Page 75 of That's Not My Name

I gasp, and the images are all sucked away. Pre-storm morning takes its place, filling the van with weak sunlight, as Wayne steps up beside me and pushes the box of personal documents from our first night here into the van beside the duffel bag. “Everything okay?”

I nod. Too fast. Too much. I force a smile. “Yeah, the bag surprised me. It almost fell out.”

He looks down at it. “That’s fine. It’s only blankets and knickknacks.” He points to the passenger side. “Go wait in the van. Buckleup. I have to pull around the side of the house to load up a few things from the basement and we’re out of here. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

A tightness wraps itself around my chest and squeezes until I can barely breathe. Dear god, I need some air, and the thought of sitting in that van beside him has all the hairs rising on my neck.

I try to form words to beg for an alternative, even a temporary one. “C-can I wait by the river instead?”

He smiles at me. “Want to say goodbye to your favorite swing?”

I nod.

“You sure love that thing.” He looks at his watch. “Fine, but only for a minute. And only if you put your jacket on. You’ll catch your death out here.”

I nod again, because it’s the only communication I can manage at this point, and he disappears back into the house before I can even slip the sleeves of the jacket over my arms. I knot my fingers in the hem and try to count out even breaths as I walk, but it doesn’t help.

Nothing helps.

Because Ben Hooper is missing. And Wayne lied to me about my mom. And about Bowman being here. He’s rushing us out of here for no reason, and his fingers are digging into my arms, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not safe with him.

But I have nowhere else to go. I have nobody else to goto. I may remember my mom as the woman with the red sofa, but I don’t know how to find her. I don’t even know her fucking name. The nice old neighbor is missing. Bowman is gone. And I’m about to be gone too, with a man who barely even lets me outside.

I sit on the edge of the river swing, and it creaks beneath me. The last five days replay in my mind. Wayne looking urgently at me in the entrance to the police station. The relief on his face when he saw I wassafe—but also couldn’t remember him. The way he pleaded his case to get me back up this mountain. His hesitancy to bring me back into town. His insistence we drive two hours to buy leggings when the ones he bought me were the wrong size.

Cutting up strawberries, then blaming me for eating eggs I’m not allergic to.

Ordering me a strawberry smoothie.

Rushing out of the diner as soon we started to attract attention.

The refurbished floors back home that became floors and cabinets, which somehow all got completed in five days.

The photo of the complete stranger he tried to pass off as my mother.

If it weren’t for that birth certificate and all those photos of us, I’d almost think—

Fear explodes in my veins. Now I really can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

Because the thought completes itself: I’d almost think that Wayne’s gotten everything wrong because he has the wrong daughter.

The blood drains from my face. The tip of my nose turns to ice, and I feel like I’m about to pitch forward into the river the way my head spins.

Oh my god. What if…

What if he’snotmy dad? What if I’mnotMary?

What if that’s not my name?

I launch up off the swing and pace along the waterline because my whole body is itching to move. Mud cakes to my new white shoes, squishing up the sides. The sky churns above the water, turning the river gray and hostile.

What if I’m not Mary?

What if I’m not Mary?

---