by Zoje Stage
SUZETTE
SOMETIMES SLEEP WAS a commanding presence, a magician in a heavy cloak. Sometimes the sleeper was the cloak itself, soft as water, heavy as the ocean’s depths. There was no stirring from such a sleep. Not yet.
After what felt like hours in a coma of ecstasy, intermittently aware of the depth of her trance, Suzette started to become aware of the light, brightening the room. On the verge of opening her eyes—
A heavy crash. Then the shattering of glass.
Fully awakened, she readied herself, alert to the possibility of her daughter in peril. Then it came—a piercing cry, followed by sobs. She could already see it: Hanna alone in the kitchen, trying to get something from the cabinet. On a chair. The chair wobbled under her shifting weight, sending the bowl, the chair, her daughter sprawling to the floor.
Suzette tossed back the sheet. Did she hit her head? Was she bleeding? She threw her legs over the bed. Stood.
What …
Pain shattered her vision. Cut off her daughter’s cries. She collapsed back onto the mattress. Unable to fully decipher what was wrong.
She lifted her left foot, the one that hurt the most. Through the blurry vision of her tears she saw what looked like bright M&Ms stuck to her foot. Her heel was full of them—green, yellow, orange, red. But pieces of candy wouldn’t hurt. There were some on the ball of her foot, too. She gently lowered it and lifted the right one. More colorful dots of pain, not as deep as the left. She blinked away her tears, the pain still a shock wedged in her throat.
Something dotted the floor. In a tight cluster beside her bed. A welcome mat of torture.
She leaned over, cautious of her balance and her feet that couldn’t bear any weight, and picked up one of the shiny objects. But it was shiny only on one side—the pointy side. The other was a pretty shade of cobalt blue. Thumbtacks. The thumbtacks they’d purchased for Hanna from the office supply store.
Hanna.
Devilish bitch.
Suzette froze, listening. The crying had stopped. Were those footsteps? Hanna hurrying up the stairs? She eased herself back onto the deeper safety of the bed and took a second quick look at her feet. More than a dozen thumbtacks in her left foot, and the ones in her heel went all the way in. Her right foot hadn’t taken as much weight and they were only halfway in. But standing or walking … Droplets of blood trailed around the colorful tack heads and Suzette fell against the bed, suddenly nauseated.
She reached for her phone, sensing Hanna on the other side of the door.
Hanna threw it open.
For a moment they each stared at the other, taking in their respective weapons: Hanna double-fisting a hammer, Suzette with her cellphone.
“What are you doing?” She could almost see the intention in her daughter’s face, a murderous gleam. But Hanna took only one step into the room.
The girl’s eyes widened as she stared at the buttons of color on the soles of her mother’s feet. For a second there was only silence, and the beating of their two scared hearts. A ripple of uncertainty softened Hanna’s stance. Seeing her daughter’s resolve waver, Suzette lurched up onto her elbows.
“You fucking little monster!” She would have thrown something. A knife. A grenade. “You fucking little—I’m calling the police!”
Hanna abruptly stepped out and yanked the door shut; it reverberated like gunfire. Suzette lost all her energy. She flopped onto her back and wept.
Her feet throbbed and her soul churned. Defeat spread through her limbs. Though she’d anticipated some form of retaliation, the manner of it made her skin prickle. Her young daughter clenching a hammer. Had Hanna thought of killing her then, while they shopped for school supplies? Suzette felt defenseless, but instead of calling the police, she speed-dialed Alex’s number.
He didn’t pick up. Maybe the news crew was still there, making him and his friends feel adulated and important, clever and conscientious. She called the main number, knowing Fiona, their office manager, would answer it. While it rang she tried to remember when she’d last had a tetanus shot. She’d have to call her doctor.
“Jensen and Goldstein.”
“Fiona, this is Suzette.”
“Hi—” The manager’s voice turned from professional to bubbly.
“I need Alex, it’s an emergency.”
