by Nicole Trope
‘Yes, fine. Fine, fine, fine,’ says Anna. She is so tired, bone tired, dead tired. ‘I would like to go to the bathroom and maybe call Keith, just so he knows that I’m going to be here for a little longer.’
‘Follow me, Anna, I’ll show you where the bathroom is,’ says Cynthia, and Anna knots her hands together. She would like to scratch her eyes out.
‘Oh, thanks, but I know where it is. I used it when I arrived.’ She is lying, but she knows she can find the bathroom alone and the thought of having to make awkward conversation with Cynthia is too much to endure. ‘I won’t be long. Should I leave the door open?’ She tries to keep her voice light—nothing to see here.
‘Yes, thanks, but I’d prefer it if Cynthia could walk you over there.’
‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then can I just get a few minutes to myself?’
‘Sure you can, absolutely . . . take all the time you need.’
‘Thanks.’
Anna walks out of the room, then turns around quickly to ask if she can go outside and get some fresh air. Through the slightly open door, she sees Cynthia lean forward and squeeze Walt’s wrist. She watches as he closes his eyes a little. It is a small gesture but so intimate that Anna doesn’t want to interrupt, feels almost ashamed to have seen it. She knows she should walk away and give them some privacy but she hovers outside for a moment and watches Walt lean back in his chair, letting his shoulders sag a little.
‘What’s your feeling on this?’ Anna hears him say to Cynthia.
‘I’m not sure,’ she says.
‘Meaning?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there on the night, so you’d probably be in a better position to judge, but I find her a little strange.’
‘Strange how?’
‘Difficult to explain but I’m finding her a little distant.’
‘Distant? I wouldn’t say that. I think she’s really emotional.’
‘I know it seems that way, Walt, but even through her tears and her anger I’m still sensing a wall. She’s hiding something.’
‘About the accident?’
‘About the accident, about how she really feels, I don’t know.’
‘Explain what you mean, Cynthia.’
‘Maybe it’s because I’m a mother that I can sense something. I’m sorry; I don’t know how to make you understand.’
‘Can you try?’ says Walt.
In the corridor, Anna glances around her quickly to see if anyone is watching her but she is alone. She can feel her heart begin to beat faster.
‘This is going to sound a little weird,’ says Cynthia, ‘but I think if it were me, all I would want to do right now is remember how wonderful my kid was. Maybe she’s been doing that with her family but it doesn’t sound like it.’
Through the slight crack in the almost-closed door, Anna watches Walt shake his head. ‘That’s right,’ she thinks, ‘she doesn’t know what she’s saying. Tell her she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ he says.
‘Do you remember that woman whose teenage son got himself killed speeding in a stolen car?’
‘He killed his passenger as well didn’t he? I remember, it was last month,’ says Walt.
‘Yes. I talked to the mother when she came in, and even though it was obvious to everyone that her kid had turned into a real drop kick . . . she didn’t see it. He hadn’t been to school for months and was dealing drugs around the neighbourhood, and she knew all this about him but all she could talk about was what a good kid he’d been. She kept telling us about how he wanted to play the saxophone and how he used to tell her jokes. She knew he was no angel but he was still perfect in her eyes.’
‘So, you think Anna should only be talking about what a wonderful kid Maya was?’
‘No, especially not if she was difficult, but we haven’t heard anything good yet, have we, and she was only eleven. I’m not looking for tales of what a delightful kid she was but the only time I’ve really seen Anna smile when she talks about her was when she was telling us how they finally managed to get her to sleep. I’m not thinking she should be going on and on about how great she was, but I’m waiting to hear something, anything, that tells me who Maya was beyond a child with autism.’
‘I think you may be grasping at straws,’ says Walt. ‘It’s too close right now. I think people need time to recover a little before they can look back and enjoy the memories of someone they’ve lost. It must be worse when it’s a child; a lot worse, a lot harder.’
