MOTHER KNOWS BEST
“Holy crap.” Her mother? Her freaking mother? How had Georgia found her here at Ron’s apartment? Ashlyn held the grungy blinds away from her face to peer out the second-floor window. Saw her mother’s white Honda at the curb. Watched the woman in those too-tight capris slam the car door behind her. Ashlyn recognized that walk. Mother was on a freaking mission. Good thing her new boyfriend wasn’t home.
Ashlyn took the stairs down two at a time. Her mother ruined everything she touched. She yanked open the front door, hoped no one was watching.
“What the hell, Mother—” Ashlyn began.
In a flash, Georgia had grabbed Ashlyn’s arm. Pulled her across the sidewalk and into the front seat of her Honda.
“Are you mental?” Ashlyn didn’t fight her, didn’t want some nosy neighbor to call the cops. “You’re embarrassing me. Making a fool of yourself.”
“You need to start answering my questions. Right now.” Georgia clicked the car doors locked. Started the engine. Pulled away from the curb. “Take me to my granddaughter. Now.”
Ashlyn weighed her choices—fight, or play along. When her mother was in a snit like this, play along was the only way.
“Okay, don’t have a cow. I’ll take you to Tasha.” Ashlyn tried to sound like she meant it. Her mother’s veiny hands clenched the wheel. Her jaw was set, she’d seen that expression a billion times. “She’s at Valerie’s. The babysitter. Turn left.”
“Why didn’t you leave her with us?” Georgia’s voice had the whiny tone Ashlyn hated. “Why do you always lie?”
Shut up, Ashlyn thought. If her mother didn’t stop nagging her, like constantly, she’d go nuts. “Take me back to Ron’s. Then I’ll tell you where Tashie is.”
“No. Ab-so-lutely not. We’re going home. I want some answers. No Ron. No.”
“No.” Ashlyn mocked her. She was such a witch. “Ron’s first. Or I won’t tell you. What’re you going to do about that?”
“Lovely creature,” I say out loud. I hit Save, then read over what I’ve written, making sure I’ve captured Ashlyn’s persistent deception, her reliance on delusion, her narcissistic self-confidence. I wasn’t making up the episode itself—the specifics came from a surprisingly revealing interview Georgia Bryant did with a Dayton cable station. After this encounter, Georgia tries to take Ashlyn to the police station. If she’d succeeded, maybe Tasha would still be alive. Maybe not.
Someone’s at my front door.
“Katherine?”
She shoulders by me as I open it. Comes inside. Already talking.
“Is your phone off? Aren’t you watching TV?” Katherine asks, as if I know what she means. She’s predictably unpredictable, we used to say.
I roll my eyes behind her back, following her. “No, sister, I’m writing. Like you’re paying me to do. The feed’s still in black. But, no, my phone isn’t off.”
She’s heading for the living room. I trot to keep up. “Kath? What’s with the suspense?”
“Turn on your TV.” Katherine points to it. “I was in the neighborhood, lucky for you. Or you’d be totally clueless.”
I click the remote. The TV powers up. “Geez, Kath. Why didn’t you just call me?”
“See for yourself.” Kath gestures to the screen.
Breaking news. Courthouse evacuated.
Bomb Threat at Baby Boston Trial.
CHAPTER SIX
“Pure crazy.” Kath, in black leggings and a pink blazer, plops onto my couch.
I’m standing in front of the TV, remote in hand. “I know.”
A Channel 5 reporter in a khaki blazer and red tie, stands in front of the gray stone courthouse. I know him, Howard Frisch. “As you can see,” Howard says, squinting into the morning sun, “officials ordered an immediate evacuation of the building.” He steps out of the camera shot so viewers like us can see live pictures of people in suits and high heels, some with briefcases and all with frowns, swarming down the broad front steps.
“Smart man,” Kath says. “No one wants to miss the shot of the courthouse blowing up.”
“And here comes the bomb truck,” Howard continues. “You’ll soon see the bomb techs in those white moon suits.”
“This sucks.” Kath pulls out her own phone. Punches numbers.
“Are you calling someone there?” I ask. I realize Kath’s the first visitor I’ve had since … I don’t know. My house looks the same, I guess, imagining it thorough her eyes. Just emptier. Without the toys.
