind was getting out of there. I went back to my room and got dressed then got my keys. I could see my mom standing in the back yard pacing and talking on the phone as I backed out of the driveway and sped down the road.
My trip ended at a hotel in the next town. The constantly ringing phone sawed away at my remaining shred of sanity. I tried to find something fun on TV for a distraction, but that failed, because the only free channels were news stations, and they were all talking about some man who’d been found pulverized in his pool. I called the police and get a wellness check for my mother, but when I told them my name I was told something that nearly made me pass out.
“Miss Sanders, I’m glad you called. Please just come down to the station and talk. We know it was a terrible accident. We know you didn’t see her. We just want to make sure you’re safe and that you don’t do anything to compound this terrible tragedy.”
Apparently, when I left the house earlier, I backed out over Josie?