by Wendy Walker
“Your mother wasn’t happy.” He said this like it was some kind of revelation.
“I know that.”
“Do you? Do you know how unhappy she was? She was in agony. Unrelenting agony.”
I know.
“I know, Dad.”
“And that agony was spreading into all of us. Into you, especially. It was so hard to watch…”
“Dad—stop!” What was he even saying right now? He kept going.
“And I know you blame yourself for that day, for not bringing your sister to her playdate and not answering your phone—but it was your mother behind the wheel…”
Nic closed her eyes, listening carefully to words that somehow had a harsher tone this time.
“… it was your mother who was left to wonder about how fast she hit the brakes and turned the wheel, and whether she was driving as slow as she could have, knowing you kids were home alone and hearing the ice cream truck … You were a teenager, Nic. A busy teenager and it wasn’t your job to babysit your sister. That’s how she saw it. And she knew what other people thought about her.”
“Is that what you thought?” Nic asked him now. It sounded as though he was rendering a judgment. A guilty verdict. Is this what her own father thought about her mother? And if it was, how much of this toxic waste had seeped into conversations meant to provide comfort and support the way a husband should?
“Nic?”
“I’m here,” Nic answered. She wanted to say more, ask more. But she didn’t know where to begin. She was too tired, head on fire now after the tears, stomach still churning.
Was this how she also felt about her mother? Did she blame her more than she even blamed herself? Did it feel good to blame her, so she could be let off the hook?
Maybe that’s what people did when something like this happened. A child run over in the driveway. A child drowned in the pool outside. A child who’d choked on a toy. That could never happen to me, to my child, because I would never be so careless the way she was. That’s why it happened. If there was fault, then there could also be prevention, the illusion of control to make life bearable.
Yes, Nic thought. It felt good to think that about her mother. That’s where the rage was coming from. Blaming her mother was the only thing that eased her own guilt, and the hatred she held for herself.
Then there were the facts. The driveway sat on a blind corner. Her mother had been slowing down to make the turn. Estimated miles per hour, under ten. Skid marks from the tires suggested they were employed immediately. The wheel turned as far as it could go—away from Annie. Her phone tucked in a briefcase. She’d come home the way she did every day. Safely, responsibly, even though her head had been full of worry.
Responsible was how she’d lived her entire life.
Until the night of the storm.
“Did we do this?” Nic asked now. “Did we secretly blame her and did she know? Could she feel it even though we said it wasn’t her fault?”
Her father took a moment to answer. Then, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I honestly don’t. I know it could have been me behind that wheel. It could have been anyone coming around that corner. But it wasn’t. It was her. And nothing we do can change that.”
Nic pressed a palm into her forehead and turned it slowly, back and forth.
Her father and his mind-numbing therapy.
Her head resumed its screaming. She had to end this call. He had to understand why she was here and let her do what she needed to do.
“I have to find her, Dad.”
He sighed again, long and hard.
“It’s not as though I’ve stopped looking. The PI is working on this every day, all day—monitoring her credit cards, social security number, passport—he’s going state by state contacting train and bus stations, airlines.”
And yet, Nic thought, he ordered that sandwich. Then he went home. Went back to work. He walked the dogs and went to the gym and fucked his mistress and then came home to watch TV in the same bed he had shared with his wife for twenty-four years.
“You want me to get over Annie and get over Mom and go to college, and now I want you to get over me looking for her. I guess that’s a draw.”
He said nothing for a long moment.
And then, finally, just, “I love you, Nicole.”
When all else failed, there was always this last mantra in the box. Even if he meant it.
“I love you too, Dad.” Then she hung up.
Nic went back to the bed, under the covers. Her father’s words lying right there beside her.
She unlocked her phone again and sent a reply to Evan.
I’m fine. Don’t be worried.
Where r u?
At the Inn.
And then, something strange.
The one with the fence?
What fence?
Nic got up and walked back to the window. She couldn’t see a fence.
Dad said he saw it when he was out searching for Mom. He said it was creepy. He said they had to stop when they got to it. IDK.
Nic stared at the woods. They went on forever.
U ok?
I guess.
She wondered then what he really thought about their mother. Was it easier for him to believe she’d left them? Was he relieved that she was gone? They had never talked about it. They texted, mostly, about everyday things. Nic asked him about football. She’d promised to make it to watch the playoffs, though being there without their mother was an emotional hurdle she wasn’t sure she could clear.
Dad wants me to come home.
The reply came quickly, and without a hint of the banter that was normally part of their conversation.
No. You have to find her.
And there was the answer to her question. She wasn’t alone.
She replied, Promise.
7
Day two
I stand with Alice by the window in the living room. She doesn’t understand why I’ve run to watch the man drive away.
Drive away with my purse inside.
The truck kicks up dirt from the driveway. It’s dented in the back. A taillight is broken.
“Do you know what happened to his truck?” Alice asks me.
