In Her Eyes

by Sarah Alderson

  I knock on June’s door and turn the handle but I’m stopped by her shouting from the other side for me to hold on. I hear her scrambling around, opening and slamming a drawer, and a few seconds pass before she finally wrenches the door open. She’s pulling her robe on and she’s a little out of breath. ‘Yeah?’ she asks, using her body to try and block my view of her room.

  What is with my family tonight? Everyone has secrets all of a sudden.

  ‘I just wanted to see how you were feeling,’ I say. Her room is a mess – clothes strewn all about, her desk overflowing with books and drawings, the hamster cage looking like it hasn’t been cleaned in weeks. I think about speaking out, at least about animal welfare, but as usual I bite my tongue.

  ‘I’m fine. Better,’ she adds quickly.

  I give her a long, hard stare and place my hand on her forehead. She jerks out of my way. ‘Mom,’ she moans. ‘I’m fine, honestly. It’s just a headache. I took an Advil. You don’t have to worry about me all the time.’

  ‘It’s my job to worry about you,’ I say, kissing her on the top of her head.

  She doesn’t pull away this time, but lets me hug her. ‘I love you,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know,’ she sighs, ‘I love you too.’ There’s a pause and I smile to myself. Here it comes.

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘Should you always tell the truth?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘Well, what about that time you told Dad you loved the earrings he bought you for Christmas?’

  ‘I do love them.’

  ‘Then why do you never wear them?’

  I hesitate.

  ‘See!’ June pounces. ‘You just lied. You said you liked them and you don’t.’

  Hmmm. She’s got me there. They’re great big diamond drop earrings and when I wear them they make me feel like a chandelier.

  ‘And remember when you told me that I was only a little bit sick and there was nothing to worry about?’

  I make a sound in the back of my throat, knowing where this is going.

  ‘And it turned out I had cancer and was probably going to die?’

  ‘You didn’t, though, did you?’

  ‘But you and Dad didn’t tell me the truth.’

  ‘No, we wanted to protect you. And how would it have helped you knowing?’ I kiss her forehead. ‘There are times when telling the truth isn’t always the right thing to do.’

  She’s silent for a bit. ‘But how do you know when it’s right and when it’s wrong?’

  ‘Do you want to tell me what it is? Did Abby do something?’ I know last semester June caught her going through another girl’s bag in the locker room at school, something Abby denied when confronted – probably because if she’d admitted it, her parents would have sent her off to the Christian reform school they often threaten her with.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ June mumbles.

  ‘OK,’ I say, trying not to pry further. If she wants to tell me she will. ‘If you need anything let me know.’

  She gives me a smile and I feel a sharp tug on my heartstrings. She’s in that beautifully awkward in-between space – half girl, half young woman; long limbed and gangly, with pink-colored braces on her teeth, but her face is losing the softness of childhood and she’s starting to fill out her training bra. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want me to come in while she was getting undressed.

  I think about how I used to fear never seeing her grow up and before I can stop them, tears start to well up.

  June rolls her eyes at me. ‘Mom,’ she says, laughing, ‘I’m not dying, OK? Good night.’ She pushes me out of her room and I go, laughing too.

  I didn’t want June. When I found out I was pregnant I seriously considered an abortion. Hannah was ten and I’d just got my life back, had finally graduated from college – the oldest in my class at twenty-nine – and had scored my first job working in a museum, helping to run the arts program for school kids. Those two blue lines showed up like little daggers and slashed my dreams to pieces. I didn’t tell Robert at first. I wrestled with it on my own, and then with Laurie, even booking an appointment at Planned Parenthood, before I finally told him and he convinced me that we could do it, that we could find a way to manage. But, of course, when it came to it we didn’t have the money for childcare and I couldn’t go back to work.

