by Debra Webb
“The JF on his calendar on that page might not be Joseph Fanning,” I offer.
She cocks her head and gives me a look. “Get real, Walt. I guess the Mario Sanchez in those notations isn’t the same one climbing mountains down in Mexico either.”
“I guess we need to find out.”
Maybe Liv and I aren’t the only ones keeping secrets.
The Child
I watch him sleep the sleep of sheer exhaustion—the sort that comes after endless hours of pain. The adrenaline of fear will keep one wide awake for long hours. It would be so easy for a victim to simply pass out and that does sometimes happen. But a true artist of pain knows just how far to go before that particular defense mechanism kicks in. If you fail, there’s always the dash of cold water to get things going again. These things I learned from the master. Now the tables are turned. I wonder what he will learn from me?
I smile. I have only begun to hurt him. Before he takes his final breath, he will know all the pain and fear I knew.
The pain, the fear, the uncertainty. It was ruthless in the beginning. But I adapted. Like all things, with the passage of time the child I was when he first took me began to change. Time waits for no one, as they say. The buds of breasts started to burgeon from my flat chest. Hair thickened and darkened down below. I hated it. Hated the breasts poking out. I didn’t want those things. I wanted to stay a child. The world looks at a child as an innocent—no matter the things that happen behind closed doors. A child is revered in many ways. A child is forgiven for her trespasses.
A child is the universal symbol of hope for mankind.
However hard I tried to stop it, my childhood was abandoning me, leaving me like the skin of a snake being sloughed off because it couldn’t stretch any further. I was becoming an it. Not a child, not a woman. An it, his it.
Ultimately I became whatever he wanted me to be, whenever he wanted. That was my sole mission in life. He warned that no matter how much I changed I would always be his. Until the end of time I would belong to him. Strangely, this warning was the most comforting words he ever said to me.
The breasts presented a problem for his plans as well. A child could far more easily pick the pockets of unsuspecting shoppers and pedestrians. People were far more likely to toss money to a child. He bought ace bandages for binding my chest. For a while that method worked. But eventually no amount of binding would conceal the hideous mounds growing on my torso. I hated them. Hated him for allowing it to happen. He was, after all, all powerful, the ruler of my universe. He should have been able to stop this disaster before it changed everything.
Except he couldn’t. And one day another change occurred. I woke up with blood between my thighs. I screamed and cried, certain I was dying. He laughed at me, allowed me to huddle in fear for hours before he explained that this, too, was a natural progression of aging. He didn’t actually explain why it was happening just that it was and that I could expect it to come again each month.
He insisted I use tampons and that I flush them down the toilet since he couldn’t tolerate the putrid smell of the pads. I did as he instructed. For weeks after the first period I was terrified of what the changes to my body meant. I prayed for a miracle, though I didn’t really understand what prayer was or to whom those prayers should be addressed. My parents never took me to church but I’d heard snatches of conversations where people might say, “I’ll be praying for you.” I’d even had people say to me, “Bless you child. I’ll pray for you and your daddy.”
I figured praying was something people did to make something happen, so I prayed the breasts would disappear and the blood would never come back.
But neither of those prayers was answered and I lived in new, abject fear of what might occur because of these changes. He still took my body whenever he wanted. That had not changed. But he did use a condom. He told me it was because of the blood. He didn’t want my nastiness to get on him. This, too, worried me. Suddenly his grunting and disgusting actions became reassuring. This was my normal. Routine. Everything was okay no matter that I was changing. I needed him to still want me, to do with me as he pleased. It was the only gauge by which I could measure my worth to him. I was terrified at the idea that he might decide he no longer wanted or needed me. What would I do then?
How would I survive?
My newest second hand clothes quickly became too small. My hips grew wider and my thighs fuller, not to mention those damned breasts. Boys started to look at me. I was used to dirty old men looking at me, but now it was boys—boys my age. This made the monster angry. He hated when boys looked at me. He made me wear big coats even when it was too warm so they couldn’t see my breasts. He didn’t buy me shoes with heels anymore. He said I was getting too tall. Almost as tall as him even in flats.
The more I changed, the angrier he became.
My fear expanded and undulated inside me, eating away at any semblance of confidence I had developed. I was frantic to please him, to ensure my relevance in his shitty little world. Not only did I do whatever he asked, I begged him to tell me more ways I could be useful. That was when he started to use me to lure in the other children he wanted to play with. I hated that part the most of all. I hated that he turned to another child for what he had always taken from me. I hated that they were prettier, fresher and sweeter than me. He told me this over and over so it must have been true.
I hated him, hated the other children…hated me.
As the months and years dragged on, his frustration and anger with the changes happening to my body began to amuse me to some degree. I was his, he’d said so a million times. I would always be his. So, as far as I could see, he was stuck with this taller, curvier me.
Inside my head where he couldn’t see or hear I would laugh when he struggled to make me look more childlike. I just stood there letting him bind my breasts and dress me as if I were a life-size doll.
