Illusions (The Missing #1) (6 page)

When I was a child, I’d hide in her closet and peek through the crack between the door and the wall as she tended to her skin and hair. I loved the sight of my beautiful mother, staring at her reflection with love and adoration. Staring at the woman in the mirror in a way she would never look at me.

I had been happy, hidden in the dark behind her clothes. I could pretend that when my mother smiled, it was for me. I’d bask in the imaginary affection and for a moment, I’d feel warm inside.

But then, one day, I made a noise. I coughed or sneezed, I couldn’t remember which. My mother discovered me wrapped up in her heavy, present darkness.

“You horrible, horrible girl! How dare you spy on me! What is wrong with you?”
she had screamed in my face, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me from my spot.

She had dragged me from my room and all but threw me into the hallway. I noticed that during the entire exchange she never once looked at me. Not once.

“
Don’t ever come into my room again!”
Mother had yelled, slamming the door in my mutilated face. I remembered hearing the sound of the lock and knew that my stolen delight had been taken from me and that I’d never get it back.

But the memory of my mother’s face as she stared at herself in the mirror kept me company.

Which was good because after that significant day she had started to lock me away, and during the sad, lonely nights it made me want to smile.

So, watching the two women together, I recognized the adoring look on my mother’s face. It was an elusive expression I had only ever witnessed when she looked at her own reflection.

Now it was given freely to the pretty, pretty woman in our kitchen as they drank coffee from cups I had never touched. Sitting in chairs I never sat in.

They laughed together. They talked in excited whispers. My mother reached out and ran a hand down the side of the pretty, pretty woman’s face. A maternal gesture that left me aching.

I hung back, not revealing myself. Shriveling as I watched my mother’s affection bestowed upon someone else.

The daughter I knew that she
wished
she had.

Then the beautiful woman with the long, dark hair, creamy white skin, and rosebud lips caught sight of me in the shadows. Her smile faded and her bright blue eyes went cold. So cold. Like ice that pierced my veins, spilling my blood.

I remembered the feel of those cold, hateful eyes. I remembered how they turned murderous when she looked my way. As she stared at me with a hate I had never understood.

“Nora,” Rosie said. Blue eyes. So cold. So much hate.

My mother stopped laughing. Her happiness drifted away, snatched from her by the presence of an unwanted daughter. The two women stared at me with the same stony, detestable gaze. My mother and the girl, who had for while, been my sister.

“Why are you just standing there, Nora? Don’t be rude. Come in and say hello to Rosie.” She chastised me like a child. And I felt like a naughty little girl with her head hung low and her shoulders stooped. Without a word, I shuffled into the kitchen.

I was familiar with the scene that was about to play out in my kitchen. It was only one of thousands from the years since Rosie Allen had first found her way into my life.

I had loved her once. In the beginning when she had shown up with her social worker. The pretty girl from the abusive home who, just by being normal, had wormed her way into my mother’s coal black heart.

I hadn’t known that my new foster sister’s beautiful face hid an inner cruelty. Particularly towards poor, poor Nora Gilbert.

“Your hair’s in your face again. I told you to keep it back.” My mother’s clipped tone chipped away at what little was left of my esteem. I tucked my hair behind my ears to appease her.

My mother grabbed ahold of my chin and pulled my face around so that I was facing Rosie. “Doesn’t it look so much better? She finally has a face you can look at,” my mother stated.
It.
I was an
it.

Not a person.

Not her daughter.

Barely an entity.

Definitely not an individual with emotions.

Rosie’s plump lips pursed, and I hated how effortlessly attractive she was. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Her long, shiny hair that fell exactly how she wanted it to. She nodded at my mother’s words, agreeing with her.

“So much better, Lesley. It’s amazing. You were right to insist on the operation,” Rosie simpered, her perfect voice pitched low. She smiled at my mother with so much warmth it made me ill. But her blue eyes were ice cold. Just for me.

I jerked my chin away from my mother’s grip. An act of defiance that surprised us both. I backed away just a step and neither of the women knew the effort the small act cost me.

“Rosie came by to bring us some fresh vegetables from the farm. Isn’t that nice of her? She always thinks of me. Of both of us. She has never forgotten how much I love fresh tomatoes off the vine.” My mother dropped a hand to Rosie’s shoulder. A casual regard that meant everything to Rosie and nothing to a woman like my mother. An insignificant gesture that hurt me more than I’d ever let on.

“I remember how you would always cut up fresh tomatoes and sprinkle Parmesan cheese on the top. And when I told you that I had never eaten a tomato before, you pulled up a chair beside you and let me eat some off your plate. Ever since then I eat them all the time,” Rosie beamed at my mother, and I felt a knot lodge itself in my throat.

I didn’t have such sweet memories of my mother. Not one. They were obviously reserved for other people and other experiences.

The two women basked in their shared secrets and familiar stories. They knew things about each other. They were intimate in a way reserved for mothers and daughters.

Their relationship was everything I’d never have with the person who had given me life but had made sure I never truly lived.

Mother patted Rosie’s cheek before turning back to me, her smile dimming and her eyes turning frigid. “Rosie is here to take you to your follow-up doctor’s appointment.”

I stiffened. “Why would she take me?” I asked, sounding hard and furious. Again, I surprised us both with my candor.

“Because I have things to do around the house and Rosie offered. Be appreciative.” Rosie was watching me closely. I had always detested her inspection.

“I can drive myself,” I pointed out, resisting the urge to cover my face with my hair or hands. I wanted to hide. Away from my mother’s harsh stare and Rosie’s mocking eyes.

