THE TRUTH WE TELL

  NIKKI LEE TAYLOR

  Magpie Creative Media

  Published by Magpie Creative Media

  ISBN 978-0-6484406-5-9

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2023 Nikki Lee Taylor

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher with the exception of except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  nikkileetaylor.com.au

  Contents

  Dedication

  Foreword

  1. HARLOW

  2. SOPHIE

  3. HARLOW

  4. SOPHIE

  5. HARLOW

  6. SOPHIE

  7. HARLOW

  8. SOPHIE

  9. HARLOW

  10. SOPHIE

  11. HARLOW

  12. VALENTINE

  13. HARLOW

  14. SOPHIE

  15. VALENTINE

  16. HARLOW

  17. VALENTINE

  18. HARLOW

  19. VALENTINE

  20. SOPHIE

  21. HARLOW

  22. VALENTINE

  23. HARLOW

  24. SOPHIE

  25. HARLOW

  26. VALENTINE

  27. HARLOW

  28. SOPHIE

  29. HARLOW

  30. SOPHIE

  31. HARLOW

  32. SOPHIE

  33. VALENTINE

  34. HARLOW

  35. SOPHIE

  36. VALENTINE

  37. SOPHIE

  38. VALENTINE

  39. HARLOW

  40. SOPHIE

  41. VALENTINE

  42. HARLOW

  43. SOPHIE

  44. HARLOW

  45. VALENTINE

  46. HARLOW

  47. SOPHIE

  48. VALENTINE

  49. HARLOW

  50. SOPHIE

  51. VALENTINE

  52. HARLOW

  53. SOPHIE

  54. VALENTINE

  55. HARLOW

  56. SOPHIE

  57. HARLOW

  58. VALENTINE

  59. HARLOW

  60. SOPHIE

  61. VALENTINE

  62. HARLOW

  63. SOPHIE

  64. VALENTINE

  65. HARLOW

  66. SOPHIE

  67. VALENTINE

  68. SOPHIE

  69. VALENTINE

  70. SOPHIE

  71. HARLOW

  72. SOPHIE

  73. HARLOW

  74. SOPHIE

  75. VALENTINE

  76. SOPHIE

  77. HARLOW

  78. VALENTINE

  79. HARLOW

  80. SOPHIE

  Epilogue

  THE TRUTH WE TELL

  BOOK TWO

  This book is dedicated to all the incredible women who have walked beside me over the years. Those we have lost along the way, those who live incredible lives in faraway places, and those who I am lucky enough to see every day. None of you are relatives, but all of you have been my sisters.

  Foreword

  This book contains limited material relating to suicide and self-harm. While there are no deaths relating to self-harm included in this book, should it raise issues for you please contact a mental health services provider in your local area.

  If this book raises issues for you, please contact your nearest mental health provider. In Australia call Beyond Blue on 1300 223 636 or Lifeline on 13 11 14.

  Chapter one

  HARLOW

  There is no heaven. When you die there’s no tunnel of bright white light or angels floating around a golden gate. There is nothing. You simply stop existing. End of story.

  A lot of people have argued with me about this, mostly because they’re scared and sometimes because they think I’m just a dumb seventeen-year-old. Like what do I know, right? But in the end, I always win the debate. And why shouldn’t I? I’m the only one who’s ever been dead.

  I was eleven when it happened. A car accident. Well, a kidnapping and attempted murder if we’re being honest, but the medical report called it a car accident. I was officially dead for three minutes before they managed to restart my heart. Apparently, that’s the longest your heart can stop pumping blood and oxygen before you begin to suffer irreparable brain damage.

  Everyone expected me to be traumatized by what happened, maybe suffer post-traumatic stress disorder having died so young and all. But for me, the experience was nothing short of cathartic. When my injuries healed, I left the hospital knowing exactly what I wanted. To be free of my fame-seeking mother, the infamous Madelyn-May Marozzi, parental blogging queen of North America. I wanted, no, I needed, to be free of her. I felt as though my second chance at life depended on it.

  Not long after I was released from hospital, my parents and brother Harry moved to Australia to start over. Much to my mother’s disgust, I stayed here in Philly with my best friend Kempsey and her parents Steve and Rhonda who were more than willing to become my official guardians until I come of age.

  For so long, I thought of the day I moved in with them as my rebirth. The day I got to choose my family. Since then, I have lived a quiet, reserved life, away from the spotlight forced on me by my mother. For six years it’s been a wonderful life in a lovely home surrounded by warm and caring people. If only things could have stayed that way.

  Chapter two

  SOPHIE

  Poppy was born at one minute past two at the University of Maryland Harford Memorial Hospital, and to everyone’s surprise, she came out with an extra thumb. According to the doctors it wasn’t that uncommon. But lying there in the birthing suite, my hair wet and my skin slick with sweat, I felt as though I failed my daughter before she even took her first breath. In terms of natural childbirth, at age thirty-five I was considered geriatric. I knew without a doubt that it was my aging body that let her down. I hated myself but the doctors were adamant. There were no signs of congenital defects or issues of concern, other than the thumb. To them, she was perfect.

