Somewhere Out There(40)
No, I thought. No, no, no.
The child struggled against my embrace, pushing at my chest with her small hands, but not with enough strength to break free. I held her tighter. “Shh,” I murmured. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
This time, when the little girl cried out the word “Mama!” all I could hear was Brooke’s voice. All I could think of was getting away, saving my daughter, not letting anyone take her. Blinking fast, I shifted my eyes toward the blond-haired woman, and at the same moment, she turned and saw me. “Hey!” she called out. She strode in my direction, arms swinging at her sides. “Hey!” she said again, louder this time, and with more urgency.
A river of discordant noises raged inside my head—a jarring, crashing cacophony of sound. I can’t let them take her. I can’t.
Before I knew what I was doing, I spun around, the little girl still safe in my arms, and headed toward the woods, running as fast as I could.
“Mama, Mama, Mama!”
“Shh, honey, shh,” I said. I had one arm wrapped around her body, holding her to me. With my other hand, I cupped her head, pushing her face into the curve of my neck as I ran, trying to protect it from the whip-sharp sting of the branches that scratched at my bare arms. I felt the heat of her tears on my skin, her tiny rib cage heaving against mine.
We’ll be okay. We just have to get away. Then no one can take her.
Each step I took crunched atop the pine needles covering the ground. There was no path. No easy way to snake through the trees. But I didn’t think. I didn’t stop. I had no idea where I was going or how far I’d already gone. The only thing I could do was run.
“I want my mama!” the girl cried, and a chunk of her straight brown hair flew up and blinded me.
Wait. Brooke’s hair is curly, like mine.
I wasn’t carrying my daughter. The realization reverberated through me, like a church bell being struck inside my head.
It took only this brief moment of distraction for the tip of my toe to catch on a thick root. My foot twisted, sending a sharp spike of pain from my ankle, up my shin, and into my knee. Both of us tumbled, and the girl flew out of my arms, landing hard against the trunk of a tall evergreen a couple of yards away.
Her cries got louder then, and despite having the air knocked out of me from hitting the ground, I managed to crawl over to her. She had a large cut on her forehead; it gushed bright red blood down the left side of her face. Oh, god, I thought as I took in her unfamiliar features. What did I do?
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I said, managing to sit up. I ripped off the bottom of my shirt and pressed it as hard as I could over the wound on her head. I heard people shouting behind me, though I couldn’t make out what they said. “I’m so sorry,” I told her. “Let me take you to your mama, okay?”
She was hysterical, screeching so loudly I couldn’t be sure that she’d heard what I said. I stood up, and the piercing agony in my right ankle almost took me down again. Ignoring my own injuries, I helped her stand so I could inspect hers. Her hair was a mess, and her legs and arms looked as though they’d been attacked by an angry cat; no matter how much I’d tried to protect her skin, the razor-tip ends of the tree branches had had their way with her, too. A river of tears ran through the mess of grime and blood on her face as I put more pressure on the cut on her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth was open wide. Her sundress was dirty and torn.
Seeing all of this—knowing I was responsible for her injuries and her tears—I started to cry, too. I heard a dog bark and knew I had to get her back to her mother just as quickly as I could. I felt dizzy and sick, bells going off inside my head, but I picked her up, keeping the makeshift bandage pressed against her forehead as I limped in what I hoped was the direction of the play area. My ankle screamed at me with every step. After only a moment, I saw her mother and several other adults charging toward me.
The girl’s mother sped up until she reached us. She yanked her daughter from my arms and held her close. “Shh, shh, baby,” she said. “I’ve got you. You’re all right. Everything’s going to be fine.” She gave me a fierce glare. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I took a step backward, almost stumbling again because of the pain in my ankle. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry.” My eyes widened as two men—fathers who had been playing with their children at the park—pushed past the woman. Each of them grabbed one of my arms and squeezed them, tightly. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m so sorry, but she’s okay. We fell. I don’t know what happened.”
“My wife called the police,” one of them said to the woman.
“Wait,” I said, feeling panic rise in a wave inside my chest. “You don’t understand. It was a mistake. I thought . . . I saw her fall and heard her crying and I thought she was mine.” A sob tore at my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “Please. I’m so sorry.”
The woman said nothing. She simply held on to her daughter, whipped around, and walked away. The men who held me led me back through the woods, never letting up on their grip.
The gravity of what I’d just done sank down deep in my body, melting into a dark, rancid ink, staining my insides black. Before I knew it, my stomach heaved and emptied its contents on the ground. I straightened and tried to wipe my mouth as the two men still moved us forward.