Pretty Baby: A Gripping Novel of Psychological Suspense

by Mary Kubica

  The night before, Heidi sent me out for supplies. After dinner I walked to the drugstore, where I found myself staring stupidly at a variety of baby diapers in the empty aisle. I’m too old, I thought as I groped for a box and stuck it under an arm, to be buying diapers.

  At home I watched as Heidi laid that baby out on the hardwood floor and removed the blue towel—covered now in stinky shit—from her body and set it aside. The baby kicked her feet, thrilled to be naked, while Heidi wiped her bottom with one of those powder-scented wipes, setting the dirty ones in the towel that would later be hurled down the garbage shoot.

  When she lifted her up, I choked at the sight of the rash, a foul red rash that covered her rear end. As Heidi lathered one cream, and then a second, onto that baby’s behind, that girl stared on, as if no one ever told her about changing a baby’s diaper before, about how sitting in all that shit and urine couldn’t possibly be good for her skin. Her eyes looked sad as Heidi slipped a white jumpsuit and footed pants from their plastic packaging and onto the baby, covering up a birthmark the size of a sand dollar on the baby’s leg.

  When she was done, Heidi passed the baby back to Willow, who held her awkwardly, without Heidi’s obvious expertise, without the natural maternal instinct girls were supposed to be blessed with. I watched her shuffle that baby like a sack of potatoes, wondering whether or not that baby was really her child.

  But I didn’t dare suggest this to Heidi because I knew what she would say. She would remind me that I’m a cynic, a skeptic. Of course it’s her child, Heidi would say as if she had some sixth sense about it, as if she knew.

  We’d sat around the TV for what felt like an eternity, an awkward, hellish eternity, where for an hour or more, no one spoke. And then, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I shut the TV off and said it was time for bed. The clock on the wall read 8:46 p.m.

  There were no complaints.

  Before we went to bed, I pulled Heidi aside and said, “One night. That’s all,” and watched as Heidi shrugged, and said to me, “We’ll see.”

  I gathered Zoe’s magenta sleeping bag from her bedroom closet, and propped that extra chair before the door, listening to Zoe go on and on about how my insistence on a sleepover sucked. About how impossible I was being. About how she hoped her friends would never find out about this, our little ménage à trois, she called it.

  Since when does my twelve-year-old know about ménages à trois?

  WILLOW

  Joseph was a professor of religion at the community college. He taught about the Bible, but mostly the Old Testament. He taught about a God who wiped out the world with a flood, who rained down fire and brimstone on entire villages, killing everyone there. Women and children, good and bad. Everyone. I didn’t know what brimstone was, but he showed me drawings in those college textbooks of his, pictures of fire pouring down and devouring the towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, turning Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt.

  “This,” he told me in that somber voice of his, with the solemn, spongy face that never smiled, the reddish-orange beard, thick and disgusting, “is God’s wrath. You know what wrath is, don’t you, Claire?” and when I said I didn’t, we looked it up in some big, heavy dictionary, together. Extreme anger, it said.

  “This,” Joseph said, showing me again, the pictures of fire and brimstone, “is what God does when he’s mad.”

  Joseph convinced me that thunder was my doing, something or other I had done to upset God. I lived in fear of thunder, lightning and rain. When the sky turned black—as it often did in Omaha in the middle of summer—on one of those hot, humid July days when the threatening black clouds raced in to swallow the calm blue sky, I knew that God was coming for me. When the wind started whirling, the trees stretched down to touch their toes and sometimes snapped clear in two, garbage from the Dumpster on the corner jetting through the air, I would drop to my knees, as Joseph had showed me to do, and pray, over and over and over again, for God’s forgiveness.

  What I did wrong, I never quite knew. The explosive lightning and ear piercing thunder immobilized me, and once or twice, and probably even more, I peed my pants as I knelt there, in that bedroom of mine, praying to God. I’d keep watch out the window for the fire and brimstone, falling from the sky. I’d stare for as long as it took, for the storm to settle, to move on to Iowa, and then, Illinois, to punish some other sinner like me.

  Joseph told me about hell. The place that sinners go. A place of never-ending punishment and torture, with demons and dragons and the devil himself. Eternal punishment. Lakes of fire. Fiery furnace. Unquenchable fire. Fire, fire, fire. I lived in fear of fire.

  I tried to be a good girl. I did. I cleaned up the house when Joseph was teaching and Isaac and Matthew were at school; I made dinner for Joseph and the boys, carried Miriam a tray, though it was rare that she would eat on her own, without some arm-twisting from Joseph.

  Miriam spent most of her days in either one of two ways, in a sleep-like daze, wide-awake but totally still, like a statue, or she’d be up and in a panic, throwing herself at Joseph’s feet and begging for his forgiveness. There were days when she was agitated, snapping at Joseph and the boys about reading her mind. She’d tell them to stop it, stop reading my mind. And then get out, get out, get out, and she’d smack at her head with the palm of her hand as if she was pushing them, pushing Joseph, Isaac and Matthew right on out of her brain. On those days Joseph would lock her in her room with a lock and key. He kept that key with him at all times, even when he wasn’t home, so that when it was just Miriam and me, I could hear her screaming from her bedroom all day long about how Joseph was reading her mind, how he was putting thoughts inside her head.

  I thought that Miriam was crazy. She scared me. Not like Joseph did, but in her own way.

  I did my chores, the laundry and cleaning and such, made dinner for when Joseph and the boys came home. And I hummed loud enough to drown out the sound of Miriam’s screams. But I only hummed when Joseph wasn’t around, because Joseph would swear that whatever I was humming, usually Patsy Cline like the records Momma used to play, wasn’t right by God. Blasphemy, he’d say. Sacrilege.

  But Joseph never did lock me in my room. Not back then, at least. Joseph knew I wouldn’t run away ’cause over and over again he told me about Lily. How he’d do things to her if ever I misbehaved. So I didn’t ever misbehave.

  But when Miriam was being statue-like, I’d go into her room, and it was as if she didn’t know I was there. Her eyes, they wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t follow me as I helped her move from the bed. They wouldn’t blink. From time to time, I pulled the dirty sheets from that bed and washed them. And then I’d go back inside to help Miriam into the tub, to scrub her body with my bare hands because Joseph told me that it was mine to do.

  I did what Joseph asked of me, nearly all the time.

  Once and only once did I say no to Joseph as he climbed into bed beside me. Only once did I admit that it hurt, what he did to me. I pulled my legs up as high as I could and wrapped my arms around them so that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t find a way in, and he stood before me, before the bed, and said, “‘An eye that mocks a father and scorns to obey a mother will be picked out by the ravens of the valley and eaten by the vultures.’ Proverbs 30:17.”

  And I imagined that. Being picked apart by ravens and vultures. My carcass being torn apart by their beaks and talons because God was angry with me. Because I was refusing my father what was his duty and obligation.

  And then I parted my legs and let him climb up on me and I held real still, like Momma used to say when we’d go to the doctor for a shot. “Hold still and it won’t hurt so much.” And I did, I held real still. But still, it hurt.

  It hurt there, in the moment. Hurt long after he’d gone, after he’d told me what a good girl I’d been, how he was pleased with me.

  I thought long and hard about that, about me being a good girl. I wondered what it would take, how many times Joseph would have to let himself into my roo
m, before this good girl turned bad.

  CHRIS

  I finish my breakfast and head in for a shower, making sure to scour the tile first to remove any trace of the vile sores on that girl’s feet. Thirty minutes later, Heidi stands before me, hands on hips, and asks, “Really?” when I appear before her with briefcase in hand and I reply, “Yes, really,” as I say goodbye to Zoe and head for the door.

  I drag Heidi by the hand and into the hallway before I go. The scent of Heidi’s breakfast fills the space. A neighbor passes by, presumably headed for the newsstand on the corner.

  “I want you to call me,” I say as the elevator chimes in the distance and our neighbor friend descends to the first floor. “Every hour on the hour. If you’re so much as a minute late, I’m calling the police.”

  “You’re being unreasonable, Chris,” she says to me.

  “Every hour, Heidi,” I repeat. “It’s that simple,” I say, asking rhetorically, “How much can you really know about another person?”

