They call me Mother, or at least that is what I tell myself they say. Their little voices echo in my mind as I kiss them all goodnight. They are my brood, my loves, the sole reason I choose to come home each night. I love them because they are faultless, something I can call mine, and mine alone. I have named each one of them—Gilbert, Phoenix, Chandler, Sierra, Douglas, and Page. Named, of course, after the places I found them. They were lost, abandoned, discarded like trash, and so close to my car it didn’t take much for me to befriend them. I was there when they needed me, just as much as I needed them. It was simply meant to be, and the memory of each discovery is so precious.
Gilbert was my first one, he had gotten lost at the fair. He had wandered away from his mom while she was changing his sister. The poor woman was distraught when she realized her boy was gone, but by then, we’d wandered so far away I couldn’t hear the name she was screaming.
“Is that my mom?” the little boy had asked, so innocently, in a voice that was a mixture of worry and hope.
“No, I don’t think it was her,” I said in reply with my sweetest and most helpful smile. “I know your mom. Isn’t she wearing a sky-blue skirt with yellow flowers printed on it?”
It was so sweet the way he took my hand so trustingly.
“I think she went this way,” I said as we walked toward my car.
Phoenix wandered out of a cinema, the movie still playing, wanting a snack, or so she told me. I don’t even know what film had been playing. I only know, at that very moment, back home, Gilbert was waiting. He had asked for a sister. Nobody bothers to question a woman with a child resting over her shoulder. I learned that day that when a child’s eyes are closed, and her body is limp, nobody asks questions. They must’ve all thought she was sleeping. In a way, I guess she was.
“That’s it, rest now,” I purred. “What a big day we’ve had.”
Chandler was a far greater challenge, but by then I was hooked. A woman with so much love to give, for me, two children just wasn’t ever going to be enough. Some would call me an addict, others a monster, but I only ever heard the name my children gave me. I found young Chandler at a family picnic at the local park, wide open spaces, I waited patiently until hide-and-seek after lunch. Places to hide were quite sparse. Once I managed to coax the boy down to the stream though, I knew they would never find him again. They thought he’d fallen in, and the stream’s current had washed him away.
I watched the news reports for nearly two whole weeks; no sign of the boy was found except for two tiny shoes. I’m sure his parents are still looking, he’s mine now though. There is no way I will ever give him back.
Sierra was the first time I was brave enough to venture out beyond familiar surroundings. Traveling south in search of new hunting grounds, I suppose, don’t ask me why. I don’t think it was an instinct to be careful, maybe it was my personal compass driving me in such a direction. Mother needed another little girl to balance up the brood. I found her, too, just where I knew I would. So close to the Mexican border. At last, I could add some variety to the numbers. It was a toss-up between naming her Vista or Sierra, but Sierra seemed nicer, and I liked the way it rolled off my tongue. What a precious little thing.
My urges to go south were not finished with after that one trip though, within a week I found myself visiting Tombstone. Once I’d reached there, my heart told me not to stop. I was close, but I had not quite traveled far enough. After Bisbee, it was only forty more minutes before Douglas came into view. What a beautiful sight that was for my poor eyes. I almost wept to see the children there. After watching for an hour or more, I picked my favorite and took him home. Douglas was older than the other children, but I never once considered him my eldest. That honor would always go to Gilbert. You never forget your first.
My search for Page was my most daring adventure yet. I found myself pushed to traveling almost all the way to Utah. I pushed my truck as far as it would go before I had to stop for gas. The trip back was slower, I had to be careful as I had a child to worry about then. Each bump in the road threatened to reveal what was hidden under the tarp. Each unfortunate stop was a possibility of exposure. We both made it home though, safe and sound. I thought Page was my greatest achievement thus far. I took my time with Page. I needed her to be utterly perfect. And she is.
Now for the first time, my yearning has taken me west. The countryside is beautiful, and on this journey, I have decided not to rush. I’ve learned I’m not good when I worry, and traveling north is not the best for my heart nor my mind. I head through Wickenburg and then stick with Route 60, following it all the way to Parker. When I get there, I decide to stay a week.
School is out and families have come here in droves for the holiday break. I consider carefully who it would be the best to add balance to our family, and then I spy a child with skin so white it’s almost the color of the purest snow.
It’s a sign.
I follow the family to the Swansea Ghost Town, but there is no chance there to catch the young boy alone, to lure him away. At the Parker Dam, again I cannot see my chance. I begin to wonder whether this may be the first time I will leave alone. Such a thought is maddening, the worry eats at my very soul. But then the family decides they can splurge and eat out one night. They choose to visit the chaos that is Nellie E. Saloon. I love chaos and darkness—they are my two favorite things. Nobody has missed him, it seems, when I take his hand. Nobody cries out in alarm. I hurry though, no point pressing my luck too much.
I don’t breathe again until we are home. Parker has slept soundly the whole way. You just never know with Special K, too little and they could wake up. Too much and things change very quickly. I get Parker down to the cellar, the place where I do all the preparations. Every hair needs to be carefully plucked, noted, and stored. Then comes the lacquer, not too thin, but not too thick; no cracks, no air bubbles. This is normally the time when things stir, and Parker is no exception. Another injection, big enough to make eyes close forever. Then lift the lids so those beautiful eyes shine bright.
Once the lacquer dries, I can glue the hairs back on, carefully, one by one. Every eyelash, every lock, the arm and leg hairs are so fine. This is the bit that takes the longest, but when I get it impeccably true, it is the thing which gives me the greatest thrill.
I love dressing them back up again and placing them with the rest of the family. Parker has added an extra spring in my step. As I give his little head a peck goodnight, I whisper my thanks. His addition has unbalanced the numbers again. In a week or two I shall need to go hunting, this time for a girl.
Like I said before, they call me Mother as I kiss them all goodnight. They are my brood, my loves, the reason I come home each night. I love them because they are faultless, something that I can call mine, and mine alone.
