by Zoje Stage
“No.” Alex held out his arm, stopping Suzette. “We’re not going to beg—to keep our child in a school that blames her, that thinks she’s a monster. Maybe you need to train your staff better.”
“We just can’t risk putting other children in danger—”
Alex stormed out. Suzette couldn’t erase her pleading look when she turned back to Mr. G.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And the matter was finished.
* * *
Alex wouldn’t even wait for Hanna, who scampered behind him down the hallway trying to catch up. He marched toward the exit. Suzette slunk after them, face toward the ground, shame seeping through her pores. Ms. Atwood intercepted her.
“Mrs. Jensen? I’m sorry this didn’t work out. I know it’s hard, but Hanna really is a special girl.”
“Thank you.” It moved her almost to tears that Hanna’s primary teacher seemed sad to see her go.
“Don’t give up, it’ll work out.”
Suzette thanked her again and walked out of the school hugging her arms across her body, relieved that it was too early for other parents to witness them walking the plank.
Alex waited on the sidewalk, coiled tight with fury. Hanna jumped over the cracks in the pavement, humming, as her big backpack flopped against her.
“She did it again,” she said, shaking her head at her happy, victorious child. She was almost impressed by Hanna’s genius, if only it weren’t so devious. Suzette couldn’t dislodge the unease that it was part of Hanna’s master plan, that the girl was plotting something bigger. Something worse.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Now you see her manipulative behavior. This is what she does to get out of school. We finally found a good—”
“This was not a good school—this was not the right school for her.” She cowered, not expecting Alex to direct his anger toward her. Hanna stopped jumping and watched them. “This is what she’s learned being in a school with other kids who can’t behave properly—she learned this here.”
“She’s done variations of this at every school, at home—Alex, for fuck’s sake, how can you be in such denial?”
“I’m done. This was a mistake.” He strode off toward his car. Hanna chased after him. To Suzette’s shock, he turned on Hanna. “Go home with your mother.”
Hanna stopped, lost in an empty space between her two parents.
“She wants to go with you, I think it’s better—”
“Take her home, I’m going to the gym.” He slammed his car door and started the engine.
“Come on, Hanna.” The girl looked back at her father, watched him pull out and drive away. When she turned to Suzette, her face bore a bewildered expression. Suzette fought the urge to taunt her: no pet names or special coddling from Daddy. Unlike after the Green Hill Academy expulsion, Suzette wanted Alex to stew in it this time, to really think about what the professionals were saying about his child. Hanna chewed on her lip, her face an open wound as Alex’s car disappeared. Even in Suzette’s worst moments she didn’t like to see Hanna in pain, though she knew Alex’s rejection of her wouldn’t last. “Daddy’s upset. He’ll come home when he’s feeling better. Come on.”
She opened the back door for her, and Hanna traipsed over. She threw her backpack into the car.
“You did this to yourself. I know you didn’t want to come here. And now you won’t be back. And now your parents are all pissed off, so.”
Hanna buckled herself into her car seat, and Suzette closed her door. As they drove home, she monitored Hanna in the rearview mirror, half expecting Marie-Anne to make an appearance, but she only tapped the window with her finger.
“Is this your doing, Marie-Anne?” Suzette couldn’t stop herself from trying to needle her. “I really wish you’d leave my daughter alone. Hanna doesn’t like it when her Daddy’s mad at her, and now he’s really mad.”
Hanna’s eyes met hers in the mirror. They burned with hatred. “You know nothing.”
In a cloying voice, Suzette dug in deeper. “I know Hanna’s daddy wants a good little girl—a good little girl who goes to school and grows up like a normal person. He wants to be proud of all her accomplishments. It’s hard when the girl won’t do anything—color a picture, or write a story, or say a single word to her favorite person. It hurts Daddy’s feelings, that Hanna’s talking to me and not him.”
Hanna bared her teeth, grunting out screams. She kicked at the seat in front of her.