  And then I kiss her cheek and leave.

  On the train, I eavesdrop on twentysomethings’ conversations about the previous night’s drunken adventures, their lingering headaches, whether or not they puked when they got home.

  Later, relishing the quiet solitude of my office, I slide the receipt from my wallet and peer at the name on the back: Willow Greer. I stretch in a leather executive chair on the forty-third floor of a skyscraper in the North Loop, and realize then and there that my offering memorandum—the one hanging over my head, the reason for the commute to work this sunny Sunday morning—is the furthest thing from my mind. I consider that booklet I’m to put together, the one that details the inner workings of some company we’re to sell—financial statements, business description, the works—and then push it from my mind.

  I fire up the computer and type in the words Willow Greer.

  Enter.

  While the computer does its thing, I find myself staring at a blank spot on the wall, thinking that I should’ve stopped on the way in and picked up some coffee. My office is windowless, though I’m supposed to be grateful I have an office at all, and not a ceilingless gray cubical as many of our analysts do. I forage through the desk drawers for two shiny quarters, planning a trip to the vending machine as soon as I solve the mystery of Willow Greer. The phone rings and I snap it up. Heidi’s sarcastic voice is on the other end, announcing, “Eleven o’clock check-in call.” I peer at the numbers in the corner of my computer screen: 10:59. In the background, the baby wails.

  “Why’s she crying?” I ask.

  “Fever’s back,” says Heidi.

  “Did you give her medicine?”

  “Just waiting for it to kick in.”

  “Try a cool washcloth,” I offer, “or a lukewarm bath,” remembering how sometimes, with Zoe, that worked. But what I really want to say is Serves you right, or Told you so.

  “Will do,” says Heidi, and we hang up the phone, but not before I remind her, “One hour. I’ll talk to you in one hour.”

  And then I go back to the computer.

  The first thing I do is look through the images, expecting to see Willow’s face staring right back at me. But instead I find some redheaded celeb of the same name. A brunette blotting various social media pages, appearing far too immodest—boobs spilling out of a scoop-neck shirt, a paunch overhanging a pair of cutoff jeans—to be our Willow. A town called Willow in Greer County, Oklahoma. Various homes for sale in Greer, South Carolina. According to the virtual phone book, there are six people living in the United States with the name Willow Greer. Not to be confused with Stephen Greer who lives on Willow Ridge Drive in Cincinnati. Only four of six Willow Greers are listed. I yank a sheet of scratch paper from the printer and begin jotting the information down. Willow Greer of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, is in the forty-to forty-four-year-old age range. Too old. Willow Greer of Billingsley, Alabama, is even older at 65+. She could be ninety. I write it down anyway; maybe Ms. Greer of Billingsley, Alabama, is our Willow’s grandma. Or great-grandma. The others don’t list an age range.

  I jot down what sparse information I can find, and then it occurs to me: do you have to be eighteen to be listed in the phone book? Or, more importantly, own property?

  I quickly type in Zoe Wood in Chicago, Illinois, and come up empty.

  Damn.

  I twiddle my thumbs for a split second, thinking. Where would I find Zoe online, if not the white pages? I quickly scan the various social media pages I’m familiar with, which are few and far between. Facebook. Myspace. I’d probably get a lot further in my investigation if I let my twelve-year-old help, the same way she navigates my cell phone for me when I’m stuck. I consider calling her, a stealthy call to her cell, but then picture the confiscated phone at home on the counter beside Heidi’s. Crap.

  I begin searching for variations of the name Willow Greer. I try Willow G., followed by Willow Grier. I try Willow with one l. I humor myself and drop the second w: Willo. You never know.

  And then I come across a Twitter account for a W. Greer, username @LostWithoutU. I know nothing about Twitter, but I find the tweets dark and depressing, made up of all sorts of suicidal innuendos and allegations. Gonna do it. 2nite. But the profile shot of this girl, of this W. Greer, is not the one living in my home. This girl is older, a legitimate eighteen or nineteen years old, showing off lacerations on her wrist, a disturbing smile. The last tweet was posted two weeks ago. I wonder if she did it, if she made the decision to end her life.

