A Breath After Drowning

by Alice Blanchard

  He nodded. “Maybe I’m wrong. On the other hand, perhaps we can solve this puzzle together?”

  “Don’t get too excited. I give a lot of weight to the jury’s verdict.”

  “That’s exactly what I need,” he told her. “A pair of skeptical eyes.”

  23

  BEFORE HEADING BACK TO Boston, Kate took a detour across town and visited the old neighborhood one last time. It was a cold and starry night. She parked in front of Henry Blackwood’s Greek revival—it said Dennison on the mailbox now. A tall fence encircled the property and the long driveway led to an enclosed garage. The nearest neighbor was a couple of acres away, and the thick encroaching forest grew up around the house. Several blocks down the street, around the corner and up a hill, was her father’s house. It gave her the chills.

  She got out of her car and crossed the snowy front yard, trudged up the porch steps and knocked on the door. She rang the bell. No response. She cupped her hands over the glass and peered inside. She could make out a staircase and a hallway leading toward the back of the house. The rest was shadows and stillness.

  On an impulse, she walked around the side of the house and felt a creeping sense of violation as she made her way across the wintery backyard. She’d only been here once before, many years ago, shortly after they arrested Henry Blackwood for murder. Sixteen-year-old Kate had crept through the woods and crossed a landmine of evidence flags in order to absorb Savannah’s last few moments on earth and bury them deep within her heart for safekeeping.

  Now here she was again. Looking for her sister’s grave. So much time had passed, she couldn’t find it in the snow. She remembered seeing a slight depression in the dirt where the backhoe had focused its energies. She remembered the old tire swing and the abandoned dog house, its rusty chain trailing across the grass. She recalled strands of yellow crime tape and a few wooden stakes—closer to the dog house than the garden. There. Beneath the sycamore tree.

  Chilled to the bone, Kate went to stand on the periphery of her sister’s unofficial gravesite. It felt more real to her than any cemetery plot. Savannah had pleaded for her life here. She’d taken her last breath here. This small section of earth was her true burial ground.

  Kate could barely imagine the terror her sister must’ve felt that night. The shock of a young body being preyed upon by a muscular adult. Eyes open as the dirt surrounded her. And then… nothing.

  Kate wondered if the people who now lived in the house had any idea what had happened. But of course it was all over the Internet. According to Kate’s friend Heather, a succession of owners had fled the premises, spooked. Did Savannah’s restless spirit haunt these grounds? Had the Dennisons realized too late they were living in a haunted house? Had they brought in a team of local ghost hunters to rid the place of Kate’s little sister? Next time, the house would sell dirt cheap, Heather had assured her. And selling it again would be a chore. Too much history. Too many tenants. Too many rumors to deny.

  Here was the bigger question: If by some incredible twist of fate everything she believed was wrong… would Savannah ever be able to rest in peace? Did she linger in this backyard, waiting for justice? What if Kate helped Palmer find the real killer? Would Savannah be able to move into the light?

  Kate’s mind grew hushed. All her prayers had been used up. Her emotions were threadbare. No thoughts or deeds would ever bring Savannah back to life.

  Kate took one last look around. She would never come here again.

  24

  JAMES HAD A SURPRISE waiting for her at home. The dining room table was set, candles were lit, and a Duraflame flickered in the fireplace. Steam rose from Chinese take-out containers. “Ta-da,” he said.

  She beamed at him from the doorway. “Mary Chung’s?”

  “I heated it up myself.” He pulled out a chair for her.

  She slipped her arms around him. It was wonderful to be close to him again. To feel his breath on her face. It made everything better.

  “How was the funeral?” he asked her.

  “Heartbreaking.”

  “Sorry, babe,” he said, kissing her forehead. He looked at her with concern. “You’re feverish.”

  “Been a long day.”

  “Let’s eat. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

  “I’d rather fuck your brains out.”

  “Really?” He grinned. “That can be arranged.”

