“That’s not nice.” He gagged, wiping off her face with her shirt, then mopping his own. Jesus.
Tess saw his moment of weakness and, moving at the speed of sound, twisted away and ran.
“Tess! Come back! Get back here, honey!”
She answered in a war cry that made his blood run cold. Miller knelt there a minute, feeling a hundred years old. Even the air was heavy, pressing him down. Then, wearily, the sharp smell of urine thick in the air, he got up to follow.
The house was ominously silent. “Tess? Sweetie? Want some breakfast?”
She hadn’t gone outside (the house had a coded alarm system, thanks to past experience).
“Tess? Daddy’s going to have some waffles. Do you want a waffle?”
Nothing.
He looked in the kitchen cabinets, the pantry, the broom closet. No Tess. Living room, den, under the couch, behind the chair, behind the curtains.
Aha. A sound. A small sound, unlike Tess.
Where was the cat? Shit. Where was the cat?
It was insanity, having a pet when your child might be a sociopath. But Luigi predated Tess. Miller and Ashley had gone to the shelter after the adoption fell through—the seventeen-year-old birth mother changed her mind and wanted to keep the baby. Another memory, the two of them sitting in the car at the pet shelter, holding hands, Ashley crying, so beautiful even in her grief, Miller helpless. As if a cat would help.
But Ashley had chosen Luigi, who was essentially a limp bag of organs covered in long, silky fur. He was the mellowest cat in the world. He used to drape himself over Ashley’s legs and purr for hours. Even though she more than deserved it, Luigi had never scratched Tess. A study in self-control, old Luigi.
If the adoption had gone through, they wouldn’t have gotten a cat. Maybe a puppy for their son, that other baby.
If the adoption had gone through, maybe Miller and Ashley wouldn’t have had Tess. They would’ve devoted themselves completely to their son, their long-awaited child. They’d talked about names, hopefully, almost in a whisper, presciently afraid to believe their luck. Evan. Morgan. James would be the middle name, after Miller’s father, who had died the year before.
If that teenage twit hadn’t changed her mind an hour after giving birth, Tess wouldn’t have been born, and Ashley would be alive.
That son would be five now, about to start kindergarten.
Instead, Miller had a baby he really couldn’t take care of but had to keep just the same. It was shameful to admit how many times he’d wanted to put his child up for adoption.
“Tess? Honey? Daddy misses you.”
There was the sound again. Yep. Definitely a mew of despair. “Remember how we talked about being gentle with Luigi, honey?”
Still no answer. She wasn’t in the hall closet.
He opened the door to the half bath, and there was his naked daughter, smearing the cat with Desitin.
“Shit.”
“Shit,” Tess echoed. Then she smiled up at him, and there it was, that tiny flicker of hope that he could love her. Those little teeth, her pink cheeks and brown eyes, her snarl of curly hair that he could never brush out. “Kitty pretty now. You go away. I no want you, Daddy.”
The flicker was doused.
You’re so lucky, people said at the funeral. You’ll always have a piece of Ashley. At least the baby’s healthy. Her mother’s an angel now, watching over from heaven. She’d have wanted it this way.
Fuck that. Seriously.
A hundred and seventy-eight minutes till he could drop her at Judith’s.
Miller swooped down and took the cat away from Tess, getting a wail of rebellion from his daughter, a twist of fury in which she flung herself against the floor, clunking her head. Her rage cry changed to a pain cry, and grew in intensity.
“Sorry, pal,” Miller said to Luigi, tossing him in the cellar and locking the door. The cat’s misery would have to wait. At least he was safe. Miller kind of wanted to lock himself in the cellar, too.
He picked up Tess, who fought to get away, and felt her head. A lump was rising there. Back to the kitchen for a bag of peas, rendered useless when she tore the bag and they clicked and bounced on the floor. Since she was already furious, he carried her back to her room, dressed her against her will, hating that she was so strong and he had to grip her so hard. He tried to mop up her face, which was streaked with Desitin, tears, diaper bits and mucus, both dried and fresh. Then he put her in her car seat, which he always brought in the house, since he could buckle her in it. Brought her in the bathroom and wedged the seat in the linen closet so she couldn’t flip herself over.
