by Zoje Stage
Alex tucked a pillow under his chin and stuffed it into a clean pillowcase. “I’d like to keep the two of you apart until Monday.”
“I don’t want to stay cooped up all weekend. I’d feel better being with you—and you can’t leave Hanna alone the whole time.”
“I’d feel better if you saw a doctor.”
“This is superficial.” Her head only wobbled in dissent, but her voice was firm. The pain in her feet hummed in a shallow way, entirely different—and less frightening—than feeling her innards twist or swell.
He fluffed the pillows. “Do you want in the bed or on the bed?”
“On. Can you bring me my sketchbook? I left it downstairs, on the shelf next to the TV.”
“I’m going to make you a real breakfast too.” He carried her over to the bed. “I’ll bring my laptop, you can watch stuff online. Anything else? Should I call my mother?”
“Tova? Why?”
“She would come. For an emergency. Help us out.” He sat beside her and she felt him bursting with need—for Tova, or Beatrix, or her. Maybe for anyone who could help fill up the house and spare him from facing his daughter alone.
“I’ll be up and about tomorrow.”
“You don’t know—”
“And Beatrix is on top of this—she’s going to help us. Your exact words.”
“That was last night.”
She didn’t want his mother to come—his perfect mother who believed in the perfection of her son and might not understand how Suzette had bungled the raising of her own child. And the fog of guilt wouldn’t disperse. She hadn’t meant to ruin her child, or overlook a legitimate mental illness, but the shame stung nonetheless. Maybe, in all her efforts, she’d only made things worse.
Maybe she’d over-parented, trying to compensate for her own mother’s lack of parenting. Had she given Hanna too much organic food as a toddler? Not enough? She did the baby-mommy movement classes, the baby-mommy yoga, the baby-mommy let’s take a nap at the same time because Mommy needs a rest. They read books to her every day, limited her amount of screen time, made sure she played outside. Maybe they should have insisted on preschool earlier, when she might have been more malleable. Should Hanna have had less of a regular routine? Should they have let her stay up as late as she wanted? Did they say no too many times? Yes too many times? It was impossible not to doubt the way she—and Alex—had parented.
A sliver of her still hoped Beatrix was right, that they were working on modifying the family’s behavior. Maybe there were steps she and Alex could take—new patterns, things to change—that would turn Hanna into a normal little girl. Maybe they’d always punished her incorrectly (that she enjoyed her time-outs might have been an indicator). Maybe they were too soft, too hard, and with some adjustments Hanna would come around.
“What are you thinking about?” Alex asked.
“Maybe it’s not too late.”
“Well. We can keep my mother in mind, if we need to.”
Suzette almost laughed. Alex had no concern for his mother’s safety, no fear that Hanna might hurt her farmor. He grasped an important truth, but wouldn’t admit it: Hanna’s sights were on a particular target. Why was he even pretending to be afraid?
“We’ll figure this out. Remember? You told me just a couple of days ago not to be afraid of her.”
“Things have changed. You aren’t scared?”
She didn’t want to tell him the relief she felt. That at last it was out in the open. Irrevocable proof. And her husband had finally trudged at least partway over to her side. Maybe she should have told him more, sooner, or been more emphatic about the troubling differences Hanna had always exhibited toward them. But it still nagged at her that out-of-control Hanna was her fault. Incompetent, stupid, paper doll of a mother. She’d never wanted Alex to see her as flimsy, or lacking in the basic substance that every mother should have. But maybe … Maybe she wasn’t the only one with an unreliable backbone. Why hadn’t either of them ever stood up and demanded more of Hanna? Was their illusion of family so fragile that neither of them could confront the specter of imperfection? It was possible that now, with the surface cracking, the family dynamic would finally change, and improve.
“A little. But we still have to believe … She’s trying to say something.” I hate you. But maybe that wasn’t the message at all. She could believe that something hurt inside Hanna, something the girl couldn’t name. Something Suzette had inadvertently planted. If they could just find it, identify it, maybe they could yank it out and Hanna would be free to grow outward and upward, not inward and twisting.
