I stumbled into our bedroom and shook Steven’s shoulder.
“Someone’s pretending to be Carrie,” I sobbed. “Look what they sent me.”
He read the message twice.
Whoever you are, this is a cruel joke.
Then his hands began to tremble so badly that the phone slipped onto the quilt.
“Steven?”
He hunched forward, hiding his face in his hands.
“I knew this would come out sooner or later,” he whispered. “I should have told you the truth years ago.”
“What truth?”
He didn’t answer.
Ask Dad what really happened.
“Steven, look at me.”
“I lied about that day.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing to her.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
I knew this would come out sooner or later.
“We argued.”
I stared at him. “You told me she walked away.”
“She did.”
“After an argument?”
“Yes.”
I lied about that day.
“What argument?”
Steven stood. “It was stupid. She was ten. She was angry.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember every word.”
“You remember enough to be shaking.”
It was stupid. She was ten.
He looked away. “She ran off. I assumed she was going back to you.”
“And you never told me?”
“I thought they’d find her within an hour.”
“Then an hour passed.”
“I panicked.”
You remember enough to be shaking.
“Then a day passed.”
“I know.”
“Then fifteen years passed, Steven.”
He looked away. “After the first night, I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Why?”
I thought they’d find her within an hour.
“Because I’d already lied.”
“That’s not why.”
His jaw tightened.
“You thought they’d find her,” I said. “And when they did, you could pretend the argument never happened.”
He said nothing.
I didn’t know how to tell you.
“But when they didn’t find her, telling me meant admitting she disappeared because of something you said.”
“Susan…”
“You thought I’d leave you.”
His eyes finally met mine. “Yes.”
The word barely came out.
You could pretend the argument never happened.
Every hour he stayed silent made the next confession harder.
Then I remembered how quickly he’d packed away Carrie’s things, closed her bedroom door, and told me we had to move on.
For fifteen years, I’d mistaken his need to bury the truth for grief.
But that wasn’t what frightened me most.
It was the fact that he still wouldn’t tell me what the argument had been about.
The word barely came out.
I messaged the account again.
Me: If you’re Carrie, prove it.
The response came seconds later.
Stranger: You called me Care Bear until I was seven. I hated peanut butter unless you cut my sandwiches into triangles. Every Christmas Eve, we hid one present for each other instead of putting it under the tree.
My breath caught.
He still wouldn’t tell me what the argument had been about.
Nobody knew about the Christmas game.
Me: Where are you?
A location arrived.
A café three hours away.
Then another message.
Nobody knew about the Christmas game.
Stranger: Come alone. Don’t bring Steven.
Steven saw it. “You’re not going.”
I actually laughed. “My daughter might be alive, and you think you get a vote?”
“You don’t know who this person is.”
“No. But apparently they know more about what happened to Carrie than I do.”
Don’t bring Steven.
His face went pale.
That was enough for me.
I left.
***
The road climbed toward the mountains.
I hadn’t been back in fifteen years. Since Carrie disappeared, even scenic overlooks terrified me.
But I kept driving.
That was enough for me.
At the café, I chose a table facing the door.
Every young woman who entered made my heart jump.
Then a woman with brown hair stopped beside my table.
She looked about Carrie’s age.
I stood so fast my chair scraped the floor. “Carrie?”
I hadn’t been back in fifteen years.
Her eyes filled with tears. “No.”
I froze. “My name is Emily. I’m sorry.”
“You pretended to be my dead daughter?”
“She isn’t dead.”
“Don’t.”
My name is Emily. I’m sorry.
“She’s alive.”
“DON’T.”
Emily pulled out her phone. “I can prove it.”
She showed me a photograph.
The woman was twenty-five instead of ten.
But those eyes were mine. And I knew that crooked smile.
She’s alive.
“That’s Carrie,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get this?”
Emily hesitated.
My hand tightened around the phone. “Who are you?”
Those eyes were mine.
“I told you. My name is Emily.”
“That tells me nothing. You knew our Christmas game. You knew what I called her. You pretended to be my daughter to get me here.”
“I needed you to come.”
“Why?”
“Because Carrie wouldn’t contact you herself.”
That tells me nothing.