I even heard other men ask him about me. How much did I cost for an hour? This seemed to outrage him. He would growl and make threats at these men for saying such things about his daughter. Then he would take me home and rut into me until he wasn’t angry anymore.
My belief that his taking of my body and keeping me fed and warm meant that he loved me solidified each time he acted out his claim of possession. We were a family. Slowly but surely I learned again to trust this illusion without question. I had watched mothers and fathers with their children and even though he was never as kind and gentle as those people, he took care of me and for a girl who knew nothing better, that was important. No one else would do so—no one else ever had. As if his confidence was the one slipping now he reminded me over and over that no one would ever want me. I was ugly with pointy breasts and pimples popping out all over my skin.
Who would want such an ugly it?
He was right. I was grateful he wanted me.
Ultimately I learned something from the changes and his reactions to those changes. I didn’t need to be scared anymore. He wasn’t going to give me to anyone else. He wasn’t going to sell me or leave me no matter how many other children he played with. In fact, since he had already done all those bad and hurtful things to me, there was really no reason at all for me to fear what he might do next.
Over the years I had survived the worst he could possibly do to me…or at least, I thought I had.
Friday, May 4
Detective Olivia Newhouse
I’m waiting for David when he comes down for his first cup of coffee. I’m dressed and ready for work, and on my third cup of caffeine-infused brew. Still forgot to Google whether or not it’s possible to consume too much caffeine during pregnancy. I did remember to pick up the prenatal vitamins. Took my first one this morning. I really have to do better than this. Just because I’m screwing up my own health by not eating as I should and not getting nearly enough sleep doesn’t mean I want to screw up this kid’s chances at normal.
The word gives me pause. What is normal?
Images and voices
filter through my mind, make my stomach churn.
“Morning,” he says as he shuffles to the coffee maker.
“Morning.”
I really had intended to talk to him when I made it home last night but he’d already gone to bed. It wasn’t even midnight. That was really early for him. Unless he had some sort of big bankers meeting and was mentally wiped out. Judging by his bloodshot eyes I’m thinking he went a couple of rounds with something stronger than beer and it took him out. David isn’t generally a heavy drinker. I suppose I’ve sent him down that dark path. Apparently I can’t do anything right anymore.
Last night got away from me. I hadn’t meant to be so late but after Walt left I just passed out for a few hours. I woke up face down on my father’s desk, drooling all over his blotter pad. I need to ask the doctor about that, too. I went down for the count and slept the sleep of the dead for at least two hours. I guess I needed the rest.
Exhaustion can do strange things to you.
“We need to talk,” I announce. My throat goes instantly dry and my heart starts to pound. Walt is right in that I need to tell David about the baby and somehow slow down this lunge toward disaster that our relationship appears to be caught up in. We’re here and I’ve had some decent sleep. This is as good a time as any.
He waits until the final drops of coffee have plopped into his mug, picks it up and swallows a mouthful then flinches from the burn. “I have my own ideas about that, but what is it you think we have to talk about, Liv?”
“All we do lately is argue,” I say, weary of this battle. He clearly went to bed angry with me and now he’s awakened still angry. How are we supposed to get past this unhappy place if he’s unwilling to move beyond it? I really have no idea how to begin.
He props a pajama-clad hip against the counter. “I suppose that’s my fault, too.”
Perfect example of why we can’t get past this rut. “I apologized to your mother.”
He sips his coffee, nods. “She told me.”
“So you’re still angry with me about missing dinner, even though I’ve apologized repeatedly.”
“Where were you last night?” He looks directly at me as he asks this question. The accusation is stark in his beautiful eyes.
“Working. You know this without asking.” I hold my own mug of coffee so tightly I fear it may crack at any second. “When I came home you were already in bed.”
“You were at the farm.”
For a moment I’m rattled that he somehow knows this when we haven’t talked about exactly where I was. Has he been following me? Does he have someone else following me? “First, what difference does that make and, second, how can you know this? Do you have someone following me?”
“First,” he echoes, his tone as sharp as a knife, “you just said you were working which was apparently a lie. Second, your iPad dinged with a notification that the security system at the farm had been disarmed. Is there anyone else who would be there?”
Okay. He has me there. I hesitate for a moment. Do I want to tell him about what I found? If I don’t he’s never going to trust me but to tell him feels like a betrayal of my father.
Stop, Liv. This is the man to whom you’ve said yes to spending the rest of your life. This is the father of the child you’re carrying. Why the hesitation?
“I found some notes my father made regarding a victim in the Fanning case. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason for him being involved in any way but I have to know what that reason was.”
“So your father is a person of interest in your investigation now?”
I think about that for a moment. “In a manner of speaking. We haven’t found anything that concretely ties him to the case, but we have to look into whatever part he played.”
“We meaning you and Walt?”
The sarcasm in his tone leaves me both baffled and angry. “He is my partner. How many times do I have to point out that fact?”
“So you and Walt were at the farm, together.”
Somehow he makes the detail sound lascivious. “When I found the notes I called him immediately. Making a judgment one way or the other about something my father did or didn’t do in this situation would be the wrong thing to do. I’m personally involved, my objectivity is compromised.”