Miller got undressed and took a shower. Tess cried the entire time. When he buckled her in the sturdy high chair and attempted to give her breakfast, she smeared the honeyed pieces of waffle in her hair, then threw them at him. When he offered her milk in her blue cup, she said, “No blue!” so he got her the green cup, which she then threw. He turned on the TV, hoping Big Bird could work his magic, and packed her lunch, as well as a bag of Cheerios and a banana. Judith would hate that she hadn’t eaten, would hate that she had to supervise breakfast on top of all she already did.
He heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. Tess was heaving herself in the high chair, scootching it to the counter. Before he could get to her, she grabbed his cell phone and threw it down.
“Tess, no throwing,” he said, dragging her chair back. He picked up his phone. The photo that served as the phone’s wallpaper was a picture of Ashley and him on their tenth anniversary, and now a jagged crack ran right through the middle of Ashley’s face.
I hate our daughter, he told his wife silently. I hate her. Your fault for dying.
Tess was digging her spork into the padding of her high chair. Good. Let her. She didn’t deserve a nice high chair. Let her have one that was stained and tattered and ripped. Like her father’s soul.
A hundred and thirteen minutes left.
He went into the dining room, where Tess couldn’t see him, and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes until the impotent rage faded.
His daughter was only three. She hadn’t meant to kill her mother.
She was Ashley’s child, too, and some days that was the only thought that kept Miller from walking out forever.
He took her out of the high chair.
“Time to brush those pretty teeth,” he said.
Of course, Tess hated having her teeth brushed. She clamped down on the toothbrush, which was rough with bite marks.
“Your teeth will hurt if we don’t brush,” he said. “Come on. I’ll sing the ABCs and you brush, honey. Let go of the brush. Stop biting it, honey.”
He twisted it until he was afraid he’d break her tooth. Well. If her teeth were busy clenching that brush . . . he took his own toothbrush and managed a few swipes of her tiny little teeth before she caught on and screamed, which made it easier to get the molars.
“Shit!” he said as she bit him. “Okay, we’re done.”
Back in the car seat. More crying. When he and Ashley had bought this house, they’d had to gut it, and, being in construction, Miller had known that really good insulation was a must. Good thing, because otherwise the nice Oliveras family next door might move.
Once again, Miller wedged Tess’s seat in the linen closet and went to get Luigi, who was sticky and miserable.
“I’m so sorry, pal,” he said, filling up the sink with warm water.
Unlike Tess, Luigi didn’t mind baths. Miller lathered him with baby shampoo a few times, then combed out his fur. Tess was silent, having fallen asleep, so at least there was that.
He tried not to feel so guilty that he liked the cat so much better than his kid. Giving the cat a bath made him feel paternal and gentle.
God had a twisted sense of humor.
By the time Luigi wa
s Desitin-free and purring, Tess was awake. “I hungry, Daddy!”
“Should’ve eaten your waffles, then,” he said. No way was he caving into her tyrannical demands.
“Shit. Shit! Shit!” she yelled.
He knew she learned the word from him, and felt guilty. She was hungry, so he couldn’t blame her. He made her another waffle. She took one bite, then winged it, Frisbee-like, into the living room, where, unerringly, it hit the TV screen and stuck there, then slid down, the honey leaving a sticky trail.
An eternity later, Miller grabbed the backpack of clothes and diapers, wrestled Tess back into the car seat and carried it out to the Jeep, getting his hair yanked in the process, and finally, finally headed over to his mother-in-law’s.
Tess was quiet as he drove. Miller glanced in the rearview mirror. She had what he thought of as her serial killer face on—oddly pleased and . . . well . . . plotting.
“Daddy loves you,” he said, thinking of his dead wife.
She ignored him.