“Daddy pretends to himself that Hanna’s still a little girl, a baby. The picture he keeps of her on his desk at work is so old, from when Hanna was three—back when we still thought she might turn out all right. Hanna’s been a disappointment and Marie-Anne, you are not helping. If Hanna were as smart as I think she is, she’d send Marie-Anne away.”
Hanna pounded the back of the passenger seat with her Mary-Janed feet. Suzette let her; it was satisfying to know Hanna could be provoked, and the seat was a harmless outlet for her aggression. Maybe the girl’s outbursts could be manipulated, and Suzette could get her to reveal her true self to Alex.
* * *
Periodically, she came over to the glass wall to check on her. Since getting home, Hanna had been outside abusing her Hula-Hoop. Sometimes she used the palm of her hand to keep it upright as she rolled it around the yard. Sometimes she tested its ability to bounce and threw it against the ground from various angles. She invented a game that seemed to involve trying to get the hedge to play catch with her. She tossed it at the thin branches and sometimes they held on for a few seconds before the hoop fell off.
Suzette remembered being alone as a child. She’d longed for a sister, someone to play with—someone to understand what she endured as the daughter of a depressed mother. When she was Hanna’s age she had an alter ego named Danielle. Sometimes when she played a board game behind the closed door of her room, she controlled two colors at once—red for herself, blue for Danielle—leaping from one side to the other, pretending she wasn’t alone. Oh God. She couldn’t bury the empathy after it surfaced.
She inched open the door. Arms crossed, she poked her head and shoulder out, ready to dart back in if Hanna made any sort of threatening move.
“I’ll play catch with you if you want.”
Hanna continued playing by herself.
“I can blow up the beach ball.” That seemed like the least dangerous toy to offer her; she certainly didn’t want her daughter hurling a Hula-Hoop toward her face.
Hanna abruptly stopped playing. She glared at her mother for a second, then very deliberately scratched her nose with her middle finger.
“Suit yourself.” She ducked back in and shut the door.
It was hard to imagine sitting at the dinner table that night, pretending everything was fine. If Alex was still angry, their usual light chatter might be reduced to smoke signals sent from warring continents. Hanna would sit there, watching them, trying to decipher the puffs of smoke. How much had her young brain already misconstrued? Observing, absorbing. Warping, twisting. Drawing conclusions about everything they did. But there was nothing Suzette could do to fix it—her, him, anything—so she started making supper. Her stomach was feeling a bit better but she wanted mashed potatoes. The peeling and chopping would help ameliorate her volatile mood. And though Alex shouldn’t have bolted, maybe he’d come home restored after his workout. Maybe they could talk about their options later without him jumping to Hanna’s defense. Or running out of the room.
* * *
His hair was still wet from his post-workout shower. He leaned against the counter, watching the pot of potatoes bubble. Suzette flipped on the oven light and cracked the door to check the breadcrumb-Parmesan topping on the chicken cutlets. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Hanna on the other side of the glass door, watching them.
“Sorry,” Alex said, halfhearted and reluctant.
“I can’t fix this myself.” She closed the oven door harder than she’d intended, letting it punctuate h
er despairing mood.
He noticed Hanna and waved her in. She slipped inside and stood across the room, wary. Her caution agonized her father. His posture drooped and his eyebrows flagged his regret. He moved away from the counter, beckoning her with his hands. The scene reminded Suzette of a bad commercial uniting two lost lovers.
“Oh, lilla gumman, I’m not mad.”
And then Hanna sprang into motion and the sappy music rose. Alex took her in his arms.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m not mad at you. I was mad at the school, and mad that this happened…” He glanced at Suzette, his face more apologetic than his words to her had been.
Hanna clung to his neck and he held her like he’d never let go. “Hanna, look—look at me.” He carried her around, talking to her like she was a much younger, much more innocent girl. “You’ve been misbehaving. And Mommy and I … We have to get to the bottom of this. It’s not good for you, you need to be in school. I love you—we love you—so much.”