  And how.

  “Hi there, stranger.”

  I minimize the screen lightning fast, relax in the chair as if I haven’t just been caught red-handed, doing something wrong. Is stalking a crime? Never mind stalking, I think. This is research.

  And yet, I’m certain a declaration of guilt is plastered to my face.

  Cassidy Knudsen stands in the doorway. She’s replaced the pencil skirt and three-inch heels with something a little less formal—and a lot more attractive in my opinion: skintight jeans and a roomy ebony sweater that falls from a shoulder, leaving a lacy red bra strap exposed. She tugs on the sweater, as if trying to amend its crookedness, but it falls back out of place. She leaves it alone, crosses one foot over the other—her Converse All Stars are, somehow, hotter than the three-inch heels—and leans against the frame. “Thought you were working from home this weekend.”

  “So did I,” I say as I reach for the receipt—the words Willow Greer on the back—and crumple it into a ball. “Offering memorandum,” I add, tossing the wad of paper back and forth between my hands, and then, “Things were a little too chaotic at home.”

  “Zoe?” she asks because, of course, who wouldn’t think the twelve-year-old was responsible for the chaos?

  “Actually,” I admit, “Heidi,” and Cassidy apologizes sympathetically as if I’ve just alluded to marital problems. This überconcerned look crosses her face: the buttery-blond hair and gray-blue eyes, the fair skin.

  “So sorry to hear that, Chris,” she says, welcoming herself into the office and having a seat on one of the armless teal chairs that sit facing my desk. “Anything you want to talk about?” she asks as she crosses her legs and leans in, like only a woman can do. Men catch a whiff of melancholy and go running in the opposite direction; women lean into it, the need to talk it out feeding their soul.

  “Just Heidi being Heidi,” I say, instantly sorry for saying anything in the realm of negativity about my marriage. “Which isn’t a bad thing,” I add shamefacedly, and Cassidy offers, “Heidi is a good woman.”

  “The best,” I agree, willing thoughts of Cassidy Knudsen in satin slips and ruffled babydolls from my mind.

  I married Heidi when I was twenty-five years old. Heidi was twenty-three. I stare at a four-by-six photo of us on our wedding day, thumbtacked to a bulletin board on the wall. Classy, she said the last time she was in my office, running her fingers over the picture, and I shrugged and said, “The frame broke. I knocked it right off the desk in
a last-minute rush,” and she nodded knowingly, understanding that the entirety of my career hinged on last-minute rushes.

  But there was something telling about that photograph, I thought; our protective glass frame shattered and now here we were, punctured with microscopic holes that might one day tear. Those holes all had names: mortgage, adolescent child, lack of communication, retirement savings, cancer. I watch Cassidy’s manicured fingers—the long clear nails with the white tips—fondle a lamp on my desk, one of those antique banker’s lamps, vintage green; I watch her stroke the chain, watch her wrap it around a slim finger and pull—and think: infidelity?

  No. Never. Not Heidi and me.

  A soft yellow light fills the room. A nice contrast to the blinding white flourescent lights that line the ceiling.

  We had dated for mere months when I asked Heidi to marry me. Being with Heidi was something I knew I needed: like air. Something I knew I wanted: sitting there at the top of my Christmas list to Santa that year. I was used to getting what I wanted. In my formative preteen years I lived with a mouth full of metal and headgear. I used to groan and gripe about those braces, the way they would puncture the gum and tear up the inside of my cheek. You’ll thank me one day, my mother used to say, having suffered her entire life with overlapping teeth she hated. And I did. Thank her, that is. After years of orthodontia, I was left with a smile that could sway most everyone in my direction. It worked wonders at fraternity parties, interviews, client dinners and, of course, with the ladies. Heidi used to tell me that that smile was what first caught her eye the night we met at some charity ball. It was December, I remember that much, and she was wearing red. I’d paid about two hundred bucks to go to the darn thing, at the encouragement of my firm. Giving back was our motto that year. It was supposed to look good that our firm had snagged two tables, sixteen or twenty seats, at two hundred bucks a pop, even though not a single one of us knew what cause we were supporting.