When he lifted his daughter out of the car seat, she was stiff and resistant. At least she didn’t head-butt him, which she did often, and which hurt them both.
“Hey, Judith,” he said as his mother-in-law answered the door.
She sighed. “Hi, Tess.” He put his daughter down and she ran inside, yelling a greeting to her grandfather. Something crashed. His father-in-law’s sharp voice reproached her.
Ashley had been an only child. Judith was only sixty-two, but she looked fifteen years older these days. Miller had hoped, after Tess’s first few months, that his in-laws would beg him to let them raise Tess.
No such luck. She’d been colicky and fitful. After colic came teething. Now that she had her molars, it was something else. Growing pains. Inability to verbalize emotions. Demonic possession.
“Listen, Miller,” Judith said now. “I can’t do this much longer. I’m sorry. We’re exhausted. You need to put her in day care or get a nanny.”
Five day care centers had kicked Tess out. Three nannies had quit.
“I understand. Uh . . . I’ll look around.”
“We’ll give you a couple of weeks, but we’re just too tired.” Her eyes held all the accusations he felt himself . . . Why hadn’t he saved Ashley somehow? Why hadn’t he sensed something was wrong?—your fault, why didn’t you, you should have—and Miller felt his soul die a little more.
“It’s fine. I appreciate all your help, I do. I’ll pick her up at five.”
“Try to come earlier.”
“Will do.”
He got back in the car and sat there for a few seconds. He’d have to go home at lunch and clean up the disaster that was his house. Maybe take a nap. But since Ashley died, Miller felt as if he hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time. It wasn’t just Tess. It was reliving the last moments of his wife’s life. It was the helpless terror that one day he would hurt Tess in a moment of weakness or exhaustion, shake her or slap her, and if that happened, he would have to give her up, and he would’ve failed his wife and become a man who hurt a child, hurt his child, which was something he knew would ruin him more than he was already ruined.
It was guilt, because he suspected Tess knew exactly what he was thinking. It was the bone-deep belief that if Tess had a father who loved her, she would be a different child.
CHAPTER 6
Genevieve
The first time I realized something was off was this past January.
It was Friday, and Friday meant cocktails with the Jamesons and Smiths, my neighbors, and Miller. Donelle was once again complaining of a swollen toe, so it was I who made the drinks. I suppose I didn’t mind. No one could make a better martini than I could, either, so really, the “swelling” served us all well.
My precious little Pomeranian, Minuet, lay on her red pillow on the window seat, watching the snow fall in the most adorable way, head cocked, her black-and-tan fur shining and clean, a perfect example of what a dog should be. The other dogs—Mac, Allegra, Carmen and Valkyrie—were all bigger and sloppier, and for cocktail hour, I banished them to their playroom in the basement. It was hardly prison—a carpeted room with seven dog beds, several dozen dog toys, a view of the lawn and, tonight, the full moon rising over the Sound.
Just last week Donelle had taken down the Christmas decorations—well, she watched as the people Miller had sent over took down the decorations. Miller himself was staring into a scotch, since the poor man didn’t appreciate a good martini.
I was feeling rather festive; ironically, the taking down of the holiday decorations always made me feel happy. Four Christmas trees, the garlanded mantels and doorways, wreaths on every door and window, candles galore, the trees along the drive all wrapped with white lights . . . simply overseeing that was a great deal of work. Christmastime was just one more thing I had to do. The expectations of my holiday décor were high, of course; just last year, Sheerwater had been featured in Martha Stewart Living. (Martha was such a dear, though I did not understand her affection for the man with the long hair and silly name. Sloopy? Snoopy?)
Sheerwater was also the pièce de résistance on the Stoningham Wassail Walk, in which dozens of local residents held candles and walked through town, caroling at certain stops, my home being the last. Donelle served spiced apple cider and donuts, and we let people in to gape at my house, which was, admittedly, impressive.
Then had come the dreaded Christmas dinner with Clark and what’s-her-name, his latest floozy. What was her name? He introduced her as his “girlfriend,” to which I’d said, “Really, Clark, you’re not fifteen, and she’s hardly a girl.” Amber. No, Topaz, that was it. Some cheap gemstone. At least they hadn’t stayed over, though dinner lasted an eternity. New Year’s Eve was a holiday I loathed, as it marked another year without Sheppard and Garrison, and yet I attended the historical society’s annual party as usual, making small talk, sipping champagne as if surviving the passage of time was something to be celebrated.
But now, the house was put back to order, and Minuet was entertaining us by simply being herself. The Smiths, an attractive younger couple who had the grace not to ask too many questions or be too familiar, which was why they were regulars on my guest list, had made themselves comfortable. They hadn’t known me when Sheppard was alive, so there was no demeaning sympathy in their eyes.
My boy had loved Christmas.
I was indescribably relieved not to have to listen to holiday music anymore. One can only stand Handel’s Messiah so many times, and certainly not by caterwauling pop stars who have no gift for phrasing. At the moment, Debussy’s piano trios were playing over the sound system (another favor from Miller), and the house felt clean and welcoming.
Donelle was regaling Kim and Mark with local gossip—new money buying the Josiah Green house and planning to tear off the back to make an all-glass wing. As if I’d allow that. I was president of the Stoningham Historical Society, and we’d never approve such a tacky addition. Anne and Alesia, the veterinarians, were coming a bit later, and the Talwars, who summered and spent the holidays in Stoningham, had returned to their home in New Haven, so it was a smaller group than usual.
“How are those martinis coming, Genevieve?” Mark asked. “Need any help?”
“Of course not, but thank you, dear,” I said. Mixing a good cocktail was an art form, and while Mark was a nice enough person, he did things like add fruit juices and, once, a maraschino cherry. I shuddered at the memory.
I looked down at the bar cart. The gin—Hendrick’s (far superior to any gin, really), the vermouth (Noilly Prat, of course), and a bowl of lemons.
Then something happened. I was holding an ice cube in one hand, a long-handled silver spoon in the other. There was a small pitcher half-filled with ice already. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure what I’d been doing. Who’d put all the ice in the pitcher? Had I? Why?
The evidence was there . . .
gin, vermouth, lemons. We were having martinis. And I was making them, but though I’d done this hundreds, thousands of times before, I was suddenly . . . blank.
The ice was starting to hurt my hand. Why was I holding an ice cube? And the lemons . . . should I squeeze them? Make lemonade? Should I start cutting them up? Those didn’t sound like the right things to do, but I wasn’t sure what was.
“Allow me,” said a voice, and I startled. Miller, that nice Miller. He took the ice cube from my hand, smacked it with the bar spoon (bar spoon, yes, that was it!) and added the chunks to the pitcher. Repeated the action a few times, then poured some vermouth into the . . . the . . . the little oddly shaped cup. Jug? Trigger? No, jigger. Jigger.
“Four-to-one ratio, if I remember?” he asked.
“That sounds about right,” I answered, though I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. My heart was hammering, and as I smoothed back my hair, I noticed my hand was shaking. “I go by instinct.” My voice, at least, sounded the same.
He smiled a little, and I remembered that he was sad, though I couldn’t remember why. “I’m sure you do,” he said, pouring the gin into the pitcher. Was that how to do it? I couldn’t remember anything. Anything! The skin on my throat began to burn with humiliation.
“Lovely to see a man who knows how to make a good martini,” I said, faking some chatter. “Manners being what they are today. Make sure you teach your child the art of a perfect cocktail.” Did he have a child? Dear God! What if he didn’t? Why couldn’t I remember?
“Well, she’s not quite three, but I’ll add it to the curriculum.”
“One can never start too soon.” My voice shook a little.
He smiled again, stirring the mixture.
Then, suddenly, my hand was reaching for the lemon and the knife, and I sliced off a thick section of peel—a twist, that was it, a generous length, because I liked my martinis with a good spritz of lemon oil.
Life and Other Inconveniences Page 6