Page 7 of That's Not My Name

Bowman clears his throat. “Can you explain your daughter’s condition, Mr. Boone? She has a lot of injuries.”

Wayne’s concerned gaze never leaves me. “She was fine when I last saw her. If you found her walking, my best guess is she crashed her car. It’s the only way she wouldn’t have shown up at the cabin. The power steering has been giving her some trouble lately, but I didn’t think it was bad enough to cause an accident. Maybe it went out and she lost control. Those mountain roads are full of twists and turns.”

As he talks, I imagine winding roads, and the steering wheel locking. Crashing into a tree. My face hitting an airbag. My body knocking around inside the car. Slamming my head into the window.

Relief prickles through me. Maybe itwasan accident.

“What kind of car does she drive?” Bowman asks.

“A ’96 Oldsmobile station wagon. A gray-blue beast of a thing, with pink seat covers. Someone must have found it by now. Filed a crash report?”

Bowman shakes his head, writing everything down. “Not to my knowledge, but I can look into it.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Wayne catches me staring and winks at me.

A jolt of familiarity hits like a blast of warm air, and I sit back in my chair.

I might remember him.

Wayne looks up at the clock. “I’m sorry, but do you know how much longer this is going to take?”

Bowman arcs an eyebrow. “I’m going to need quite a bit more information from you. Are you in a hurry?”

Wayne rubs a hand down his face. “No, of course not. But it’s incredibly late, and…” He waves a hand at me like my face should finish his sentence for him. “She’s been through a lot tonight, and I’d like to get her home so she can rest.”

“I understand, Mr. Boone. I really do. But I can’t release a minor, especially one who has been through a trauma, into the custody of a stranger.”

Wayne closes his eyes. His jaw sets and his shoulders tense. “I’m not a stranger. I’m her father.”

“Can you prove that?” Officer Bowman looks over at me, then turns back to my maybe-dad. “Do you have a copy of her driver’s license or any documentation to prove her identity? I need to establish not only whoyouare but whosheis as well. For everyone’s safety.”

Wayne deflates. “Her license would have been with her in the car, probably in her wallet. I don’t have that if you don’t. And she’s beenhomeschooled since freshman year, so she doesn’t have a current school ID.” He fishes his wallet out of his pocket. “I think I have her ninth-grade one though? She was always losing the damn thing, so I held onto it for her.”

He slides an unassuming piece of lamination toward us. A face stares back at me from a McMinnville High School ID. Brown hair, cut to the chin. Green eyes. Happy smile. Pink shirt—pink seems to be a recurring theme here. The same stranger from the pictures on his phone, though slightly younger. Rounder, softer. A lot less bruised.

And there, printed in big block letters next to my face: Mary Boone.

I mouth the name, letting the shape of the syllables find history on my lips.

Mary Boone.

I may have no memory of what happened tonight, and I may hurt like hell, but I have a name. And a parent who remembers everything I don’t. That’s so much more than I had an hour ago.

Wayne continues, “I have her birth certificate and Social Security card up at the cabin. I can bring everything in, or you’re welcome to follow us out there. You can take a look at the house and all her documentation to make sure everything is on the up-and-up. I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign. Tell me what I have to do to prove she’s mine.”

Officer Bowman looks uncertain. “Well…I suppose that would work,” he says. “If you can provide the documentation to verify who she is, I can release her into your custody. I’ll be taking you up on the offer to visit the cabin though. And I’d like an update on her condition in the morning. You’re also going to have to give a full report about the accident and the missing vehicle before you leave. We’ll need your contact information, your address, andyourvehicle information as well.”

Wayne nods vigorously. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

They both look at me. Suddenly it’s on me to decide?

“Can I see those pictures again?” I ask Wayne.

He slides the phone to me. “Sure.”

They wait in silence as I swipe, lingering on each picture. There are hundreds, some from more than eight years ago. The girl is so young in some of these, she almost looks like a different person. As I swipe, she slowly ages and turns back into me. It’s the weirdest thing, not recognizing your own face. But the proof is right here. Her face is my face. In many of his photos, Wayne smiles at me, or his arm is wrapped around my shoulders, or he’s laughing in the background.

A sense of finality sinks in. This is me.

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