STOLEN LOVE

My life was great – everything, chugging together perfectly. The gymnastics team I’d been with since I was five years old were two months away from try-outs for the Olympic Games team. I was on top form, the fittest and strongest I’d ever been – I knew I was definitely going to qualify for the New Zealand team – it had been my dream come true when I was chosen to represent our Gym, and I had worked so hard. My parents were proud of me. This made my life fairly busy for a 16-year-old, and I was very driven and focused. My grades were good and I was looking into Physio Therapy as an occupation, or a Personal Trainer…the world was my oyster, as the saying goes.

But everything changed the day we were in the van on our way to gym practice. It was drizzling rain, the roads slick, the girls mucking about in the back, distracting the driver. I was sitting in the front passenger seat – being in the back makes my stomach turn summersaults. Suddenly, we hit the bend too wide and plunged off the embankment, into a ditch.

In a split second of carelessness, cause and effect coming in with a full swing. The front of the van smashed into the side of the road; my dreams washed away in that wet and dirty drain. I was the only one seriously injured, I’d fractured bones, and sustained life-threatening injuries – I was concussed, having blacked out due to the impact with the dashboard, and the windscreen. I will never forget the sound the jaws-of-life makes, when it crunches through metal…the sound of glass shattering…the screams from the other girls.

But worse than all that, what I would come to learn at the hospital would alter everything I knew about the world and my place in it.

When I look back, I can go to my earliest memory…I am little, there is a woman and she is laughing, her smile is beautiful as she pushes me high into the air on a swing in a backyard I do not recognise…I don’t recall much after that, until I was older – I remember my eighth birthday.

My parents were always there for me, I was their only child. Sometimes I would catch mum staring off into nothingness, and it made me wonder; is her heart full enough with me in it? Do I give her enough hugs to fill her arms? Am I everything she ever wanted?

Dad being the sole provider, he was away at work a lot. When he was home, he’d take me out; to the park or the beach, so mum could rest – she’d get these terrible migraines, sending her to bed for days. Dad was fun, but often distant. Sometimes growing up, I’d wonder if he was disappointed he ended up with a girl and not a boy? Not that he ever treated me in a way that seemed indifferent – you could see it in his eyes, entranced by big families when we were out and about.

The missing link in my life were my absent family members. My parents had lost both their parents before I was born, so I had no grandparents. This used to upset me at times, especially when I would see large families with uncles and aunts, cousins and siblings, and grandparents – I longed for family; my parents told me our family lived all over the place and they weren’t particularly close with any of them.

When I was growing up, I’d ask my folks why there weren’t any photographs or videos of me as a little girl? No baby photos, no holiday pics and stranger than that, no photos of my parents! The photo album we did have, captures me from my first day of school, forward. Dad said the older albums were destroyed when the storage room flooded, he had to chuck the lot. I was not happy about it, but I accepted it as a given. There was no reason for me to think he was lying.

There were moments which should have warned me, that something wasn’t right. But a child never thinks a loving pair of parents could turn out to be diabolical monsters; hiding secrets, lying, and dismissing the most fundamental question of all…where was I born? Their version of events have differed over time…I was born at home with a midwife present…I was born in a hospital with no name…I was born on the side of the road on the way to the delivery room.

“Don’t you remember the holiday we took up North when you were little?”

“No, I can’t remember that, mum.”

“Perhaps you were too small to remember, but we had a lovely time. We camped on the beach in the Coromandel. It’s a shame, we could have gone on more holidays if your dad didn’t have to work so hard.”

Conversations like this never went too far, not enough information for me to put the parts together, to formulate a reasonable explanation for all the confusing images rushing through my mind. Unravelling the truth in broken dreams and deafened memories. Just when I think I grasp it, it floats away on a dark black cloud into the netherworld of lost and forgotten memories…her eyes are green, long black hair – like mine, she is running down the road screaming…where is my child? I can hear her voice fading…we are in a car and the lollipop in my mouth tastes sweet…but the tears of fear roll down the side of my face.

Fast forward to the crash…to the aftermath!

After they’d cut me out of the wasted van, I was airlifted to hospital in the Westpac Helicopter; I could hear their words…in and out of consciousness…drifting away and drifting back…internal injuries…perhaps brain damage?…blood pressure too high. The excruciating pain tangled within my screams. I was given something to numb the pain, eventually it put me to sleep.