From bubbly to scared. “Hold on. Hold on, I’ll try to get him.”
“Don’t…!” Suzette held back a scream as Fiona put her on hold.
She pushed herself up so she was leaning against the headboard. While on hold, she considered taking a photo of her injured feet—proof, should Alex need it. But she changed her mind; the damage would be enough evidence. And she didn’t need to memorialize the event. It wasn’t as if she were going to share the depths of her daughter’s savagery on Instagram. The thumbtacks had to come out; she couldn’t put it off forever. There was nothing handy to use to sop up the blood—she couldn’t even reach the box of Kleenex on Alex’s side and it wasn’t worth the effort to shimmy over. She stripped the pillowcase off his pillow and gently dabbed at her left foot.
Taking a few deep breaths to steel herself, she gripped a yellow-headed tack between her thumb and middle finger. She pretended she was giving herself an injection and made herself relax. Then she pulled.
It popped right out. After a quick bloom of new pain, that one tiny spot felt a little better. She pressed the pillowcase against the pinprick to stanch the blood. Just as she was readying to yank out a green-headed tack, Alex came on the line.
“Suzette?” His voiced sounded taut, like he was bracing himself for whatever she was about to unleash.
She started crying again. “Come home—she hurt me, Alex. Thumbtacks on the floor, I’m bleeding all over the place. I can’t be alone with—”
“Thumbtacks?”
“In my feet. They were beside the bed. She came into my room with a hammer! I can’t walk!”
“I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“I could’ve done that myself—I need you.”
“I’m coming, I’ll be right—”
“And get bandages, and gauze and Neosporin—I can’t get to the bathroom—”
“I’ll stop on my way—twenty minutes, I’ll be right there.”
He hung up, and she tossed the phone aside. Crying made her body tighten, which made her feet hurt even worse. She wanted a drink of water, but had to settle for a few sticky swallows of saliva. Still, it helped her regain some sense of control. Removing the first tack hadn’t been as bad as she thought it would be. But she had twenty-odd more to pull. She told herself it would feel better, so much better, when they were out.
But first. She couldn’t stop eyeing the door. What if Hanna got her nerve back and tried to finish what she started?
The pain and tacks would have to wait.
She draped the pillowcase around her neck. Once she got to the door, she’d stay there until Alex came. She whistled her breath in and out a few times, a gladiator readying for battle. Using her forearms, she maneuvered herself to the end of the bed—away from the tacks that still littered the floor. Slithering down, she soon found herself in a position like a push-up, with her hands on the floor and her feet on the bed. She didn’t have the upper body strength to hold the posture for long, so she tried to lower only her knee to the ground. It was too far and she collapsed. Her feet bent instinctively, and she cried out as her left big toe broke her fall.
But at least she was off the bed. She scrabbled for the door on her hands and knees, reached up, and flicked the lock.
With her legs outstretched and her back against the wall, she took a moment to breathe. Her feet pulsed and she wondered if she made the wrong call: she could have dialed 9-1-1. No. She didn’t want other people in the house. Witnessing her misery. Questioning her deplorable parenting. How had her child ended up like this? Maybe they’d take Hanna away. Foster care? A prison? Were there prisons for mute first graders?
“I’ll get my house in order,” she said, her voice hoarse with
emotion. “I’ll get my house in order.”
She took the pillowcase from around her neck, ready to use it as a giant bandage, and started pulling out the thumbtacks. One by one. Quickly. Angrily. It hurt less that way.
* * *
She heard him thundering up the stairs, calling her name. It struck her that he still had his shoes on. Swedish State of Emergency. She giggled.
“Hold on,” she said as he jiggled the knob, pushing against the door.
He fell to his knees beside her the minute she unlocked the door. Her feet were bundled together in the pillowcase, soaking up the blood.
“What happened?”
“Where is she?” Suzette countered.
“I didn’t see her—I came right up.”
