What Once I Was

Chapter 20 - Robert

"Hello, Mr Collins speaking. How can I help?"

A soft, feminine voice whispered into my ear. Goosebumps pricked at her words.

"It's me, dad. It's Naomi."

Words lodged in my throat. After all this time. Sobs tear from me, two decades of confusion and hope spilling over. My daughter. My beautiful little girl. I couldn't believe. I can't tell you how good it was to hear her voice, to know she was alive after all this time.

"Oh, my sweet girl! Where are you? Your mum and I will come get you now!"

I could hear the hesitation in her voice.

"Mum hates me. She told me she never loved me. I just need someone to listen to me."

Hearing her sobs shot pain through my chest. No parent likes to hear their child suffering, let me tell you. I promised to meet her, accepted her request to not tell Wendy. If truth be told, I was ashamed of my wife. I couldn't understand how she could turn her back on our daughter, how she could do anything but embrace her and tell her everything would be okay. 

I barely had my shoes on before the car door closed on me. This was it. I was going to see my little girl.

The cafe we had agreed to meet was almost empty. The few stragglers that hung about too preoccupied with their food to notice an old man staring at any young woman that happened to walk near the door. Each time I saw someone who looked to be in their mid-twenties, my breath would catch. Each time they continued on their journey past the cafe, my heart would sink.

And then I saw her. She was so beautiful, just as she had been the last time I saw her. Her hair was darker, pulled into a messy bun atop her head. Her skin had a subtle tan that complimented her smile. It took all my strength not to rise from the chair and pull her close. I didn't want to scare her, to give her any discomfort. As hard as it was, I had to remind myself that I was essentially a stranger to her. It was perhaps one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

She sat, hands clasped together, body pulled back into the chair, observing my face. I knew at that moment; she was my daughter. My Naomi. She had the same deep blue eyes that I remembered, the ones she'd inherited from my mother. The same dimple on her left cheek. There was no denying it. Something had been missing, but I wasn't sure initially what that was. She passed over photos of herself through the years. Her at her university graduation, her at the beach. All these memories she should have made with us.

It wasn't until we were getting ready to leave, with the promise of seeing each other soon, that I realised what had been missing. Her scar. I remembered the summer before Naomi disappeared, she'd only been four at the time. It had been one of my days off. I'd been promising her for weeks that I would teach her to ride a bike. It was a pink one, with stabilisers and rainbow tassel on the handlebars. She'd done well for a first attempt, swaying this way and that but keeping her balance nonetheless. I don't think she had seen the wall, or perhaps I ought to have explained how to use the breaks properly a little more. Before I could react, her front wheel collided with the red brick and she flew over the handlebars. Oh, the blood. I was never one to feel queasy easily, but the sight of it had me weak at the knees. After hours of waiting in A&E, she left fixed with butterfly stitches and a strawberry lollipop. It took far longer for me to lick the wounds of a traumatised father. After that, she'd proudly shown off the v shaped scar above her right eyebrow.

Looking at the woman before me now, there was no scar. No hint of any summer time mishaps. I knew she was Naomi. Her pictures alone were proof of that. There was no way she could be a clone of the girl I'd loved and lost. Yet the lack of scarring made no sense. On the ride home, I questioned my memories. Wondered if it was simply the longing of a grieving father rather than reality. I'd decided to find the photo albums and shoeboxes stuffed with photographs that Wendy and I had accumulated over the years. Pictures don't lie. If she really did have a scar, it would be in one of the last ever photos we had captured of her.

I didn't want to snoop when Wendy was home. She was very particular about Naomi's things. She never allowed in Naomi's room, nor was I to under any circumstances go into Wendy's closet where our photographs lived. I would have to wait until I knew she would be out of the house for a few hours. Thankfully, I wouldn't have long to wait. She had bragged for days about an upcoming lunch date with her friend from school, Sarah, Sophie. Something like that. I thought I would be able to sneak in, find the photos I needed, put everything back as it was, and leave without her ever knowing.

If only I knew how wrong I was. Part of me wishes I could go back to living in a naïve bubble, believing my wife had suffered alongside me for fifteen years. Once you see something like I did, it burns itself in your mind. You can't eat or sleep, for the image is replaying over and over. Wendy truly had found a new way to torture me.

For this to be false, Officer, I would give anything. I'd sell my soul to the Devil himself if it could bring her back. I just... I. I still can't comprehend what I read, what I know now. Never again will I feel complete.