The calmness that descended over her was irrational, like she’d become invincible by having survived her daughter’s attack. And for the moment, instead of it severing her attachment to Hanna, it somehow strengthened the umbilicus. They were combatants, two parts of a whole, and Suzette’s last weapon was empathy. “She’s been alone for hours now. I don’t know if she’s eaten. She’ll be an angel with you, Alex.”
He nodded. But didn’t let go of her hand. “I used to criticize my father. For being so unobservant. My mom and I used to joke about rearranging the furniture. We knew he’d crash into it before even noticing that anything had been moved.”
“You’re not like that—you’re very present with us.”
“Present, but oblivious. Half on, half aware. Half always thinking about other things—projects, things that need to get done. I notice when my car isn’t running well, but not my family.”
“Don’t do this to yourself.” She pressed closer to him and he rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you so much,” he said. “Remember when you asked if I’d thought we’d progressed? As a couple? Honestly … I tried to let my love for Hanna fill the gaps I sometimes felt, between us. Not that you were moving away from me, but … She pushes. And I accepted it, because she’s a child, and it’s our job to put her first. But maybe she’s been pushing us in…”
He wouldn’t say the rest. So Suzette did. “In different directions.”
Suzette clutched him around the neck, burying her face as she sobbed. It was the first he’d ever hinted that maybe Hanna was coming between them.
“We’re gonna be okay,” she said. And the strength of Alex’s arms convinced her: with the two of them united, maybe all wasn’t lost.
HANNA
WHEN DADDY CAME looking for her, she sent one of her rubber balls bouncing down the attic steps so he’d know where she was. She didn’t come down, and Daddy didn’t go up. It had all turned out so badly. Mommy wasn’t supposed to end up on the bed—how could she tower over her with the hammer? And with a phone to call for help. It was a stupid mistake, and she should have stolen Mommy’s phone when she had the chance. Her feet hadn’t bled as much as she thought they would, but it still scared Hanna a little. Seeing the blood. Knowing she caused it. It made her so grumpy thinking about it: Daddy was still fully under Mommy’s spell, but now he knew his lilla gumman wasn’t always a sweet little girl.
She waited as long as she could. Cooked buttery smells wafted up, and Daddy called her name from the kitchen. She hid the hammer behind some of his books.
Daddy came in from the garden with a cut daffodil as Hanna slunk into the room. He glanced at her, his face closed and hard like a brick, then finished making up his fancy tray. Pancakes. Coffee. The flower.
“I’ll be right back.” He carried it upstairs for Mommy.
Hanna sat at the table waiting for him to come back. She was hungry. And now he was only concerned about Mommy—doing everything for Mommy. Like this wasn’t all Mommy’s fault and how could he forgive her so easily for murdering their UnderSlumberBumbleBeast?
Daddy jogged back down the stairs, and she slumped in her chair, her eyes so close to the table it was just a blur. He stopped, and she knew he was watching her, but she couldn’t tell if he looked like Daddy or an imposter. Was he angry with her? Would he become more and more like Mommy—disappointed and demanding—wi
th every passing minute?
But then he came over and sat across from her.
“Lilla gumman? Are you feeling bad?”
Hanna nodded.
“Because of what you did to Mommy?”
She sniffled up a tear. No, because she hadn’t saved Daddy.
Daddy put his face close to the table, so they could look in each other’s eyes. They were crinkly, concerned eyes, and the sight of them gave her hope.
“I’m sorry that you’re feeling so frustrated. I know there’s a lot you probably want to say. I’m sorry we don’t understand everything you’re thinking, feeling. But that’s not the way to express yourself.”
Her tummy gurg-gurgled Feed Me!
“Hungry?” Daddy asked.
She nodded.
He went to the griddle and buttered the remaining pancakes. Usually he let her sprinkle them with powdered sugar, but he did it himself and rolled them up. He put one on each of their plates.