She took the Rite Aid bag from his hand and pointed—toward the blood droplets on the bed, the scattered thumbtacks on the floor beside it, her feet. His face absorbed a terrible story as he took it all in—twice, three times—trying to edit or reconfigure the obvious.
“Hanna couldn’t…”
“And when she was sure I stepped on them, she came in holding a hammer.”
“But why…? Why would she do this?” He sounded more baffled than angry.
Suzette wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, but she couldn’t spare the energy. “Something’s wrong with her. Worse than…”
“Hanna?” Alex called, turning to face the hallway. “Can you come here, please?”
“Wait, just…” She reached down and unwrapped her feet. They were puffy and peppered with tiny congealing scabs. Alex and Suzette winced in unison.
“Should we go to Urgent Care?”
“They’re shallow, I’ll be fine.”
She let him tend to her feet. He dabbed on the Neosporin, smearing it gently with a sterile pad. Tears flickered in his eyes. He sniffled, taking a second to wipe his cheeks with the back of his hand. He lay the pads on the bottom of each foot, securing them by wrapping gauze around and around. Suzette tore off strips of the medical paper tape and handed them to him.
“You’re very good at this,” she said.
Silently, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the comfy chair that looked out over their street. Unable to speak, he balled the bloody sterile pads in his hands and gathered the thumbtacks that had been in her feet. He knelt beside the bed to gather the rest of them.
“Careful,” she said.
He headed for the bathroom. She heard the tinny rain of thumbtacks as Alex dropped them into the mesh garbage bin beneath the sink.
“Is there a mess in the kitchen?” she asked when he came back in.
“I didn’t even look.” He stripped the sheets from the bed. “You’re not going to be able to walk. Maybe for a few days. Can Beatrix come? Here? Maybe this afternoon?”
“I’ll call her. My phone’s…”
He found it among the bedding and carried it over to her. Shame pulled his eyes downward and he wouldn’t make eye contact with her. He hurried back to the bed and bundled the sheets together.
“Should probably just throw them away. Stained…”
“Alex … Alex…” She reached out her hand.
He came to her like a wounded boy, his face pink and fragile. They gripped each other’s fingers.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
“You have to find Hanna, make sure she’s okay.” He nodded. “And I need something to drink. And maybe a banana? Feeling a little weak.”
“Of course.” He strode to the door, then stopped. He fiddled with the doorknob, tossing glances toward the hostile world beyond.
“What should I say to her?” he whispered. “What sort of punishment…?”
“Let’s not antagonize her, for now. She’s always good with you. Just be normal.”
“Can you ask Beatrix? What we should do?”
“Yes, I’ll ask her.”
Alex went out into the hall, calling Hanna’s name. He made it sound like a question, scared and uncertain. Suzette realized then that their daughter had effectively made an attack on both of them. He wasn’t so sure anymore, who his daughter was. It was a bittersweet triumph, but worth the pain if Alex finally understood the extent of their troubles.
* * *
At her request, Alex left the bedroom door open so she could monitor what was happening elsewhere in the house. She heard him talking from the foot of the attic stairs—Hanna must have taken refuge in his study. He told her he would make them all some breakfast soon. Pancakes. And then they’d have a little talk. No response from Hanna, and Alex went downstairs alone. Then came the clinking clatter of a shattered something as it was swept up and thrown away.
Suzette checked her phone. Still so early, not yet 8:30. She called Dr. Yamamoto.
“Beatrix? This is Suzette.”
“Is everything all right?”
As she finished telling her what had happened at school the previous day, what happened that morning, Alex slipped back into the room, a tumbler of water in one hand, a banana in the other.
“Is that Beatrix?” he whispered. Suzette nodded. He closed the door halfway with his foot.
“Alex just came in, I’m going to put you on speaker.”
He handed her the water and sat on the arm of her chair.
“The first question, I guess—do you two feel safe? Are you concerned about your safety?”
Suzette finished gulping the water. “No, not with Alex here. She won’t do anything to him.” She set the glass on the little table and took the banana from him.
