Chapter Thirty-Three
ANN MARIE
Chicago, 2008
Just as my mom is at a place in her life where she’s ready to reveal something, she loses her voice. The deterioration has been mind-blowingly rapid, like water flooding a broken dam.
She’s now seated at my kitchen island after having a horrible coughing spell. I make her some herbal tea, and she’s resting and checking her e-mails. She closes the laptop and mimes a square shape with her hands.
“You want me to get the box?”
She nods.
I sigh. “Mom, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. First, because you’re in no condition to be reminiscing or explaining anything to me, and second, I think we have enough drama going on here. Maybe it should wait. I don’t want you to get upset.”
She shakes her head.
“Should I be scared?” I ask.
She places her hand on her heart and then makes the box shape again.
I retrieve the cardboard box filled with her journals, along with the one from my nightstand, and bring them all to the family room. She joins me in there and sits on the floor in front of the box and starts to rummage through them. Her face is anxious, like she’s just sat down to take an exam she hasn’t studied for, and her inner struggle is surfacing. Through her eyes, I can see that her brain is working so hard to fight the tumor on this one. She takes a few journals out of the box and flips through them, looking for something at the top of each page. She tosses a couple on the floor next to her. The whole scene is painful to watch. Her eyesight is suffering, and her brain isn’t processing her thoughts into actions. I’m afraid to step in and upset her, so I sit and sweat for about fifteen minutes until she finds what she’s looking for. When she turns to face me, her expression is filled with relief.
Mom gives me the journal and asks me to turn the pages by mimicking the act with her hand. I scoot closer to her and take a long breath. All I can think about is Stewart Fishman’s expression the first time we met, and how shocked he was to discover who I was. He knew more about me than I did.
Slowly, I flip through the pages, trying not to focus on the words. Mom squints as I’m doing so and then stops my hand, pointing to the page header and tapping it repeatedly so I will read it aloud.
“February 2, 1972.”
She grimaces and takes a moment to rub her temples. I know she’ll get mad if I suggest putting this off, so I sit quietly as she grapples with her memory.
I start flipping again, and her breathing intensifies. It’s exhausting what she’s trying to accomplish, but I continue to do as she asks.
“March 21, 1972.”
She waves her hand slowly, as if I’m getting close. “This one just says April.”
She nods and points to a page, placing her whole palm on it this time.
“April 1972?”
She nods and closes her eyes for a second.
“Should I read this page?” I swallow the lump in my throat.
Mom looks at me and then gets up off the floor and sits on the couch. She pats the cushion next to her. We both sit, and I place the journal in my lap, reading aloud.
April 1972
I don’t know how long it’s been since Ann Marie was taken.
I read the words over and then glance at the header again. I would’ve been a year old. “Ann Marie was taken,” I repeat, and my mom looks at me and then at the book, willing me to continue.
I haven’t been able to write for obvious reasons, but Mother is encouraging me to do so. I cry every minute. I can’t eat because I keep thinking my baby is hungry. I can’t sleep because I think she’s uncomfortable. And I can hardly breathe because she’s not with me. I don’t want to live without my daughter. Everyone says I need to be strong, but I failed her when she needed me the most, and now I may never see her again.
“Who took me from you?”
She taps the book.
I place the journal on the couch. “I can’t do this.” I stand and cross the room. My heart is racing. I can’t believe what I just read. My hands go to my face, and I press my fingertips into my eyes, rubbing. When I look back at her, she’s just sitting there with the same neutral expression and inability to explain anything.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. I pace the room as she watches me. “Maybe I don’t want to know what’s in there,” I say and stop moving. “I just need you to get better.” My eyes sting. “I’m not going to lose my husband and my mother in the same year.”
She holds up her hand, and I wait. “Please,” she says.
“Ann Marie was taken?” I throw my arms in the air, and her gaze goes to the floor. “Why are you doing this to me? I don’t need any more anxiety right now.” I shake my head.
“Please,” she manages again.
My tears are flowing now, and I sit back down next to her. “No, you please. Please get better. I need you to fight for me.”
She struggles to say a few quiet words. “I always have.” Then she hands me the journal, and I relent.
Everyone believes Gabriel won’t harm her except for me. I want to believe it, and I pray for her safety every day, but how can I trust him? He’s trying to get back at me, and he’s done it. He knows the one thing that would destroy me would be to separate me from my daughter. Please, God, keep her safe. I’m coming for her.
“Gabriel? My father took me from you?”
She looks at me.
“Is this what Stewart was talking about?”
She nods.
“Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry.” I place my hand on the page. “I can’t even imagine what you went through. How long were we apart?”
She begins to cry as I rapidly turn the pages, scanning the dates at the top and the handwritten words beneath them until I can find something—anything—that mentions a reunion between us.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself.