by Willow Rose
I decide to burn the house down. I leave the gas-stove open, then light a match and throw it in through the door. The pressure wave from the blast pushes me and the baby-carriage in the back as we walk down the street. I never turn to look back at the explosive fire.
15
REBEKKA FRANCK has an article in the paper about last night’s explosion in the nice neighborhood just north of us. I shake my head while drinking a cherry, cabbage and cinnamon smoothie. There is a grammatical error in the last paragraph. I tell Christian and show him, he says he can't see it. I think he just doesn't care. I tell the kids to eat their breakfast. Christian is whistling happily. I am thinking I must have given him that blow-job after all. I smile and look at my family. Amalie is happy and for once on time for school. Jacob tells me he can't wait to get to pre-school and Christian is excited about starting a new day at the office and begin taking care of the Boyesen account.
"Maybe we should go to The Maldives this fall," he says. "With the extra money I'm making now there should be a little extra for more vacation."
"That sounds wonderful, darling," I say and kiss him when he leans over to say goodbye.
Everything is perfect, I think as I watch my family take off with smiling faces. Everything but ... I think as the house goes quiet. My eyes keep focusing on the article on the table.
"Everything but this," I say out loud and tap my finger on the error in the article. It is bothering me that she keeps making these mistakes and even more that no one else at the paper seems to care enough to correct her or at least catch the mistakes before the article is printed. The more I think about it, the worse I feel inside. I try to calm myself down, then I pick up the phone and call the paper. I let them know that there is another mistake today and that I think they should do something about all those errors soon. "It's a disgrace to the reader," I say in contempt. I hang up without saying goodbye. Josephine is awake and I go to her in the playpen. I lean over and receive one of her smiles. I tickle her stomach gently.
"We're not going to let people just disrespect us, will we? No we're not. No, we are not," I say and tap her stomach with my fingers causing her to smile again.
"People should know when they make a mistake. It should be corrected," I continue. "Where will it leave us if no body corrected anybody anymore? Everybody would just be imperfect and full of mistakes, yes they would. Yes they would. And we can't have that, now can we? No we can't."
Josephine makes a frowning face and I laugh. "Seems like we agree on the matter," I say.
I leave Josephine to play with her owl made from organic cotton and non-toxic materials. I walk into the kitchen and empty my smoothie while obsessing about the article. It is still lying on the table in front of me and I feel like it's looking back at me, almost mocking me. I try to leave it alone and focus on cleaning up after breakfast. I wonder what to prepare for dinner. I decide on making a Swedish dish with sausages, paprika and potatoes. I wash the dishes but feel like the article is calling me from the table. I breathe heavily and try to stay calm. The sentence carrying the error is in my head, it's repeated over and over again. I wipe the plates clean and put them back in the cupboard. Then I pull everything out of the cupboard again and wipe the shelves clean before I put all the plates back again and place them straight in a line. I turn all the cups next to them to face the same way. Then I move on to the next cupboard where I pull out all of the cans and boxes. I put them back, sorting them alphabetically and making all the labels face outwards. I close the cupboard, then move on to the counter. I wipe it down with a disinfecting cloth and arrange everything so it looks neat. I'm sweating again and can't seem to stop. I find a towel and wipe it off, but more keep coming. I smell bad, I realize. So I walk upstairs and take a shower to wash it off. I scrub my body with a sponge, till stripes of blood run down my leg. Then I stop. I walk downstairs after drying my hair. My skin is hurting from all the scrubbing and the black pants I'm wearing rub against the abrasions. I make myself a decaf skinny latte and stare at the pile of newspaper clippings in the corner. There is a whole stack that I have placed on the counter as neatly as possible with a rubber band holding them together. All are articles that Rebekka Franck has written; all have errors in them that I have underlined.
Josephine is cooing satisfied from her playpen and I grab the phone and dial the newspaper again. This time I don't talk to the receptionist, this time I ask to talk to Rebekka Franck personally.
16
I INVITE her to come to my house for lunch. I tell her I have homemade sausages. She tells me it has been way too long and that she would love to swing by, but she is not going to be able to come until one thirty, is that okay?
"I have to finish this article I'm writing for tomorrow's paper," she says. "About the big house-fire yesterday. Maybe you've heard about it. A sixteen-year-old girl was killed. Real tragic. They think she was sleeping inside of the house when it happened. She was burnt beyond recognition. The parents told the police she was there and they found only a few body parts that they used to ID her by using DNA. That's what the article is about tomorrow." Rebekka paused. "I'm sorry if I'm grossing you out by telling too many details. It comes with the job. You get numb in the end."
"I heard about the fire," I say. "I was there. I killed the girl and set the house on fire afterwards."
A silence on the phone. I hear Rebekka talk to someone. Then she's back. "I'm sorry, that was my photographer. What did you say?"
"I said I hope you like sausages."
"Are you kidding? I love homemade sausages. Besides I'm looking forward to seeing you again. What has it been two years?"
"Two years, three months and seven days."
Rebekka laughs in the other end. "You always were funny," she says.
I don't laugh. I stare at the pile of newspaper clips with all the errors underlined.
"Can't wait to catch up," she says.
I pick up my kitchen-knife from the table. I have polished and sharpened it.
"Me either," I say.
Then we hang up. I walk into the living room and pick up Josephine. Then I feed her while fantasizing about cutting off Rebekka Franck's tongue.
When Josephine has fallen asleep I put her in the crib upstairs while thinking about where it would be best to kill Rebekka Franck. In the living room or maybe the kitchen since it's easier to clean. I'm thinking about doing it in the garage that I could arrange first with newspapers to make sure it didn't stain the floors. I walk out there, and realize that I'll have to move the car first. So I open the garage door and back into the driveway. Then I walk back and close the garage door. The room seems perfect now, I think. I move Jacob's bike and some plastic bags with his old toys. I tip one over and a pink, organic, non-toxic teddy bear falls out. I pick it up feeling my heart race in my chest. Who threw away Pinkie-Bear? I wonder. It is Josephine's favorite. Following an eerie feeling I empty the bag onto the garage floor. More toys. All baby toys, girl stuff, things I have been looking for. I go through it frantically, almost panicking. What is all this stuff doing out here where Josephine can't play with it? I don't understand. It seems so cruel somehow. I pick it up and bring it upstairs to the nursery. I throw everything in a pile, thinking I don't have time to put it up on the shelves now, but will do it later. I look at Josephine while she is sleeping. Suddenly she looks so pale, I think. My heart is pounding when I put my hand on her chest. It's moving, she's still breathing. I wonder why she is so pale all of a sudden and worry if she might be coming down with something. I decide to leave her alone to get some sleep and take the baby alarm with me downstairs. I spread out all the newspapers to cover the floor in the garage. I can't seem to get them to stay down, the papers keep moving every time I turn my back on them. I find the duct tape and tape them all to the floor so they won't move again. Sweating I walk back into the kitchen. The smell is back, I think and smell myself. I have to go upstairs and take another shower and get clean clothes on. I decide to wear a dress this time, s
ince I am so hot. I dry my hair and put on make-up, then storm into the kitchen and begin preparing the sausages. I take out a bag from the new freezer and catch a look from Mr. Berendsen as I close the lid. I run into the kitchen and throw all the sausages into a pan, cover them in oil, then turn on the heat. I stare at the sausages roasting while I feel sweat running across my face. I look down at my dress and realize it's soaked in my sweat. It's dripping on my feet soaking my shoes as well. I look at the clock on the oven and realize I only have a few minutes. No time for a shower, I think and wipe the sweat off with a towel. It's soaked when I'm done. I smell my armpit and realize I stink. I don't have time to take care of it so I go to the sink and splash water on my face to wash it off. The sausages are roasting in the pan and soon the smell from them exceeds the smell of my sweat. At least I hope it does. I wipe my face again when I hear the doorbell ring.
17
"YOU LOOK wonderful, Lisa," Rebekka says when I open the door. She is holding a bouquet of flowers that she hands to me. I take it with a smile and tell her she looks great too, then walk to the kitchen while keeping a close look at all the aphids I see crawling on the leaves. I try to wash them off, but they seem to be stuck on it, so I decide to pretend they're not there until I have killed Rebekka, then I can throw the flowers out. There is no need to be rude, I think and smile at Rebekka as she enters the kitchen and I am put the flowers in a glass vase from the Danish luxury style-brand Georg Jensen.
"So how have you been?" she asks.
I turn my head like an owl to look at her. "Fine," I say while fighting the tic that has come back. I draw in a deep breath to keep me calm. "Just fine."
"I'm so glad to hear that," Rebekka says. She walks to the stove and looks at the sausages. "Um, smells delicious," she says.
I smile again, while grabbing the knife in my hand. I begin cutting salad and put it in a big bowl. The lumps are too big, but I don't care. I hardly look at it. I cut tomatoes, bell peppers and put in sunflower seeds. Rebekka is walking around looking at the kitchen.
"I'm so glad you called," she says. "I mean I've been wanting to stop by so many times, and thought about calling you a lot, but ... well you know, life got in the way, I guess."
I'm chopping rapidly now. The newspaper clippings on the counter are laughing at me. I'm sweating heavily, big drops are falling into the salad.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Rebekka asks.
"I'm great. Why shouldn't I be?"
Rebekka shrugs. "I don't know ... I guess ... well I just think that I would be devastated ..."
I interrupt her. "Sausages are done," I say and take them off the stove.
"Smells great," she says.
"You already said that," I correct her.
She pauses, I can tell she is startled. "I guess I just did," she says.
I poke the tip of the knife into the wooden carving board with a loud sound. Rebekka jumps and looks at me.
"That's just it," I say.
"What is? Are you sure you're okay? You seem a little ... well a little off to be frank."
I pull up the knife and hold it in front of me. "The problem is, Rebekka Franck, that I cannot keep quiet any longer. People make mistakes all the time, and those people need to know that what they are doing is WRONG!"
I'm yelling the last word and it frightens Rebekka. She jumps backwards while I walk towards her with the knife in my hand. "All those mistakes," I say. "All those errors. Couldn't you just have corrected them? Why did you keep on doing them? Why don't you take pride in what you do enough to do it properly? Don't you have any RESPECT for your readers?"
"Lisa. I don't know what you're talking about. To be honest you're kind of scaring me right now. I thought this was a friendly visit. I thought we were just talking, catching up. I can leave if you don't want me here."
I stomp my feet. Rebekka jumps again. "But I do want you here. How else can I correct you? I have been trying so hard to tell you about all the grammatical errors and typos in your articles, but that STUPID, PUTRID BITCH working on your newspaper doesn't seem to do anything about it. Why is that? Why don't you want to change it, Rebekka?"
"Wait. Are you the woman who has been calling us and telling us that we're making mistakes that we can't find anywhere? Is that you, Lisa?"
I stomp my feet again with the knife clenched in my hand. "Why won't you listen to me!" I say.
Rebekka shakes her head and puts her hand out. "Easy with the knife, Lisa. I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you who called. If you had told them it was you, I would have talked to you in person."
"But that's not the point, is it?" I say. The room is spinning and sweat is running across my face, dripping on the floor, soaking my clothes and leaving a puddle underneath my feet.
"I don't know," Rebekka answers. "You tell me. You tell me what the point is. Cause I don't seem to understand anything right now."
"The point is that everybody is so terribly WRONG. They do the wrong things all the time, why won't anyone do what is right for a change? Why doesn’t anyone try and be the best they can be? Why doesn't anyone do their jobs properly anymore? Why don't doctors know when a baby is about to die? Why can't they tell when a baby is going to die? Why do they tell you it's healthy and then it dies overnight? Why don't they warn you, Rebekka?"
