The Broken Ones (16 page)

That was the last time I saw my twin sister Becca. The man snatched her, and I tugged and tugged at her hand. When I lost her hand, I tried to grasp her hair, but he pulled her away, shoving his grubby hand over her mouth. I stood there and I watched him run away with her in his arms. The strawberry lollipop fell onto the grass. I carried her hair in my fist all the way home and told Mum what had happened.

“I was her shadow,” I say. The photograph in my hand is of the two of us, arms entwined, sat on the sofa like it was any other day. “I followed her around. She was always the leader.”

“What do you remember?” Mum asks.

“I remember the park. I remember running home in tears. I remember the weeks afterwards with the police tramping through our house with their big boots. I remember crying myself to sleep every night. I remember that after she was snatched, I started talking to my own shadow, because it was the closest thing I had to her. Why did I forget all of this?”

“Because you were so young. It was probably so painful.”

“Is that why we moved? To get away from the memories?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Is she… is she dead?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

The room is silent. I begin picking up other photographs of the two of us together. Here are our baby pictures. Here are our toddler photographs. Here we are with Dad. Here we are as a family.

I begin speaking in a hoarse whisper, the words that have been etched on my bones since I was a little girl but have remained unspoken all this time. “I always felt like half a person. I have been missing a part of me since she was snatched from my hand in the park. I blamed myself. I have carried the guilt for a crime I could not remember all these years.”

Mum says nothing, but she reaches across and picks up the jumper I found when I searched the box the first time. She rubs the material across her face, and I shudder at the memory of the itchy fabric.

And then I shoot up onto my feet.

“What is it?” Mum gazes up at me with wide, open eyes.

“You… you made me wear that jumper. You said it was my favourite. But it wasn’t. I hated it.”

Mum shrugs. “So, I got mixed up.”

I shake my head. “No, no, you didn’t.”

Because it’s all starting to make sense. “You made me wear that jumper, and you used to say to me, ‘Becca is gone. Becca is never coming back.’”

“Because she was taken.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not it. When I found you with Mrs Hamilton earlier, you said to me that I was always the bad one, and you asked me why I couldn’t be more like Sophie. Then you called me Becca.”

“Sophie…” Her face pales. In the dim light of her bedroom, she is a ghoul. A ghoul that has taken the form of my mother. Or maybe a mother in the form of a ghoul.

“It wasn’t Becca who was taken.” The words taste sour. I take a step towards her, balling my hands into fists. “You dressed me as her. You called me her name.”

“I… I didn’t…”

“Yes, you did. You always knew which of us was which. Daddy got mixed up sometimes. The teachers at school were hopeless. But even when we tried to play tricks on you, you always knew. I could never fake her confidence, and that’s why you always knew her.”

The truth is so horrifying that I don’t want to say it. I’m not sure I can utter the words.

“I’m not Sophie. I’m Becca. They took your favourite, and you’ve been trying to make me her all these years. But I’ve never lived up to your expectations, have I? Because Sophie was the confident one. She was the leader. I was the shadow because I always followed her. If Sophie had stayed with you, she would have been your match. She would have talked back, rebelled, stood up for herself, and you would have respected that. But I never did. I sought your approval at every turn, and you never respected me. You’ve treated me like a doormat all these years because
I let you
.”

When I stop speaking, my body trembles. My knees are weak, but I continue to stand. I want her to look up at me for once in her life.

“You’ve always been a victim,” she says. “You can’t blame me for that. At every point in your life you’ve made the decision to be a victim. To be a martyr. You could have left years ago, but you never did. You chose to stay here. You chose Jamie as your only boyfriend. You whine about everything, but you have no one to blame but yourself. And do you know what? I blame you too. I blame you for everything. But most of all, I blame you for Sophie, because they were supposed to take
you
.”

The room narrows and blurs. When I blink, I see the hatred in her eyes. I see her true face. Then my knees collapse and I sink to the floor. “What?”

