Baggage

by S. G. Redling

  “Tell me what happened.”

  So I do. I tell her about Karmen hiding in the tub. I tell her about the knife and the hammer and money in the wall. I tell her about Hinton following me home. I gloss over the basis for Hinton’s suspicions and I leave out the newspaper article altogether. I don’t mention it but I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about it hard.

  Meredith scowls. “How could Karmen have killed Bobby? She was in custody.”

  I shake my head. “They let her out. Didn’t have enough to charge her.”

  I don’t listen to her complaints about how that’s impossible, how there has to be a way to prove that Karmen is innocent, that Karmen is just a child. I’m not listening because I’m thinking about Karmen’s reaction when I mentioned the hall closet. She didn’t know what I was talking about. How could anyone who had read that article, who had found that newspaper photo and left it for the police, not know why I was talking about the hall closet?

  But if Karmen didn’t leave that article for the cops, who did?

  Who knows about the closet?

  Hinton certainly does. She made no bones about her curiosity about me and secrets hidden in walls. Someone else had to know, too. Someone angry. Someone strong.

  My phone buzzes, shaking me from my stupor. It’s a text from Jeannie.

  On my way.

  Meredith is still talking, her voice buzzing in my head. She’s talking about hiding things and finding things and being wrongfully accused of crimes and needing to bring people to justice. I would dearly love for her to shut up but I’m afraid of where my thoughts might go if I’m alone with them. My phone buzzes again.

  Need anything? I can stop by Kroger.

  I know what I have to do. I have to look in the closet. There won’t be anything there but I have to look in the closet before Meredith stops talking, before Jeannie gets here, before my thoughts can poison me.

  Eleven boxes.

  I count them off from memory—two larger boxes on the bottom, on top of them, eight smaller boxes—shoeboxes and cardboard cartons—stacked and fitted together like a puzzle.

  On top of them, the new box. A boot box from American Eagle. The newest box. On top, in the center, not full. It’s almost time to pick up the letters, to scoop them up without straightening them and shove them into the box to seal it up on March 1. I know it’s half-full now. I know it will hold at least two more handfuls of letters.

  Eleven boxes all in place. Almost waist high. Almost half a wall. I hear my breath reedy in my nose as I count the boxes. Everything is in place. Everything is just as I left it.

  And then I see the stain.

  On the new box. The eleventh box. Brown. Reddish brown, seeping, staining. Like the stain on the tenth box, the box that had been on top last February in our little yellow house in Chattam. I remember staring at that box since I couldn’t stare at what was right in front of me. I remember wondering if the stains were on the outside of the box soaking in or on the inside of the box seeping out.

  I’m shaking, jerking, my shoulders are hitched high against my neck as I reach for the box. I have to force myself to look up, to look around in the closet, but this time there is nothing to see. This closet has a low ceiling, no high recesses to attach a bar strong enough to tie a rope. My cardboard wall is higher and my closet ceiling is lower but still that same stain is seeping and I have to see what it is.

  The envelopes rattle inside the box, my hands are shaking so hard. I back out of the closet. I can’t figure out how to hold the box and open it at the same time. It’s impossible that this box can be held in one hand. It’s so heavy. It doesn’t hold anything except envelopes but it feels like it weighs a ton.

  “What’s in the box, Anna?”

  I think Meredith asks me that. I can’t be sure since my breath is so noisy in my head and I’m shaking so hard I think my bones are going to break. I set the box down on the coffee table and it takes me a second to figure out that I have to let it go to put it down. My fingers are attached to the cardboard. They grip the edges tight but leave plenty of room for the stain.

  The cardboard almost tears when I yank the lid off. I look into the box, expecting to see straight into hell, but all I see are envelopes. Just envelopes piled up in no order. A few spill out over the lip of the box.

  But that’s not right. This box shouldn’t be full.

  And envelopes don’t seep.

