Cate: “Just to let our viewers know, the tapes have been released to the public in an ongoing effort to find additional witnesses who can account for the mother’s actions the days before the disappearance of her daughter. Go ahead, Liza.”
Liza: “Thanks for explaining that, Cate. So she goes to a local convenience store to buy water. But she doesn’t pay for it, leaves it sitting on the counter! No word, nothing. And mind you, the stroller was covered in a blanket! The clerk never even saw the infant. For a baby that was supposedly colicky she’s asleep peacefully in her stroller? So, the mother pretended to buy water but then doesn’t, so the clerk remembers her later on, another part of her devilish plan to fool everybody around her into thinking the baby was still alive. And that’s not conjecture, the clerk has spoken out publicly. And the store has CCTV, there’s proof, I’m not making this up. All this is in evidence, Cate.”
Cate: “I’ll tell you how a defense attorney will explain that. If I were her defense attorney, I’d say maybe she changed her mind. That’s not a crime, right? Maybe she forgot her purse or didn’t have any money on her. Covering a stroller with a blanket? Cold weather? Too many people gawking at the kid? The infant was sleeping? There are many logical reasons. Not a crime, Liza, not by a long shot.”
Liza: “Let me play devil’s advocate, Cate. Let me tell you why I have no doubt that she’s the perpetrator. She disregards the appointment because the baby is already dead! And she knows that, because she’s killed her! And now she has a body she has to get rid of and she panics, doesn’t know what to do with it. Textbook, by the way. She drives around not knowing where to go, and she drives and drives and ends up upstate. That’s when she decides it’s time to look for a place to dump this little innocent angel. Finally she has the courage to pull over and I’d bet my life on the fact that somewhere between her home and the accident site is a little grave in the woods with the remains of the child. But then, let me not go overboard here.”
Cate: “Going overboard? In what way?”
Liza: “I’m giving this mother too much credit. She may not have buried her. Maybe she just dumped her in a river or a lake. I’m not going out on a limb here when I say that we will never recover the body. And days before that, she had walked into a police station, sat around like a bump on a log, threw up, and then left without talking to anybody. Again, on CCTV. Do we really have any doubts who killed the child? I don’t!”
Cate: “There are sources, unconfirmed sources, which tell us that the mother suffers from amnesia. What do you make of the amnesia claim? And she did have pretty serious injuries, none of them considered self-inflicted, am I correct? One could argue that she’s a victim, we don’t know what occurred, and we have to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
Liza: “Let’s go back. You asked me what do I make of it? Of course she has amnesia. Wouldn’t you? Don’t they all? Please! I’m convinced she killed that baby. As to the injuries, as far as I know, there’s no proof either way, she was just banged up pretty bad from the accident. Driving in a ravine will leave some marks.”
Cate: “But is the media to blame for the fact that people’s opinions are swayed when the accused are by law innocent until proven guilty? Especially in a case like this, where a baby is involved, such deep-seated hatred among the public for mothers who hurt their own children. It’s just an overall very emotionally charged case and don’t we have to be vigilant not to draw unsubstantiated conclusions?”
Liza: “I don’t want to speculate on what I don’t know about the case, I’d rather stick with what I do know. And I know I don’t give much credence to the mother’s claims of suffering from amnesia. How convenient, how useful. ‘I don’t know what happened’ is not going to fly when your baby is missing. At least some mothers try to elude authorities. Just ask yourself how many mothers have we seen, in tears, describing some phantom abductor, a black man, a Spanish-speaking hooded man in dark clothing? A carjacking or a masked intruder, whatever they decide to make up. Just check the records, there’s more than one case. And in the end we find out they killed their children! But not her. No, ma’am, she just doesn’t remember.
“But back to the facts of the case—it gets even better. Supposedly, according to a source close to the case, there are a couple of witnesses who allegedly saw her on the day the baby disappeared.”
