After Nightfall

by A. J. Banner

“Thank you, that helps,” I say, sipping the strong coffee, grateful for a double shot of caffeine. “But I didn’t actually catch him in bed.”

  “Only in a hotel room in an intimate embrace with his sister-in-law.”

  “Don’t forget he had a perfectly plausible explanation.”

  “You’re being facetious, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest.”

  “Whoa, okay.”

  “I don’t want to believe the worst about everyone,” I say.

  “You don’t. You trusted him.”

  “You’re right, I did. I just need time.”

  “Take plenty of it.” She gets up and heads for the door. “Enjoy your morning. I have class in five minutes.”

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I call after her as she leaves.

  My first appointment is with an eight-year-old girl named Fria Walters, who was in speech therapy for six years before I diagnosed her with a cluttering disorder. I try to clear my mind before she tiptoes into my office. She sits across from me at the blue table in the corner, the binder of visuals between us. She keeps fidgeting, slouching in her seat.

  “Good morning, Fria. How are you today?”

  “I’m good,” she says softly, turning to the right, then the left. Stretching her arms above her head.

  “Let’s practice our sentences. Remember what we learned? Take each card in order, left to right. Nice and clear. Take your time. I’ll record you on my iPad.” I open the app and click record.

  “I want,” she says, placing the first card in front of her. Second card: “to order a . . .” and then, the third card: “cheese pizza. I want to order a cheese pizza.”

  “Beautiful,” I say. But the words of her next sentence—“For dinner, I want to eat some pasta”—pile together in a heap.

  “How did that sound to you?” I say.

  Fria shrugs.

  “Let’s listen to it. Then you can tell me if it was smooth or bumpy.” I hit the play button in the app, and she listens.

  “Bumpy,” she says and sighs.

  “I’ll read the cards, and then you try again. You were a little rushed at the end there.”

  She keeps fidgeting, stretching her arms to the sides, sliding down, sitting up, kicking her legs. But she listens to me, and she tries again. And succeeds.

  “Excellent,” I say. “You’re working so hard!”

  After Fria, I breeze through my session with a boy who struggles with the /r/ phoneme. And a seven-year-old student named James, who spends ten minutes explaining his emotions, and how he talks just fine when he’s around his friends.

  “When you talk to a new person, what happens?” I say.

  “I get stuck. My words get stuck,” he says, gripping the arms of the chair. He leans to the right side, then the left, jumps to his feet, sits down again. “But only when I’m worried.”

  “It’s good to know yourself. You’re very observant.” If only I knew myself, or the people I love, as well as James understands his own speech disfluency.

  As the hours fly by, I find my rhythm. My sadness fades into the background. A busy day helps to dull the pain. But when Anna walks in gripping Rianne’s hand, my emotions rise to the surface. Why is Rianne here? Normally, students come in on their own, directly from class. Maybe she has a bone to pick with me. Or worse, a bone to break into pieces. Julie was right; I should refuse to treat Anna. I hold my breath, then consciously exhale, forcing a smile.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” I say, hugging Anna. She hugs me back tentatively. Rianne gives me an anxious smile. I let go of Anna.

  “We should talk,” I say to Rianne. “I don’t think I should—”

  “Please,” Rianne says. “Anna’s been waiting to see you. I’ll be out in the hall.”

  “All right,” I say, trying not to sound alarmed. What’s going on here?

  Rianne leaves, closing the door gently behind her. Anna takes her usual chair at the table, an echo of the past. I remember Nathan peeking in the window, then striding in and stealing my breath away. Anna’s radiant smile. But now, many months later, she’s shuttered and silent.

  “How do you feel about being back here again?” I ask her.

  She says nothing, looks down at her lap. Unlike every other student I’ve seen today, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t fidget. She’s a frozen child.

  “Would you prefer to see someone else?”

  She looks at me wide-eyed and mouths the word no.

  “You’re okay being here with me?”

  She nods and nods, her eyes still wide.

  “Anna, do you want to tell me about your speech, your fluency?”

  She barely breathes. She looks out the window.

  “Have you been having trouble speaking fluently?” I say.

  She nods, still looking at her lap.

  “What’s on your mind? What are you feeling?”

  She looks at the ceiling, kicks her heel against the chair leg.

  “This is hard for you, being back here, but it’s okay. We’re going to work this out.”

  Her mouth opens, closes. Nothing comes out.

  I point to a visual aid on the wall. “Remember what we learned? Take in enough air . . . easy onsets, light contacts, connect the words.”

  Anna shrugs, looks out the window. I try a few more questions, show her some pages, but she’s disconnected, silent.

  “Why don’t you step out in the hall and let me talk to your mom for a minute?”

  She gets up and slinks out the door. Rianne comes in, twisting her hands together, biting her lip. I close the door behind her. “What’s going on with Anna?” I ask.

  “She’s been talking less and less, and apparently she hasn’t been talking at school. You have to do something.”

  “My thought is, we should bring in some other—”

  “Anna is perfectly capable of speaking,” Rianne snaps. “It’s just all of this—everything.”

  “I understand,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

  “Why can’t you work with her again? Fix her stuttering?”

