The Other Mrs.(85)

Beside the knife sits a hole that the dogs have carved into the earth.

The dogs dug up this knife. This knife was buried in our backyard. All this time, they’ve been digging into the backyard to unearth this knife.

I glance quickly back to the house. Though in reality I see nothing, just barely the softened periphery of the house itself, I imagine Otto standing at the kitchen window, watching me. I can’t go home.

I leave the dogs where they are. I leave the knife where it is. I don’t touch it. I limp across the yard. My feet tingle from the cold, losing feeling. It makes it hard for them to move. I lumber around the side of the house, missing my footing because of my frozen feet. I fall into snowdrifts and then force myself back up.

It’s a quarter-mile hike to the bottom of our hill. That’s where the town and the public safety building are located, where I’ll find Officer Berg.

Will said to wait. But I can no longer wait.

There’s no telling what time Will will be home, or what may happen to me by the time he is.

The street is barren and bleak. It’s saturated in white. There’s no one here but me. I shamble down the hill, nose oozing with snot. I wipe it away with a sleeve. I’m wearing only pajamas, not a coat or a hat. Not gloves. The pajamas do nothing to keep me warm, to protect me. My teeth chatter. I can barely keep my eyes open because of the wind. The snow blows from all ways simultaneously, constantly airborne, swirling in circles like the vortex of a tornado. My fingers freeze. They’re blotchy and red. I can’t feel my face.

Off in the distance, the blade of a shovel scrapes a sidewalk.

There’s the littlest bit of hope that comes with it.

There is someone else on this island besides Otto and me.

I go on only because I have no choice but to go on.



MOUSE


In the middle of the night, Mouse heard a noise she knew well.

It was the squeak of the stairs, which had no reason to be squeaking since Mouse was already in her bed. As Mouse knew, there was one bedroom on the second floor of the old house. At night, after she was in bed, there was no reason for anyone to be upstairs but her.

But someone was coming up the stairs. Fake Mom was coming upstairs, and the stairs themselves were calling out a warning for Mouse, telling her to run. Telling her to hide.

But Mouse didn’t have a chance to run or hide.

Because it happened too fast and she was disoriented from sleep. Mouse barely had time to open her eyes before the bedroom door pressed open, and there Fake Mom stood, backlit by the hallway light.

Bert, in her cage on the bedroom floor, emitted a piercing screech. She rushed under her translucent dome for safety. There she held still like a statue, mistakenly believing no one would see her on the other side of the opaque plastic, so long as she didn’t move.

In her bed, Mouse tried to hold real still, too.

But Fake Mom saw her there, just as she saw Bert.

Fake Mom flicked the bedroom light on. The brightness of it overpowered Mouse’s tired, dilated eyes, so that at first she couldn’t see. But she could hear. Fake Mom spoke, her voice composed in a way that startled Mouse even more than if it wasn’t. Her steps were slow and deliberate as she let herself into the room, when Mouse wished she would come running in, screaming, and then leave. Because then it would be over and through.

What did I tell you about picking up after yourself, Mouse? Fake Mom asked, coming closer to the bed, stepping past Bert and her cage. She grabbed Mouse’s bedspread by the edge and tugged, revealing Mouse in her unicorn pajamas beneath, the ones she put on without anyone having to tell her to put them on. Beside Mouse, in the bed, was Mr. Bear. Did you think that picking up after yourself didn’t mean flushing a toilet or wiping up after you piss all over the seat, the same seat that I have to sit on?

Mouse’s blood ran cold. She didn’t have to think about what Fake Mom was talking about. She knew. And she knew there was no point in explaining, though she tried anyway. Her voice trembled as she spoke. She told Fake Mom what happened. How she tried to be quiet. How she didn’t want to wake Fake Mom up. How she didn’t mean to pee on the seat. How she didn’t flush the toilet because she knew it would be loud.

But Mouse was nervous when she spoke. She was scared. Her little voice shook so that her words came out unintelligibly. Fake Mom didn’t like mumbling. She barked at Mouse, Speak up!

Then she rolled her eyes and said that Mouse wasn’t nearly as smart as her father thought she was.

Mouse tried to explain again. To speak louder, to enunciate her words. But it didn’t matter because Fake Mom didn’t want an explanation, whether an audible or inaudible one. The question she’d asked, Mouse realized too late, was rhetorical, the kind of question that doesn’t want an answer at all.

Do you know what happens when dogs have accidents inside the house? Fake Mom asked Mouse. Mouse didn’t know for sure what happened. She’d never had a dog before, but what she thought was that someone cleaned the mess up, and that was that. It was done. Because that was the way it happened with Bert. Bert was forever pooping and peeing in Mouse’s lap, and it was never a big deal. Mouse wiped it up, washed her hands and went back to playing with Bert.

But Fake Mom wouldn’t have asked the question if it was as easy as that.

Mouse told her that she didn’t know.

I’ll show you what happens, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and pulled her from bed. Mouse didn’t want to go where Fake Mom wanted her to go. But she didn’t object because she knew it would hurt less if she just went with Fake Mom than allowing herself to be pulled from bed and dragged down the squeaky stairs. So that was what she did. Except that Fake Mom walked faster than Mouse could walk, and so she tripped. When she did, she fell all the way to the floor. It made Fake Mom angry. It made her scream, Get up!