by Mary Rickert
When the computer was set up and ready to use in his office, Jack called me to come look. I looked into the brightly colored screen and felt numbed by it. Steff, however, was thrilled. Soon the two of them were talking a strange language I didn’t understand. I drifted off into private thoughts, mentally working on paintings, scenes from a time before the world was enchanted by screens.
About three months before (oh, God, I still cannot write these words without trembling) her last birthday, Jack began campaigning that we get Steff her own computer. I didn’t like the idea but I couldn’t say why, though I held my ground until one Saturday when I drove into town to the post office and saw a group of girls who looked to be Steffie’s age, and who I thought I recognized from classroom functions, sitting at the picnic table outside the ice cream place. A few of the girls caught me staring, and they began whispering behind open hands. I turned away. Had I done this to her? Was it my strangeness that made her unpopular? I went home and told Jack to go ahead and buy the thing. We gave it to her for her twelfth birthday, that’s when we took the picture, the one I still have on the bedside table.
Steff was thrilled. She hugged us both and gave us kisses and thanked us so much that I began to believe we had done the right thing. I was baffled how this silent box was going to make her life better but after seeing those girls together, I was ready to try anything.
They set up the computer in her room. At night, after dinner, they each went off for hours, clicking and staring at their separate screens. I lit candles and sat, with the cat in my lap, reading. I guess I had some vague ideas about homework, and I’d heard that there were ways to view great paintings from distant museums on the computer. I assumed she was doing things like that. I thought she should be doing more interacting with the world. I thought this as I sat reading, with the cat on my lap, and tried to believe that one solitude is the same as any other.
As though she’d been given the magic elixir for a social life, she began talking about various friends. Eventually one name came up more and more frequently. Celia read the same books Steffie did and liked to draw and dance. When Celia asked Steff to sleep over I was thrilled until I found out Stephanie had never actually met the girl but only “talked” to her on the computer.
Of course, I said this would not happen. She could be anyone; why, Celia might not even be a girl, I said. No, she could not sleep over at this stranger’s house, who, coincidentally, lived only twenty-four miles away.
Steff burst into tears at the dinner table, threw her napkin on the plate. “You don’t want me to be normal,” she said. “You want me to be just like you and I’m not!” Then she ran out of the kitchen, up the stairs to her bedroom, where she actually slammed the door, all of this perhaps not unusual behavior for an almost teenager but completely new for Steff.
Jack looked at me accusingly.
“You can’t expect me to let her go off to some stranger’s house. We don’t even know the family.”
“Whose family do we know?”
I understood his point. I had sheltered us, all of us, with my sheltered ways.
“When it comes down to it, if she went anywhere in town, we wouldn’t know those people either.”
“It’s not the same thing. People have reputations.” As soon as I saw the look on Jack’s face, I realized that our reputation was probably more extensive than I knew. If not for me, they would be having a normal life. I was the odd one. It was all my fault.
“What if I speak to the girl’s parents, would that make you more comfortable?”
For a moment, I considered that we invite the girl’s family over, we could have a barbecue, but the thought of having to spend a whole evening entertaining anyone horrified me. When it comes right down to it, my daughter died because of my reluctance to entertain. How ridiculous and horrifying. Instead, I agreed that she could go if Jack talked to Celia’s parents first.
We went up to her room together. We knocked and entered. I expected to find her lying across the bed, my posture of teenage despair, but instead, she was sitting at the desk, staring into the computer.
“We’ve decided you can go, but we want to speak to her parents first.”
She turned and grinned, bathed in computer glow, all the color gone from her pretty face and replaced with green.
“Is that Celia now?” Jack asked.
She nodded.
“Ask her for her number.”
She began typing. I turned and walked away. What was I so creeped out about? This was the new world. My daughter and my husband were a part of it, as was I, even if with reluctance.
Jack spoke to Celia’s father that night. It turned out they had a lot in common too. He was an insurance salesman. His wife, however, was very different from me, a lawyer out of town until Friday night. Jack covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to pick Steff up around four-thirty on Friday. He’s going to be passing through town. They’ll pick Celia up at her dance class, and Sarah will get home from D.C. about five-thirty. He’s spoken to her and she’s happy to have Stephanie over. What do you think?”
“How does he sound?”
“He sounds a lot like me.”
Steff was standing in the kitchen doorway watching. I wasn’t used to her squinty-eyed appraisal, as if suddenly there was something suspicious about me.
“Okay,” I said.
Steff grinned. Jack took his hands off the mouthpiece. “That’ll work out fine,” he said in a boisterous voice. They really both looked so thrilled. Had I done this to them? Kept them so sheltered that Stephanie’s sleepover at a friend’s house on a Friday night, an absolutely normal occurrence for any girl her age, was such an enormous event?
Was this all my fault?