“The other black van carries the bomb-sniffing K9s,” Howard’s voice goes on. “They’re blocking off access, so we won’t be allowed to stay at this vantage point much longer.”
“You think it’s a real bomb?” I ask. “Who’re you calling?”
“Huh?” Kath click her phone off. “Turn the channel, see what the others have.”
It’s the same video on Channel 4. “Fourteen jurors,” their reporter says, “twelve plus two who will eventually be alternates, were exited via the back door, loaded onto a bus, and driven away.”
Kath’s now texting. I switch the remote again, then again, but nothing new. Cameras stay trained on the courthouse.
“It’s probably nothing,” Kath says.
“Yeah.” I have to agree. Still, a bomb threat is a big deal in Boston.
“Ashlyn Bryant,” the Channel 2 reporter is saying, “is in protective custody, whereabouts unknown.”
“She’s probably loving this,” I say. “Ha. I bet she called it in herself. Or duped someone else to. You know? To put off testimony about finding the trash bag.”
About finding her decomposing daughter in the trash bag I don’t need to say. That poor innocent girl.
A cloud of sadness smothers me as the room seems to go darker. I sink onto the big chair. Sophie. And Dex. In one random miserable moment they were taken forever.
I’m not close to fine. No matter what I try to tell myself and everyone else. I pull myself back to the present.
“Ashlyn did it? Love that idea.” Then Kath waves it off. “More likely it’s dumb kids.”
“Yeah.” Not someone targeting Ashlyn, or sabotaging the trial. “Probably a stupid prank. There’s been a bunch of those, right? Kids not wanting school to start or whatever? TV’s just repeating stuff now.”
“Yeah. It’s gotta be nothing. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Seriously. You want coffee?”
“Nope.” Kath tucks her cell into her carryall, pulls out sunglasses. “You need to write. Hey, awesome job on the first chapter. You nailed Dayton. I don’t miss my hometown, gotta say.”
She gives me a hug as she leaves. Which is strangely weird. When was the last time someone hugged me? Or touched me, in fact, at all? Sometimes I sleep on the couch, hoping the lack of space beside me will help me forget. How Dex breathed. His heat, his skin, his laugh, his footsteps coming down the hall to find me. But I won’t forget. Can’t. We never said goodbye. The memories, and the sound of Katherine’s car driving away, almost bring on the darkness again.
No. I close the front door, and shut off my sorrow. For now, at least, I need to care about someone else’s history. I march myself back to my study, back to my assignment, back to reality. I’ll leave the TV on in the unlikely event they find a bomb, but while cops investigate, I need to write. About Tasha Nicole Bryant, victim of her mother’s toxic life. It’s empowering to know that my words will become history. Become the truth.
I open my manuscript. With a shiver of almost-anticipation, I slip back into Ashlyn’s head.
THE FAMILY CONFRONTATION
It totally sucked that she had to come back to Laughtry Drive again, especially after she’d finally convinced her mother to lay off. Mom had changed her mind about going to the cops, pretty darn fast, after Ashlyn reminded her it’d be in all the papers, and her country club friends would gossip about her. You could always get her with stuff like that.
“Two minutes,” Ashlyn promised herself as she
strode up the front walk. She patted her pocket for her secret key. Get in, get the stuff, get out.
But the front door opened. And her mother started in on her. “Where is Tasha?”
Before so much as a hello. Showed you who was important in this family.
“She’s with the sitter, Valerie, what d’you think? She’s taking a nap. You honestly want to wake her up? How selfish is that?” Ashlyn tried to squeeze by her. But her mom was blocking the way.
“I want to see my granddaughter.” Georgia stood, hands on hips, in a terrible flowery blouse thing and pitiful jeans.
“It is not. A good time.” Ashlyn spit out each phrase. “Can’t you understand?”
“Here’s what I understand, missy. You’re a liar. I want my granddaughter. And I’m calling the police.” Georgia pulled out her phone.
Was she punching in numbers? Shit. Ashlyn turned her back, ran down the hall to her old bedroom. She yanked open her dresser drawers, pawed through.
“Ashlyn? What the hell is going on?” Her father’s voice.
Tom Bryant stood in the bedroom doorway. Wearing one of those gross country club shirts he thought made him look rich.