‘Yeah, but . . . I don’t know. I’m not making myself clear. It’s a feeling more than anything else.’
‘Well, it’s something to think about and that’s why I wanted you here today. I thought that having another mother in the room would be a good idea. I don’t know why.’
‘Maybe you can sense it too.’
‘Maybe.’
‘We should probably ask for those sandwiches,’ says Cynthia, and Anna turns around quickly, silently making her way down the corridor. Behind her, she hears Walt come out and call to someone else, ‘Hey, Sarah, could we get some sandwiches sent in? The usual mix. I’m not sure what she eats, but make sure there’s a cheese and salad one for Cynthia . . . thanks.’
Anna can feel her heart racing as she asks a police officer at a desk for directions to the bathroom. She thinks about what would have happened if Walt had caught her listening and then shakes her head to get rid of the thought.
In the bathroom, she sits on the toilet seat lid with her head in her hands. ‘It’s not fair,’ she thinks and hears her mother say, ‘What right do you think you have to demand that things are fair? Are you a starving child in Africa? Are you fighting cancer? Are you homeless? You’re one of the lucky ones, Anna, and life is never fair, so stop complaining.’ Anna had only been twelve at the time and complaining about having to do three projects over the winter holidays, but she’d never again told her mother something wasn’t fair. When they’d found out about Maya, she’d called her mother, and Vivian had said, ‘Well, at least you know what it is, so you can deal with it. I’m sure there are worse things that a child can be diagnosed with.’
‘I guess but it’s going to be so hard, and it’s already been so hard, and I look around me and I can’t help seeing all the other mothers who just have to worry about toilet training, and thinking . . .’
‘Thinking what?’
‘Nothing, Mum. it’s just going to be hard, really hard, and I think we’re going to need a lot of help.’
‘Keith’s parents have a lot of money, don’t they? Maybe they can help with therapists or carers, or whatever else you need.’
‘I think we’re going to need help from family, Mum.’
‘Anna, you know I love Maya—I do—but I’ve raised my children. I have a life to live now.’
‘I’m still your child,’ Anna had whispered.
‘I’ll do what I can, Anna. You know I will.’
‘Thank you,’ Anna said. It had been hard to say the words when she had not felt thankful at all.
‘I went shopping today and found a lovely top but I’m not sure it looks right on me. Can I pop over tomorrow and try it on for you? You’re always so clever about clothes.’
‘Sure, Mum,’ said Anna. ‘Sure.’
Keith’s mother had called her the day after the diagnosis and said, ‘We’re all here for you, Anna. You know that, don’t you? We will do everything we can to help. Hannah is going to speak to a specialist at the hospital and see if he can fit you in. We will help her be the best person she can be, Anna. Don’t worry.’
It should have been enough that she had Keith’s family. It should have been enough.
‘Not fair, not fair, not fair,’ she mutters into her hands in defiance of everything else she should be feeling. It is not fair that pretty Cynthia will get to go home to her children tonight. It is not fair that she gets to touch a man like Walt
and have him respond to her.
Anna thinks about the night of the accident. Once the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Maya was whisked away, and she and Keith were told to wait and pointed towards a collection of plastic chairs.
‘What do you mean, “wait?”’ Keith had said. ‘She’s our child. We have to be with her.’
‘Please, sir,’ a nurse had said, touching Keith on the shoulder, ‘the doctors are doing everything they can. They need to be left to do their job. Please sit down and wait.’
Anna had walked away from Keith and sat down on one of the chairs. She had sat up straight. She held her head high and just let the noises of the hospital wash over her. Keith came over and sat down next to her.
‘What happened, Anna?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Not now, Keith. I can’t. Not now.’
‘Oh God, Anna. Our baby. Our baby. What happened?’ he said and then leaned towards her to touch her, but she held her body straighter and lifted her chin higher.
Keith put his face in his hands and cried, and Anna angled her body away from him. ‘Shut up,’ she wanted to say. ‘Please just shut up.’