I don’t care about the truck. I am thinking about my purse, and now the fence—the one that attaches to the gate at the end of the driveway. The gate that is chained shut. The fence with the coils of barbed wire.
“No,” I say. My voice is perky as though I can’t wait to find out.
Alice takes my hand and pulls me until I am looking at her with all of my attention.
“Well,” she begins, and anxiety fills me head to toe.
But she continues. “Someone was following him too close. You’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to stay far away from the car in front of you. Then he slammed on his brakes, and the car behind him crashed right into the back of him! And it was one of those really little cars so it got all dented. And then the driver of that stupid little car said she was going to call the police, but then he told her that when you hit someone from behind, it’s always your fault. Always.”
My heart pounds as she rambles on. I try to be patient. I don’t want to agitate her. But I am finding it difficult.
Alice keeps rambling.
“And then she gave him a lot of money so he wouldn’t go to the police or the insurance people—and you know what else?” She giggles then. “He gets to keep all the money when that happens.”
I open my mouth, am about to ask her what she means by this and how she knows. Is he filled with rage? Is he proud of making people crash their cars?
But I don’t ask. I don’t care. I need to get outside to that fence and see where it leads, see where we are in relation to the town. The sky is clear. The air is warm enough to go out in these clothes. At least while it’s daylight.
I don’t know if I can trust this instinct, but it is strong. And it tells me to leave this house.
“Come on!” Alice says. “Do you
want to see where I was born?”
Alice takes me back down the hall, past the bedroom on the left where I slept. Past another bedroom on the left, then a bathroom on the right and a third bedroom after that. This is a strange house—I have not seen any stairs. It’s laid out like a long ranch, but has the facade of a farm house, with the porch and the gable roof.
Next to the last bedroom is a smaller room. It’s dark and windowless and has a sink and hookup for a washer. The floor is not wood like the other rooms and the hallway. It has hard ceramic tile. There is some kind of toilet in the corner.
“Here!” she says. “Right here! My mother didn’t like hospitals.”
I look at her and wonder if she knows how strange that sounds. Her mother had a home birth in a cold, dark laundry room. Alice rarely leaves the house herself. But I come from a different world. Maybe they couldn’t afford the cost of the hospital. Maybe they didn’t trust the government to educate their child. Maybe they didn’t trust anyone.
And then—wait. He said my clothes were drying in the laundry room. There are no machines in this room. No drying rack. No clothes.
“Alice,” I ask. “Is there another place where you do the laundry?”
Alice shrugs. She has no idea and she doesn’t care.
“Now it’s time to play!” she says. She takes my hand and we walk.
We sit on the floor of a small room at the front of the house. There are shelves on the walls, filled with children’s books and toys—and dust. There is so much dust it makes me wonder if anyone ever cleans this house. And it is then that the small memories come flooding in—memories from last night and this morning. Walking up the porch with loose steps. Paint peeling from the shingles. Even in the storm and darkness I could see the patches of brown. The floorboards of my room, and the hallway, are caked with a thick line of dirt—the dust that has condensed and slowly crept to the sides as air flows through the rooms. And the kitchen, the one with the phone that is dead—its floor is yellowing. White linoleum turning color from age and neglect.
Maybe I was wrong to think the man’s wife just died. No woman has kept this house for a long time. Years perhaps. And yet the clothes are freshly laundered. Maybe she was sick for a while.
Maybe she was young and didn’t know how to clean a house.
I have to find my clothes. I have to get outside.
“You be this girl,” Alice orders me. She hands me a small plastic figurine with chestnut hair. “Her name is Suzannah.”
I take the little doll and smile. “Okay,” I say.
“I’ll be Hannah. She has blond hair like me. It’s better to have blond hair. Did you know that? Is that why you make your brown hair blond? I can see your roots, you know.”
I want to tell her there’s a nicer way to ask a personal question like that, to be a parent to her because she needs one and it’s unthinkable that she lives this way, never leaving this filthy house, never seeing another child. But she is not my child, even though she slept in my arms and made me dream about Annie.
She is not your child. You’ll be leaving soon.
“What are you allergic to?” I ask her.
I think now about gathering information. Maybe it will help me leave here.
“Everything that’s outside the house,” she says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“All the trees and the grass and the sky and the air. All the animals. All of it. I can’t ever leave. Except with the mask and only if it’s an emergency.”
She says this without emotion. She says this without longing because she doesn’t know any other way of life. She must have been living this way since she’s had memories.
I make some mental notes and pretend that they are important so that I don’t jump out of my skin playing with dolls when I want to run.
First, she has been here since age four or perhaps even earlier. She has no memory of any other life.
Second, she never calls the man by a name. She uses only the pronouns he, him, his.
Third, he has lied to her to keep her here. If she had such severe allergies, the dust in this house would have killed her by now.