  She took him by the hand and led him into their bedroom, tugging off his sweater, unzipping her skirt, peeling off her pantyhose. Her heart beat at a furious pitch as she landed on the bed, and he climbed on top of her. He straddled her hips and kissed her.

  Urgency and despair took over. She reached down and guided him in. Please fuck the sorrow out of me, fuck me until I’m empty. Her breathing grew labored as the animal part of her came alive and everything built and built inside of her, until she exploded in a cluster of confetti shivers. Afterwards she clung to him, exhausted and blank.

  “Wow,” he said, settling down beside her.

  She cracked a smile. “You ain’t so bad yourself.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay,” she said, wondering how much to tell him.

  “You sure? Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” she lied, because a new emotion was stirring. Anger. She was furious at Detective Dyson for ambushing her, for suggesting that her worst fears—that her sister’s killer was still out there—could be true. For supporting Nelly’s story.

  James smiled sadly at her. She realized she hadn’t been thinking enough about him, how he was feeling. She’d just assumed he was as strong as ever, that he didn’t need her concern.

  “How about you?” she asked. “How was your day?”

  “A crap sandwich, thanks for asking.”

  “Agatha?”

  “She walked out on group again.”

  “What triggered it this time?”

  “I completely lost my shit, Kate. We aren’t supposed to do that, right? Isn’t that in the Shrink Handbook or something? ‘Never lose your shit?’”

  “Verbatim. So what happened?”

  “I might’ve sworn at her under my breath. I couldn’t help myself. She pushes all my Mom buttons. I hate the fact that I’m only human. It annoys the hell out of me.”

  “You? Human? Hardly.”

  He laughed. “I feel better already. Back to you. What’s going on beneath that Teflon exterior?”

  She sagged a little. “I’m coping,” she admitted.

  He took her hand. “Where’s the ring?”

  She stared at her naked finger. “I didn’t want my father thinking it was an engagement ring, so I took it off. Why open that can of worms?”

  “You saw him today?”

  “After the funeral. On a whim.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Fair to middling.”

  “Hm. I should meet this middling guy. We can dialogue.”

  She laughed. “No way am I ready for that.”

  “You never know. We could end up best buds.”

  “Yeah, right. Just like Vanessa and me.”

  “Mom loves you. She’s an equal-opportunity narcissist.”

  Kate gazed out their bedroom windows. The full moon dusted the city in a soft glow. A chill wind whistled across the rooftop. James dragged the quilt up over their bodies, covering their nakedness, and held her close.

  “Mm. Nice,” she murmured. “Let’s stay like this forever…”

  “Okay.”

  “…underneath our guilt…”

  “What?”

  She stared at him. “What did I say?”

  “Guilt.” He grinned. “You said guilt. That was some Freudian slip.”

  “Quilt. I meant quilt.”

  “Your guilt will probably outlast this quilt, despite the high thread count.”

  “You’re hysterical.”

  He smirked. “I know. It’s exhausting being such a boundless source of mirth.” He smoothed the hair off her fa
ce and kissed her gently. “Swear to me you’re going to be okay, Kate.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Here you are, dealing with all this crap, and I’m cracking jokes.” He squeezed her hand. “So that’s it for the ring then?”

  “No, silly. I love it. I’ll be wearing it again tomorrow.”

  “Doesn’t itch?”

  “Not a bit,” she lied. “Can I have my hand back now?”

  “I think not.”

  “I think yes.”

  He released her and leaned up on one elbow. “So tell me everything.”

  She told him about the funeral. Then she said, “And I met this guy…”

  The phone rang in the living room.

  “Guy? What guy?”

  She laughed. “It’s not like that—he’s older.”

  “How old? Ancient? Decrepit? Not young and handsome like me, right?”

  “Nobody’s handsome like you.”

  “Or young.”

  The phone rang impatiently.