  I waited five years, until June started kindergarten, and after applying for a dozen jobs I managed to find one working part-time on a terrible salary as an assistant arts educator for the Board of Education. I saw it as an entry position, worked my butt off and within six months was put forward for a promotion. On the day of my interview we found out June had cancer. Clear cell sarcoma of the kidney, to be precise. So that nixed that plan. The only thing I was promoted to was full-time nurse, mother and carer for the next four years – becoming an unpaid expert in the right angle to hold a cardboard bowl when your child is projectile vomiting and what to say to someone who is bald as an egg and asking you how they look.

  Not that any of it matters now. I’d give up everything, even my own life, for June – for any of the kids. In a heartbeat.

  I wander into our en-suite and turn the shower on, stripping out of my clothes and dumping them in the laundry bin. Once June was in the clear a career didn’t seem so important. We didn’t need the money by then and it felt like it was far too late, despite what all those articles in women’s magazines like to preach. But recently I have to admit I’ve been feeling the itch, the need for something more than bi-weekly yoga, managing the gardener, mind-numbingly dull PTA meetings, and watching back-to-back episodes of American Crime.

  I step into the shower and let the hot water sluice over me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take that walk down to the gallery in town with my portfolio. But even thinking about it makes me squirm. Just uttering the word portfolio, even in my head, makes me feel like a fraud. No one wants to look at my paintings.

  I reach for the shampoo and start washing my hair, and I’m just rinsing out the suds when I hear a scream.

  Chapter 5

  My heart slams into my chest like an axe into a block of wood. I turn the shower off and stand there, dripping. Did I imagine it? I strain to hear but there’s only a buzzing silence and I’m about to turn the water back on, putting it down to faulty pipes, when another scream tears through the house.

  June.

  I wrench back the shower door, skidding in my haste. I grab my robe, pulling it on as I race out into the hallway. The door to June’s room is wide open, the bedside light on, but she’s not there. I’m about to call her name – shout it loud – when I hear another scream from downstairs; a sound so gut-piercing that for a moment I can’t reconcile that it’s June, that it’s even coming from a human, because it sounds like an animal caught in a trap. I follow it, my legs elastic, my heart constricting tighter with every beat.

  Adrenaline flooding my body, I’m about to leap down the stairs three at a time when I hear Robert yelling, the words slurred and twisted: ‘Leave her alone!’

  I freeze instantly, gripping hold of the bannister. From this angle I have a partial view of the kitchen. A man in black is standing in the doorway with his back to me, holding June by the arm. She’s sobbing, trying to pull away from him. At first I think it’s Robert and wonder what on earth he’s doing but then the cogs turn and I realize it’s not Robert. It’s a stranger. In our house.

  What’s happening? I don’t understand. My brain goes blank, as though a plug has been pulled. But instinct takes over. I want to throw myself down the stairs and hurl myself at this stranger who has my daughter, who’s hurting her. I stop when I hear another voice – a second man’s – demanding: ‘Where’s the wife?’

  There are two of them. The one holding June looks up towards me and I let out a strangled cry. A monster with razor-sharp teeth stares back at me, blood dripping from his eyes. It takes a second before I realize it’s not a face, it’s a mask.

  Seeing m
e standing there, frozen at the top of the landing, the man lets go of June and lunges towards the stairs. My brain takes another second to kick in and he’s already halfway up before I manage to turn and run towards the bedroom. I can hear him behind me, his boots pounding, and when I glance over my shoulder he’s already reached the landing. Not looking where I’m going, I slam into a side table, grunting as pain explodes in my hip, making me stumble like a drunk.

  I throw myself, limping, into the bedroom and turn in panic to slam the door but I’m not fast enough. He’s there, right behind me, and he throws his whole weight against the door to stop me from shutting it. My bare feet slide on the carpet as I push back but I’m not strong enough. His foot wedges into the gap, prying it open. He’s wearing gloves – black leather gloves – and he’s holding a gun in his hand. It’s the sight of the gun, its blunt nose an inch from my face, that makes me let go and fall backwards.