“Why do you always fight with your mother?” He took a step closer to her.
Ashlyn slammed the drawer. Whirled. Faced him down. “Why do I fight with her? Because I’m a spiteful bitch. Like she always says.”
“Where’s Tasha?” he persisted. “Who’s this Valerie?”
Shut up, she felt like saying. But maybe she was handling it wrong. She let her shoulders drop, and put a defeated expression on her face. “Daddy? You’ve got to help me. Val’s a babysitter. Listen, I needed to get away from the whole motherhood thing. Just for a while. Mom’d never understand.”
A noise in the hallway. Georgia.
“I heard that! I’d never understand?” Her mother stomped in, slammed a hand on the bed so hard the throw pillows jumped. “Try me, young lady. Where is she?”
“Mom, listen, Tashie’s fine.” Ashlyn kept her voice soft. Maybe this could work. She held out both hands, like, begging. “I’m so sorry. She’s with Valerie. If I promise—promise—that you can see her tomorrow, will you trust me?”
As for Georgia. She looked at her daughter, the one she’d cradled in her arms, the one who’d fussed over the Gerber pears, the one who would only sleep with her grubby teddy and the blue blanket.
“Why’d you lie all this time, then?” Georgia believed and didn’t believe, both at the same time. “Why make us so upset?”
“You made yourself upset. You made more out of it than it was. Daddy? Tell her.” Ashlyn turned to her father for backup. But Tom was gone.
Good. Now Ashlyn only had to deal with Georgia. She plucked at the flowered coverlet. “You were such a good mother. But I—got scared. They’re in Chicago, okay? Listen, I’ll call Val. You’ll see Tashie tomorrow.”
Georgia held up her phone, brandishing it like a weapon. “Why did she take Tasha to Chicago? If you are lying to me—”
“Mommy. I’m not lying.” Ashlyn had almost convinced her, she could tell. “I’m so, so sorry I made you upset. Valerie’s mom lives there. She’s like, Spanish. They might go to the zoo. Tasha’s safe. She’s happy. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” Georgia, still frowning, jammed her phone back into her pocket. “Okay. Tomorrow. But if you’re lying, I’ll call the police. I swear. If something’s wrong with my Tashie, I swear I will not protect you. Never, ever, protect you. I’ll see you rot in hell.”
You’ll get there first, Ashlyn wanted to say. But out loud she said, “I promise, Mommy.”
Not bad. Do I make a convincing Ashlyn, or what? I forgot to mention that she’d driven there to Laughtry Drive, but I’ll put that in later.
With Ashlyn’s audacious lies and omissions, and knowing what I know now, that scene is especially chilling. But back then, only Ashlyn knew anything was wrong. So I’ll present it like that, with Tasha safe and happy. It might even have been true. Georgia—and Tom, apparently—believed it was.
What up w/ Tom? I add to my list.
“She’s gotta be a monster, you know?” Katherine had said on the phone the other morning. “What mother could stay sane, being told her child is dead?” Then she’d paused, mid-pep-talk, silent for a beat. “Oh, I’m so sorry, honey.”
There was no way to paper over reality. I let her off the hook.
“I’m fine,” I’d lied, for the billionth time.
It’s my job now to create the monster’s story. I’ll make it impeccably researched. Authoritative. Compelling.
And then I’ll see Ashlyn Bryant sentenced to rot in hell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“A hoax,” one news anchor pronounces, all chunky eyeglasses and inappropriate cleavage on tonight’s seven o’clock news. “The bomb squad found nothing.”
TV commentators are going nuts. Talking heads brand Ashlyn “the symbol of selfish post-millennials” and “the poster child for failed motherhood.” Some advocates try to get a word in about the difficulties of a mother’s role and the postpartum pressures on an inexperienced mom. No one is buying that.
Was Ashlyn depressed? I mean, at one point I’d seriously considered burning my own house down. Who knows what may have driven her? She’s eleven years younger than I am, and her family life apparently pretty loveless.
A pang of potential sympathy tries to weasel a foothold in my brain. I push it away with a click of the remote.
On another channel, a fusty red-faced pundit complains about the money wasted evacuating the courthouse and delaying the trial. “Taxpayer dollars down the drain,” she sneers. “Let’s get on to the guilty verdict.”