Cate: “Emphasis on allegedly. That’s unconfirmed right now, Liza, which is my point exactly. Are you, and the media as a whole, going too far putting this on the air with an array of unconfirmed allegations?”
Liza: “Let me finish first. According to my sources, she was seen discarding a baby seat on a heap of garbage on her street. How do you explain that away, Mrs. Defense Attorney?”
Cate: “I see no need to explain unconfirmed witness reports, so-called witness reports, I might add. And I don’t think that—”
Liza: “There’s a witness who saw her handing a suitcase to a homeless woman around the time the baby disappeared. A suitcase large enough to contain a small body. Really, what else do we need to know? The evidence keeps mounting against her. What was in that suitcase? Don’t we all want to know? And most of all, where is that monster of a mom? I tell you where she is. In a cozy psychiatric ward. How do you explain that, Cate?”
Cate: “Let’s talk about that for a moment. She allegedly suffers from amnesia. She’s been in a horrible accident, she has the injuries to prove it. She doesn’t remember where her daughter is, she’s in a psychiatric ward, in treatment, and we—”
Liza: “In hiding is where she is. Because decent mothers and concerned citizens are lining up in front of the city courthouse and demanding justice. How come she’s not in jail? This is outrageous!”
Cate: “I was going to say, I don’t think we need to rush to judgment here. One could argue that while you are crucifying her, she is trying to figure out what happened to her precious little girl.”
Liza: “Wait a minute, wait a minute, Cate, that’s not all. A neighbor of hers has spoken out as to her odd behavior. Not wanting anyone in her house, hearing the baby cry all hours of the day and night, even leaving her in the car unattended. Does that sound like a caring mother to you? It will all come out at trial. I’m not sure how a defense lawyer can explain all of that away.”
Cate: “But, Liza, babies cry! And they do so all hours of the day and night. And she lived alone, her husband worked out of town. I’d be careful who I let in my house, too. Haven’t we all been less than perfect as mothers? All I’m trying to say is that the media plays a huge role in the public’s opinion of a defendant, and she is innocent until proven guilty.”
Liza: “Even if you don’t believe a word I just told you, be honest with yourself, the time frame is all we need. She waited too long to report the disappearance, actually didn’t report it at all until she was found and questioned. Something’s just not right. That’s common sense, not an assumption.”
Cate: “But is it right to dub the mother ‘Amnesia Mom’ in the press? How will she get a fair trial?”
Liza: “That’s what she claims, right? She claims to have amnesia and therefore it is an accurate description of her, don’t you think? When it comes down to it, Cate, I only say what ninety percent of the people are thinking. And as to the fair trial, a venue change is common practice. I, personally, can’t wait for her to go to trial. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a guilty plea before the case was even heard.”
Cate: “I don’t know about that. I hope not, I hope people use their own judgment or rather withhold judgment until there’s definite proof of guilt. I hope the jury is unbiased and of her peers, as the law requires.
“Thanks for being on our show, Liza. Razor-tongued, as always. We have to go to commercial. After the break we’ll switch to the local news. Be right back.”
The video halts, freezing the host’s face in a grimace. There’s more video links but I click on the browser’s image tab. Photos of me, of Mia. Images of news stations. I rec
ognize North Dandry. I’m everywhere, in every living room, Laundromat, gym, and radio station. At every doctor’s office, every car showroom. Farther down, images of women I’ve never seen, empty eyes staring straight into the camera. Mug shots, orange tops. Some hold up a small board with letters. Name, number, police department.
“Amnesia Mom,” I say and fight back the tears. I’ve been reduced to a mother without a memory, a caretaker guilty of harming her daughter. “I had no idea.”
“I’m so sorry, Stella. So sorry.” His eyes darken, tear up. Then they turn into slits. “She’s nothing but a ratings whore, everyone knows that.” Anthony slides the phone back in his pocket. “I’m sorry, I should have taken the phone from you. Every psychologist and psychiatrist is weighing in, everybody has something to say, and suddenly everybody is a subject matter expert. Reporters have called my house for weeks. No one is interested in the facts. These people are relentless and most of what they’re saying has nothing to do with the actual truth. People know that, Stella.” He pauses. Then he says, “They asked me if I thought you did this.”