He was right on time. It was a beautiful spring day, unseasonably warm. I found him immediately affable, friendly, grinning dimples. I thought he looked younger than Jack or me, though in reality he was a year older. I guess people without consciences don’t wrinkle like the rest of us. I opened the door and we shook hands. He had a firm handshake, a bit sweaty, but it was a warm day. Jack came out and the two of them got to talking immediately. I slipped away to get Steff. I went to her bedroom. Her backpack was packed, the sleeping bag rolled next to it, but she was not in the room. I walked over to the window and saw her in the garden, picking flowers. I opened the window. She looked up and waved, the flowers in her hand arcing the sky. I waved, pointed to his car. She nodded and ran toward the house. I brought the ridiculously heavy backpack and sleeping bag downstairs. When I got to the kitchen, she was standing there, her cheeks flushed, holding the bouquet of daffodils and tulips while Jack and Celia’s father talked. I helped her wrap the stems in a wet paper towel and aluminum foil. “This is a very nice idea,” I whispered to her at the sink.
She smiled and shrugged. “Celia said her mom likes flowers too.”
What was it about that that set off a little warning buzzer in my head? All these coincidences. I shook it back; after all, isn’t that how friendships are made, by common interests? We turned and the fathers stopped talking. Celia’s father grinned at Steff. Once more the alarm sounded but he bent down, picked up the pack, and said something like, What do kids put in these things, Celia’s is always so heavy too. They walked to the door. I wanted to hug Stephanie but it seemed silly and probably would be embarrassing to her, and, after all, hadn’t I already embarrassed her enough? The screen door banged shut. I stood in the kitchen and listened to the cheerful voices, the car doors slam, the engine, the sound of the gravel as they drove away. Too late, I ran out to wave good-bye. I have no idea if Steffie saw me or not.
Jack wrapped his arms around my waist, nuzzled my neck. “The garden? Kitchen? Name your place, baby.”
“I should have told her to call when she gets there.”
“Honey, she’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Let’s call her, just to make sure she’s comfortable.”
“Chloe—”
“After we call her, the gar
den.”
There was a sudden change in the weather. The temperature dropped thirty degrees. We closed windows and doors and put on sweaters and jeans. It began to rain about 5:30 and it just kept raining. We called at six, seven, eight. No one answered. It began to hail.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
“They probably just went to a movie.”
We called at nine. It rang and rang.
“I’m going there.”
“What? Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how embarrassing that would be for her?”
“Well, where are they, Jack?”
“They went to a movie, or the mall, or out for pizza. Not everyone lives like us.”
Ten. Still no answer.
I put on my coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Give me the directions.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Where are the directions?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Jack!”
“I don’t have any directions.”
“What do you mean? How are we supposed to pick her up?”
“Turns out he’s coming back this way tomorrow. He’s going to drop her off.”
Lightning split the sky and thunder shook the house. “Do you even have an address?”
“I’m sure everything’s all right,” he said, but he said it softly and I could hear the fear in his voice.
We called at 10:20, 10:30, 10:41, 10:50, 10:54. At last, at 10:59, a man’s voice.
“Hello, this is Steffie’s mother, is this—” I don’t even know his name. “—Is this Celia’s father?”
“I just picked up the phone, lady, ain’t no one here.”
“What do you mean? Who are you? Where is everyone?”
“This is just a phone booth, okay?”
I drop the phone. I run to the bathroom. In the distance I hear Jack’s voice, he says the number and then he says, “Oh, my God,” and I don’t hear the rest, over the sound of my retching.
Police sirens blood red. Blue uniforms and serious faces. Lights blaze. Pencils scratch across white pads. Jack wipes his hand through his hair, over and over again. Dry taste in my mouth. The smell of vomit. The questions. The descriptions. Fingerprint powder. I take them to her bedroom. Strange hands paw her things. Her diary. Someone turns her computer on. “Do you know her password?” I shake my head. “Well,” says the man reading her diary, “it appears she really believed there was a Celia.” What? Of course she did, can I see that? “Sorry, ma’am, it’s evidence.” Downstairs. More uniforms and raincoats. Police banter about the weather. Blazing lights. The telephone rings. Sudden silence. I run to answer it. “Hello.” It’s Mrs. Bialo, my neighbor; she says, is everything all right? No, it’s not. I hang up the phone. The activity resumes. Suddenly I see a light like the tiny flicker of a hundred fireflies hovering close to me and I hear her voice. Mom? I fall to my knees sobbing. Jack rushes over and holds me like I’m breakable. There is a temporary and slight change in the activity around us but then it continues as before and goes on like this for hours. In early morning there is a freak snowfall. We start getting calls from newspapers and magazines. A TV truck parks at the end of our drive. My neighbor, Mrs. Bialo, shows up with banana bread and starts making coffee. I stand on the porch and watch the snow salting down. The red tulips droop wounded against the icy white. The daffodils bow their silent bells. I listen to the sound of falling snow. I haven’t told anyone what I know. What would be the point? Who would believe me? But I know. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s gone.