“Nothing. I’ve said too much. Put these photographs back in the box.
Now
.”

I grasp hold of her wrist as she tries to scoop up the pictures from the carpet.

“In the letter to Grandma, you mention doing something unspeakable. Unforgiveable…”

“Get off me, Becca.” She swings her other arm towards me, but I catch her.

“Tell me what you did!”

I’m pushing her down, pressing her down under my weight. I can almost smell the fear emanating from her. Sickly sour-sweet, like day-old sweat. It brings me sick satisfaction to see her frightened. All these years, I’ve been afraid of her, and now I get to inflict that misery back. I press her arms down towards the floor, enjoying her whimpers.

“Tell me!” I demand.

She stares at me like she doesn’t recognise me. Her eyes are wide with incomprehension. But I don’t trust it anymore. I don’t trust a word she says.

“TELL ME!”

“I sold you.”

“
What?
”

“We were starving, so I sold you.”

I let her go. I stagger back, falling against the bed. This… This, I can’t comprehend. What? What does she mean? I… I can’t.

“Becca. I…” She’s crying. I can hear it in her voice. I can’t see her because I have my face in my hands, but I can hear it. “It was the most difficult decision of my life. Your father had committed suicide, leaving me in debt to loan sharks. We were about to lose the house. I knew we were going to be homeless in a matter of weeks. Your grandparents had cut me off and were refusing to see me or even speak to me.” She pauses, but I can’t bring myself to speak. So she continues. “It was in Geoff’s old boozer that I found out you could do it. I was half-cut, chatting to one of his dodgy mates. He told me about these rich people who couldn’t have kids of their own. He said they’d be willing to pay good money for a child, even more for twins, but I said no, I wouldn’t get rid of my girls.”

“But you did,” I whisper.

“I felt sick all that day. I walked to the end of the street. I was coming for you. But I kept thinking about the mortgage. We were going to lose the house.”

“You chose me. Out of everything you could have done. Out of begging, whoring yourself, stealing—you chose to sell
me
.”

“They took the wrong one,” she whispers.

“We switched our jumpers to trick Mrs Ellis at school.”

“I never meant for—”

“She could be in the sex trade. She could have been sold to paedophiles and made to take drugs—”

“No,” Mum interrupts. “It was a rich family in America who wanted to adopt but couldn’t because of the paperwork. He told me.”

“And you believed the word of a man who trafficked little girls? Did you?” I shout. “You believed that scum. I can’t believe… I can’t believe any of this.” The truth is even worse than I could have imagined. My mother is a monster.

The rage finally hits me, seeping into every pore and filling me up. It becomes a living thing that grows and expands, taking the place of my organs and my veins, plugging my heart and soul with its dirty need. It demands an outlet. I grab hold of a cushion from the end of the bed and dive towards my monster of a mother.

She gasps and leans away from me. I hold the cushion an inch from her face with my heart pounding hard. Her eyes plead up to me.

I could end this in a few minutes. I could end it all. I would be free.

“Do it.”

At first I think the voice came from Mum, but then I realise that her lips never moved. Then I think I whispered it to myself.

I didn’t.

The voice came from the doorway to the bedroom. I drop the cushion, and I turn away to be face-to-face with the shadow that has been stalking me for the last few months.

ADELINE

Who shall I be today?

There’s Boyfriend Guy in Brooklyn who thinks I’m plain old Katie. Good little Katie. She’ll cook macaroni and make his bed. She brightens up his dingy apartment with her glowing smile and leaves her panties drying over the side of the tub. Then there’s Summer Guy in the Hamptons who thinks I’m Serena, a girl from old money who dresses in pearls but gets dirty at night. And then I’m Roxanne for Party Guy, getting fucked up on Molly. Then we get fucked up on each other until the sun rises.

To Mom and Dad, I was always Addy. They didn’t know about the others. I was their sweet miracle Addy who came to them when they thought they’d never have children. But they’re gone now.