She liked to cut hers with a fork even though Daddy always said she could pick it up with her fingers. But pancakes were especially easy to cut and she liked how the metal fork sliced through the rolled dough.
“Good?”
Hanna grinned and nodded. She looked at him, but his face still didn’t seem very happy. Inspired, she scooted out of her chair and ran around to his side of the table. As she leaned in to kiss him, Daddy leaned away. Then he stopped and let her kiss him. She didn’t know what to make of it, but she was glad he was downstairs with her again.
“Eat your pancake.”
She plodded back around to her chair. Daddy chewed and shoved the pancake into his mouth like he was eating the connected cars of a train. Suddenly there was only one bite left. He licked his thumb and fingers. She ate much more slowly.
“Want another one? Are you still hungry?” She shrugged. “Can we talk, lilla gumman? A real talk?”
She gave him a big nod and hoped everything would get back to normal. Maybe he’d talk about the transporter on Star Trek—explain how their molecules got all sorted out so their clothes and boots and communicator didn’t end up fused in their bodies. Fabric instead of skin and electronic components poking out of their ears. She loved the transporter and the thingy that replicated all their food. It would be tricky to use the Replicator without talking. But the idea of having mint chocolate-chip ice cream or bubble-gum flavored jellybeans whenever she wanted might have tempted her to hazard whispering to such a machine.
Daddy pushed his plate away, resting his elbows on the table.
“So. You can be honest with me, right? We’re honest with each other.”
The conversation already made her wiggle and squiggle. She stacked two bites of pancake on her fork and stuffed it in her mouth. Honesty was not an altogether solid subject in her mind; it was a vapory thing, like smoke that was present one minute and began drifting away the next. Keeping things to yourself was more important than honesty, but it was bad to lie, and Daddy was the last person she’d want to think of her as bad.
“Did you hurt Mommy because of what she did to your UnderSlumberBumbleBeast?”
She weighed her options, and nodded. She had nothing to lose because Daddy—smart Daddy—already figured it out. And he would see that it was fair—more than fair—because her UnderSlumberBumbleBeast was dead and Mommy remained very much alive.
“Come here.” He scooted his chair over so it was closer to her, and tugged hers around so they were knee to knee. “Hanna, this is very important. I know how hurt you were, when Mommy broke your toy. But you understand, don’t you? A potato—even one you turn into a friend—doesn’t feel things the way a human being does. Do you understand that?”
Yes. No. Of course a potato doesn’t feel pain—but she wasn’t a potato, and she felt it, Mommy hurting her. Daddy would understand, if only she could explain it better. But everything got so jumbled in her head that she started to cry.
“Maybe you thought it would be funny, playing a joke on Mommy? But what you did hurt her—physically hurt her. Scared her. And it scares me, hurts me—that my squirrely girl…”
She looked at him as his voice broke, astonished by his tears. She touched his cheek, then shook her head, hoping he understood: don’t cry, Daddy.
It made him cry harder, and he scooped her onto his lap and held her tightly.
“See? You’re my loving little…” He kissed her head.
She loved being in his arms. His heart bu-bumped against her ear, and she tapped her middle finger against his chest, thumping along in unison. But then Daddy took a deep breath and set her back on her chair. He wiped his eyes, and she looked at him with big question marks.
“Daddy’s upset. You can’t hurt people anymore—no one. It’s not allowed. See, we have a problem now, and I don’t know how to fix it. It’s like you … You’re two different little girls. Is it … Marie-Anne? Does she make you do these things?”
She squirmed again, and pressed her finger into a blob of sugar that was left behind on her plate. Licked it off. She’d been very proud of herself that, in fact, the thumbtack idea had been her own—Marie-Anne had just been the lookout. And what happened at school … She considered that nothing more than a series of fortunate coincidences. Being left in the room with Helmet Head. Him tapping it on the wall. Him allowing her to remove his helmet without protest or complaint. The vicious dog. Maybe Marie-Anne helped with that a little.