Sometime after they had arrived, Walt walked into the hospital. Anna didn’t know who he was at first and only noticed him because of his height, but then she saw him talking to the constable who had brought Caro to the hospital and taken her . . . somewhere. The constable took off his hat and scratched his head as he talked to the tall man. He pointed towards Anna and Keith and then walked away.
‘Mr and Mrs McAllen,’ said the tall man and Keith nodded. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Walter Anderson. I’m so sorry about this. I’m here to help.’
The bathroom smells of lavender and antiseptic, the way most public bathrooms do. Anna hears someone else come in and she tenses up. She has been here too long. She resists the urge to raise her feet off the floor so no one can see she’s in here and is relieved when the other woman leaves quickly.
Of course, Walt had not really been there to help. He’d been there to find out what happened, and to find out who was to blame for what happened, but he had sat with them until the doctors came to get them. He had spoken to Keith quietly, calling him ‘mate’ and telling him that his tears were perfectly normal. He had gone to get coffee for the three of them and told Anna to just have a sip or two.
He had been there with them as their daughter fought for her life. Now, the idea that he was questioning her made Anna feel sick. The fact that he was listening to Cynthia, who had no real idea about anything, made her angry—no, not angry. It made her furious. ‘How dare they?’ she whispers in the empty bathroom. ‘How dare they?’
She hears someone else come in.
‘Anna,’ says Cynthia. ‘Are you okay in there?’
‘Yes, fine,’ says Anna, standing up and flushing the toilet.
Cynthia waits for a moment and Anna waits as well. She decides she is not coming out of the stall until Cynthia goes away.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ Cynthia finally says and Anna hears her leave the bathroom.
She comes out and stands in front of the bathroom mirror, smoothing down her hair.
‘I look just fine,’ she says to her reflection, and then she leaves the bathroom and walks back down to the interview room.
‘Ah . . . Anna,’ says Walt when he sees her, ‘all good?’
‘Yes,’ she replies and her mouth moves slightly as she tries, but fails, to smile. ‘All good. All good.’
Chapter Eight
Caro has to keep swallowing to keep the nausea at bay. Every time she feels like this, every time she has a hangover that makes her want to squeeze the pain out of her head, she vows that she will stop drinking. It is a daily vow now, repeated often enough that she knows she doesn’t even think about the words anymore.
Hangovers pass and nausea abates—the desperation for something to take the edge off goes on and on.
‘Can I get some more water, and have a break so I can go to the bathroom?’ she asks.
‘Absolutely,’ says Detective Sappington. ‘Brian, will you ask Sarah if she can send us in some food? Caro, are you happy with a sandwich? Any preferences?’
‘I don’t care really. I haven’t had much of an appetite. Why do we need food, anyway? How much longer am I going to be here?’
‘Really, that’s up to you Caroline—Caro. You want to tell us the whole story and I’m happy to listen, but we need to talk about the accident, so we can hear your side. Before you go to the bathroom, I’m going to get Brian to see where Mrs McAllen is.’
Caro feels her stomach turn with the confirmation that Anna is here. She would like to run through the police station shouting her name until they are standing face to face, but if that happened she’s not sure what she would say to her.
‘Why? Are you worried we’ll run into each other and compare notes? Or maybe you’re worried that she’ll try to kill me,’ she says, shutting out the image of Anna hunched over Maya, shaking her and screaming her name.
‘I’m not worried about anything. We just prefer our witnesses to remain separate until their interviews are over.’ Caro hears the reasonable tone again. ‘I’m being handled,’ she thinks.
Detective Ng leaves the room for a moment and then returns. ‘All good, they’re back at it now.’
‘Brian, can you walk Caro over to the bathroom, please?’
‘And will he wait outside for me as well, just to make sure I’m a good little girl and don’t try to escape?’
‘You’re not under arrest.’
