I sat in my car, not wanting to leave until my heart calmed. I could see my son talking to the girl, pointing toward the woods, and I knew he was telling her about the turtles. （There weren’t any turtles. I made that up.） I watched as the girl nodded and then they headed into the woods.
I should have left then. I should have started my car and gotten out of there. But I was still so angry that you, the one who had everything, would leave your little boy （my little boy!） to wander around without supervision. How could you be so careless with that precious little boy?
All this time, I’d been grieving for my son, and he is still alive. I grew angrier as I stared into the woods where my son had disappeared. And I was angry at the teenage girl also for getting in my way. My anger propelled me back out of my car and I followed them into the woods. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know what I was going to do once I saw them. And that was the problem. I wasn’t thinking, only feeling. I’d been hurting and alone for so long and it was finally my turn to be happy. We’ve been living such parallel lives. （Did I mention that we have the same birthday? I found this out during my research. You and I were born on the same day, twelve years apart. How much more proof do you need that our lives are intertwined for a reason?） But it was finally time for me to claim my rightful family.
I marched in and found them deep in the woods, close to the water’s edge. The girl turned at the sound of my footsteps and put the boy behind her. She asked me what I wanted. I made my voice kind, telling her that I was his mother. The girl said, “No, you’re not his mother. His mother is on the beach.” I told her she’s wrong, he’s my son. I reached out to take his hand. But she wouldn’t get out of the way. She actually slapped my hand. I couldn’t believe she slapped me. In shock, I looked at my son and he gazed back at me, as if he knew—he knew!—that I am his mother.
Something snapped in me. I’d had enough. No one was going to tell me I couldn’t talk to my son. Especially not a teenage girl. I pushed her. Hard. She went flying backward and ended up on her butt. I could hear the rush of air as the breath was knocked out of her and my son started to cry. I knew I should have helped her up but when she caught her breath, the girl started yelling at me to get away and leave them alone. So I left. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? I would figure out a way to get my son another time.
And I swear, when I left, she was alive. She was still on the ground, but she was alive. I could hear her talking to my son, probably soothing him. That made me madder and I wished I had slapped her to shut her up. I had just gotten to the edge of the woods when I heard my son calling the girl’s name. Lindsay. His voice got louder and louder, so I turned around and ran back. And found the girl on the ground, but now with a pool of blood forming around her and my son screaming her name.
I panicked. I ran back to my car as fast I could. Thinking back, I should have scooped up my son and taken him with me. I should have thought of him first. He was terrified and any good mother would have consoled him. But I ran. Maybe I was out of practice. I hadn’t been a mother for three years. But my head was filled with images of the girl. And the blood. I saw the blood and I ran, leaving my son there by himself.
I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even call 911. I should have. Maybe someone would have gotten to her in time and saved her. I didn’t know then that she was dead, only that she was hurt. And instead of getting her help, all I thought about was myself and how I had to get out of there.
Then the next day, I found out the girl had died. That she’d been found dead in the woods, my son crying next to her. And my blood ran cold. I knew I had killed her. Maybe I’d pushed her harder than I thought. Maybe she’d hit something when she went down, something vital. All I knew was that it was my fault. And that I’d left my son there to deal with it by himself, instead of taking him away from the scene. I was a bad mother and a killer. I’d killed before but that time was justified. No one would have blamed me. This time, I hadn’t meant to.
40
Annie’s head swam. She swayed on her feet, suddenly dizzy. She was frozen in place, Finn’s screams echoing in her head.
“Annie.” Serena’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“How could you?” Annie’s heart galloped.
“It was an accident.” Serena’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned back against the front door. She looked like she would crumple to the floor if the door weren’t holding her up.
Annie closed her eyes, still dizzy. The room was spinning when she opened them again. She stumbled backward until she hit the couch, and dropped heavily onto it. She could feel Marley panting next to her.
Serena was talking again, but all Annie heard in her head was the echo of Finn’s little voice during a nightmare. The way he screamed for Lindsay, and shouted the word “no” over and over again. Echoes of her neighbors yelling her name, rousing her from her nap on the beach. Being jolted awake, her limbs heavy from the sun and sleep, her insides freezing even before her mind could understand what her eyes were seeing. Finn, in a neighbor’s arms, crying hysterically, screaming Lindsay’s name. The way he’d launched himself at her, covered in something red. Blood. She’d realized it belatedly, and only because the sharp tang of it hit her nose.
She reached up now and touched her cheek, blood coming away on her fingers. Blood. Always blood.
Annie hadn’t been able to get him to calm down enough to tell them what had happened. He’d just kept saying the woman, the mean woman, was there in the woods. And then collapsed in Annie’s arms, a deadweight.
She didn’t really remember what happened next. Somehow, they’d gotten back to their house. Someone had called Brody, who’d been working at the firehouse in the Bronx. Neighbors must have helped them home, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember if they’d walked or if someone had given them a ride the short distance to their house. Someone took Finn from her and told her to take a shower. They must have bathed Finn, because the next time Annie saw him, he was in his pajamas, his body clean and hair still damp. The police had come and questioned them, but Finn had sat in her lap and not said much. He just kept saying there was a woman with them. He didn’t know her. That was all he said. When they asked him what happened, he just shook his head. And asked where Lindsay was.
Annie had nothing to contribute—she hadn’t been there with them. She’d failed to protect her son when he needed her most. When Brody arrived, he took Finn from her, and the sudden absence of his warm body made her shiver. This was what it would feel like if he were gone. If whatever or whoever had killed Lindsay had gotten him.
“Annie. Annie.”
Serena’s voice floated to her as if from a great distance. She turned her head toward the voice, but her eyes remained unfocused. They’d never been able to get Finn to tell them more about the woman who had been in the woods with them. And now Serena was sitting here in her house, telling her she was that woman? That she was the one who’d killed Lindsay?
Annie’s mind refused to focus. Because all she could think was that the woman who claimed she was Finn’s real mother had killed Lindsay. And then left her son there all by himself.