  James rolled his eyes and tumbled out of bed. “Sorry. You can only ignore my mother for so long before the talons come out. I’ll keep it brief, and we’ll talk over dinner, okay? I really want to hear about this ancient, creepy, ugly old guy you met.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “Say hello for me.”

  He gracefully stepped into his jeans and went charging into the living room. Kate heard him pick up the phone and say, “Hey, Mom.”

  She wasn’t sure how much to tell him about her conversation with Detective Palmer Dyson. It felt as if she’d opened Pandora’s box, and all the monsters of the world had come flying out, never to be put back again. She needed time to compose her thoughts. She would tell him tomorrow. Tonight, she would stay like this, safe and snug beneath her guilt.

  25

  MADDIE’S CONDITION HAD WORSENED over the weekend. Kate drove to the hospital early on Monday morning, knowing that a sudden downturn could precipitate a complete mental breakdown. She hurried through security and waited with growing impatience by the elevators.

  Upstairs on the second floor, Yvette filled her in on Maddie’s status as they approached Room 212. “She won’t get out of bed. She refuses to join us for breakfast. Not even Tamara could persuade her.”

  Kate knocked on Maddie’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Sunlight weak as lemongrass tea filtered in through the windows. Lost in a tumult of blankets and pillows was Madeline Autumn Ward, age fourteen, possible differential diagnosis of schizoid personality disorder. She looked like a small blond smudge.

  Kate dismissed the nurse’s aide who had been watching the girl, and who seemed relieved to get a break, then studied Maddie’s chart and said, “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “My neck hurts.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed.

  Kate examined the girl’s slender neck. “Would another pillow help?”

  “Yes, but they won’t give me one.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do,” Kate promised.

  Maddie sat up in bed. Her eyes were bloodshot. There were fresh-looking scratches on her arms—not a good sign. She gathered several plush toys around her, gifts from Tamara and Yvette, who often spent their own hard-earned cash in the hospital gift shop. Forbidden acts of compassion.

  “I don’t like her,” Maddie said.

  “Who? The nurse’s aide? Susie?”

  “She’s been spying on me.”

  “It’s called one-on-one. She’s keeping an eye on you for your own safety.”

  “They’re all spying on me.”

  “It’s hospital policy.”

  “Why? Because I’m evil?”

  “No, Maddie. Nobody thinks you’re evil.”

  She began to cry softly. “Maybe I am.”

  “Whoever said you were evil?”

  Maddie peered at Kate between her wet blond eyelashes.

  “Does your stepfather tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you think you’re evil?”

  “I have bad thoughts sometimes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I want to hurt myself.”

  “Okay. But why does that make you evil?”

  Maddie blinked. “I don’t have a sister. What’s it like to have a sister?”

  Confusion fell over Kate like a cloud. “It was nice,” she answered truthfully. “I loved her very much.”

  “But she died.”

  “Yes.”

  “How come?”

  A shiver passed through Kate, soft as a purr. “I can’t talk about that now, Maddie. It’s too sad for me.”

  “Why do people have to die?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a harsh fact of life.”

  “I don’t want Mommy to die,” the girl said softly.

  “You love her very much, don’t you?”

  Maddie nodded. “Your mother drowned in the river, didn’t she?”

  Kate’s stomach knotted up as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Who told you that?” When the girl didn’t respond, she realized there was no sense in hiding the truth from her, so she took a deep breath and said, “My mother passed away when I was ten. Then my sister died six years later.”

  Tears sprang to Maddie’s eyes. “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is it painful to drown?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve read different things about it.”

  “I heard that it really hurts at first… but then it feels natural, because there was water in the womb.” Maddie hugged one of the furry toys to her chest, as if she were trying to merge with its softness. “I’m going to die soon,” she whispered.

  Kate drew back. “Why do you say that?”

  “That was dumb,” Maddie muttered.

  “What was?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that about your mother.”

  “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind answering your questions.”

  “Oh God,” she choked. “How stupid of me.”