At their funeral I wasn’t Addy anymore, at least not to them. I was Adeline Burke, the grieving daughter, forced to hug and shake the hands of all the men who could easily have killed her parents. But none of them did, and I should know.

Daddy tried to hide it, but I knew what he did. I used to sneak into his office and read his papers, carefully remembering the order and position of each one. His office was private, but I knew where he hid a spare key to get in. I knew about his schemes. I knew his corruption went beyond money laundering, beyond Wall Street, beyond politics. He was a criminal, but he was a criminal with connections, and—more importantly—money.

I was being Roxanne with Party Guy when I heard about Mom and Dad’s car crash. I’m with him again when Ralph calls. Daddy’s lawyer.

Party Guy has a trust fund, part of which went towards his Upper West Side apartment overlooking Central Park. It’s late afternoon when I wake, bleary-eyed, to the sound of my cell phone. It’s getting harder to be party girl Roxanne. Now that I’m in my thirties, it’s getting harder to be any of my alter egos. I might be able to keep Serena for a few more summers. Katie is getting tiresome, anyway.

I wonder when I’ll get to be Adeline?

My phone is hidden under Party Guy’s jeans, tossed between his sofa and the TV.

“Yes.”

“Adeline, it’s Ralph.”

“Hey, Ralphio.”

“We need to go over your parents’ wills. Can you get to my office at, say, 9am tomorrow?”

I groan. “Does it have to be so early? You’re a goddamn sadist, Ralphie.”

I imagine him smiling. His eyes started to wander to my intimate places after I hit fifteen and my breasts began to blossom. To me, he’s looked fifty for the last twenty years, probably because he’s been overweight and balding all that time. There’s a rustle on the other end of the line, and I know he’s reached for a napkin or handkerchief to mop his sweaty brow. I’ve thought about fucking Ralph a few times, mainly to piss off Daddy, and partly because I
can
. But I never did. I wonder if it was the thought of those sweaty handkerchiefs that put me off.

“We need to get it sorted out, Addy. You’re inheriting a lot of money. We need to discuss your trust fund and potential investments. We need to talk about your father’s business.”

“I told you, I’m not taking it over. I’m not running it. I just want the money.” Translation: I don’t want the hassle of the Feds snooping through my finances. They’ve been lurking for years. They know Daddy was dirty, but he was always quicker and smarter. They never got even close to catching him.

“Yeah, I know. But you’re still coming in to talk to me. 9am sharp.”

The corner of my mouth turns up. I like it when he’s bossy. It’s like Daddy’s still here. “All right. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’ll be there.”

“Good girl.”

Party Guy rolls over and moans. I pat him on the forehead, gather my clothes, and light a cigarette on the way out.

“I hope you weren’t smoking in the elevator again,” the doorman admonishes. “One of these days, Roxie…”

“It’s cool. I put my hand over the sensor.”

“Have a good day, now.” He grins as he opens the door for me.

I give him a wink on the way out, and that grin only widens.

It’s 4pm and the city is bustling. I haven’t eaten all day and my head is thumping, so I pick up strong coffee and a pretzel. I could call my driver, but I’d rather get the subway back to Tribeca. Daddy wanted me to move to Fifth Avenue, but I didn’t fit in with the Fifth Avenue crowd. I don’t want to stand out. I like the feeling of melting into the background so I can be no one. New York is perfect for that.

So, who should I be today? Should I be Adeline? The woman without a purpose, without a direction? A woman who for some reason has lived to be thirty-five and still doesn’t feel whole? Or should I be no one, disappearing into the crowds on the subway, waiting for the next mask to wear? Yes, I think I’ll be that person.

*

Ralph Scalzi sits behind a mahogany desk. A stereotypical show of masculine power. I’ve often wondered if the overcompensation of large cars for small-dicked men applies to desks, too. It wouldn’t surprise me, not with Ralph. But then, he’s always tried to appear bigger, more imposing than he really is.