  The door flies open and smashes into the wall, throwing him off balance, and I leap across the bed, towards the phone, thinking that if I can just reach it and dial 911 everything will be OK. But a hand grabs hold of my ankle, jerking me roughly back. He drags me off the bed and I land with a thump on the floor, smashing my head against the frame. I kick out blindly, stunned by pain, and try to crawl away, but the touch of cold metal to the back of my neck paralyzes me.

  ‘Get up,’ the man snarls right next to my ear. He’s breathing hard, and I’m hit with a blast of musky aftershave or deodorant mixed with the sour, sharp tang of sweat.

  Terror grips me. I can’t stand, can only cower with my hands over my head.

  ‘Move!’ he yells.

  He drags me to standing and pushes me ahead of him out of the bedroom. I pad down the hallway, unsteady, blood thundering in my ears. This isn’t happening. How can this be happening? Halfway down the stairs I start shivering violently and look down. My robe is hanging wide open. I draw the belt tight and knot it with shaking hands as the man prods me impatiently to keep going.

  Everything was so fast a moment ago – but now time has slowed to a viscous crawl. As I make my way down the stairs I feel as if I’m dragging my limbs through quicksand. What are they doing in my house? What do they want? How did they get in? I locked the garage door, didn’t I? And I set the alarm.

  I try turning towards the man, thinking I’ll reason with him. Surely this is some kind of mistake, this can’t be real, it’s something you read about in the newspapers, something that happens to other people in other places. But he jabs the gun hard into my shoulder blade until I turn back around.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper, trying and failing to hold back tears. ‘What do you want? Please, just leave us alone.’

  He doesn’t answer.

  In the kitchen I find the second man pointing a gun at Robert’s head. He is wearing a mask too. It’s a decaying skull.

  June is pressed up against the refrigerator, tears streaming down her face, and as soon as she sees me she throws herself on me, clinging tight, her body wracked with sobs. I hold her close, wrapping my arms around her, wishing there was some way of shielding her. My fear turns to anger before morphing back into plain, heart-pounding terror.

  The man with his gun trained on Robert is shorter, more wiry, than the other one. He’s vibrating with energy, pulsing with it, reminding me of a coyote we once found trapped in my parents’ garage. I see him glance over in June’s direction, down at her bare legs, and I push her as far behind me as I can, trying to block his view, even as panic crawls up my throat, strangling me.

  ‘You,’ the man shouts. ‘Come here.’ He points at June.

  ‘No!’ I shout as June cries out, clinging to me even harder.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Robert yells – though it comes out as a splutter and when I look at him I see that his lip is split and bleeding.

  The man responds by pressing the gun between Robert’s eyes.

  ‘Come here,’ the man repeats. An order, not a request.

  June shakes her head and buries her face in my shoulder.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he says, quieter now, wheedling. ‘I promise. I just want you to come with us.’ June still doesn’t move. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  June can’t answer him. She’s started crying again.

  ‘What’s your fucking name?’ he yells.

  ‘June,’ I hear myself say. ‘Her name’s June.’

  ‘June,’ he says, sounding it out. A shot of pure hatred pumps through me. I want to snatch her name back, rip it out of his mouth, tear it off his tongue.

  ‘OK, June, get over here.’ He says get like git. ‘Your dad’s going to open the safe, and you’re going to come with us to help.’

  Why do they need her to help? Will they threaten to hurt her if Robert doesn’t comply?

  June shakes her head at them.

  ‘Please June,’ I whisper in her ear. I make her look at me, force her away from my shoulder and take her face in my hands. ‘Just do what he says. OK?’ I can’t believe I’m telling her this, making her go to him. What kind of a mother am I? But what else can I do?

  June nods at me, her eyes brimming with tears, her bottom lip wobbling, and then she moves to stand beside Robert.

  ‘OK, lead the way,’ the man in the skull mask orders. He looks at the other guy, the one in the monster mask, and jerks his head at me – telling him to stay with me here.

  I catch Robert’s eye as he and June are frog-marched out of the kitchen – he looks terrified, blood painting his face into a mask as frightful as the ones the men are wearing.