Let’s go quickly over the details. The body. Oh, her body. Found. The tests confirm. Raped and strangled. My little darling.
Then, incredibly, he is found too. Trying to do the same thing again but this time to a more savvy family. He even used the name Celia. The sergeant tells me this with glee. “They always think they’re so clever, but they’re not. They make mistakes.” How excited everybody is. They found him. He can’t do it again. This is good. But I don’t feel happiness, which disappoints everyone.
Jack agrees to go on a talk show. They convince him he will be helping other families and other little girls, but really, he’s there so everyone can feel superior. One lady stands up. She is wearing a sensible dress and shoes. She is a sensible mother, anyone can see that, and she says, “I just don’t understand, in this day and age, how you could let your daughter go off with a stranger like that?” She says it like she really cares, but she beams when the audience claps because really, she just wants to make her point.
Jack tries to say the stuff about how really everyone takes chances when they send their children off to other homes. I mean, we’re all really strangers, he says. But they aren’t buying it, this clever audience. The sensible lady stands up again and says, “I’m really sorry about what happened to your daughter but you gotta accept that it’s at least partly your fault.” There is scattered applause. The host tries to take it back. “I’m sure no one here means to imply this is your fault,” he says. “We only want to learn from your mistakes.” The audience applauds at that as well. Everyone gets applause except Jack.
After the taping he calls me in tears. I’m not much help as I am also feeling superior, since I would never be so stupid as to fall for the “You’re helping others” line the talk show people keep trying. He says it was terrible, but on the day it airs, he insists we watch. It is terrible.
We move through the house and our lives. I think I will never eat again and then, one day, I do. I think we well never make love again and then, one night, something like that happens but it is so different, there is such a cold desperation to it, that I think it will never happen again, and it doesn’t.
Six months later there is a trial. We are both witnesses for the prosecution so we can’t attend. The defense attorney does a mean job on us but the prosecutor says, “He’s just trying to distract the jury. It’s not going to work. In fact, it’ll probably backfire, generating more sympathy.”
Fuck their sympathy, I say.
Jack looks as if I’ve just confirmed the worst rumors he’s heard about me. The attorney maintains his placid expression, but his tone of voice is mildly scolding when he says, “The jury is your best hope now.”
I think of her picking flowers in the garden that afternoon, the way she waved them in an arc across the sky.
When the verdict is read I stare at the back of his head. I think how, surely, if I had really studied him that day, instead of being so distracted by self-doubt, I never would have let him take her. The shape of his ears at the wrong height, the tilt of his head, something about his shoulders, all of it adds up. It’s so obvious now.
“Guilty,” the foreman says.
The courtroom is strangely quiet. Somehow, it is not enough.
When Jack and I get home he goes into his office. I wander about, until finally I settle on a plan. I take the fireside poker and walk up the stairs to her room, where I smash the computer. When I’m done Jack is standing there, watching. “That’s a very expensive machine,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I say.
It doesn’t get any better. At the end of the month, he moves out.
Fat, white flakes fall all day. The pine trees are supplicant with snow. I sit in my rocking chair like an old woman, the blue throw across my lap. I thought about starting a fire with the well-seasoned wood left over from last winter, but when I opened the stove and saw those ashes I didn’t have the energy to clean them out. I rock and watch the snow fall. The house creaks with emptiness. The phone rings. I don’t answer it. I fall asleep in the chair and when I wake it’s dark. I walk to the kitchen, turn on the outside light. It’s still snowing. I turn off the light and go to bed, not bothering to change out of my sweats and turtleneck. The phone rings and I grumble into the blankets but I don’t answer it. I sleep what has become my usual restless sleep. In the morning it’s still snowing.
Day after day it snows. Finally, the power goes o
ut. The phone lines are down. I don’t mind this at all. Oddly, I am invigorated by it. I shovel the wood-burning stove’s ashes into an old paint can, find the wood carrier, and bring in stacks of wood and kindling. I build a fire and once I’m sure it’s really started good, go upstairs and get my book, some blankets and pillows. I find the flashlights in the kitchen, both with working batteries, search through the linen closet and then the kitchen cupboards until I remember and find the portable radio on the top shelf in the basement. I stoke the fire, wrap myself in a blanket. How efficient we were, how well organized, how prepared for this sort of emergency, how completely useless, even culpable, when she needed us most. I turn on the radio. It will snow and snow, they say. We are having a blizzard. There are widespread reports of power outages. The Red Cross is setting up in the high school, which, actually, is also currently out of power so residents are advised to stay home for now. I click off the radio.
The phone is ringing.
“Hello?”
“Mom, where are you?”
“Steff? Steff?”
But there is no response. I stand there, holding the phone while the kitchen shadows lengthen around me. Still I stand there. I say her name over and over again. I don’t know how long I stand there before I hang up, but when I do, I’m a changed woman. If I can’t keep her alive, and it’s been all too obvious that I can’t, I’ll take her dead. Yes, I want this ghost.