Scalzi, the genius lawyer—if there’s a loophole, he’ll find one; if there’s a favour to be cashed in, he’ll do it—has worked with high-ranking mobsters, corrupt politicians, and crooked businessmen. And my father, who could be considered a little of all of the above. But he’s a small man with a large frame—short and squat—and a face that reddens at even the slightest of exertion. Whenever I meet with him, I can’t get rid of the mental image of him huffing and puffing on top of me. It used to make me giggle. But now I see him and imagine what my future could bring. Party Guy could soon be a thing of the past, replaced with Sweaty, Balding Guy.

I shudder.

“Addy, you made it. And look at that, only five minutes late.” He gestures to the chair in front of his desk.

“It’s a personal record.”

“How are you doing?”

I let out a sigh. Ralph should know better than to ask me that. He isn’t one of the pitying many who tilt their heads at me when they mention my parents. I’m not that person. I’m not someone to ever be pitied.

“I’m fine.”

“If you need anything—”

I put up my hands, cutting him off. “I’m fine.”

I can’t help but notice how his eyes trail down past the cleavage revealed by the loose-fitting red dress I threw on this morning. To give Ralph some credit, those wandering eyes have never ceased, not even after I turned thirty. Most men seemed to lose interest after I hit the big 3-0. I haven’t gotten as many free drinks, despite keeping my figure all these years. I’ve often wondered if Ralph is harbouring more than just a secret boner for my body. I wonder if he’d had real feelings for me over the years. I also wonder what his wife would think about that.

He shuffles his papers, and a ripple of tension works along his jaw. Ralph isn’t exactly easygoing, but he seems even more tense than usual today. A bead of sweat runs along his temple. He starts to reach for the handkerchief in his top jacket pocket, then thinks better of it and clears his throat. “Addy, there’s a lot to talk about today. There are things in your parents’ wills that I have to tell you, and they might come as a shock.”

I feign surprise. “Daddy was a crook. I already know that. Were they in debt? Did they spend all the money?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. And you can’t say anything like that about your father in this room. I’m your lawyer, remember?”

I shrug. “Sure. So, what’s the big deal? What’s going on with Daddy’s money?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to do with that. Both your mother and father left you a substantial amount in your trust fund, along with the apartment on the Upper East Side and the summer house in Southampton. The details are all in the will. What I wanted to talk to you about is your adoption.”

“My adoption?” I lean forward in the chair. “What? But I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

Ralph fingers a manila envelope. He taps the desk twice, something I’ve noticed he does as a nervous tic. “What I’m about to tell you is information that even I didn’t learn until after your parents’ death.”

Now I’m interested.

“You see, your father couldn’t have told me while he was alive because it would have been admitting a felony to me. You weren’t adopted, Adeline. You were bought.”

The word hits me like a fist.
Thwack.
I was
bought
?

For once, I’m speechless. Mom used to say it would take a miracle to shut me up; that I came out of the womb talking. Huh. I guess that was a lie too.

“The details of the… err… sale are in this envelope. All I know is that your father paid a group of men to smuggle you into the country from England. Your parents lived upstate at the time. Your mother had a criminal record, which is why they could never adopt legally. When your parents moved away from their old life, they passed you off as their own and registered you as their child. Strings had to be pulled, apparently, but it wasn’t me who arranged it all.”

I lean back in my chair, blown sideways by the news. The Molly and the alcohol from the other night must be catching up with me, because my stomach is roiling like an old washing machine.

“I can’t believe this. So, where do I come from?”

He passes me the envelope. “London. From a single parent who couldn’t afford to keep you. Arrangements were made for you to be snatched from a park and smuggled into the country.”

A low, simmering rage builds up from my churning gut. I haven’t felt that for a long time, and it frightens me. I clench and unclench my fist, trying to keep the beast in check. “And how much did I cost? How much did this woman get?”

Ralph squirms in his seat. “I don’t know.”

I rip open the envelope and begin to thumb through the contents. I glance up at Ralph. “Know any good private detectives?”