  “You’re just curious. Everybody’s curious.” As tears rolled down Maddie’s cheeks, Kate handed her a box of tissues.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” Maddie blurted. “Stupid. Die. I’m going to die.”

  “What makes you think you’re going to die?”

  “Die. Die. What a stupid thing to say. What does it even mean? Die. Die. If you say a word over and over again, it loses all meaning, right? Die. I’m so stupid.”

  “You aren’t stupid,” Kate said soothingly. “Far from it.”

  “I am!” Maddie shrieked. “I’m stupid!”

  Kate hesitated to make the comparison, then forged ahead. “Your mother calls herself stupid. Is that why you call yourself stupid? Does the voice inside your head sound like your mother? Is it your mother’s voice? Or your stepfather’s?”

  The girl looked stricken. A person in the midst of a psychotic break had a tendency to view everything through a distorted lens. Reality lost all meaning and became perverted. They grew afraid. They felt disembodied. Maddie was on the verge of losing her grip on reality.

  “Sometimes, we punish ourselves,” Kate said quickly, reaching out to stroke the girl’s hand in a deliberate grounding motion. “We punish ourselves by internalizing other people’s anger. For instance, if your stepfather calls you stupid, you might start to believe him. You might start calling yourself stupid.”

  Maddie tilted her head as if she were listening, but something had changed behind her eyes. “My head hurts,” she complained. “I’m scared.”

  “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Suddenly the girl dug her nails into her scalp, drawing blood.

  “No!” Kate tried to grab her hands, but Maddie struggled violently in her arms, screaming and flailing, kicking the blankets and plushies off the bed. Needing more leverage, Kate stood up and dropped the clipboard on the floor, and Maddie kicked her in the stomach. It happe
ned so fast Kate didn’t see it coming. She bent double. As she straightened, Maddie struck her across the face, arm whipping out like a snake. Kate stood frozen for a moment, stunned, then hit the call button for the nurses’ station.

  Seconds later, Tamara came running with a needle in her hand. Protocol was to offer the child a choice—needle or pill. But Maddie refused. She was too far gone.

  Kate made the decision for her, and Tamara injected a sedative into Maddie’s backside as the girl struggled. Years of experience and training had taught Kate that it would’ve been far worse—even ridiculous—to let Maddie’s hysteria play itself out.

  After Tamara had inspected Maddie’s scalp and applied antibacterial ointment, she left them alone. Kate sat next to the bed, waiting for the medication to take effect. After a few minutes, Maddie’s pupils became dilated and her heart rate eased. Kate’s heart was still pounding.

  “Sorry,” the girl whispered from her nest of blankets.

  “Don’t worry about it. Comes with the territory.”

  “My head hurts,” Maddie whispered.

  “Do you have a headache?”

  “No. It hurts from thinking too much.”

  “That’s okay.” Kate put away her stethoscope. “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re starting to feel. And feelings can hurt.”

  “Can’t you make them stop?”

  “Hurting? No. I don’t want to make your feelings go away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you repress them, they’ll only grow stronger,” Kate explained. “Your feelings are an important part of you, and it’s good to express them. Eventually, your feelings—good or bad—are going to help.”

  “But I thought you said it hurts?”

  “Hurts and helps.”

  Maddie burrowed deeper into her blankets. “My uncle’s going to die soon. I watched it on TV in the day room. The other kids were wondering… which would be quicker, lethal injection or the electric chair?”

  “Did you ever meet him?” Kate asked.

  “A few times. In prison. Mommy took me. She said I have his laugh. She doesn’t like it when I laugh. So I try not to.”

  It suddenly dawned on Kate: the widow’s peak; the pale freckled skin; the sea-green eyes. When Henry Blackwood wasn’t wearing one of his baseball caps or that tattered black fedora, his hair was blond and military-short, with a distinctive widow’s peak. If Penny Blackwood had gotten pregnant sixteen years ago, she would’ve had a baby nine months later. And that child today would be the same age as Maddie.