SECRETS AND MONSTERS
Then
They had to do something with the nursery.
Sutton couldn’t stand the idea of it sitting there like a shrine, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to dismantle it. It smelled good, and it smelled wrong. Baby powder and emptiness, the lavender-scented blankets still stacked up high on the table by the crib, vestiges of Just Jan and her tidy, almost architectural folding abilities. Sutton asked her once if she was into origami, and Just Jan had laughed and said no, she was just careful with her things, and her thick braids swung forward, two perfect, fat, winding snakes, and Sutton didn’t believe her.
OCD, maybe.
Was that safe for Dashiell, being around someone who was so precise?
And her inner voice reminded her she liked Jan, and Jan was good for Dashiell, good for her and for Ethan as well, and to stop being a jerk.
A week after Dashiell had died, Just Jan had offered to pack the nursery for her. Just Jan had thusly been sent packing herself, divested of her keys, the alarm codes changed, and a fat severance check in her back pocket. (Ethan’s doing. Sutton had tried to scratch her eyes out.)
There was no reason for Just Jan to exist for them anymore, anyway.
But now, Sutton was stuck, poor Sutton, all alone, in the doorway to her dead son’s room, having to make a decision. Close it down or keep it open?
Ethan, not surprisingly, had abdicated. He wouldn’t get near the nursery. He’d go down the back stairs to avoid having to step past the door, as if some unseen monster was going to reach out and grab him.
Sutton supposed there was a monster lurking inside their dead son’s nursery, jaws gaping, saliva dripping off sharp fangs. She wanted it to take her, to rip out her throat, leaving her unable to breathe on the floor, drowning in her own blood, and so she stepped inside, ready and willing.
Nothing happened. Just sadness, and emptiness. She didn’t die.
Isn’t that the problem with loss? You don’t get to go with death when it comes for your loves.
Suddenly industrious, she began putting things away, blankets into drawers, tiny blue onesies onto miniature hangers in the closet. They kept the diapers on the top shelf. With something so quickly used, so easily disposed of, she had never bothered unpacking them into the cute diaper box she’d received at her shower.
She reached for the cardboard. At the very least, she could donate the diapers to the shelter. Diapers weren’t part of her son’s life. They were generic, expendable, anonymous. She couldn’t get emotional about a fold of fake cotton meant for shit and piss.
She was tall, able to reach all but the last box. She grabbed the three-step stool from behind the closet door. Pulled the last one from the dark recess. Her knuckles brushed something hard. It fell over with a quiet clatter.
She dropped the diapers on the floor and climbed up one more step, so she could see. There was a bottle on its side, small, brown, a pink label. She picked it up and examined it. Children’s Allergy Relief. The bottle was nearly full, but not new. It had been opened.
Sutton’s heart began to race. She had not bought this medicine. So why was it here, in Dashiell’s closet, hidden deep in the closet, behind the diapers?
She clutched the bottle to her chest and snuck to her office. Ethan was around; she’d heard him banging on something earlier. He couldn’t see this. She needed to know. She needed to know, now.
The words on her computer screen, fractured because she was reading so fast. Not for use under 12 months. Excessive sedation. Overdose. Warning. Never give infants sedatives...
And because she had to torture herself, she typed in the words: infant overdose Benadryl symptoms. The results were immediate and overwhelming.
Death of Infant Attributed to Sedative Overdose
Babysitter Charged in Dosing Incident
A Mother’s Warning after Babysitter Murders Infant with Sedative
She clicked on the last story, scrambling now, heart in her throat. Read the piece. Saw the words that changed everything.
The babysitter claimed she put the infant down for a nap, and when she went to check on him, saw he was not breathing and called 9-1-1. The initial findings pointed to a SIDS death, but subsequent toxicology reports showed high levels of diphenhydramine in the infant’s blood. The babysitter was subsequently arrested on the charge of first-degree homicide. In her deposition, she admitted to giving the child the drug when he wouldn’t stop crying.
There was more, but that was all Sutton needed to see. The knowledge poured over her like freezing water. Her teeth began to chatter. She grabbed her arms to keep the shaking under control. She knew what had happened. Finally, she knew. She’d been right all along. The nagging suspicion that ate at her day and night and ruined her marriage, her life. The words that had been whispering through her brain for almost a year.
Ethan killed the baby.
Sutton didn’t know what to do. Should she go to the police, tell them her husband was a monster, that he’d killed their child? That he’d been abusing her? She had proof: she had the pictures of the bruises on her arm, the shots of her broken nose. All those times the police had come during their fights... She hadn’t called them, it was the neighbors who heard the yelling and tried to protect her from afar, something she’d always been livid about, but now, knowing she was living with a murderer, she was utterly grateful for their interference. What might have happened if they hadn’t called?
Ivy had warned her Ethan was volatile. That she should always have a plan, just in case. And now she understood why.
Ivy. Of course. She’d go to Ivy. She’d know what to do.
* * *
“I have something to tell you.”
Ivy poured the wine into Sutton’s glass, ruby liquid purling against the edges. Set the bottle on the table. Picked up her own glass and made a small salute. “Ching-ching. What is it?”
