Chapter 3 - The Box Beneath the Bed
Ruth stared at the silver moon.
"Who told you that?"
"Her name is Evelyn Whitmore."
The remote slipped from Ruth's fingers.
It landed on the carpet with a dull thud.
Naomi waited for her to deny everything.
Instead, Ruth bent forward and covered her face.
"Lord, have mercy."
Naomi's stomach tightened.
"Mom?"
Ruth lowered her hands.
"Sit down."
"No. I want you to tell me the truth."
Ruth looked toward the hallway.
For a moment, Naomi thought she might simply refuse.
Then Ruth stood and walked slowly into her bedroom.
Naomi followed.
Ruth knelt beside the bed and pulled out a battered brown storage box.
It was the same box Naomi had seen for years.
Ruth always said it contained old tax documents.
Now she placed it on the quilt and lifted the lid.
Inside were yellowed envelopes, an old photograph, a broken hair clip, and several folded newspaper pages.
Ruth picked up the photograph.
It showed a little girl standing in front of a brick house.
She wore a blue sweater.
Her left arm was wrapped in a white bandage.
Naomi recognized the scar beneath it.
"That's me?"
Ruth nodded.
"Who took it?"
"Your uncle Leon."
"I don't have an uncle Leon."
"He was my younger brother."
Naomi stared.
Ruth sat on the edge of the bed.
"Twenty-six years ago, Leon came to my apartment with a little girl. He said a friend had asked him to look after her, then disappeared."
Naomi touched the photograph.
"What friend?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
"Didn't you ask?"
"Of course I asked."
Ruth's voice sharpened.
Then it softened.
"He said her mother was gone and he didn't know what to do."
Naomi looked toward the necklace.
"And you believed him?"
"At first."
The words hung between them.
Ruth explained that Leon had been working temporary jobs in and around Manhattan. He frequently disappeared for weeks and often needed money.
She was accustomed to rescuing him from trouble.
But when he arrived with a frightened child, she believed something more serious had happened.
The girl barely spoke.
She cried at night.
She remembered a woman singing and a big house with flowers.
She sometimes called herself Clara.
Leon insisted the name wasn't important.
He wanted Ruth to keep the child for a few days.
Then he left.
He never came back for her.
"What did you do?" Naomi asked.
Ruth swallowed.
"I took care of you."
"Did you call the police?"
Silence.
Naomi felt her chest growing tight.
"Mom. Did you?"
Ruth looked away.
"No."
Naomi stepped backward.
"Why?"
"I was afraid they'd take you away."
"You didn't even know whose child I was."
"I know."
Naomi stared at her.
Ruth continued, her voice trembling.
"Leon left me papers. They said I had permission to care for you. I thought he had arranged something."
"Did you check?"
"Not properly."
Naomi pulled a newspaper clipping from the box.
It was an old missing-child notice.
Across the top were the words:
MISSING — CLARA WHITMORE, AGE FIVE.
Below was a photograph of the same little girl.
Naomi felt her fingers go cold.
"When did you find this?"
Ruth didn't answer.
"When?"
"Almost two years after Leon brought you."
Naomi stared at her.
Two years.
For two years, Ruth had cared for a child whose identity she didn't know.
Then she found a newspaper photograph that gave her the answer.
"And you still didn't call anyone?"
Ruth began crying.
"I was the only mother you remembered by then."
"That's not what I asked."
"You were happy with me."
Naomi looked down at the clipping.
There was a telephone number printed beneath the photograph.
A number that someone had once waited beside, praying it would ring.
"You knew there was a woman searching for me."
Ruth's lips trembled.
"Yes."
"And you let her keep searching?"
"I kept telling myself I might be wrong."
"But you kept the picture."
Ruth closed her eyes.
Naomi lifted another newspaper page.
This one contained a photograph of Evelyn and her husband standing outside a police station, holding posters of their missing daughter.
The woman's face was younger.
Her expression was devastated.
Naomi imagined her standing there, asking strangers whether they'd seen her child.
While Naomi was sleeping safely in Ruth's apartment.
Eating Ruth's cooking.
Calling Ruth Mom.
"Why did you rename me?"
Ruth wiped her cheeks.
"Leon told me people might come looking for Clara. I thought if they found you, they'd take you from me."
Naomi stared.
"You changed my name because you knew someone was looking?"
Ruth began shaking her head.
"I loved you."
Naomi's voice broke.
"You could have loved me and still told the truth."
Ruth reached toward her.
Naomi stepped away.
For the first time she could remember, Ruth seemed like a stranger.
But the most painful part wasn't learning that Ruth had lied.
It was realizing how much of Naomi's childhood had depended on that lie remaining undiscovered.
She closed the box.
"I'm taking these."
Ruth looked frightened.
"Where?"
"To someone who can help us find out what happened."
"Naomi, please."
Naomi held the box against her chest.
"Her name was Clara. And you've known that almost my whole life."
She walked toward the door.
Behind her, Ruth called her name.
Naomi stopped but didn't turn.
"I never stopped loving you," Ruth whispered.
May you like
Naomi gripped the door handle.
"Then you should have let me know who I was."