I want to ask Do you think I did this? but I know better. It takes me a moment to make sense of it. Of course not, he’d answer, smoothly. So smooth that I’d know he had thought about it before, rehearsed his answer.
Anthony keeps his eyes on me, then he shivers as if shaking off a thought that’s making him uncomfortable.
“Before she died, Nell told me you left and she never heard from you again . . .”
“I’ve never forgotten how she wore Mom’s brooch and her dress to the funeral. Who does that? Who wears her dead sister’s clothes on the day of her funeral?”
Anthony shakes his head. “I remember the brooch. But it was Nell’s brooch, I think. Mom had borrowed it and never returned it. I don’t remember all the details, but the dress, I don’t know, Stella. Nell was three inches taller than Mom and twenty pounds heavier. I don’t think she would’ve fit in Mom’s dress.”
I feel anger inside of me. “That’s what I remember. Are you telling me I made it all up?”
“I’m not saying you made it up. That’s how you remember it.”
“You left me, Anthony. There’s nothing more to it.”
“I couldn’t be responsible for you . . . I was eighteen. I was a kid. I couldn’t have raised you. I love you, Stella, but I had to leave.”
“It was just so hard. I had nothing left. I was alone. I—”
“We had nothing, Stella. We had nothing. It was unfortunate, but what was I supposed to do? It happened to both of us . . . the accident, Mom, Dad, our sister. It happened to both of us, not just you. It was what it was. It wasn’t going to be easy.”
“I needed you, Anthony.”
“I know you did and I should’ve been there. I was a kid. I wish I could do it all over again.”
I don’t know what to think. Did I expect too much, or did he give too little? I don’t know anything anymore. I’ve believed so many things for so long. Believing something else now is hard. Maybe he’s right. Maybe going down all these roads, of what could have been, is a lost cause. A treacherous path. We get the life we get and that’s all.
“I brought you something,” he says and reaches inside his coat and retrieves a shabby-looking book with worn edges. I immediately recall a book I used to read obsessively as a child, asking Anthony the meaning of words I didn’t know. I finally realized that the words meant nothing and were just made up for a fantasy world on a nonexistent continent. I can’t remember the title or the cover of the book, only that it was about a girl pickpocket, a thief.
“Do you remember this?”
It’s not the book I long for, but a paperback, familiar, like a toy from my childhood, yet I can’t make a connection. Looking at the book feels like seeing a person you know but cannot place. I read the title: The 365 Funniest Jokes Ever. I turn the book over and I flip through its pages. There are jokes, riddles, and a collection of funny stories. I see cartoons of elephants sitting on small chairs, men dressed up as women in wigs and aprons, puppies pulling diapers off babies, and the outline of a cat busting through a brick wall. Funny, childlike, silly pictures.
“I bought this book for you when you were about nine. You were always so sad and I wanted to cheer you up. I knew every single joke in this book . . . every single one. Just couldn’t make you laugh. Not even the funniest jokes.”
I feel as if I’ve let him down, back then and now.
“I read you one joke a day for an entire year. While I was rolling on the floor, laughing, you never even cracked a smile. Don’t you remember?”
I just shake my head. I was nine; I should remember something. I just stare at him and my eyes fill with tears.
“Knock, knock.” Anthony’s voice is soft now.
When I don’t say anything, he repeats it. “Knock, knock,” he says, looking at me with anticipation.
“Anthony . . .”
“Knock, knock.”
“Anthony, stop . . .”
“Knock, knock.”
“Anthony, it wasn’t funny then, it’s not funny now.”
“Just try, Stella. Just once.”
I just close my eyes and try to imagine something else. But it’s not working. I give up because I know he won’t. “Who’s there?” I say.
