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Every few months, I would think about trying to find my older brother, Jack, but nothing good will come from that discovery. They either sent him away too and he’s as damaged as I am, or he was chosen over me. Neither result in a happy ending, so why poke at an open wound?
* * *
I’m working in Mom’s bedroom to clean out some items in her closet. She had a lot of shoes. None fit me, though, so they will need to be donated along with her clothes. I don’t want any of her things, they taunt me—a constant reminder they were chosen over me time and time again. I set aside a few items for women’s shelters, but the rest of the stuff can find a new home at a donation drop-off. Next come her purses, but before I begin, I need to clear a much bigger area. I drag the heavy plastic garbage bags of clothes out of the walk-in closet and into the bedroom.
Even on my tiptoes, I can barely reach the purses on the high wire shelving that wraps around the small space. I have to jump for most, but the ones with shoulder straps hanging down are within reach. There’s got to be at least fifty purses here. As I go through the contents, the small closet fills with the scent of old lipstick and leather. Most are empty. She kept them in mint condition, each has been carefully cared for over the years—because that’s what you do when you love something.
As I run my fingers over a beaded purse with complex stitching, I reach inside and pull out a small stack of papers. I’m about to set it down to go through later—along with the other random things I’ve found—when I spot my name on the paper. It’s my birth certificate...but it’s not. It says the birth mother’s name is Julianne Fournier. What is this stuff? Two hospital bracelets fall from between the papers. One is teeny with my name on it. The other has her name. None of this makes sense. More documents with my name are paperclipped: hospital discharge papers and medical history. There’s no way these are mine. This Elizabeth had her tonsils removed. I don’t have to look in the mirror to know mine are still there.
Who is this other child? My heart races and dizziness sets in. Or... amIthe other child? If these papers belong to another Elizabeth Fournier, then who the fuck am I?
There’s one place I can look.
My fingers fly across my screen and open the Stellar Genetics website again. I click on my relative matches and look over their names. Ken and Lori Hayes. Those are the names thatshouldbe listed on my birth certificate. They’re the ones who abandoned me. My hands are sweaty as I look over their names. Am I ready to go down this rabbit hole? I’m not, but the mystery will eat me alive, so I have to. I enter their names into the Google search bar. The very first result is a website, BringHomeBridget.com. Shit, that’s my old name... How could I forget? My finger hovers over the link before clicking it.
Staring back at me is a full-screen photo of myself as a child. I drop my phone, and it clatters to the floor. Scrambling to pick it up, I read as fast as my eyes allow.
Name: Bridget Lynn Hayes
Birthdate: 02–14–1994
Missing since: 10–19–2000
Last known location: Niagara Falls, NY
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Gray
Height / Weight at disappearance: 43 inches / 45 pounds
Bridget Hayes, age 6, was last seen on October 19, 2000, while on vacation in Niagara Falls, New York with her family. She was last seen by family members at approximately 1:30 p.m. near the Observation Tower Visitor Center. She was wearing a tan and orange sweater with blue denim jeans and a light pink coat. She also may be going by the nickname “Birdie.” The Hayes family resides in Chanhassen, Minnesota. The second picture shows Bridget’s age-progressed to 29 years.
If you have any information regarding her whereabouts or disappearance, or if you believe you were at Niagara Falls around that time, please contact [email protected]
That missing girl is... all the information and clues leading me to this moment slam into me. The strange pictures from the funeral. The lack of family nearby. The reason I was never allowed to go on trips. Why I couldn’t talk about my family. The strained relationship with my “mom”— Julianne was not my mother, and that’s the last time I’ll use that word to talk about her.
And I’m two years older? According to this, I’m almost thirty! And it looks like I’m from the United States. I always assumed my biological family was in Canada somewhere. I suppose at age six I wouldn’t know the difference. If I’m from the United States, do I have citizenship? I click the link for more pictures of the missing girl and scroll through various photos of me.
My fingers halt as a family portrait of the four of us pops up. That was my family. My hands shake and my stomach tightens—my real mom and dad. I tuck my knees to my chest and stare at the photo for what feels like hours. More memories come to me. Being tucked in at night, running errands together, playing with my brother, Jack, and another boy, but I don’t remember his name. It’s a part of my mind I’ve had locked up for a long time, but looking at these photos is triggering these little flashbacks of my old life, frozen in time.
What am I supposed to do now? Was I abducted? This is crazy, right? How could she have gotten away with it for so long? There’s a part of me that wants to stuff the papers back in the purse and walk away. It feels veryred pill-blue pill. I’ve just had a bomb dropped on me, and now I need to figure out what to do. I need to get the hell out of here.
* * *
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed and toss and turn. I know the choice I have to make, ignoring this isn’t even an option. A cruel thought pops into my head: what if this was all staged? If they wanted to send me away, they could have made it look like an abduction or disappearance. It removes any blame or judgment from friends and family. It would allow them to ship me off to Julianne and still look like doting parents that miss their child. For all I know, they told people I fell into Niagara Falls. There’s a chance this website was made to make itappearlike people are looking for me, but in reality, no one is searching and they don’t want me to be found.
Okay. Hypothetically, if Julianne was a “kidnapper,” why would she steal a kid to simply raise them? What was her motive? It’s not like she enjoyed children. Besides, aren’t kidnappers usually murderers and pedophiles? She wasn’t either of those, she just had mood swings and a temper. Was there a ransom and my parents chose not to pay it? Or maybe they couldn’t afford to take care of me and then Julianne was stuck with me? But then where is therealElizabeth Fournier? I Google her name but find nothing but my Facebook page. Everything I search leads back to me. None of this is adding up.
Should I email Lori and Ken? What if I show up at their house and they slam the door in my face? I couldn’t handle being rejected twice by my biological family. Or they could be mad I didn’t find them sooner. I go back to my internet sleuthing. I find a few archived newspaper articles from the early 2000s about me being a possible victim of an abductor, two more articles covering anniversaries of my disappearance. If this is all a show, they’re damn good at selling tickets.
I log into my bank account. Just over five thousand dollars. How much is that in USD? I do the conversion and check airline prices. It’s enough to get me there and back, with a few nights at a hotel, and still leave me with enough to cover rent for the next month or so. I could go and do some reconnaissance. Now that I have their full names, it isn’t hard to find their address and know where they work. They still live on Briar Lane.
Maybe they have regrets? I think I’m a nice enough person, perhaps they would want to have coffee, and I could get answers to why they chose not to keep me. I do the calculations in my head, everything seems to pan out. And if they are looking for me, it’s only a matter of time before they locate me. As soon as they check their Stellar Genetics account, they’ll see they have a new match. I’d rather have the upper hand and find them first. Wait—am I really doing this? Is this actually happening? Things like this don’t happen in real life!
One more thought passes through my mind before I fall asleep: I need to find Julianne’s journals.
FIVE