“It’s about Ethan.”
Ivy’s glass stopped moving, the wine tipped precariously. Then she took a long swallow. “What about Ethan?”
Sutton reached into her purse and pulled out the bottle of diphenhydramine.
“I found this. In Dashiell’s room.”
Ivy took it, turned it over, read the back. “Okay. What is it? You know I’m not the mother here.”
“It’s generic Benadryl. For allergy attacks.”
“Oh. Isn’t he a little young for this? I mean, far be it from me to talk about motherhood, but it clearly says on the label not to give it to children under a year old without a doctor’s supervision.”
The words spilled out of Sutton’s mouth in a torrent. “I didn’t buy it. I’d never give him something like this. I’ve never given him anything the doctor didn’t approve first, and those were just his vaccines. He’d never gotten sick, there is no reason for something like this to be in the closet. It was hidden. And after I found it...I did research. This drug can cause an overdose that would mimic SIDS. There are cases online where babysitters have used it to dose children and they’ve died. I think...”
“Wait. Hold on. Take a breath, Sutton. You’re going a mile a minute. You can’t think Jan would have—”
But she couldn’t stop, the words were there, on her tongue, glowing and pink, the moment they came out, the world was going to change.
“Not Jan. I think Ethan killed the baby.”
Ivy sat back in the chair, wineglass forgotten. “Sutton...”
“Hear me out.”
“No, wait—”
“I know what you’re going to say. ‘There’s no way. Ethan adored Dashiell. He’d never hurt him.’ But he has a dark side, Ivy. He’s not the man you think he is. I love him, he’s my husband, for better or for worse, but there’s a darkness inside him, sometimes he just turns off, goes blank, and the next th
ing I know, we’re not speaking to each other for days.”
Ivy sighed heavily. “I know. I know how hard it is. I know how bad it’s been between you. But this...to murder his own son. That’s beyond the pale.”
“Is it?” Sutton was furious now. She stood and paced Ivy’s small living room. “Is it so hard to believe? He’s punishing me. He’s always been jealous of Dashiell. God, he wanted that baby so badly, and when I gave him a child, instead of appreciating me for it, he was consumed with the idea that I loved Dashiell more than him. He never forgave me.”
Or was it the other way around? Had she not loved the baby enough to keep him safe? To see the predator lurking under their roof? The unspoken words imprinted in her brain almost as if someone was whispering them to her in the night.
He’s going to hurt you, he killed the baby.
He’s going to hurt you, he killed the baby.
She was rocking, panic rising, and Ivy’s arms were around her, she was crooning in her ear. She had no idea of time or space, just the overwhelming rush of blood roaring through her ears and her heart thumping so hard in her chest she couldn’t breathe.
Finally, she heard soothing words. “Shhhh, it’s okay.”
Sutton slowly came back to herself, calmed, her heart rate dropping, the tears drying.
“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, and Ivy released her.
“That was a bad one.”
“It was. I apologize. I’ve not been myself lately. I feel so on edge, all the time.”
“The medicine the doctor gave you, does it help?”
Sutton reached for her wine, took a huge gulp, a few more deep breaths. “Honestly? No. I feel like I’m buzzing all the time, like all my nerve endings are on fire. The only thing it’s been good for is the writing. The rest of it, I’m not sleeping, and I’m horribly jumpy. I have an appointment this week to go on something different.”
Ivy tucked her hair behind her ears. “Maybe it’s not the medicine. Maybe it’s your intuition warning you something’s wrong. Like you’re in fight or flight, can never relax?”
Sutton stared at her friend. “That’s a very astute observation. It’s exactly how I feel, like I’m in danger. Like I constantly have to look over my shoulder. I didn’t used to be this way.”
“Tell me the truth. Do you think you’re unsafe with Ethan?”
“I don’t know. Before this afternoon I’d say no, of course I’m safe. Yes, we fight, but I’ve never felt like he was going to purposely hurt me.”
“But he’s hit you in anger before.”
“He’s hit me by accident before. He’s never done it on purpose. There’s a huge difference.”
“That’s what all abused women say. What they tell themselves.”
“Seriously. I’m not deluding myself.”
“He’s abusing you, Sutton. He’s been abusing you since well before the baby died. I mean, come on, he switched out your birth control pills so you’d get pregnant. That’s practically rape.”
“You’ve told me that before. You’re a feminist, I get it. He apologized. Profusely.”
“For God’s sake, Sutton. Can’t you see what’s right in front of you? The man’s been verbally and physically abusing you. You find a random bottle of allergy medicine and decide immediately that he hurt your child. Your reaction should tell you something, even if your head can’t grasp the truth.”
“But, what if I’m wrong? What if I accuse him, and I’m wrong? He’d never forgive me.”
“Think about it this way. Say he did kill Dashiell. How long will it be until he tries to kill you? He’s already hurt you. It’s not out of the realm of possibility. You know this.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you this. We’ve all been worried sick about you. I’ve been worried sick about you.”
He’s going to hurt you, he killed the baby.
He’s going to hurt you, he killed the baby.