  I don’t have the control to do this well. I shove my hands under the envelopes and my fingers grasp something soft. Something familiar. I lift the bundle from its hiding place, knowing the slippery feel of plastic and the sickening slide of flesh within it.

  A hand in a plastic bag.

  The bag is leaking.

  I was right. I opened the box and looked right into my hell.

  Meredith screams. She jumps back from the table and is fumbling in her purse. I can’t let go of the bag, the hand. It’s dripping and I’m shaking so wetness is spattering until I finally realize what’s happening. I drop the bag, toss it sort of, and it bounces on the rug, flopping over until the hand is palm up.

  The human hand is palm up on my carpet. Blood seeps from where the seal is open.

  I make it as far as my garbage can before vomiting.

  Then Meredith is there again, rubbing my back, pulling my greasy hair off my forehead. I can feel her hands shaking through my shirt but her voice is calm. Well, calmer-sounding than my panting and retching. She helps me to my feet and makes sure I’m steady against the counter before she lets me go.

  “The police are on their way,” she says, like that’s going to help.

  “Oh fuck, oh fuck.” It’s all I can say. I grip the counter, trying to control my shaking, when I see a solution for my nerves. I reach for a half-full wine bottle Jeannie and I must have forgotten about. I have no plans to pour it into a glass. I want it straight down my throat, but Meredith yells and grabs it from me.

  “No, no, no! No, Anna. Not now.”

  I would stop her if I could make my hands work but she gets the bottle away from me. She sets it out of my reach and holds me by my shoulders.

  “Anna, listen to me. You need to be sober now. You need to get a grip and get ready to tell the police what happened. How did that hand get there?” She’s watching me with that cautious look I’ve seen before. “Anna, do you know how that hand got there?”

  You know what’s weird? I haven’t asked myself that question. I’m shocked that the hand is there, but in a way, I don’t wonder why. My hell is in those boxes. Of course a hand would wind up there. I can’t say this to Meredith.

  She guides me back to the couch, taking the long way around the coffee table to avoid the mess on the carpet. She pushes me to sit, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a plastic bottle of Dr Pepper. “Drink this.”

  Gross, I think. I hate soda. It occurs to me that I might be going into shock. Meredith unscrews the cap and I take a deep drink. The bubbles burn my throat and it tastes like medicine but I keep drinking. The old habit of shoving something in my mouth for comfort kicks in. Meredith calms down as I drink, as if my thirst were the only concern in the room. She kneels in front of me as I drink, nodding, breathing loud sighs of relief.

  “Okay,” she says, “okay. This is under control.”

  That’s an odd way to look at it, I think, but I just keep drinking. My phone buzzes. Meredith holds her hands out to me, a wordless command to stay, as she picks it up. She doesn’t ask permission; she just reads the message.

  “Your cousin is on her way.”

  “Good,” I say. That makes me relax. I’m glad Jeannie’s on her way. It’s always better when Jeannie is around. My shoulders slump, the mostly empty soda bottle weighing a hundred pounds in my lap. I let my head fall back against the cushions.

  My relaxation must reassure Meredith that I’m not a danger t
o myself anymore because she stands up, hands on her hips, and nods her head. Another curl breaks loose and I smile at it.

  “You feel better knowing your cousin is going to be here, don’t you?” I nod and she heads to the kitchen, talking to me over her shoulder. “Of course you do. Everything is better with family, isn’t it? There’s nothing more important than family.” I nod. My breathing evens out and relief rushes in. I even close my eyes. I’m so tired. These past few days, the police and the questions and blood and boxes all tumble together in my mind until it makes perfect sense that I would have found that hand in the box. It feels inevitable.

  I jerk awake at the question that pops into my head. “Whose hand is it?”

  Before Meredith can answer, Jeannie storms through the door. She looks pissed.

  “Why aren’t you answering my messages?” She’s wearing gym clothes. The world’s going to hell but she still gets her workout in. She jabs a finger at Meredith. “And why are you here? You don’t need to be here, so why don’t you leave?” She marches into the room, staring at me. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you?”