‘Well, it certainly feels like I am.’
‘I’ll just show you the way and leave you to it,’ he says and Caro feels a small surge of gratitude.
‘Thanks, Brian,’ she says and follows him along the corridor.
‘You doing okay?’ he asks.
‘I’ve been better.’ Caro would like to tell him just how hideous she is feeling. She feels he might listen with a sympathetic ear, something she is not certain of getting from Detective Sappington.
‘Have you been a detective long?’ she says instead.
‘Only about a year. I took a different route into the police force. I became a psychologist and then went into law enforcement.’
‘That’s an interesting change.’
‘Not really. My thesis was on ice addiction, and after a while, I thought . . . you know, I might as well put some of that information to good use. My dad was in the police force and my brother is as well. It was kind of inevitable, according to my mother.’
They stop outside the bathroom. Brian smiles at Caro; his teeth are even and perfect. There is nothing threatening about him at all. She wants to keep talking to Brian. She wants to be away from the interview room and Susan as long as she can. She has a feeling that Susan can see exactly what’s going on in her head. It’s unnerving.
Brian turns to go but Caro stops him. ‘Are you married?’
He looks at her and Caro flinches a little because she can see the pity in his dark eyes. He knows what she’s doing. ‘I am, yes; my wife, Lucy, is studying for her PhD in neuroscience.’
‘Kids?’
‘No, not yet. We both work pretty long hours. When she’s done, maybe.’
Caro nods, feeling the nausea rise again. She bites down on her lip and concentrates on the pain.
‘Is Susan . . . Detective Sappington . . . married?’
‘No, Caro . . . she’s not. Is there something else you want to ask me? Something else you want to say? It would be better if you said it in front of Susan, if that’s the case. I’m sure you understand.’
‘No . . . no, I don’t have anything to say. I just wanted to know, that’s all.’
‘Caro,’ says Brian, ‘I know that right now this all feels completely overwhelming. I know that you’ve never been in a situation like this before and I want to tell you that we’re here to help. We really are.’
‘Oh really,’ says Caro.
‘Yes,’ says Brian firmly
. ‘Really. Susan is the best detective we have. She’s been a detective for over ten years and she became a police officer for the same reason that I did. We want to help. If you tell us what happened, if you tell us the truth, we can figure out a way forward for you. We are not the enemy. It’s not our goal to put as many people in prison as possible. It’s our goal to help as many people as possible. Do you understand?’
‘It doesn’t feel like that, and I’m trying to tell you the truth. I just need you to understand.’
‘We’re trying to, Caro, we are trying to. Why don’t you take a few minutes and think about things? We’ll have some food brought in for you and maybe that will help you feel a bit better.’
‘I’m fine,’ Caro wanted to say but knew she was kidding herself. Suddenly completely exhausted, she simply nods at the detective and goes into the bathroom.
She stares at herself in the mirror and is shocked to find that she looks even worse than she thought she would. Worse than she feels. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, because she’s been sweating so much, and her skin is almost grey. She feels like she’s in hell. The headache is tightening around her head with each passing hour. She leans forward and splashes water on her face, but it’s tepid and doesn’t make her feel any better. She wants a drink. God, how she wants a drink. One drink would make everything better. One or two drinks would allow her to think straight, and then she could get the story out. Just one or two drinks and everything would be okay. She could make them understand.
Her stomach roils and she thinks she’s going to throw up, but after she’s locked herself in a stall, the urge disappears.
‘Please, God,’ she whispers, even though she has not called on God for years. ‘Please, God, help me.’
After a few minutes, she realises that they will come looking for her, and uses the toilet then makes her way back down to the interview room. Brian has told her to tell the truth and she thinks that’s what she’s trying to do. It’s what she’s trying to do in between wondering exactly what the hell the truth is.
‘Hey, Caro,’ says Brian when she takes her seat in the interview room, ‘did you find everything okay?’