Hanna tried to wrap her arms around his neck again, but he resisted. He wasn’t finished. “This is serious. You’re a big girl now. And we have to figure out what’s going on. Okay?”
For a minute, Hanna just sat stiffly as he held her, her face blank. She glanced at Suzette, who watched from the kitchen. Then her expression turned hard and she pushed at Alex, eager to get away from him. He set her down and she ran off and thundered up the stairs.
It was Suzette’s second small victory of the day: witnesses to Hanna’s savagery followed by the limits of her tolerance for Alex.
She drained the potatoes as he came over, rubbing his beard and groaning.
“I’m glad we have Beatrix. To talk to. She has an appointment on Monday?”
“Yep, same time.”
“Look, this doesn’t mean … I’m still not convinced she meant to hurt that boy. But … I know they were doing well with her. I shouldn’t have said that about the school.”
“It’s not just me.” She smashed the potatoes. Soft skyscrapers oozed through the masher.
“Why does she do that? Bark like a dog?”
She felt him at her side, needy. She abandoned her work and turned, taking his hands. “I don’t know. But she does. And she does other things too. You can’t help—her, me—if you don’t accept that it’s actually happening.”
“It’s hard … She’s not a savage,” he said, tears in his eyes. “She’s a little girl, our little girl.”
“Honey, I know…”
He embraced her and she felt him trembling. Her shame returned. It was a wretched milestone, his realization that something was wrong with Hanna. He rested his head atop hers, and she gripped him tightly in her arms so he would know she was there for him. Would always be there for him.
“We’ll fix this,” he said. “We’ll help her. Beatrix will help us.”
She heard him trying to convince himself. She couldn’t tell him how the day had turned her thoughts toward the apocalyptic. The walls were crumbling. Hanna would shake the house until Suzette lay beneath the rubble, buried alive. And the word psychopath had come from Alex’s own lips, like maybe it was a thought he harbored, even as he defended his daughter. Maybe it was too late. Maybe no one could help Hanna. But what did that mean—for any of them?
* * *
She stirred, troubled in her half-consciousness that it was too early. Darkness lingered in the world beyond their room, but Alex’s lamp was on.
“What’s going on?”
He came and sat on her side of the bed, knotting his tie.
“Sorry, you were already asleep last night when I got the email. WTAE’s coming in this morning to do a story about us.”
Suzette forced herself to sit up, blinking in an effort to get her vision in focus.
“Today?”
“Yes. They’ll run it tonight.”
“What kind of story?”
“Not completely sure. We sent out press releases about what’s being called the Skinny Building. But it sounded like they were interested in more than that. The evolution of green materials, the future of architecture.”
“Sounds ambitious for the local news.” Alex and his partner, Matt, had been interviewed by many local outlets—press, radio, TV—over the years. “Why’s it always have to be so early?”
“They’re a spontaneous bunch. Deadlines, I guess. Go back to sleep.” He kissed her cheek.
“I was hoping you’d stay home today.”
Alex tucked in his shirt as he went to the closet to retrieve his suit jacket.
“Did you hear me? Honey?”
He emerged from the closet, tugging on the lapels to adjust the jacket. “Because of Hanna?” he asked as he wandered back over to the bed.
She touched the fine material of his suit. “I’m just worried. I’m not her favorite person.”
“Well, if you’re right—and I suspect you are—she’ll probably be in a good mood. Happy she doesn’t have to go to school.”
“Maybe. You look smashing.”
He grinned and planted a kiss on her hair. “Go back to sleep.”
She lay back on the bed, groggy. “Come home after?”
“Call me and let me know what’s going on. I’m not sure how long the crew will be there.”
“I can get up and make you coffee.” She meant it, even though her eyes were already closing.
“Jag älskar dig,” he said, switching off his lamp.
She mumbled something that might have been half Swedish, half English in reply. The door opened, closed, as she rolled onto her side and tucked the pillow over her shoulder. A little more sleep. She needed it, deserved it. Especially if she was to survive the day alone with Hanna.