  Nothing. There’s a severed hand in a puddle of blood in a plastic bag on my floor but at this moment it doesn’t seem to bother me. I don’t move as she steps closer. I don’t ask her to repeat herself when I can’t hear what she says. It’s weird; I don’t even react when I see her fall.

  Jeannie has fallen to the floor and she’s bleeding. Meredith is just standing there watching her. Oh, no she’s not. She’s holding something. A frying pan. That heavy one I never use.

  She smiles at me and then swings the pan again like a hammer down where Jeannie is.

  Then I understand. I know what’s happening. I’ve been drugged.

  I’ve felt this before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bakerton, Missouri

  February 17, 1997

  Anna Shuler, 11 years old

  Anna woke up in the tub. She jerked awake and splashed water over the sides. She couldn’t remember how many times she’d done this—wake up, drift off, wake up again—but she must have been doing it for a while because her fingers were pruny and the water was getting cold. Her teeth chattered and she forced herself to sit up with her knees against her chest.

  Her eyes burned and her hands hurt. She wanted out of the tub.

  Her body felt so heavy she almost couldn’t do it. She had to bend over and hang on to the edge of the tub to haul her feet out. Even then, once they were on the fuzzy mat, she couldn’t stand up right away. The room spun and Anna feared she would throw up. Again.

  Her throat felt raw and she tasted blood. Her tongue found scratches along the roof of her mouth. They hurt and her tongue wouldn’t leave them alone.

  She wanted her mother. All the towels in the bathroom were wet and piled up around the tub, so Anna walked out into the hallway naked. It was freezing out here, an icy wind rushing down from the living room like an indoor tornado. Her teeth chattered and wrapping her wet arms around her body did little to warm her. She wanted to go to bed. She wanted her mother to put her to bed. She was too old for that, but she wanted it.

  Something banged against the floor somewhere in the house. Anna leaned against the wall, her eyes closing despite the shivers wracking her body, and listened. It came from the back of the house, the closed-in porch her parents used as their studio. Her mother would be there, Anna bet. Her mother would get her a warm towel.

  In the living room she found out why the house was so cold. Someone had opened all the windows. Mom was going to be pissed when she found that out. She and Dad always argued about the heating bills. She said the house had to be insulated; he said it was a rental and wasn’t worth it. They must have had a fight, Anna thought, and Dad won because the windows were all open and she could hear the old furnace going.

  Maybe Mom wasn’t home yet. Dad had come home, hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t really think any clear thoughts. Even the cold didn’t feel right, like her body could feel it but her brain didn’t care.

  They must have had a big fight because the living room was wrecked. Someone had pushed the couch back crooked and the easy chair was knocked over. It had broken the lamp. There was a big stain on the carpet but without the lamp on, Anna couldn’t see what it was. She didn’t want to, either. She didn’t want to be in the living room. It smelled terrible. It smelled like the gas station. Then she saw the red can Mom used to fill up the lawn mower. Someone had thrown it against the wall. That must have been some fight.

  She followed the banging sound coming from the back porch. She could see through the glass in the door that her mom was working on something; she was bent over on the floor and her arms were pulling at something. All the windows were open in there, too. Anna’s hands were almost too cold to turn the knob but she finally managed to get the door open. If it were possible, it was even colder in here and it smelled worse, even with the windows open.

  “Mom?”

  When her mom spun around, Anna screamed. She looked like one of those voodoo priestesses Anna had read about in National Geographic. Her blond hair stuck straight up from her face, dark with sweat and streaked with something brown. Her arms and neck and face were streaked with black and shiny with sweat. How could she be so hot when it was so cold in here?

  Anna started to cry.

