Anna Snoekstra - Only Daughter

Posters of Destiny’s Child and Gwen Stefani glare at me. The bed is made with pink sheets. A Cabbage Patch doll perches on the bedside table. Year Ten textbooks are stacked on the desk, the first four in the Harry Potter series are aligned neatly on the shelf above, and everywhere, there are photographs. There she is, smiling and posing, her arms around various friends, mostly another girl with long blonde hair. It’s like life stood still in this room, waiting for the same sixteen-year-old to return.

I peer at the pictures of her, gripping the towel around my naked body, my wet hair dripping on the carpet. Even in photographs you can see the life and vitality of this girl. She looks confident and at ease. Looking at her face from all angles, I realize she looks a little less like me than I originally thought. Her nose is smaller, her eyes are bigger—even the shape of her face is slightly different. A decade can change a face a lot, though. I can blame any differences on time.

Time is the other problem. Adding it up in my head now, I realize Bec would be around twenty-seven. I’m only twenty-four. For once I find myself hoping I look older.

I slide the slatted closet door open. Her clothes are hung up neatly, but I can smell the stale air inside. This door hasn’t been opened in a long time. Seeing Bec’s school uniform hanging in front of me makes me feel strange, a little sick inside, so I quickly grab some jeans and a T-shirt and close the door again. Anything is better than these kitten pyjama pants that make me want to gag with their cuteness. They fit me well enough, but still, they’re childish. It feels wrong to be almost twenty-five and wearing a sixteen-year-old’s low-slung jeans and Guess top. Having the fabric so close to my skin, I can smell an unfamiliar musky human smell. It must be the scent of her body, still clinging to the cotton of the T-shirt. A shiver snakes down my spine.

The mother and father sit on the two-seater sofa in the lounge room, an untouched sandwich in front of each of them and another in front of one of the empty chairs across. I sit down, noticing the other armchair has a cat curled up in it. I’ve always wanted a pet.

“Thought we’d have lunch in here today, keep you as comfortable as possible,” says the mom.

“Great, thanks!” I say, not really knowing what she means. I wish I knew more about Rebecca, had a clearer view of what kind of person she was. Since I don’t, I decide I’m best off playing the role every parent wants: the dutiful daughter. I’ll be wholesome, appreciative and innocent. I take a bite into the sandwich, realizing again how ravenous I am.

“This is so yummy. Thanks for making it, Mom.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She smiles broadly. It’s working.

“I talked to Paul and Andrew last night,” the dad says.

“Really?” Turning things into a question is an easy way to keep a conversation going when you have no idea what the person is talking about.

“Yes. They’ll be flying in later this evening.”

I look around the room. There are framed photographs on the walls: two identical little freckled boys grinning, with Bec standing proudly between them. Growing until they reached her shoulders and then, abruptly, just the two of them, smiles not as wide, continuing to grow into teenagers’ clothes and stubble and then jawlines and suits. They must be her brothers.

“I can’t wait to see them,” I say.

“Good.” He smiles and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Bet you’ll want to call Lizzie,” says the mom.

I nod, shoveling the rest of the sandwich into my mouth. I don’t know who Lizzie is.

“Just don’t be calling anyone who you think might get in touch with the media. That’s the last thing we need,” the father says.

“Do you really think someone would do that?” I ask, playing innocent.

“You never know, sweetheart.”

Of course they would, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be avoiding Rebecca’s old friends as much as possible. I already have enough lies to keep track of. I pick the crumbs off the plate with my finger. I want another sandwich, but don’t really want to ask. Looking up, I realize they are both staring at me. I remember what the lady cop said in the car, that I wasn’t acting like I’d been abducted.

“I’m so happy to be home, to be safe again,” I say.

The mother starts crying at that, her chest heaving with painful, guttural sobs, her hands held over her face like a shield. It is a long time before she stops.

When we get to the police station, I ask the parents if they’ll come in with me. I grip the mom’s hand tightly; I need her there with me to answer some of the questions. These people are trained at spotting a lie; no matter how good I am, it’s their job to see through me.

“If you want us to I’m sure we can ask,” says the mom, taking a step forward. The dad holds her arm, stopping her.

“I think Vince will want to talk to you alone, Bec. But we’ll wait right out here.” The mother takes a step back and looks down, her eyes still red and puffy.

The uniformed policeman at the desk ushers me through. Rebecca’s T-shirt is starting to feel a little snug.

A man wearing a brand-new suit walks toward me, his hand outstretched.

“Rebecca Winter?” he asks. I nod and he gives my hand a brisk shake.

“I’m Detective Vali Malik, Vince’s partner.”

“Bec!” Andopolis says, coming over to us, a file under his arm. “You look much better.”

He never mentioned having a partner. “Thanks,” I say.

“Come with me,” Malik says, turning on the heel of his perfectly polished shoe.

Trailing behind the two of them, I peer into a room to my left. Inside is a large board covered in notes that I can’t quite read from here. Stuck to it is a map, a large photograph of Rebecca smiling into the camera and a close-up of a cracked mobile phone in grass. There are a few men sitting at a large table and one of them looks up at me as I pass. Andopolis’s wide hand presses against my lower back, gently pushing me forward. He smiles reassuringly.

“Right in here,” he says as he holds a door on the right open for me.

I’m expecting another cold concrete box like the one in Sydney. Instead they bring me into a sunny room with couches, a miniature table and a plastic tub of toys in the corner. Like Sydney, there’s a large mirror across one of the walls. I wonder if the cops I just walked past are going to come and watch. Malik motions toward one of the couches. It squeaks as I sit down.

“Would you like anything, Rebecca? Tea, coffee?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

“How does it feel to be home?” Andopolis asks, sitting on the couch across from me.

“It’s amazing.”

Malik sits on the chair to my left, opening a folder.

“That’s great to hear,” he says and smiles.

“Your tests have come back looking good,” Malik says, flicking through some papers in the folder.

Victory. Even I can’t believe I actually pulled that off. But I can’t get cocky now. I need to concentrate on this new stage of the game.

I take them in for a moment. Malik must be at least fifteen years younger than Andopolis. He is all sharp lines and impeccable grooming. Next to him Andopolis looks old and rumpled.

“You weren’t there this morning when I woke up,” I say to Malik.

“No. I was talking to your parents.” He smiles his quick, efficient smile again and continues. “I’m happy that you’re back with your family, Rebecca, but we really have to focus on the investigation. The longer we leave it, the less likely we are to get answers.”

He was right. I didn’t want them getting any answers; I had to hold them off as long as possible. Their notebooks come back out. Ding, ding. Round two. I’d knocked it out of the park at the last round at the hospital, so hopefully I could do as well now. After this, things would only get easier.