The Other Mrs.(78)

She continued on to her bedroom and climbed into bed. There, in her bed, she talked to her real mom, same as she always did. She told her what Fake Mom had done, how she had hurt Mouse and Mr. Bear. She told her real mom how she was scared and how she wanted her father to come home. She said it in her head. Mouse’s father always told her that she could talk to her real mom whenever she wanted to. He told her that wherever she was, her mom was listening. And so Mouse did. She talked to her all the time.

Though sometimes Mouse took it a step further than that and imagined what her real mom said back. Sometimes she imagined her real mom was in the very same room as her and they were having a conversation, like the kind of conversations Mouse had with her father, the kind where he talked back. But that was only pretend. Because there was no way to know what her mother said back, but it made Mouse feel less alone.

For a while Mouse felt satisfied knowing her stomach had food, though three butter cookies was hardly the same thing as dinner. Mouse knew those cookies wouldn’t hold her off for long. But for now, at least, she was content.

For now, she could sleep.



SADIE


“How are you feeling?” Will leans over me and asks.

“Not good,” I tell him, still tasting vomit in my mouth.

He tells me to sleep in, that he’ll call me in sick to work, and drive the boys to school. He sits on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair, and I want to tell him about the washcloth. But I can’t say anything to Will when the kids are just down the hall getting ready for school. Through our open door, I see them move in and out of the bedrooms, the bathroom.

But then a moment comes when they’re all in their bedrooms, out of earshot, and I think that I’ll come right out and say it.

“Will,” I say, the words on my lips, but then, just like that, Tate comes scampering into the bedroom, asking Will to help him find his favorite socks. Will grabs him by the hand, catches him before he has a chance to jump on the bed.

“What?” Will asks, turning toward me.

I shake my head, tell him, “Never mind.”

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

Together Will and Tate go to leave, to head to Tate’s bedroom in search of the missing socks. Will glances over his shoulder as he leaves, tells me to sleep as long as I can. He pulls the door closed behind himself.

I’ll tell Will later.

I hear Will, Otto, Tate and Imogen moving about in the house. From upstairs I hear ordinary, everyday conversations ensue about ham-and-cheese sandwiches and history tests. Their words come to me through the floor vents. Tate tosses out a riddle, and by God, it’s Imogen who answers it, Imogen who knows that in the one-story blue house where everything is blue—blue walls, blue floor, blue desk and chairs—the stairs are not blue because there are no stairs.

“How did you know?” Tate asks her.

“I just knew.”

“That’s a good one, Tater Tot,” Will declares, his nickname for Tate, as he tells him to find his backpack before they’re late for school.

The wind outside is ferocious. It flogs the clapboard siding, threatening to tear it right off the house. It’s cold in the house now, the kind of cold that gets under the skin. I can’t warm up.

“Let’s get going, guys,” Will calls, and I rise from the bed and stand at the door, listening as Tate noses around the coat closet for his hat and boots. I hear Imogen’s voice in the foyer with them. She is riding along to the ferry with them, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s only the weather’s doing, but I can’t help but notice the irony of it. She’ll let Will drive her to the ferry, but not me.

Suddenly all I hear is feet, like the rush of animals, before the front door opens and then closes again, and the house is nearly still. The only sounds are the whistling of the furnace, the rush of water through pipes, the wind scourging the outside of our home.

It’s only after they’re gone that I rise from bed and leave the room. I’ve only just stepped into the hallway when something catches my eye. Two things actually, though it’s the doll’s marble-like eyes that get my attention first. It’s the same doll of Tate’s that I found in the foyer the other day, the one he carried roughly to his room at Will’s request.

She’s perched at the edge of the hallway where the wooden floor meets the wall. She sits nicely on her bum, wearing floral leggings and a knit print. Her frizzy hair lies over her shoulders in two neat braids, hands set in her lap. Someone has found her missing shoe.

Beside the doll’s feet is a pencil and paper. I go to it, reaching for the scrap of paper.

I brace myself, knowing what it is before I look. I turn the paper over in my hand, seeing exactly what I expected to see on the other side. The same crying, dismembered body as on the drawings I found in the attic. Beside the dismembered body, an angry woman clutches a knife. Charcoal blobs fill in the excess white space, tears or blood, though I don’t know which. Maybe both.

I wonder if these were here early this morning when I carried the laundry down. But it was dark then; I wouldn’t have seen if they were. And on the way back up, I was nauseous, running to the toilet, barely getting there in time. I wouldn’t have noticed them then either.

I wonder if Will saw these things before he left. But the doll he’ll have assumed was Tate’s and the drawings were upside down. He wouldn’t have seen the content.