  “Oh Anna, no no no no no.” Her mom rushed to her, grabbing her with her filthy hands and pulling her close. Anna pressed herself against her mother’s warmth, wrapping her arms tight around her, crying now in relief. She wanted her mother to make a fuss over her. Her mother didn’t do that much and Anna couldn’t believe she’d gotten so lucky to get her mother’s attention when she needed it so badly.

  Her mother rocked her for a moment and then pulled back. Anna was scared her mom would be mad that she had disturbed her but instead she pulled an old Indian blanket off one of the shelves and wrapped it tight around Anna. It smelled like sawdust and turpentine and it scratched her skin, but it felt good to be covered. Her mother wrapped her tight and rubbed her hands quickly over her arms, warming her through the blanket.

  “You can’t be in here, baby. You have to go. You have to go.”

  “I don’t want to be in the tub anymore. I’m cold.”

  “Okay, okay.” Up close, Anna could see her mother wasn’t just sweating. Her face was smeared up because she was crying. “Everything is okay.”

  “Are you okay?” It was a dumb question because her mom had just said that, but she didn’t look okay. “I don’t feel good.” Her mom petted her hair and pressed her hand against her cheek and Anna opened her mouth wide. “My mouth is scratched.”

  “I know. I know.” Her mom talked really quickly and her voice sounded hoarse. “I’m so sorry about that, baby. I’m so sorry I scratched your mouth, but we had to get the bad stuff out of you. We had to get your tummy empty and I had to put my fingers back there so you’d feel better. I’m so sorry I hurt you but I had to get your tummy empty.”

  Mom was talking to her like a baby and Anna was embarrassed by how much she liked it. She wanted to be babied. She wanted to be wrapped up and put to bed, rocked and sung to sleep. She kept crying and her mom kept petting her.

  “Here’s what I want you to do, okay, baby?” Her mom held her face in her dirty hands and looked into her eyes. “I want you to go to the kitchen and eat some bread.” She talked over Anna’s protests. “I know your tummy hurts but you need to eat something. You need to eat as much bread as you can. You can have all the white bread you want. Will you do that? Will you be my good, good girl and go eat bread? And soon as I can, I’ll come in with you and we’ll eat all the bread. Okay? Will you do that? Will you be my good girl, Anna? Please? Please?”

  She didn’t want bread. She wanted to feel her mother’s hands on her face and she wanted her to keep looking at her like that. But she was afraid to say no. She wa
s afraid her mom would get mad and stop looking at her at all. So Anna nodded.

  She was glad she did because her mom kissed her forehead hard.

  “Oh, you’re such a good girl, Anna. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so, so, so much. I love you so much.”

  Anna would eat bread until she exploded to hear that.

  In the kitchen, however, with the bread in her hands, it was hard to keep that promise. Her stomach cramped at the first bite and she almost couldn’t swallow it. She pulled the milk out of the fridge and drank straight from the carton. It felt good on her throat although it also made her stomach hurt. It was warmer in the kitchen since none of the windows were open and Anna felt herself getting sleepy again. She wanted to lie on the rug under the table and sleep, but her mother had told her to eat and she wanted her mother’s praise again. She wanted that even more than she wanted to sleep, so she stuck the bread under her arm, wrestling to keep the blanket over her shoulders, grabbed the milk with her free hand, and headed back to her parents’ studio.

  Mom had closed the door behind her but the latch hadn’t caught and Anna was able to sneak back in unheard. She sat on the top step leading down to the porch and set the bread and milk down beside her. She pulled out a slice of bread and watched her mother’s arms working. Her mother had strong arms, Anna knew, from working with clay and metal and stone. She could bend any matter to her will to create the sculptures and figures that she said filled her dreams. Anna liked to watch her work but she couldn’t see from the step what she was making.

  A hose trickled into the drain in the center of the floor. The whole floor was wet and Anna could see where someone had mopped a wide streak through the water. She wondered why the water didn’t freeze with that cold wind blowing over it. Her mom knelt in the water like she couldn’t even feel it. That wasn’t unusual. When mom worked on her art, the whole world disappeared around her.