“Aren’t you and Walt personally involved?”
“What?” Obviously David really is only interested in fighting. “We’re partners.”
“And friends. Good friends. Isn’t that personal?”
I slam my mug down on the counter. Coffee splatters. “I don’t even know why I try. You want to fight. You don’t want to understand what’s happening with me right now.”
He walks slowly toward me. Any other time I would have considered this sexy, but right now I just want to run away from the frustration and uncertainties. But I can’t. I owe it to him—to our child—to figure this out. What in the world is happening between the two of us?
“Why didn’t you let me know? Text? Call? Something?”
“There are rules about evidence.” He knows this, too. “I can’t always openly share my work with you. What I’ve told you this morning is already skirting the fringes of breaking those rules.”
He nods. Places his own mug next to mine, and then stares directly into my eyes. “You could have let me know where you were and that you would be late. Would that be breaking the rules? Either way, you didn’t. What’s happening to us, Liv?”
I search his eyes for a long moment, looking for the glimpses of the man I fell in love with but all I see is anger and frustration. “I wish I knew. I can’t seem to do anything right anymore. You’re right, I should have called or at least sent a text but I was so upset, so confused, I couldn’t think.”
“I suppose Walt comforted you?”
“What?” I don’t believe this. “We discussed what my father’s notes could possibly mean. Trust me, it was all very clinical.”
“You said yes when I asked you to marry me, Liv. You made a commitment to me.” His tone hardens with each word. “Walt gets your days. Your nights should belong to me.”
“You’re twisting everything I say! Walt and I are partners—and friends. That’s all. If anything, he’s like a father to me.”
David leans closer, stares into my eyes until I blink. “Why don’t I believe you? I can’t trust anything you say anymore.”
The words echo in my brain as familiar as if I’d said them myself. I drown out the voices that seem to be a replay of the fight we just had. Have we had this fight before? I can’t remember. The hours and days are blurring together. The headaches, the fatigue. I don’t know how much more I can take. I am so, so tired. So confused. I feel completely out of control
I summon my resolve and say what needs to be said. “I honestly don’t know what your deal is with Walt. It’s like you’re suddenly jealous of him. The idea is absurd…it’s totally crazy.”
He laughs. “You can’t remember anything about our lives anymore and I’m the crazy one?” He flings an arm outward, toward the wall that separates the kitchen and dining room. “Your stuff still sits in boxes in the foyer. You haven’t unpacked a damn one of them. Do you even want to be here, Liv?”
A distant throb starts in the back of my skull. I can’t do this.
I slide from between him and the counter. “I have to get to work.”
“There’s the answer!” he shouts at my back. “Walk away.”
I stop, turn to face him. “I’m not walking away, David. You’re pushing me away.”
He smiles but there is no amusement in the expression, then he bangs a fist into his chest. “I’m pushing you away? From where I’m standing, you’re the one who can’t wait to get away.”
This time I turn my back and I keep walking.
I guess I’ll just have to wait for a better time to tell him he’s going to be a father.
Or maybe I won’t tell him at all.
The street that leads onto the compound of Riverbend Maximum Se
curity Institution could be the driveway to a large estate. Trees and lampposts line the long drive. Freshly cut grass spreads out for as far as the eye can see. Beyond the meticulously maintained landscape, the Cumberland River encircles the vast property. But as you round the bend in the drive you see the wire fence and the institutional boxes that make up the prison. This is no estate, no spa resort; this is a maximum security prison that houses several hundred prisoners, including the state’s male death row offenders.
The sky is overcast, threatening as I climb out of the Tahoe. I draw in a deep breath heavy with the smell and taste of rain. The air crackles with the potential of the coming storm. The forecast according to the Big 98 Walt always has tuned in on his radio is rain today and possible thunderstorms late tomorrow.
I’ve always had a thing for thunderstorms. They make me feel alive. The crashes and booms of thunder and the steady drum of rain are soothing to my soul somehow. It’s weird, I know.
“You should try talking to him again tonight.”
I glance at Walt. “I will. I really don’t know why he’s got such a bug up his ass. Maybe he’s the one having second thoughts.”
Walt pauses to look at me. “If that’s the case, he’s a damn fool.”
I refuse to tell Walt about David’s jealousy where our relationship is concerned. No way would I do that to him. I will not allow David’s insecurities to become Walt’s guilt. Or mine, for that matter.
“Are you thinking of holding back until you see how things go from here?”
“Honestly?” I exhale a weary breath. “Yes, I am. I don’t want the baby to be the only reason that we follow through with our wedding plans. If we’re not supposed to do this, then we don’t need to do this.”
We stare at each other for a moment then carry on toward the prison entrance. What else is there to say? My relationship with David is unraveling at breakneck speed. The best I can do is brace for whatever comes next and hope we can find our way beyond this rocky place that has suddenly consumed our lives. There are so many things I should be telling him, then maybe he would understand. But I can’t bring myself to do that—to expose this…whatever it is…that’s happening to me.