I woke two days later to the news that would destroy my life. A two-pronged disaster. Opening my eyes slightly, shocked by the sudden glare in the room, a doctor was standing there talking to two people; a woman and a man. Catching snippets of their conversation, I closed my eyes and listened.

“What should I tell her when she wakes up,” it was the doctor talking.

“Inform her of her injuries, get that out of the way first,” the woman stated matter-of-factly.

“What do I tell her about the other thing?”

“Tell her they are not far away, they had to pop out for a bit. We’ll be in the cafeteria waiting.”

The door closed, and my head was drowning in confusion. I could hear my heart pumping in my ears, bile churning in my gut. All I could see when I closed my eyes, was the van smashing into the ditch.

The doctor returned to the room sometime later and I was staring at the ceiling, feeling my broken body. My arms and legs were in casts and propped up on pullies from the frame of the bed. My head aching something fierce. Tears streamed down the side of my face, but I couldn’t stop them because my arms were useless. He introduced himself, and briefly, hesitantly, informed me of my injuries. This made me cry more.

“You have two fractured arms, we had to put pins and rods in them. You had internal bleeding, so you needed surgery for that too, you lost a lot of blood and required a blood transfusion. We also had to conduct brain scans and MRI’s. Both your knees are shattered.”

“What does this mean? I have try-outs coming up, will I be okay by then?”

Darkness rolls over him as the sun coming through the windows, hides behind a cloud.

“That is something we will need to discuss…” he said.

“Wait, where are my parents? Why aren’t they here?”

“Let’s talk about your prognosis before we get to that,” he said plonking down on the plastic chair beside the bed; his shoulders slumped, looking burdened.

“Whatever it is just tell me please, how bad is it, and what does this mean about gymnastics?”

“Your arms will need months of rehabilitation, and a Patella fracture to your kneecaps, means you will need extensive physio therapy to help you walk again…I am sorry to say, but there will be no more gymnastics in the foreseeable future, not with your injuries.”

I couldn’t take much more, hearing this and watching my dreams disappear into the ceiling. I saw the life I had planned out – going to the Olympics…getting a gold medal for the country…making my parents proud. All of it gone in a five-minute conversation with the doctor.

“Are you okay?” he asked; a frown indented into his forehead.

“No, I am not. Where are my parents?”

He springs off the chair and paces in front of the windows.

“The police are here to see you; they have something to tell you. I know it might be too soon, in fact I’m fairly sure it is, but they insist on telling you themselves. I’ll be back shortly.”

Minutes later, the two people from earlier enter the room and introduce themselves; I can’t remember their names, perhaps, Mr. Doom and Mrs. Dread?

This is what they told me…

I am not who I think I am. I am not Leah Clare Hamin; I am actually Frances McGuire, an unsolved cold case. I vanished from my backyard in the Coromandel when I was four years old. My real mother had gone inside to answer the phone; we had been in the garden most of the summer day, playing on the swings, pushing my little toy lawnmower, and helping mum pull out weeds.

I was last seen on the swing by a neighbour. She had seen mum run inside; the neighbour could see me from her kitchen window. She briefly turned away, so with no eyes on me for a minute or so, they lost me. A man was spotted talking to me near the fence, by another neighbour, who didn’t think there was anything untoward happening. Next thing she saw was me in the car with a lollipop in my mouth and tears streaming down my face.

“There were other witnesses too, but there were no license plates on the car, so the trail went cold. Your mother Lyn, was beside herself as you can imagine. She searched with all the teams, organised fundraising to employ a Private Investigator, but that didn’t eventuate to anything. He lost the trail when the car was found outside an abandoned factory,” Mr. Doom said.

“How did you find this out? I don’t understand!...”

“They needed to take samples of your blood, for the blood transfusion, and they discovered who you were when the tests came back. We were notified immediately, and from there we tracked down your history. This maybe hard to take it all in, you know, come to terms with, so, we have support services that can help you through.” Mrs. Dread softens her voice. “A victim’s support person is just outside, talking to the doctor. Do you remember much? Because we will need to take a statement from you at some stage…”

I drift away, as cold shivers tingle upon my broken body.