“You’re not driving my car. Rosie will take you. End of discussion.” My mother filled Rosie’s coffee mug. She never offered any to me. It wasn’t even a thought.

The beautiful Rosie was being uncharacteristically quiet. I knew that she’d make up for it when we were alone.

“We should get going then. Your appointment is across town,” Rosie said, giving me an insincere smile. A smile made of bitterness and false promises.

“I have to go to my room. I’ll be back,” I said quickly, dashing from the kitchen and all but sprinting up the stairs. I threw open my door and hurried inside. Only when the door was closed was I able to breathe.

“This is Rosie. She’s going to live with us. Isn’t she pretty, Nora? Such a pretty, pretty girl.” I stared through the strands of my hair as my mother took the petite girl’s hand and led her into the house. Dad wasn’t home yet so it was just us. Mother. Ugly Nora. And the very pretty Rosie.

I wanted to smile at the new girl. Because she seemed scared and sad. All the things that I felt inside.

“This is . . . Nora.” I hated the way my mother hesitated before saying my name. Like it was a bad word.

Rosie looked at me, with my hair in my face, covering the ugly parts of me. The parts Mother didn’t want anyone to see. But I knew that Rosie saw me anyway. I was sure that I would never be able to hide from Rosie. She saw everything.

Rosie never acknowledged me. She gripped my mother’s hand and looked right past me. As if I weren’t there.

Invisible.

Unseen.

I should have been used to it. But it still hurt.

I couldn’t stay too long in my room otherwise my mother would come looking for me. I grabbed my notebook and stuffed it into my purse before making my way back down the stairs.

I could hear Rosie and Mother laughing again, and I waited by the front door, not wanting to intrude.

Because I was always the stranger. The interloper. The unwanted.

Particularly in my own house.

I stood just outside the living room, peeking around the corner so that I could see them but they couldn’t see me.

I had been home from school for over an hour, but my mother hadn’t come to ask me about my day. I had been excited too. Because my teacher had read my story to the class. She said it was imaginative with interesting characters.

I couldn’t wait to read it to Mother and Dad. Dad didn’t get home until late so I had planned to share it with Mother first. And maybe Rosie if she was home.

Rosie was a year older than I was and when she had moved in I had hoped that meant I’d have a new friend at school. Instead she ignored me. Some days she’d laugh at me with the friends she had made.

So I learned to avoid her.

Rosie wasn’t nice. Even though she was pretty and had a laugh that sounded like bells, she was horrible on the inside.

But Mother never saw it. It didn’t matter what I said, she couldn’t believe “pretty little Rosie” could be the nasty girl I told her about.

Dad didn’t say much either. He just told me to stay out of Rosie’s way. As if that would stop her.

Mother loved Rosie. She was the daughter that Mother always wanted. She wasn’t grossed out by her face. She didn’t look away when Rosie entered the room.

I watched Rosie cuddle into my mother’s side as they laughed together over some silly program on television. Mother’s arm draped around Rosie’s shoulders. My heart seized at the sight of Mother softly stroking the girl’s hair.

And then she leaned in and gently kissed the top of her foster daughter’s head.

My heart broke that day.

It never mended.

My mother and Rosie finally came to meet me. I watched as Rosie hugged my mother. My mother smoothed her long, dark hair and patted her back. Easy. Comfortable. Love.

I twisted into itty, bitty knots.

I followed Rosie out to her car, which was a beat up yellow Volvo. She waved to my mother one final time before getting into the driver’s seat.

I climbed into the passenger side and quickly buckled my seatbelt. I was instantly encased in Rosie’s spiteful hatred. It clung to my skin and slithered its way down my throat. I tasted it in my mouth and could hear it ringing in my ears.

A picture ID hung from a lanyard around the rearview mirror. I glanced at the picture of Rosie, not smiling, her eyes hard. And her name in clear, black letters irritated me.

Rosie Gilbert.

We all knew that wasn’t her name.

She had come to us all those years ago as Rosie Allen. But it seemed my mother’s love wasn’t enough. She had to take something that actually belonged to me.

“Lesley is amazing,” Rosie gushed with an edge to her voice. “She makes the best coffee, don’t you think? I always love our talks.” Sharp. Lethal. Her words were meant to maim.

My mother never made me coffee. She and I never talked. We didn’t have an easy relationship of laughter and gossip.

Rosie knew that. She delighted in it.

My former foster sister glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, a smirk ever present on her lips. Her pretty, full lips.

“It didn’t change anything, you know,” she mused. Cruel and triumphant, she was ready to strike.

I turned my face towards the window. I tried to be subtle as I pushed my hair towards my face. An age-old reaction to her disgust and rage.

“Hi,” I said softly, standing in the doorway. Mother had given Rosie the spare bedroom. It was painted pink and filled with everything a young girl could ever want. Stuffed animals were piled on top of the bed; posters of unicorns and fairies covered the walls. Something sparkled in the window and I noticed several prisms hung from the curtain rod.

Her room was everything I had ever wanted mine to be. But my mother had said I couldn’t tape things to the walls otherwise it would strip the paint. And when I had asked for a stuffed dog I had seen at the store last month, Mother told me I was already spoiled enough.

I tried to ignore the hatred that burned in my gut at the sight of that same dog on Rosie’s pillow.

Mother loved her new daughter. Dad was never home enough to have much of an opinion. Even when I tried to talk to him about how mean Rosie was, he never spoke to Mother about it.

He had learned his words fell on deaf ears.

Because what Mother wanted, Mother got.

And right now that was Rosie Allen.

Rosie glanced up from the magazine she was reading, never acknowledging me. Without a word, she went back to reading.