Fourth, this man who won’t say his name is angry and impulsive. I picture him slamming on his brakes, causing a car to crash into him. He may also be violent.
“Suzannah!” Alice yells.
I am pulled back into the moment where I am playing with dolls.
I hold mine up. “Yes, Hannah?” I say in a different voice than my own.
Now Alice throws hers down. “She doesn’t talk like that!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “How does she talk? I will try to be just like her.”
Alice calms and picks up her doll. “Just normal. In your regular voice.”
“Okay,” I say. “What, Hannah?” I try again.
Her face lights up. It’s night and day. Dark and light. The emotions that flow through this child.
We talk then, Hannah and Suzannah. We talk about childish things. We talk about our pets. Suzannah has a little puppy named Oscar and Hannah has a cat named Whiskers. At every turn, I am redirected with my answers. This is a game Alice plays the same way each time, and I imagine before today, she played both parts. Hannah and Suzannah.
When she tires of the game, I begin again with my inquiries.
“Who else gets to play Suzannah?” I ask. “Your father?”
She turns away in a huff.
I’ve hit a nerve so I push harder. “Your mother?”
“Stop asking dumb questions!” she says.
She walks to the wall of shelves and pulls out a board game. Candyland. It’s old, the box broken and taped back together.
She doesn’t say a word as she sets it up on the floor.
We draw cards. We take turns. I wait. And then I resume.
“Well,” I say. “I sure am glad you found me last night. I haven’t gotten to play Candyland in years. Not since my children were younger.”
She ignores me and moves her player five squares. I draw. I move. I pass her and it makes her angry.
“No fair!” she yells. “You’re cheating!”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll catch me on the next turn. Just draw a card—you’ll see! And either way, win or lose, we’re having fun, right?” I am doing it again. Parenting.
She is not your child.
She draws another card. She passes me and smiles.
I smile back. I spot an old-looking doll on the shelf. She has a porcelain face with chipped paint around one cheek. The rest of her is soft so she is propped up between books.
“Who is that?” I ask. “On the shelf.”
I point to the doll. Alice looks up at her. The smile on her face changes to something mischievous.
“That’s Dolly,” she says.
“Is she yours?” I ask. “She looks very old. Did she belong to your mother?”
This causes her mood to shift darker. The smile leaves and she changes the subject to me.
“How many children do you have?” she asks.
“Three.” The answer will always be three.
“How old are they?” she asks.
“Twenty-one and sixteen.”
She looks at me now and I can see that she is smart. Or perhaps clever.
“You said you had three children,” she says.
I consider my answer carefully. I do not want to disclose anything to this girl, but I don’t want to lie and get caught in it. I need her to trust me.
I take a leap.
“One of my children died. When she was a little girl.”
Alice stares at me. “How did she die?” she asks.
“She was hit by a car. She ran into the street.”
I say the words but don’t allow myself to hear them. I have to move out of this conversation quickly before she breaks me.
But then she is in my lap, climbing right over the Candyland board, arms squeezing me tight. She begins to cry.
“That is so sad,” she s
ays. But her tears, her arms around me, they do not seem real. They do not pull me in. I do not feel like crying, not even with this memory being dragged out before me. My dead child. Lying dead in the street.
Instead, I am stiff as a board. I cannot even close my arms around this child, this new child, who clings to my body.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “It’s really okay. It was a long time ago.”
Alice heaves in and out. The tears stop and she turns her body so her back is nestled against my chest. She takes my forearm and pulls it across her. She strokes my skin like she’s petting me.
“I’m nine too,” she says. “That’s why we picked you up.”
What? I think I must have heard her wrong. So I ask—
“What do you mean?”
She turns her head to gaze up at me. Wide eyes. Angelic. Haunting.
“We were waiting for you. We had to wait a long time.”
I let the words sink in. Each one is a bolt of lightning. Each one shocks me into disbelief.
“Waiting for me?” I ask now. “How did you know I would be there?”
My heart is wild in my chest and I pray that she can’t feel it as she pets my skin. I need to find out what she’s saying.
“We knew lots of things. We knew you were coming. And we knew about your daughter. I didn’t think you’d tell me but you did. You’re a very honest person.”
She leans her head into my chest. The hairs stand up on every inch of my skin as she continues to stroke my arms. To pet me like an animal.
“Oh!” I say. My voice trembles. “And here I thought you just happened to run into me.”
She giggles. “I know. That was just a little secret we kept. We waited for you, silly. We saw you running to the gas station and then stop and look around like you were confused and sad. And then you started to walk to town. Then I said ‘is that her?’ and he said ‘yes’ and I asked if we still had to run the truck into you, and he said ‘no’ and then we followed behind you with the lights off for a while, then we pulled up close and then we got you!”
I am standing. She is lying on the floor, stunned. I don’t know what happened in this instant, except that I could not stand to have her in my arms after those words left her mouth.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I walk out of the room. I hear her follow me, little feet running.