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
“Oh, boo hoo. Don’t cry. It’s just a joke.”
I smile. Boo hoo, don’t cry, it’s just a joke.
“It finally worked.” He pauses. “Don’t cry, Stella, everything will be all right.”
“Right,” I say but I know nothing will be all right. Anthony has a wife, a dog, a life. This here is my life. Amnesia Mom. A news cycle amusement. Mothers all over the country are outraged. That’s all I am in everybody’s eyes. Guilty.
—
That night, as I flip through the pages of the book, I notice a hint of almond hiding in its pages, and like a rush of water, I remember a moment long past. Legs pulled up, I melted into the leather tufted wing chair in my father’s study. I was never sure if Dad knew I was in his study or not; he just continued to brood over contracts, building codes, or historic preservation guidelines. I was reading my favorite book, The King’s Thief, a fantasy novel about a truth-speaking thief and a king’s jester so powerful he was able to turn upstanding people into liars. There were corrupt servants, a wicked lord, and guards set on suppressing an uprising. The plot, even though I must have read the book a dozen times, is now elusive. But I remember the map. With almost photographic detail I recall the woodcut-style village cabins, the river merely a black line separating the crowded settlement from the lord’s vast estate. A mountain chain behind the castle, separating the flatlands from the rolling hills of the lord’s hunting grounds. The village was surrounded by a hedge, adjacent to a pine forest. If you looked really close you could see the wolves lurking under the shrubs and twisted plants below the piney trees. The compass, instead of the four cardinal directions, was made up of the four elements.
Then my head starts spinning and my tongue feels as if it is too big for my mouth. A memory visits me, a map I bought at the newsstand. I close my eyes and hang on, stay in the moment.
Images pile up like heaps of leaves. Newspapers, magazines. Cigarettes, candy, flowers. A soda dispenser. Chinking coins as a man with a turban dropped the change in an ashtray atop the New York Times.
The next day, during our session, I curl up on the couch in Dr. Ari’s office, a pillow propped under my arm. The file in front of us has no more secrets to give away—it is on me now to solve the rest of the puzzle.
“I remembered something last night,” I say.
Dr. Ari sits quietly, his fingers interlaced, elbows propped up on his desk.
“Is there a map?” I ask and point at the folder in front of him.
Dr. Ari pul
ls out a thick piece of paper, folded numerous times, its edges bent and worn like a favorite childhood book. He shoves it over the desk’s glass surface toward me and pushes the button of the digital recorder.
It’s time to enter the elevator, to descend. I go down to the first floor, and feel an immense sense of calm. I take the map off the desk and hold it. I rub it between my thumb and index finger, feeling the folds of the thick paper, an origami riddle of creases and pleats that automatically unfold but are awkward to close. I descend farther.
I hear a loud popping sound ringing in my ears. It turns into a sharp pitch, and then my ears ring. I’ve heard this sound before. Something inside of me shifts; I smell gasoline, metal, and gunpowder.
I open my eyes and I look at Dr. Ari. Everything around me starts to buzz and then the world grows muffled as if I’m underwater. Dr. Ari’s lips move but I cannot make out any words. The world around me switches to black-and-white and the silent movie is complete.
Roads, traffic lights. Rain, darkness. Upstate New York. A dot on a map. Dover.
CHAPTER 20
Dover, New York. Nine thousand people on less than sixty square miles. No major highways, just two thoroughfares. Numerous hamlets and rural communities too small to be considered villages were scattered and their inhabitants rooted within its soil like the knobbed and rugged oaks, leaning with the wind. No one lived out here unless they were born here or wanted to disappear. As I drove down Route 434 toward Anna Lieberman’s house, I passed miles of dense trees that changed abruptly into open fields dotted with barns. The once-red boxes sagged toward the ground, stood abandoned, bleached and gray, ready to be taken over by nature.
Remember Mia Page 20