Then I remember…The man at the fence, holding a puppy, he has more in the car if I want to come and see?…he handed me a lollipop. His hand felt huge, calloused, grasping my hand and pulling me towards his car, the pup yelping under his arm. Then we leave the hot car and get into a different one, and a woman inside driving; telling me I’m safe and we were going to a new home. They told me my mum didn’t want me anymore and she had asked them to look after me.

I asked them; how could I have forgotten all of this?

“Trauma can often be blocked out of your memories, it’s usually what happens with someone so young. It’s possible you blocked it out to help you cope with it all,” she tells me.

“Where are they? My parents, I mean my fake parents?”

A subtle look passed between them.

“They are at the police station being questioned. I have to warn you, the media know, and it’s been all over the news. I don’t think you will see them again, until their court appearance,” Mr. Doom replies.

“But I have to ask them why? Why did they take me? I need to understand, I thought they loved me? Why would they steal me from my real mum?”

It hurts when those who love us the most, lie through their rotten teeth!

Tears tumble hard as I try to grasp the totality of my new situation. The past suddenly coming to life inside me…lost memories resurfacing. Mrs. Dread approaches, grabs some tissues and wipes away the tears – a tsunami swamps me as I am fully engulfed by emotional pain. The physical pain I can handle with pain relief, but emotionally I will be scarred forever, and there is no pain relief for that.

“What will happen to them?” I asked through sobs.

“Well, obviously what they did is kidnapping, but we won’t get into that now. They will be going to court and without a doubt they will be convicted, at the very least possibly jail time,” Mr. Doom sucks in a breath before he continues, “we’ve searched the house and found news clippings and other evidence that implicates them. We will keep you up to date as this progresses. I don’t want to get into too much detail at the moment, it’s an ongoing investigation,” he announces.

Suddenly a clear picture of her entered my mind; the softness of her cheeks, she loved butterfly kisses.

“Did my real mum stop looking for me?”

“No, but there is only so much she could do. I guess she just held out hope that you were still alive somewhere. She never gave up, she never stopped,” said Mrs. Dread.

This pains me, thinking about her coming out to get me from the garden, only to realise I had disappeared. I heard her screams out in the street as we sped away, but she never knew I was in the car, she was looking the other way. If only she had looked up the street, instead of across the road at the little park we used to have picnics at, then she would have seen me, maybe I could have been saved?

“Your mum, Lyn, she is on her way in now. It will take her a few hours to drive here. You will be together again and she can fill in the gaps,” she softly said. They move towards the door, “we’ll let you have some rest before we bring her in. We will be in the waiting room. If you need us we are just outside. See you soon, Frances.”

My name reverberates off particle boards and fills the air with pain. I am me, but I am someone else completely. Everything in my life was a lie. How do you reconcile something as big as that? How can someone move away from their past in order to move forward? With my dreams, my life as I knew had ended. My parents, or whoever the hell they really are, are lost to me now. They may as well be dead.

I have a real mother who has searched for me for twelve long years. I think about that and how devastated she must have felt, probably blaming herself. Putting up flyers, with my little face attached to street posts, and store windows. Of course, this is just speculation at this stage, I know nothing of what really happened when she couldn’t find me. The pain and anguish she must have gone through. Wondering if I was alive or dead? Searching for me in the faces of other children. Did she cry every time she saw my face on the news?

There are so many things I want to ask her…Do I have a father? Siblings? Do I have other family? Why did she go inside and leave me playing in the backyard? Why didn’t she take me in with her? Does she feel guilty? I want to know about the aftermath…I need this to bring me peace. I drift off into a discombobulated state of slumber…I am screaming in my dreams…crying rivers of tears…

Several hours later I wake to a commotion outside my door. I look over as a stranger, a beautiful woman, enters the room. At first I think it is a nurse, but when the sleep fog lifts, I see a soft round woman, with long salt and pepper hair, permanent frown marks scarring her face (perhaps a result from losing her child?) and the greenest eyes I have ever seen.

“Frances!” she whispers, and crumples to her knees.

Mrs. Dread props her up as mum reaches for me, “it’s you! It’s really you!” And she slumps her head into my hair and sniffs me in.

This is the beginning of the unknown. My new life. The life I was supposed to have until I was stolen from my old life, into the arms of strangers, imposters. Life makes no sense, as I come to grips with the circumstances. But I am finally where I should be, with my mum, my real mum. She is my way forward; she is my new life.

THE END