Chapter 5 - NORA RAN WHEN SHE SAW ME
The police psychologist told me not to expect a reunion.
I hated her for saying it.
Then I thanked her.
Dr. Hannah Lee specialized in adults recovering from coercive control.
She explained the obvious thing grief had made me forget:
I had spent eight years knowing Nora was my daughter.
Nora had spent eight years being taught that I was dead, dangerous, imaginary, or proof that her mind could not be trusted.
Love did not erase that in five minutes.
We arranged the meeting at the bookstore after closing.
Ruth went first.
Then Dr. Lee.
Michael and I waited in another room.
I could hear my own heartbeat.
The door opened.
Nora walked in.
I knew her immediately.
Of course I did.
She was twenty-four.
Her hair was shorter.
She wore glasses.
A pale green sweater.
But she was Nora.
My baby.
My sixteen-year-old girl and an adult stranger at the same time.
She stared at me.
I did not move.
“Nora.”
Her whole body jerked.
“No.”
I stopped.
She backed toward the door.
“No.”
“It’s okay.”
“You died.”
My chest tore open.
“I didn’t.”
“No.”
She looked at Ruth.
“You said she wouldn’t just appear.”
Ruth whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Nora started breathing too fast.
Dr. Lee stepped between us.
“Rebecca, stay where you are.”
I stayed.
Every cell in my body wanted to cross the room.
I did not.
“Nora,” Michael whispered.
She looked at him.
Her face changed.
Not recognition.
Fear.
“You signed it.”
Michael froze.
“No.”
“You signed me away.”
“I didn’t.”
Nora shook her head violently.
“I saw it.”
“It was forged.”
“You’re lying.”
“I understand why you think that.”
That was the right answer.
Not:
Believe me.
Not:
I’m your father.
Just:
I understand.
Then I remembered something.
A lullaby.
My mother used to sing it.
I sang it to Nora whenever thunderstorms frightened her.
I did not sing.
That would have been manipulative.
Instead I said:
“When you were nine, you refused to sleep during storms unless I sat on the floor beside your bed.”
Nora froze.
“You hated when I sang because you said I skipped the third verse.”
Her lips parted.
I continued.
“You kept a flashlight under your pillow even though I told you it was dangerous.”
Nora stared.
Then whispered:
“What color?”
“What?”
“The flashlight.”
“Purple.”
Her face collapsed.
She began crying.
So did I.
But then she stepped backward again.
“I can’t.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Her eyes widened.
Maybe she expected me to argue.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” I said.
“You don’t have to decide anything.”
She covered her mouth.
Then looked at Michael.
“Did you send the postcard?”
He shook his head.
She looked at me.
I didn’t understand.
Then Nora said:
“I sent it.”
Michael went still.
The anonymous photograph.
The Port Mercy postcard.
Nora had contacted him.
She had been the person who finally brought us six hundred miles toward her.
May you like
Then she whispered:
“I just didn’t know if I wanted you to find me.”
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