My heart stopped. “You’ve spoken to her?”
Emily looked down.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Carrie wouldn’t contact you herself.
“She left about a year ago.”
I grabbed my purse. “Then why am I here?”
Emily looked up. “Because I grew up with her.”
“Who found her?”
“My parents. Martha and Daniel.”
She left about a year ago.
“Where?”
“Near a remote road, a few hours after she disappeared. She was wandering alone.”
“Why didn’t they call the police?”
“They were going to.”
“Then why didn’t they?”
She was wandering alone.
Emily looked down. “Carrie begged them not to. She said Steven had told her you’d chosen him over her.”
“She was ten.”
“I know. But my mother grew up with a violent stepfather. When Carrie said she was afraid to go home, Mom believed her.”
“So they kept my child?”
You’d chosen him over her.
“At first, they told themselves it was one night. Then another. By the time they knew people were searching, they’d already done something terrible.”
“And instead of fixing it, they hid her.”
Emily swallowed. “Yes.”
“And Carrie just stayed?”
“She was ten. She was scared.”
My mother grew up with a violent stepfather.
I could barely breathe. “Did she ever talk about me?”
“All the time at first.”
“At first?”
“She thought you chose Steven.”
“What?”
Instead of fixing it, they hid her.
“I don’t know the whole story. Carrie never told me everything. But she believed Steven would tell you why she ran away.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“Where did she go last year?”
Emily wrote a town name on a napkin.
She thought you chose Steven.
“The last time she called me, she was there.”
I recognized the area immediately.
It was back in the mountains.
“Why there?”
“She said she needed to understand what happened.”
I stared at her. “What does that mean?”
I don’t know the whole story.
Emily hesitated. “I think Carrie stopped trusting her own memory of that day.”
If Carrie had returned to those mountains looking for answers, there was still something about that day I didn’t know.
***
I drove there the next morning.
By noon, most people had shaken their heads at Carrie’s photograph.
She needed to understand what happened.
Then a gas station cashier recognized her.
“She rented a room near Pine Street, but I think she moved out months ago.”
My stomach dropped.
At the next café, a woman squinted at the picture.
“Carrie? Sure. She works over at the visitor center.”
There was still something about that day I didn’t know.
“She’s still here?”
“Unless she quit since yesterday.”
I was finally about to see my daughter again.
But finding Carrie was only the beginning.
The harder part would be hearing what she’d spent fifteen years believing about me.
She works over at the visitor center.
I raced to the visitor center.
A young woman stood behind the counter sorting brochures.
“Carrie?”
She looked up.
Everything stopped.
Finding Carrie was only the beginning.
Her face changed before I even said my name.
“Mom?”
I started crying. “Oh my God.”
But she didn’t move toward me.
Instead, she looked behind me. “Did Steven come with you?”
Everything stopped.
“No.”
“Are you still married to him?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
She turned away. “Then nothing changed.”
“Carrie, please.”
She didn’t move toward me.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want to understand.”
“You had fifteen years.”
“I didn’t know you were alive!”
Then nothing changed.
“And I didn’t know you didn’t know.”
I stared at her. “What does that mean?”
She crossed her arms. “Did Steven finally tell you we fought?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you why?”
I didn’t know you were alive!
“No.”
She laughed bitterly. “Of course he didn’t.”
“Then you tell me.”
Carrie looked at me for a long moment. “You always made me be the reasonable one.”
“What?”
Did Steven finally tell you we fought?
“When Steven and I fought, you’d say, ‘Carrie, give him a chance.’ Or, ‘Carrie, don’t argue with Steven.’”
“I was trying to make us a family.”
“That day, after you stopped, he told me to quit complaining. I said I hated him. I said I wished it was just you and me again.”
I closed my eyes. “And?”
You always made me be the reasonable one.
“He said, ‘Your mother already made her choice. She married me.’”
My stomach turned. “Carrie…”
“I told him if you had to choose between us, you’d choose me.”
She paused.
“Then he said, ‘Are you sure about that?’”
‘Carrie, don’t argue with Steven.’
I covered my mouth.
“I was ten,” she said. “I believed him.”
“So you ran.”
“I wanted to get back to you first. I took the wrong trail.”