It occurred to her for the first time that Marie-Anne may have overstayed her welcome. That Mommy didn’t like Marie-Anne was fine, but if Marie-Anne was getting between her and her father … Hanna wanted her old Daddy back, the one who never shied away from her kisses.
“Can you make Marie-Anne go away?” he asked.
She grinned. He could still read her mind. But then she shrugged. She’d invited Marie-Anne, after all, because she wanted a bestest friend. She really didn’t know how to make her leave.
Daddy sat there thinking.
“What if…” He kept looking like he was about to say something; his mouth opened and closed like a hungry goldfish. “What if I help you?”
Help her? The idea intrigued her. She stood in front of her chair, in front of Daddy, her weight on one leg, alert to what he’d say next.
“Sometimes … When there’s something troubling us, we can cast our troubles away.”
Did he want to cast a spell with her? She screwed up her face in confusion.
“So I’m proposing … We could cast Marie-Anne away. Would you be willing to do that?”
She nodded. Did Daddy have magical powers, too? She held out her hands: how?
“Sunday is Valborg—Walpurgis. And we’ll have our own backyard fire. Sometimes, when people want things to go away, they toss their worries into the fire.”
Could they toss Mommy into the fire?
“So maybe … You could draw a picture. Of Marie-Anne. And on Sunday evening we’ll cast her away.”
She chewed her lip. It didn’t seem entirely fair, considering Marie-Anne had been burned to death once before. But if that Marie-Anne really had been innocent, Hanna’s interpretation of her proved to be a bit more dangerous. And Hanna didn’t really need her anymore—talking was overrated, and most of their best witchy things had been Hanna’s ideas. She jutted out her chin and bobbed it a few times.
“Good girl. So we’ll have a very special Walpurgis this year, and afterward no more Marie-Anne, just my lilla gumman.”
She threw her arms around his neck, relieved. He didn’t want Marie-Anne coming between them. He wanted Hanna all to himself.
* * *
She sat on the floor with the sketchbook on her lap—the one in which she’d drawn her secret symbols. It was hard, trying to conjure an image of Marie-Anne. She wasn’t used to drawing, and after a few attempts her hand started to feel like a stiff claw and she could barely hold the crayon. It didn’t help that she really didn’t know what Marie-Anne looked like. A girl, with blackened flesh like the chicken Daddy onc
e burned on the grill. But what she drew on the paper looked like a messy egg with sticklike arms and flippers for feet. If only she had a photograph.
The thought stopped her.
She did have a photograph of Mommy. She and Daddy had printed a few copies, until it was the size and shade she wanted for her collage. The collage had disappeared, but she still had the extra pictures. She dug through the cubby where she kept her secret things, all carefully stashed between ordinary things that wouldn’t attract anyone’s interest. The pictures were kept with some other pages she’d printed, information she’d found on the internet about How to Cast Spells of Vengeance and Attack. The article had very big, and sometimes very weird, words in it, but she understood the general idea: through a series of intentional actions and thoughts a witch could do harm to another person.
Bursts of sound—a big voice and lots of people laughing—drifted into her room, and she stuck her head out the door to investigate. It gouged at her heart that Daddy was in his room with Mommy, watching stuff on his laptop. When he was home during the week he usually went to his study and didn’t mind if she played on the floor while he worked at his desk. It was a sign of how strong Mommy’s spell on him was, that Daddy stayed by her side.
Well, she’d get him all to herself soon enough. He’d be happy when she showed him the drawing of Marie-Anne. He left her alone in her room so she could work on it, and she planned on making it as good as she could. The Casting Out might go badly if the girl at all resembled Hanna herself, so she would draw her with different hair, a thicker body, in colors she never wore. But first, while safely alone, she wanted to work on the spell against Mommy.
She wasn’t absolutely certain what the spell was supposed to accomplish, but “Vengeance and Attack” sounded good. She had no idea what widdershins meant, or Saturnian. Or circumambulations or thurible. But she interpreted that destroying the photograph of the intended victim would somehow damage the victim, especially if she did it while repeating her own heartfelt curse—an example of which was included in the article.