Charming. But I agree.
I mute the sound, thinking about the role each of us is playing. The murderer, the lawyers, the jurors, the journalists. No one really knows anything about anyone else. How can we understand motivation unless we are that person?
But I’ll do my best. Soon to come in the trial is the part of Ashlyn’s story—and Tasha Nicole’s—that prosecutors promise will focus on motivation. On malice aforethought. That’s got to mean the Skype chat, the one Georgia Bryant tearfully described on Dayton TV news. The local paper, conveniently, printed a transcript.
I twist the cap off the bottle of pinot noir that I put—when?—on the end table with one stemmed glass. I can drink and write at the same time. After all, I think as I watch the red liquid flow into the curved glass, I do know how to tell a story.
GOTTA LOVE SKYPE
“Is that real?” Georgia Bryant couldn’t hold back her suspicions. Most computer things confused her. But there on the screen, in living color, clapping her sweet little hands and giggling, was her adorable darling granddaughter.
She’d secretly feared Tasha Nicole was dead. A grandmother thing. An instinct. But here she was. Alive as alive could be. “Is it truly real?”
Ashlyn, sitting in Tom’s desk chair, didn’t answer. Instead, after throwing Georgia a give-me-a-break look, she leaned closer to the monitor in her father’s home office, clicking the mouse. She fluttered her fingers at the screen. “Hi Tashie, sweetheart, it’s Mommy,” she cooed.
Georgia crowded in closer, Tom behind her. They’d closed the maroon and gray curtains—the colors of Tom’s beloved Ohio State—to keep out the morning glare. Put the spaniels in their crates.
“Gotta love Skype,” Ashlyn muttered.
“Mommy! I see you!” That voice, a sparrow’s chirp, almost broke Georgia’s heart. But there she was. Not dead. Not—not anything but fine. Far away, but fine.
“Hi, darling!” Georgia said. Even with the distorted computer lighting, the child’s face shone bright and clean, and her soft sandy hair looked shiny and curled and bouncing. Her pink overalls, the ones she and Tom had given her for no occasion but just because, looked properly ironed.
“I see you! Do you see me?”
“Gampy’s here, too.” Georgia kept talking, gesturing behind her, g
athering her husband closer. “How are you, honey?”
“We saw animals!” Tasha’s eyes focused on the screen, then she seemed to be distracted. “Oh and we—what?”
The child’s image left the screen. Now there was only a stretch of flowered wallpaper.
“Where’d she go?” Georgia demanded. “Who’s she talking to?”
“Valerie, of course,” Ashlyn said.
“We want to talk to the babysitter.” She turned to her husband. “Right, Tom?”
“She’s shy,” Ashlyn said. “And’s not comfortable with English.”
“What? She has got to come home, Ashlyn.” Georgia was laying down the law.
“I see you!” Tasha was back on the screen.
“I see you too, honey,” Georgia said, lilting her voice to a more Tasha-appropriate tone. “We want you to come home, and you can play with Gampy.” She felt Tom close behind her. “We want you to—”
“I’ll come get you, and bring you to Grammy,” Ashlyn interrupted, almost blocking Georgia’s view. “Okay, honey?”
That was the last thing Georgia expected.
“Really?” She whispered the question.
“I’ll come get you tomorrow, I promise,” Ashlyn went on. “Bye-bye, honey.” Ashlyn clicked the mouse, and the screen went black.
“Why did you end it?” Georgia said. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“Can it never be enough? No matter what I do?” Ashlyn crossed her arms in front of her. “I promised you’d see her. You totally see she’s fine. Exactly like I tried to tell you. But you never never believe me.”
Tom stepped closer to her. “I believe you, Ashlyn,” he said.
“See?” Ashlyn touched his arm. “Thank you, Daddy. At least someone stands up for me.”
“That’s not fair, Ashlyn.” Georgia looked at the now-dark computer screen, remembering the little face she’d just seen. “I do stand up for you. I’ve stood up for you for twenty-three years! And to prove it, you don’t have to drive to Chicago to pick up Tasha Nicole. I’ll make your plane reservations, and we’ll pay your airfare. Both ways.”
Trust Me Page 3