  Because Poppy arrived right on my due date, I took it as a sign she might be an easy baby. I hoped it meant she had some in-built understanding that the world of adults was ruled by dates and times. That she would work in with my plans. But she didn’t.

  As the weeks turned into months and months turned into years, Poppy became a tired and irritable child. I was sure she slept and cried more than any normal baby should. More than Josh had.

  By the time she was three, we were regulars at the Westbrook Family Medical Clinic, but no matter how many times I pleaded for him to look harder, Dr Martin Havinack remained adamant that she was fine. She was just ‘one of those children who needs a little extra love and attention’, he would say. But deep in my heart, I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know what it was.

  By the time she was four, five separate psychologists had assured me it was normal to be overcautious. To not just think the worst but to expect it. My son Josh died when he was six, not because I missed the signs of an underlying health condition, but because a drunk driver killed him and my husband in a car wreck. They told me again about survivor’s guilt, post-traumatic stress disorder, and all the other conditions grief can create. They willed me to believe that it was fear not fact when I told them something was wrong with Poppy. They said my ongoing anxiety, coupled with the fact that I randomly uprooted my life and moved to Havre De Grace, was proof enough that I was the one who needed medicating. I hoped they were right, but I also knew they were wrong. My move to Havre De Grace was not random. It had been very much on purpose.

  “Now you be careful,” I tell Poppy, my face pressed gently against her tiny button nose. “Some of those kids are bigger than you.”

  “Come on, Mom,” she whines. “I’m up next.”

  I zip up her hot pink parka and say a silent prayer. She’s five. It’s March and still cold out. Our school has a team in the local social baseball competition for under-eights. The team is a mix of boys and girls and at the end of the season, the winning team gets to host an all-expenses-paid day at the Fun Factory, a popular kids’ game and pizza place just off Main Street. All the teams in the league attend, so no matter how good or bad the kids play, everyone gets a prize at the end of the season.

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask again.

  “I want to play,” she says, her tiny hands clenched into determined fists at her sides. “Please, Mommy, I want to play.”

  “Alright, okay.” I tuck her long ponytail into the back of her parka so none of the other kids accidentally pull on her hair. “Come straight back if you feel puffed out or tired. I’ll be right here.”

  She runs off and I pull myself up, my stomach twisting. Since the day she was born, I feel like I’ve been waiting, side-stepping the inevitable.

  Beside me, my golden retriever Miss Molly doesn’t bother to get up. She was a rescue so it’s hard to know her exact age but if I had to guess I’d say she’s around te
n years old. Her bones creak and her gait is slow, but she never leaves my side. It’s been that way since the day I brought her home. I give her a smile and a scratch behind the ear then glance out over the field.

  Poppy is up on the plate, bat in hand. She swings and the bat connects. She is off, running toward first base, her ponytail already untucked and flapping around like a happy dog’s tail. When she trips and falls, I take a nervous step forward, hand on my chest, silently willing her to get up. One. Two. Three…

  As I am about to run forward, her giggle carries on the breeze and she gets to her feet.

  See, you’re being ridiculous. She’s fine.

  Feeling silly, I sneak a glance at the other parents. Did anyone see me lurch forward, eyes wide with panic? Do they think I’m a helicopter parent? Or worse, do they think I know something is wrong and am letting her play anyway? I’m so concerned with deciding if other people are staring at me that I don’t see her fall the second time.

  “Sophie,” one of the other parents says, an edge of concern pitching her voice higher. “Is Poppy okay?”

  I snap my head back and peer out over the field. A tiny shape wrapped in hot pink is lying motionless on the ground. From the edges of the field parents slowly start to move in, their steps hesitant, not wanting to believe that something is wrong. The referee blows his whistle and hurries toward her. I can’t feel my legs but I’m already running, the freezing wind slicing my cheeks.

  “Poppy! Poppy!” My cries echo and I can’t tell if it’s me screaming or one of the other parents. “Poppy!” When I reach her, I throw myself down and push the hair back from her face. Two ribbons of bright red blood trickle from her nose and her eyes are closed. “Poppy, wake up! Wake up!” The crowd is closing in on me. The weight of their fear is palpable. “Poppy!”

  “I’ve called 911,” A male voice says. “They’re coming but - ”

  “But what?”

  “They have to come from another call. They’re fifteen minutes out.”

  I rest my hand on Poppy’s forehead because I don’t know what else to do. Her skin is slick and too hot for such a cold afternoon. When I finally look up at the sea of faces staring back at me, some are familiar and others I’ve never seen before but the one thing they share is the look in their eyes— fear.

  I scoop her tiny body up into my arms and cradle her against my chest. The bottom half of her face is stained red from the blood running out of her nose. As I wipe at it with my sleeve and hate myself for every minute I’ve wasted doing anything other than learning how to save my child’s life.