Sutton sat back, looked at Ivy with fresh eyes. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you say something?”
“What do you say to your best friend when she’s clearly not herself? You needed to come to this conclusion for yourself, not hear it from me, or the girls. You would never have listened if we came to you with this. You’d shut us out of your life, and I for one didn’t want that to happen. I wanted you to see the problem for yourself.”
Ivy was right. Sutton would have gotten her back up and told them all to go to hell. She’d defend Ethan to the death, even if she was furious with him.
She deflated. The pain and worry overwhelmed her, and she slumped into the chair. “What do I do?”
Ivy didn’t hesitate. “That’s easy. You leave.”
“He won’t let me go. He won’t let me walk away. Divorce is not in the cards.”
“Then you’ll have to figure out another way.”
AMERICAN WOMAN
Now
Sutton was a liberated woman. Smart, sexy, confident. Systematically broken down by the events of the past year, yes, but she was all these things, and more.
But the second she ran off after Constantine, her narrative switched. She became the same weak, mewling cunt her mother had turned into when she’d run off after the dogs she called “husband material.”
Sutton didn’t know why she did it. Revenge on Ethan wasn’t enough to debase herself like this. To bed someone she knew she didn’t truly want. It took her back to a time she’d rather forget, a time when she was indiscriminate, looking for attention and popularity any way she could find it. It had gotten her in a huge mess then and she had the same sneaking instinct that her actions of the past few days were going to have the same effect.
She was losing her nerve.
After everything she’d done to assure herself a clean getaway, a fresh life, a break from the world that intimidated and threatened her, lying under Constantine’s straining body all she could think of was going home. Slinking back to Nashville with her tail between her legs.
It wasn’t worth it, this. There was no medicine in the world, psychotropic, alcoholic, or sexual, that would fill the empty, gnawing hole in her.
She wanted her baby back. She wanted her husband back. She wanted her career back. She wanted her life back.
She wanted. God, she wanted. She’d spent her whole fucking life wanting. As a child, wanting to create. As a teen, wanting to fit in. As an adult, wanting to land the perfect man. And she’d finally achieved all the things she wanted, and she’d thrown them away. It had taken this empty affair to show her the way.
An hour later, feeling sore between the legs and sick to her stomach with self-hate, she had just enough respect left for herself to tell Constantine to leave.
Good night and goodbye.
He’d looked at her sideways, as if to argue, but kissed her chastely on the forehead and left, whistling, as she shut the door on him. He didn’t seem to have picked up on her isolationist thought process during their sex. Certainly hadn’t worried about pleasuring her. He was in it for himself, something she’d already known, but had to prove to herself yet again.
She cleaned up, made some peppermint tea to settle her stomach, decided to check and see if there was anything new on the murders of the poor kids at Sacré-Coeur.
Their deaths were the fulcrum. There was something so wrong about it. She felt violated, though she hadn’t had anything to do with them. Her adventure—and let’s face it, that’s what this had turned into, a vacation from her life, not a fresh start—was over when she heard they’d been killed. She couldn’t escape reality anywhere. People were always vicious, wherever they were.
The television was inside a cabinet. She hadn’t planned to watch it, ever, just in case, but now she grabbed the dusty remote and brought it to life. It was alr
eady tuned to France24; not surprising, since this flat had been a popular spot for American tourists prior to Sutton claiming it.
There was nothing new on the story, except the families had been notified, so they were now releasing the names of the victims. Rick Lewis and Lily Connolly. Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. High school sweethearts. Exchange students in England. Their families didn’t know they were in Paris. The girl’s mother was suspicious; the boy’s father posited they were probably getting engaged, because his son had told him he wanted to do something grand, sweeping, romantic. He wanted it to be memorable. They led quiet lives, in a quiet town, with a quiet future ahead, raising a quiet little family to live another quiet life. The exchange year abroad was the most outrageous thing they would ever do; they both knew this. Rick’s father, standing stooped and defeated behind a bank of microphones, said he was certain his son was giving his lifelong love a proposal she’d never forget.
Sutton snapped off the television, rushed to the bathroom. Was peppermint sick, kneeling on the hard black-and-white octagonal tiles. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth. Their deaths were horrible. Their deaths were meaningless. Their deaths inspired an idea.
That’s what made her ill, the horror of seeing the terrible story, the loss, the forever torment of absence that would exist for those left behind, and her awful writer brain immediately saw a path to a story that would capitalize on their suffering.
And so, she wrote. As the fine strands of sunlight danced around her head, she typed and plotted, she created. Creation was life to Sutton. Without the outlet, she would surely go mad. Perhaps that was the point of all art, truly, to eliminate the need for madness. And the poor souls who couldn’t surrender themselves to creation ended up ratty and homeless with tinfoil hats and lives lost to the wandering streets.
It was a romantic thought, that the work was divine and she was simply its channel. But she believed, as all great artists do, and gave herself up to the process.
Before Ethan, she’d had a method. A plan. A schedule.
After Ethan, she was happy to put those things on hold, to walk a different path. A path that led her into the darkness of death and loss, all over again.
Lie to Me Page 25