“What about you, Alex?” Beatrix asked.
Suzette consumed the banana in big bites, watching as elemental forces clashed within her husband. A grown man shouldn’t be afraid of a young girl, but there was fear in his eyes.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “She’s never done anything to me. But I didn’t think she could do something like this.”
“It’s unusual to have a child committed,” Beatrix said in her composed way. “But it’s an option you have, to take her to a hospital, if you ever feel you can’t handle what’s going on and have concerns for your safety, or hers.”
Alex and Suzette gazed at each other, mirror images of dismay and bewilderment. They both shook their heads a little.
“She’d be so scared in a hospital,” Suzette said, her own past encroaching on her thoughts. “How would that help? She’d be scared and confused—”
Alex cut in. “That’s not—we’re not to that place, are we? Can you just come here, and talk to us—her?”
“That’s just an emergency option, if you need it. Most parents are reluctant, for the same reasons you are.” Beatrix sighed. They sat there, in need of her words, her guidance. “She’s going to need a full mental health evaluation, I don’t want to make a hasty diagnosis. So I can’t recommend prescriptions, or specific therapy just yet. I’m still gathering information. Do you have a sense … Was there an inciting incident? Something Hanna could be reacting to?”
“Yes.” Alex looked surprised by Suzette’s quick confirmation. “I think there’s been so much going on, and I was so determined to get her into school. I mean, I caused major upheaval in her life. That’s the truth. Even taking her to you. And maybe … With that toy,” she said to Alex. “I ruined one of her toys; I thought it was a voodoo doll and she was very upset.”
“You think this was revenge?” he asked.
Suzette felt a black fog of guilt spreading in her chest, snaking into her belly, entwining itself with whispers of hate. Maybe it was true that things wouldn’t have gotten so bad if she’d managed her frustrations with more grace. But it was normal for a child to go to school, make friends, grow toward an independent life. Under such conditions, could any mother have done better?
“Some of this was my fault. It’s been too much for her and I kept pushing. And I kept pushing because I … She was getting worse so I wanted a solution, and she’d push back against my solutions and get even worse, so I was ev
en more desperate to do something … She and I are in this bad cycle…” It was as conciliatory as she could get, since going back in time and forgoing her pregnancy with Hanna wasn’t an option. Alex rubbed her back.
“I think that’s an important realization.” Beatrix spoke with caution. “But her ability … The way she plans and carries through with these aggressive … Maybe, Alex, if you feel comfortable, you can try talking to Hanna one-on-one? See if she’ll admit to any of this as the source of her frustration?”
“Okay.” He seemed reluctant. “You can’t … Suzette can’t even walk.”
“I’m sorry I can’t see you before Monday, but it’ll give me time to look into some things. I might be able to see you earlier on Monday? Let me check.” Again, they waited for her to toss them a lifeline. “Nine? Is that too early?”
“We’ll take it,” Alex agreed without hesitation.
“I’ll have more info for you then, about ways to proceed. And in the meanwhile—Alex, you’ll be home all weekend?”
“Yes.”
“I know this isn’t much comfort at this moment, but some of the families I’ve been acquainted with over the years—the children lash out explosively, throw things—knives even—threaten younger siblings, hit and punch and can’t be controlled. Hanna’s actions are more thought-out, less spontaneous. But also less disruptive, less volatile in a way. It’s possible she’ll have a good weekend with you, home—where she seems to want to be. Try to talk to her, but try to avoid being too punitive, too angry. The calmer you can keep the household, the easier it will be. And we’ll start finalizing a diagnosis and treatment plan. And you know you have the hospital as an option, if at any point during the weekend things escalate.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Alex echoed.
After they got off the phone, he went to the bathroom linen closet and came back with a fresh set of sheets. He made the bed with quick and sure movements that filled Suzette with envy; she’d lost all sense of being competent or purposeful.
“Maybe I should try talking to her,” she said, half thinking aloud.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Don’t think Beatrix would think so either.”