  After they’re gone I stare at the man who’s stayed behind. He catches me looking at him and takes two fast steps towards me, bringing his gun up to chest height. I flinch backwards and stare at the floor – at the drops of blood from Robert’s lip – and press my own lips together to stop the whimper escaping. What do they want? Are they going to kill us?

  The man looks out, checking the hallway, and I glance up and scan the kitchen quickly. There’s the phone by the back door – but it’s out of reach. The knife block is within reach, just an arm’s stretch away. But then my gaze falls on the man’s gun. What good would a knife be against a gun?

  A scream from June makes my heart leap. The man takes a step out into the hallway to see what’s happening and I move towards the knife block. But then I stop short, catching sight of June out in the hall. She’s being pushed at gunpoint towards the stairs by the short man in the death mask. She’s crying hysterically but the man doesn’t care. Where’s he taking her? Where’s Robert? June trips on the first step and the man hauls her to her feet and shoves her forwards and up the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the other one yells.

  ‘Never you mind,’ the shorter one answers, pushing June up the stairs.

  Before I know it, my hand is closing around the hilt of a knife. I draw it out. It’s the biggest one – the carving knife.

  ‘Where’s your bedroom?’ I hear the man in the skull mask ask June as they reach the top of the stairs.

  June sobs so loudly I can’t hear her answer.

  I take a step towards the man in the doorway, who still has his back to me. I bring the knife up, about to slash it down and bury it into his back, but he senses me and turns. His arm swings up – the arm holding the gun – just as I drive the knife down with all my strength. He ducks but I manage to strike the top of his arm. The knife slices through his sweater like warm butter and he lets out a cry, dropping his gun. I jab at him once more and he stumbles and falls to his knees.

  I slash again, aiming for his face, and he jerks sideways to avoid me, smacking his head into the corner of the wooden island in the center of the kitchen. While he’s dazed I bring the knife down like a dagger, aiming for his chest, but he rolls out of the way just in time, kicking out with his legs and slamming me into the cupboard behind. The knife goes flying out of my hands, landing with a crash in the sink.

  He reaches for the gun on the floor. Somewhere in t
he back of my head I register that my hands have landed on the wooden chopping board – the one I bought just a few months ago at the farmer’s market and which Robert laughed was heavier than a gravestone.

  I’m not sure how I manage to lift it, but I do. It seems to weigh nothing and I swing it like a baseball bat and smash it into the man just as he levels the gun at me, catching him around the back of the head with a dull clunk.

  He goes down like a sack of lead and I drop the board with a clatter to the floor beside him. I stand over his body for a few seconds, shaking so hard my teeth rattle. June. Her name punches its way through the fog in my head. I make my way unsteadily to the kitchen door before remembering the gun. I turn around and go back for it and I’m out in the hall, almost at the stairs before I remember Robert. Where is he? What have they done to him? But I don’t have time to look. I keep moving forwards, towards the stairs, towards June. There’s a phone on the console table by the front door and I grab it and dial 911. A disembodied voice on the other end of the line asks me what my emergency is.

  ‘Help,’ I whisper. ‘There’re people in my house. They’ve got guns.’

  ‘What’s your address?’ the woman asks. ‘Ma’am?’

  I whisper our address as fast as I can and then lay the phone face up on the table.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ I hear her say, her voice tinny and far away. ‘Can you get somewhere safe until they arrive?’

  I don’t answer. I’m already halfway up the stairs. The adrenaline hits me in another wave, making me light-headed. I look down at the gun in my hands. It’s heavy. Heavier than I thought it would be. An alien object. I don’t know how to fire a gun. I slide my finger over the trigger.

  At the landing I take a step down the hallway towards June’s room. I can’t hear anything. Oh God. I whisper a prayer. Please don’t let him have touched her. If he’s laid a finger on her . . .

  I bring the gun up, hold it in both hands like I’ve seen them do in the movies, my finger clamped over the trigger. My chest feels hollow, my heart rattling around in it like a loose ball bearing. I take a deep breath and step forwards into June’s room.