  If she dies this will be my fault.

  “I’ll take you to the hospital.” A burly man wearing a Havre de Grace Warriors windbreaker is suddenly standing in front of me, keys in hand. “Do you need to call her father?”

  “There’s… there’s no father,” I mutter. “It’s just me.”

  “Right. Let’s go then.”

  People jump out of our way as we run single file toward the carpark. Their faces are a blur, and no one speaks as we pass. A woman in jeans and a windbreaker clutches at her chest as we race by. Next to them a man and woman pull their small son between them, closing ranks. I know they’re worried, but I also know a tiny part of them is relieved it’s me racing against time and not them.

  The dusty carpark is only meters away, but Poppy’s lips are blue. She’s gone still in my arms.

  “I think she’s stopped breathing!” I scream. “What do I do?”

  The man stops abruptly and turns back, his brow pulled into a tight frown. “Put her down.”

  “What? No, I don’t know CPR… I can’t - ”

  “We need to find someone who knows how to do it while we wait for the ambulance.”

  “We can’t,” I shout back, my voice breaking. “We have to go. They won’t get here in time!”

  An icy wind whips across the back of my neck as I readjust my grip on her tiny body.

  He steps in close. “What’s your name?”

  “Sophie,” I sob. “My name is Sophie.”

  “Sophie, once we get into my truck there’s no one to help us. She won’t make it without CPR. If we can keep her breathing the ambulance might get here in time. There’s still hope.”

  I stare at him, willing his words back down his throat. She’s heavy in my arms, gravity pulling her down and away from me. “Goddamn it!” I scream as loud as I can. “Help me! Anyone! Help me, please!”

  Screams scrape against the tightness of my throat. As each second passes, I feel her slipping away as though a light is slowly dimming inside me. If she dies, every spark of joy will be extinguished from my life. If she dies, I will die with her. Maybe not my body, but my soul, my love, my will.

  “I’ll find someone,” he calls, already running back toward the field. “Stay there, Sophie. I’ll find someone! I’ll find someone!”

  I fall to my knees and fold my daughter’s lifeless body across my lap. Her skin is translucent, clouds of gray gathering at her temples. A storm about to break.

  “Don’t you leave me, Poppy,” I whisper. “Don’t you leave me.”

  Seconds feel like hours as I gently rock her back and forth in my arms. I knew this. I knew something was wrong and I didn’t prepare myself. All I had to do was take a CPR class. One stupid class. That’s all I had to do.

  “Lay her down on the ground,” someone shouts at me from across the carpark. It’s a woman’s voice, strong but breathless. She’s been running. “Quickly dear, there’s no time.”

  When I look up, I register that the woman is older than me, maybe in her sixties. She has a short bob of gray hair and deep lines etched around her eyes. The rest is a blur.

  “Roll her onto her back,” she tells me, as I slide Poppy gently onto the ground. “What happened?”

  “I… I don’t know. She was running. I looked away for just a second.” I glance desperately at the man who was going to drive us to the hospital. “Did you see what happened? Was there a collision?”

  He is down on one knee. His cheeks are scarlet. His chest is heaving. “Beats me. Best I can tell she was just running and then…” he draws another deep breath, “…down she went. I didn’t see any other kids near her.”

  “Does she have a health condition?” the woman asks.

  I note she has the efficiency and tone of someone who knows what they’re doing. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I was a nurse for thirty-two years. She’s very pale. Is she anemic?”

  “Anemic? No… I… I’ve taken her to doctors before. They never found anything like that.”

  The woman crosses her hands over my daughter’s tiny chest and begins compression. “But you thought otherwise?”

  I nod quickly not wanting to believe I might have been right. “Please,” I whisper to the sky as I watch her tiny chest rise and fall, “not again.”

  “Where’s the damned ambulance?” the man curses, getting back to his feet and looking out toward the road.

  “We can’t wait,” the woman says. “We need to go.”

  “Are you sure?” I have no control over my daughter’s life. I don’t know how to help her and will have to rely on this woman, this stranger, to make a choice that will decide whether she lives or dies.

  “I’ve got a faint rhythm,” she says. “I’ll continue chest compressions in the car. But we’ve got to move. Now!”

  I gather Poppy up off the ground and together we run toward the man’s truck. With every step and every breath, I beg. I beg the power of the universe. I beg God, even though I have always been one of the faithless. I beg anyone and anything to take my life and give it to Poppy instead. I silently apologize for what I did, for having her without telling Bastian. I apologize for having slept with another woman’s husband. I apologize for thinking I deserved a second chance, and for daring to try and be a mother again. I apologize for everything I can think of. But most of all I apologize for once again failing a child whose only flaw was to depend on me.

  “Please, you have to get us there in time,” I say, as I slide Poppy onto the dirty back seat of the truck. “She’s so little… she’s…”