HANNA
DADDY LEFT EARLY early. Hanna had set the soft chimes of her alarm, because she and Marie-Anne had some thinking to do before Mommy woke up, and she heard him going down the stairs. It was a tremendously good sign and bode well for her plan: it might take time for Mommy to bleed to death. Hanna saw more and more how Daddy was teeter-tottering. She’d always been able to count on him to be there for her, to take her side even if he had to pretend with Mommy. But things were changing, she could tell (and Marie-Anne agreed). He was asking questions. He was looking at her with ghost eyes instead of sparkly ones. Mommy was getting under his skin, burrowing like an icky worm. Maybe she would munch-munch on his brain until he couldn’t think or move.
Hanna hoped she was strong enough to do what needed to be done. Helmetless Head was a productive exercise, beyond getting her kicked out of Pissdale. Skulls were hard; a lot of force would be required to crack one open. It would expose her, but when Daddy returned to his un-spelled self, his eyes bright and full of love, he would understand why she had to do it. Why Mommy had to die so he could be saved. In the end, he’d thank her.
Not wanting any of her favorite pajamas or clothing to get stained with blood, she put on a dress she didn’t like. She considered the shoes in her closet—she needed something to protect her feet. Her Mary Janes and Keds were down by the front door, and as much as she liked her ladybug rain boots they’d be hard to tiptoe in. Still in her socks, she slipped out into the hallway and monitored Daddy’s movements in the kitchen. His coffee was already smelling up the whole house. She heard the rising tone, glurg-glurg-glurg, as he filled his mug, and saw him pass beneath her on his way to the door. She waited a second after he left to make sure he was really gone and not coming back for something he forgot. Then she made her way downstairs.
After putting on her sneakers—and hoping they wouldn’t squeak—she went to the utility drawer and rummaged around. Daddy always kept a few basic tools there: a couple of screwdrivers, an adjustable wrench (which she liked to play with, tightening the clampy parts around her finger), and—there it was—a big claw hammer. It was heavy—heavy enough that if she dropped it on her foot, even with shoes on, she’d probably break a toe. She carried it back upstairs in both hands, holding it as she would in the decisive moment
before she smashed it into Mommy’s head. That was Part Two of her plan, because she wasn’t confident that she could knock Mommy unconscious with one blow, and she didn’t want Mommy wresting the weapon from her.
She left the hammer just outside of Mommy’s bedroom door, then snuck back to her own room to get what she needed for Part One. It was a very funny plan, really. But Part One might just make her go Aaaaaahhh! Ooohhhhhh! and flop around and whack her chin on the floor, maybe knocking out a tooth or biting through her lip. If Hanna was very very lucky, Mommy would knock herself unconscious, bonking her head on the bedside shelf. And if that happened, Part Two would be so much easier—she’d just have to burst in and whack away with the hammer until her brains started to ooze out.
Save Daddy. Even if it didn’t go the easy way, even if she had to look Mommy in the eye and hit her again and again, she had to save Daddy.
Mommy was breathing loudly when Hanna cracked open the door: not quite a snore, but a throaty sound. It was enough to cover the pit-pat of her shoes as she crept over to Mommy’s side of the bed. Marie-Anne kept an eye on Mommy as Hanna executed Part One. When Mommy started moving, Hanna hunkered down, hiding. But she was just turning over. Mommy let out a little fart and Hanna almost lost it. She laughed silently and got back to work.
When she was finished, she snuck back out and shut the door so so softly. She took up her position outside Mommy’s room, hammer in hand, ready to charge in. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but Mommy, even though she slept later than everyone else, was usually up by 7:15.
Time dripped by and Hanna feared she might die of boredom. Or curl up beside the hammer and fall asleep, missing her cue. She poked her head in a couple of times and didn’t even try that hard to keep from making any noise when she shut the door. But Mommy still didn’t wake up.
Oh! Brilliant most fantastic idea!
It was even better than if Mommy woke up the regular way.
She left the hammer beside the door, then jogged downstairs to orchestrate her great Good Morning.
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.
