“I spoke to an attorney once. After Mother brought up keeping Bethany during the day.”
“It’s inappropriate, Helena. It’s all…” my mother waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that encompasses my entire life. “It’s all inappropriate. How you raise her. What you teach her. You can’t have her going off to school and telling everyone all of the things that you’ve filled her mind with.”
“I can do whatever I want to. I can raise her however I want to. She’s my daughter.”
“She’s also Simon’s. And he agrees with me. We think it’ll be best if she stays with me during the day. You can come visit if you like, have lunch with us.” She offered the statement with a smile, as if she was granting me something special, as if she wasn’t trying to yank my daughter away and rip her individuality to shreds. I knew what a semester in her house would do. I lived in that house. My mind almost died in that house.
Mark says nothing, and I think of the attorney, a short stumpy bald man, his pen tapping against the page, dots of sweat beading along his brow. A man. I should have waited longer, been more patient, and gotten a female attorney. I swallow. “It was preemptive. I just wanted to know, if things got worse, if they could actually take Bethany away from me.”
“What did the attorney say?”
“He said that because I was a woman, that it would be hard. But that I could be determined to be unfit. He asked a lot of questions. If there was anything Simon could use against me. If I’d ever been arrested. Or harmed myself. Done drugs. Things like that.” I close my eyes, thinking of the way his head had tilted at me, his eyes examining. Judging. He had judged me from the minute I had sat down, and his questions had only gotten worse.
When he’d asked if I’d ever harmed Bethany, I shook my head, and flatly denied it. “But…” The word had lingered on the roof of my mouth, ready to jump onto my tongue. But… I did leave her unattended while I locked myself into my office. But… I did shove her into the neighbor’s arms and scream at the woman to just take her. It hadn’t been right. It hadn’t even been particularly sane behavior. The woman had filed a police report. She’d called me an unfit parent. She’d said, her perfectly neat script filling up every line of that report, that I often appeared unhinged. Also that I looked unkept. I think she’d meant unkempt. I’d told that to the social worker that had shown up a week later, the neatly written report in hand. The woman had merely blinked at me, as if misuse of a word was secondary to misuse of my child. Which, I agree, in a normal scenario, would be. But I didn’t mistreat my child. Bethany had been a happy baby. She’d been a loved baby. That had been just one bad day. One bad day… among a few more.
“I told myself I was worrying over nothing.” I wet my lips, and hate how weak and wobbly my voice is. “I was married to him. She was my mother. I shouldn’t have had to worry about them taking my child—” My voice breaks, and I inhale sharply.
It takes me a few minutes to recover, for my body to relax, my breathing to calm, my tears to stop. I wait for him to ask questions, but he says nothing. I move, changing positions, and lower my head to the floor. From this angle, I can tilt my chin and see Bethany’s stars. From this spot, I can see a forgotten crayon underneath her desk. Dust has formed under the eaves of her doll house. The dirty pink sock, over by the bookshelf, has a dead spider curled up beside it. This is the only room of the house that hasn’t been cleaned. The only room that, in the last four years, has remained the same.
I reach out, running my palms across the blank surface of the notepad, the one that Mark slid under the door.
I think I have known, from the beginning, that it would come to this. Mark’s right. I need to be the one to write the end of this story. The events of that day… I can’t speak them aloud. I won’t be able to explain my thoughts, the frantic rush of emotions. I might try to earn his understanding, to justify my actions, instead of just telling what happened.
But can I do it? Can I pick up this pen and write down that day? Can I walk back through my actions without breaking?
Just try. His stupid words echo in my head, the type of thing inspirational speakers scribble on the top of white boards. Try harder. That’s what I need to do. Try until it’s done.
I slowly sit up, my fingers tightening over the spiral bound end of it, pulling it onto my lap.
Just try.
If I’m going to relive it, to put that day into words, my feelings, my reactions… I need to go to the place where it began. I need to see the video that changed everything.
I pick up the notepad and pen, and carefully rise to my feet, the action still too quick, dizziness stabbing at me for a brief spell of time. I close my eyes, reset my equilibrium, and then open the bedroom door.
Mark looks up from his spot on the floor, his head lifting off of the wall, and our eyes meet. I speak quickly, before the urge leaves me.
“I’ll write it. But I need you to leave me alone to do it.”
He nods, and I can feel his eyes on me as I move down the hall and to the office, my hands shaking as I yank open the desk drawer, shoving aside bookmarks, note pads, pens and candy, my fingers picking their way to the back and to the single gold Schlage key.
I haven’t touched this key in years. When the police came, after the ambulance left, they went through the entire house. I had held my breath, wondering what they would find, what conclusions they would pull, what suspicions they would have. But they hadn’t blinked at the room or the duffel bag that sat beside its door. After they left, I had locked the door and never walked back in.
I’ve spent four years trying my best to forget everything inside.
I turn the key over in my hand. I haven’t even unlocked the door and already I can feel my chest tighten. Maybe I shouldn’t. Do I really need to walk back through the past? Do I have to see it again?
I don’t. I could take the easy route and just remember that day, recapture that feeling from the safety of this office, or Bethany’s room.
But it won’t be the same. The memory will be muted, the emotions not as crisp. I need to relive it. She deserves that.
I close my palm around the key and stand up, back into the hall, stepping past Mark and toward the room that changed everything.
The media room.
the day it happened
I step into the media room and yawn. The heavy curtains are closed, blocking out the sun, the room cozy in the dark. We’d painted the walls a deep midnight blue, one that paired well with the cream carpet and the dark leather theater seating. I eye the closest recliner and consider taking a break, curling up under a blanket and reading for a bit. Maybe I’ll take a short nap.
I discard the idea and move to the wall, the one dominated by a giant projector screen. Opening the built-in cabinet, I eye the rows of VHS tapes, moving past Simon’s childhood videos and onto the sports videos, all of games played decades ago. My current scene needs a football backdrop. I need inspiration, and enough game lingo to sound authentic. Watching a few old games will do the trick.
My husband is addicted to videotaping things. In one cabinet are a hundred slim DVD cases with Bethany’s first steps, her birthdays, her play dates with friends. In another cabinet are videos of our wedding, honeymoon, the day we moved into this house. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and hear him watching them, muted sounds barely audible through the wall. It’s odd, but so am I. I’d rather him over-document things than not document them at all.
I move to the sports section, and grab one at random—Packers vs Vikings 1998 Superbowl—and push the VHS tape in, switching the input on the remote and waiting. Hopefully, the video would have his walk into the stadium, some behind-the-scenes glimpses at the hallways, crowd, and vendors.