Rebekka stares at me. The knife is shivering in my hand. "Why Rebekka? Why?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know, Lisa. I don't know."
A terrifying feeling grabs me and I run upstairs. I storm into the nursery. My heart stops. The crib is empty. I let out a scream and fall to my knees, crying, yelling. I hear steps on the stairs, Rebekka is behind me now. I feel her hand on my shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry," she says with a low voice.
"I can't find my baby," I mumble between breaths. "Someone has taken my baby." For a second I wonder if it's the neighbor again, but I don't move. I cover my face with my hands and cry.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," Rebekka says. "It has to be the worst thing in the world to lose your child only three days after giving birth. I can't even imagine how hard it has to be."
I'm hyperventilating now. The knife is still clenched in my hand. It get up and point the knife at Rebekka. "I have to kill you now," I say.
Rebekka looks at me compassionately. She's not even afraid. It surprises me. "I understand your anger," she says. "I think I would want to kill the entire world too."
"But I will. I will kill you," I say. "Like I killed all those other people. I murdered them, Rebekka. I really did."
Rebekka walks closer. She pushes the knife to the side, then grabs me and hugs me tight. "Oh you silly head," she says. "You couldn't kill a fly if you tried to. Don't you think I know you? We’ve been friends for twenty-five years."
"But you don't know what I've done. I have killed many people. I really have, Rebekka."
She shakes her head with a smile. "I don't think you have. I don't know what's going on with you, and I didn't want to tell you this, but I talked to your husband earlier today to make sure it wasn't too much for you to have me over for lunch today and he told me you have been very sick for a long time, but you're slowly getting better now. Grief is a horrible thing. It messes with your brain causing you to imagine all kinds of stuff. Christian told me you have hardly slept ever since it happened, that you never eat, that you've had a hard time letting go of Josephine and that he had to remove her stuff slowly and one toy at a time when you weren't looking. He also told me that you have been walking around with the empty baby carriage day and night. I think your mind has been messing with you. You might have imagined killing someone, but you have never done such an awful thing. I simply can't believe it."
"But I did. The girl, the one who died in the fire yesterday. That was me. I killed her with this knife."
"No you didn't. She died in the fire. It was tragic, yes, but it wasn't murder. I talked to the police about it yesterday. It was an accident caused by a leak in the gas for the stove. End of story. Your mind
is playing tricks on you."
"But I know that I'm a killer."
"How ..?
I drop the knife on the floor. It doesn't make a sound when it hits the soft carpet. "Because I killed my baby. She ... she was on her stomach when I found her." I am crying heavily now. I can't seem to get my brain to keep still. I can't focus. My sight is blurry. All I see is blood. Blood running down the walls, blood on the floors, blood flushing from the crib.
"What have I done?" I ask and look at Rebekka. Her face is covered in blood. It's flushing down her face. "I killed my baby."
Rebekka grabs my hands and take them in hers. She looks at me with compassion. "You can't do this to yourself, Lisa," she says. "It wasn't your fault. Sometimes babies just die."
The sentence keeps echoing in my head. I want it to stop. Sometimes babies just die. Sometimes babies just die.
"It wasn't your fault," she repeats. "You did everything right. You can't keep blaming yourself, or you'll lose it. You need to stay strong for your family. For your children. For Jacob and Amalie. They all need you. Even Christian needs you."
I'm crying heavily now, throwing myself in Rebekka's arms. She's holding me tight. I have a pain in my stomach that won't go away.
"I think we better get you out of here," Rebekka says. "Let me take you to see your doctor. He can get you the help you need."
I'm crying and nodding. I sob, sniffle and look at the crib. It's still empty, even the blood is gone. "I think I might like that," I say. "I think I need help."
"Of course you do. No one should go through a thing like this all alone. You need to talk to a professional before you lose complete touch with reality."
