Suzy K Quinn - Not My Daughter

The term of endearment felt dismissive. Disconnected.

I felt the cold, hard thump of the bedroom door closing behind me.

It’s 8 a.m.

‘Liberty?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘What’s happening up there? It’s nearly time for school.’

Liberty still hasn’t come down for breakfast. Usually she’s up at seven, walking the grounds with Skywalker.

She’s angry with me, I’m sure. Sulking.

I wonder how well she slept last night. I only managed a few hours.

This morning, I’m determined to smooth things over.

Last night was not a good night.

I’ve made Liberty a fresh fruit plate with a side of yoghurt, coconut and quinoa – her favourite.

Nick and Darcy have already eaten breakfast omelettes and left for nursery. Cheddar cheese omelette with crunched-up cornflakes for Darcy; spinach, feta and tomato for Nick.

Omelette is Nick’s speciality, and the only thing he can cook well. He makes omelette for himself and Darcy every morning, and sometimes for lunch and dinner too.

‘Liberty?’

I carry Liberty’s fruit plate to the table and adjust slices of fruit to neaten the display. I’ve cut the kiwi, mango and strawberries to look like the artist Frida Kahlo, with mango for the face and slivered grapes for eyebrows. Liberty loves Frida, and I love doing fun little things like this for Liberty. Showing my love however I can.

‘Sweetheart?’ I call. ‘Rise and shine. You’ll be late.’

Still no answer.

I climb Liberty’s staircase, the bare wood smooth and warm under my feet. I am grateful for this house. There was a time I never believed I’d have a life like this. Our own land. A yoga room. Study. Library. And high, high gates all around.

‘Liberty?’

I knock on my daughter’s door.

‘Honey?’

It’s unlike Liberty not to answer, but the fight last night was pretty bad.

I push the door open, listening.

There’s nothing – no sound, no grumbling, no shower running. Skywalker doesn’t come running to greet me.

Liberty’s bedroom is dark, but the bed has been made. Liberty always makes her bed the moment she gets up, even when she’s not well.

Where is she, then? And where is Skywalker?

I stroke the cotton duvet, feeling for Liberty in the gloom, but find nothing – no soft, warm body.

‘Liberty?’

The ensuite door is slightly open, but no light spills out.

Flicking on the bedroom light, I feel uneasy.

I start to rationalize.

She must have gone running in the grounds, maybe she’s training Skywalker outside, maybe, maybe …

But things are missing. Liberty’s miniature turtle bookmark – the one she keeps on her desk for good luck. Her cherry-red DM boots.

I open her built-in closet, heart racing.

Some clothes are gone and there’s a big, gaping hole where her canvas army backpack usually sits.

Suddenly, I am overwhelmed. Immobilized by fear.

‘Liberty, please,’ I say, voice weak. ‘If you’re here … it’s not funny.’

I go to Liberty’s ensuite again. Maybe she’s hiding in the dark. Playing a trick on me. But when I pull the light cord, flickering light shows me an empty room. Liberty’s bamboo toothbrush has gone. Her hairbrush too.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Now I’m tearing downstairs, screaming over and over again:

‘Liberty! Liberty!’

The chain is off the backdoor. It’s never off. I latch it every night. Every single night. It’s part of my routine or, as Nick calls it, my OCD.

Why have a chain on the back door? Nobody has a chain on the back door. And when we have that great big gate out there? Isn’t this a little bit of overkill?

I imagine someone creeping upstairs in the dead of night. Stealing my beautiful daughter. But Skywalker would have barked. Liberty would have shouted and fought. And none of her things would be missing …

No. That’s not what happened.

Liberty crept downstairs – probably early in the morning, after I’d fallen asleep. Skywalker was close at her heels. She carried her army bag stuffed with clothes. The front door would be too noisy, she wouldn’t risk it. Instead she headed out the back way, softly slipping the chain from its metal tunnel. She carefully took Skywalker’s leash from the hook and clicked it to his collar.

Now she’s outside, alone in the dark, heading to the front gate. She knows exactly where she’s headed. She’s going to see her father …

I hear myself scream her name. ‘LIBERTY!’

Okay.

Calm. Calm.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She could have gone to a friend’s house.

Call Liberty’s phone , I think. Just call her. But then I realize I took her phone last night.

Call the police then. You know the number …

I grab my own phone from the solar charging station.

I’ve called the police so many times about Liberty. I am the woman who cried wolf.

‘Hello, what is your emergency?’

For a stupid second, I jump at a disembodied voice:

‘Oh! Hey. Hello. Police.’ And then I add a British, ‘Please.’

There’s a slight delay as I’m connected.

‘Sussex police. Can I take your name?’

‘My daughter. She’s gone. She’s … she’s run away.’

‘Can I have your full name and address?’

‘She’s called Liberty. Liberty Miller. She’s tall. Nearly five foot ten. Very thin. Tanned skin. Green eyes and brown hair, but she’s cut it short, like chin length, and dyed it blonde. Well, parts of it. Bright blonde. I think she left early this morning.’

I’m crying now, trying to hold it together.

‘We need your name, madam, before we can take details.’

‘My name?’ My throat tightens. ‘Why? Why do you need my name?’

‘It’s just the way we do things.’

Of course. Of course they have to take my name. They always take my name. Nothing to worry about.

‘Lorna,’ I say. And then I add Nick’s surname, even though we’re not married yet. ‘Lorna Armstrong. We live at Iron Bridge Farm, Taunton Wood.’

The policewoman is soothing. ‘First things first. Are there any friends your daughter could have gone to?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know who her friends are. If I did, I’d have Facebook stalked them by now and harassed their phone lines.’

The policewoman hesitates for a moment, and I think she’s going to make a comment like most people do. Something about me being overprotective. But instead she says, ‘It’s good that you care.’

Some people understand. The ones who’ve seen the bad side of the world.

I give more details, and then the policewoman tells me she’ll get someone over ASAP.

‘In the meantime, call people you know,’ says the policewoman. ‘Try not to worry too much. This happens more than you might imagine and they always turn up unharmed. How old is your daughter?’

‘Sixteen.’

Another pause.

‘And you think she left home of her own free will?’

‘Someone could have put her up to it. Tricked her or … something.’

‘But no signs of force? I don’t want to scare you; I just want to get things clear. No signs of a … a scuffle or anything like that?’

‘No. She made her bed.’ I’m crying again now.

‘We’ll get a police officer over to you now.’

‘There’s something else.’ I leave the sentence hanging, not sure if I’ll manage to finish it.

The policewoman is kind, offering a gentle, ‘Yes?’

I grip the phone. ‘I think she might have gone to see her father.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, that could be a simple answer, couldn’t it? Do you … What’s the situation there then?’

‘She’s never met him before.’