AllFreeNovel
Share Us
What I also didn’t want was a fight.
Ironic, considering what was in store.
“That’s a bold choice,” James remarked, causing me to jump. When I looked up, he was standing in the doorway, eyeballing my dress.
“Is it?”
“It looks great.” He smiled before taking a few steps forward and smacking my behind playfully. “As they say, fortune favors the bold.”
I watched from the mirror as he went into the closet and picked out a tie. He held it up for me to see. “What do you think?”
“Good choice,” I said, because I’ve learned. The less you say, the more your words will matter.
“Oh, by the way…I noticed the water bowl on the porch…it’s empty.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” he drawled. “Mind refilling it before we go? I’ve got to make a call to the off
ice.” He shook his head, as though trying to spring a thought loose. “Something completely slipped my mind.”
“No problem.” I checked my reflection once more, wiped my sweaty palms on my dress, and wondered how long I could keep this up.
James keeps feeding his dead cat, and I keep half-emptying the bowl. It doesn’t make any sense, this game we’re playing. If Leo really were eating the food, surely we’d have seen him by now. It seems my husband has been too preoccupied to consider this. That isn’t like him. He knows better. He’s not stupid. He’s a businessman. Stay vigilant. Trust but verify.
I’ve heard this happens to people whose family members go missing. For a long time after, they set out a plate at the dinner table, they leave their belongings as they were. Eternal signs of hope. Wishful thinking.
I long for that kind of idealism. It was knocked out of me a long time ago. Which makes me wonder if maybe I am more like my mother then I want to let on.
I recanted the story for Dr. Miller last week. It was the first time I’ve ever spoken about it, since it happened. To anyone. My husband included. Let’s just say James has a different perception of my childhood than the one I actually had. Anyway, Dr. Miller told me that I might consider putting it in writing. She thought it would help.
Imagine a naive little girl. A little girl that knows better, because she’s really not that naive at all. Except she is, because she believes the mommy. Imagine she’s wearing a brand new dress. It’s a thick dress. She can feel the weight of it still—corduroy, because winter is coming. She has tights to match. They’re itchy, and the little girl hates them. But the mommy tells her she has to wear them. After all, the mommy has worked so hard to put together the right outfit. It’s special, purchased just for the occasion. On the little girl’s dress is a stupid turkey. The turkey’s feathers are flowers. The little girl loves the dress because her mommy bought it and the mommy says she looks pretty.
Imagine the little girl, with her uneven blonde hair, smiling in her school photo. Picture her baby teeth missing, which she also hates because without them she can’t bite her fingernails. Instead, she’s taken to pulling out her hair. It’s disappearing nearly as fast as her teeth. Her favorite thing in the world is a dirty, stuffed bunny the mommy bought her at a yard sale. It cost a lot. The mommy said a nickel was too much for a girl who misbehaves. Her favorite food—fucking Pop-Tarts.
Imagine this wide-eyed little girl, all buckled into her booster seat. The mommy says a prayer and whispers that this is the last worst day of her life…that they’ll be together in heaven.
Picture the little girl smiling at her mommy because the mommy says they’re going to play a game. The little girl is supposed to close her eyes and count to a hundred, which the little girl has become very good at. Her daddy taught her.
The little girl does what the mommy says. If not, she goes to the closet, and the little girl is afraid of the dark. She counts to eleven before she notices the mommy is driving very fast. “Life in the Fast Lane” plays on the radio. The little girl knows all the words. The mommy really likes that song. Life in the fast lane / Surely make you lose your mind. The mommy hums along. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. The mommy rolls the windows down. The little girl feels the wind on her face. Twenty-two.
At thirty-six, the little girl feels the car accelerate. She thinks about telling the mommy to slow down, but she likes it when the mommy has fun. Sometimes the mommy isn’t fun. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she breaks the little girl’s things. Sometimes she doesn’t wake up.
Forty-four. The little girl’s eyes pop open. She doesn’t mean for them to—she doesn’t want to make the mommy mad— but the car hits something with a jolt, and she needs to know if the mommy is okay. She calls out for her. But the mommy can’t hear. The music is too loud. The little girl’s dress is getting wet. Her bunny isn’t beside her anymore. Water pours in around her. It’s cold and it’s dark. So very dark. Like the closet. But this isn’t the closet. She’s sinking. She forces herself toward the window. Her bunny is there. The little girl doesn’t know how to swim. She’s about to learn the hard way.
Chapter Seventeen
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
I lied when I said I didn’t love Laurel. To tell the truth, in some cases, is a dangerous thing to do. When you’re facing a murder charge, love is a powerful motivating factor. And, quite frankly, a complication I don’t need. To admit to Dr. Jones, or to anyone, that I was in love with Laurel, would suggest motive. Strong feelings always indicate motive.
Anyhow, there are different kinds of love. According to the ancient Greeks, there are eight different types. But I digress. The point is that attraction and desire—the ingredients that constitute love—are mysterious phenomena, ones even the most advanced scientists have yet to fully understand. Who among us hasn’t been blinded by the blanket of emotions that comes from falling down the precipice of union into love?
Obviously, with Laurel, our situation was complicated. I spend hours in here picking it apart, comb over everything that was said, sifting through everything that wasn’t, trying to piece it all together like a puzzle.
Some of the pieces are missing, while others don’t fit.