“Why didn’t you come home after the Millers found you?”
‘Your mother already made her choice.’
“Because I waited.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
My throat tightened. “Carrie…”
I’d already failed her once. I was about to learn how long she’d been waiting for me to fix it.
I took the wrong trail.
“I kept thinking you’d come through their door. I thought Steven would tell you what happened. Then days passed. Weeks passed.”
“Carrie, I searched for you. I never stopped.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And I didn’t know why you ran.”
She stared at me. “So we both spent fifteen years believing the other one knew.”
How long she’d been waiting for me to fix it?
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“And you stayed with him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For believing him?”
“No.”
That surprised her.
I kept thinking you’d come through their door.
“For what I did before that day.”
Carrie’s expression changed.
“I should have noticed how often I asked you to keep the peace. I thought I was helping you two build a relationship. But I was asking a child to be more mature than an adult.”
Her eyes filled. “Why did it take you fifteen years to find me?”
“I looked everywhere.”
I was asking a child to be more mature.
“Not here.”
“No. Because I thought rescuers had searched this entire area. I thought if you were alive, someone would contact us.”
She looked down. “I almost contacted you.”
“When?”
“More times than I can count.”
If you were alive, someone would contact us.
“Then why didn’t you?”
Carrie looked away. “At first, I was ten. I believed Steven had told you everything and you’d chosen him anyway.”
“But you weren’t ten forever.”
“I know.” Her voice dropped. “By the time I was old enough to question it, I was terrified of finding out I’d been right.”
“So you never looked?”
I believed Steven had told you everything.
“Not until last year.”
“What changed?”
“Emily asked me one question: ‘How do you know your mom ever knew?’”
“And you found me?”
“Your Facebook. Pictures of you and Steven. Christmas. Anniversaries. Vacations. Fifteen years later, and you were still with him.”
I was terrified of finding out I’d been right.
“Carrie, I thought you were dead.”
“I know that now. But when I saw those pictures, I thought they proved everything I’d believed since I was ten.”
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, I said, “I can’t give you those fifteen years back.”
She wiped her cheek. “No.”
‘How do you know your mom ever knew?’
“And I’m not going to stand here and demand you forgive me because I drove a few hours.”
“Good.”
“But if you let me, I’d like to stop losing any more.”
Carrie looked toward the window. “Come outside.”
I followed her.
I thought they proved everything.
The visitor center overlooked the mountains.
The second I saw the drop beyond the railing, my legs weakened.
Carrie noticed. “You’re afraid of heights?”
“Terrified.”
“You used to love them.”
“Not since the day you disappeared.”
I’d like to stop losing any more.
She stared at me.
“I never went hiking again,” I said. “I can barely stand on a balcony above the third floor.”
Something in her expression softened.
She held out her hand. “Come on. You don’t have to go all the way to the edge.”
I took it.
She didn’t hug me, but she didn’t let go either.
I can barely stand on a balcony.
***
Later, I called Steven.
“Did you find her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she okay?”
“She told me what happened after I stopped to tie my boot.”
You don’t have to go all the way to the edge.
“I can explain.”
“You had fifteen years.”
“I was scared.”
“So was she.”
“I never wanted this to happen.”
You had fifteen years.
“But it did.”
“What are you saying?”
I looked at Carrie staring at the mountains.
“You were right about one thing. Carrie always thought I’d have to choose between the two of you.”
I never wanted this to happen.
“Please don’t do this over the phone.”
“This isn’t about the phone. It’s about what I do now that I know the truth.”
“Susan…”
“I’m staying with my daughter.”
“What about us?”
You were right about one thing.
“We’ll deal with that later.”
I hung up.
Carrie looked over. “What happens now?”
“I don’t know.”
For once, that answer didn’t scare me.
Carrie nodded toward the path. “There’s an easier trail on this side. No cliffs.”
I’m staying with my daughter.
I looked at my boots. For fifteen years, I’d blamed one loose shoelace.
But stopping hadn’t been my real mistake. I’d spent years asking my ten-year-old daughter to be the reasonable one.
“Will you walk it with me?”
She held out her hand.
“Just the easy part.”
And after fifteen years of wondering where my daughter had gone, I finally got to walk beside her again.