  “I want to, but . . .”

  “You did such a good job before.” Rianne lowers her voice to a fierce whisper. “My daughter needs to talk again. You know how kids make fun of her. Now she’s not even communicating. You know what you’re doing.”

  “But I may remind her of what happened in recent days. And her dad and I—”

  “You’re not back together with Nathan, are you?”

  “No,” I say, “but—”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “We’re no longer dealing with stuttering. Anna is choosing silence here, with me. I’m not able to diagnose—”

  “She needs to get back to normal.” I can see the desperation in Rianne’s eyes, her helplessness. I can’t let on that I feel the same way.

  “Why don’t you talk to Nathan about taking her to see—”

  “A psychologist? She wouldn’t be happy about that, and neither would I.” She paces back and forth across the tile floor.

  “I can’t force her to speak. I’m going to remove myself from Anna’s treatment, under the circumstances. But I can refer you to someone else. I’ll talk to my supervisor, and we’ll work something out.”

  Rianne sighs and squares her shoulders. “Thank you. Well. This is probably the best course of action.” She turns on her heel and stalks out.

  I sit at my desk, collecting my thoughts, trying to calm my confusion. The day is over, students rushing down the hall in a stampede. What could have happened to push Anna into silence?

  My office contracts around me, the air suddenly oppressive. I can’t bear to stay in here. I get up and head for Julie’s classroom, a rainbow of colors, paintings and drawings, ceramics and collages. The smells of crayons and glue mix with the lingering salty, tangy odors of the young children who’ve just left.

  Julie is at her desk, on the phone. She waves to me. I look at the drawings on the walls, the imaginat
ive musings of children giving me comfort. Until I see an illustration at the end of the row, with Anna’s signature at the bottom, and my heart begins to thump. She has drawn a bizarre picture, moody and ominous. The question is, what does it mean?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Julie hangs up the phone. I motion her over to the picture.

  “What is this?” I say. “It’s beautiful—but so bizarre.”

  “I thought so, too. One of my exercises was to have the kids draw a picture of a family, a house, and a tree.” She points. “That’s Anna’s interpretation.”

  “A dark sky and a two-story house with no windows,” I say. “But Nathan’s house has windows. Rianne’s does, too. So, whose house is this?”

  “I asked her. She said it was nobody’s house and she accidentally forgot to draw the windows.”

  “Did you mention this to her parents?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t think of it . . .”

  “Windows are symbolic. They give views, a way out . . . a way in. Curtains over windows, privacy. What house in the world doesn’t have windows?”

  She shrugs, staring at the drawing. “A house without windows offers no view. Possibly no escape. Or maybe it’s not about escape, but it’s about not being able to get in. I don’t know. I’m not a shrink.”

  “But there’s a door,” I say, pointing.

  “Yeah, but it could be locked.”

  I point to the shadowy figure of the man in the picture, standing next to the house. “He’s tall. Almost as tall as the tree.”

  “She said that was the dad but not her dad.”

  “Then whose dad?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “The woman. She’s large as well. Very . . . tall. And dark. A silhouette. Who is it?”

  “She said it was just a lady, apparently.”

  A tall woman. Could it be Hedra? I point at the third person in the picture.

  “It’s the kid,” Julie says. “But she won’t say it’s her.”

  “Am I missing something? She doesn’t appear to have any hands.”

  “She said she forgot to draw them. But she knows how to draw hands.”

  “This is disturbing. A child with no hands. A child who feels powerless?”

  “I bet you’re right. Didn’t I say you’re intuitive?” Julie removes the picture from the wall, puts it on her desk. “I’ll mention it to her parents. And the other one. But the other one isn’t as much of a worry, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “What other one?” I say, my stomach flipping.

  Julie leads me to the other side of the room, to a series of sketches on another wall. “I asked the kids to imagine the world in five hundred years. An archaeologist digs up history in their backyard. What would be found? These students are so creative. We used markers and oil pastels to draw objects that might be buried. When we finished, we painted over everything with a thin layer of watercolor, so it looks like the objects are all underground.”

  “These are fabulous,” I say. “Toys, books, shoes, chocolate bars?”

  “You know, nothing ever breaks down in a child’s mind.” She points to another stylized painting. “Anna’s try at it. This is what would be in her yard. Butterflies and phones.”

  Butterflies and phones. I look at the picture, and the shapes leap out at me. I step in closer, hardly daring to breathe. “Oh my God.” I touch the paper, the image underground, the box. “That looks like her jewelry box. It’s missing from her room. I thought she took it to her mother’s house.”

  “A jewelry box, huh?” Julie cocks her head to the side, squinting at the painting. “I thought it was her imagination running wild, creating an underground box from which butterflies are escaping.”

  “The butterfly pattern is on the jewelry box. They’re monarchs. Her phone is underground, too.”

  “Yeah, a future archaeologist will find jewelry boxes and phones. Go figure!”

  “You don’t understand. Anna’s iPhone is missing, too. Rianne got her a replacement phone.”

  “This is five hundred years in the future,” Julie says.

  “No, I think it’s now. I’m pretty sure Anna buried her jewelry box. And her phone.”

  “What? But why?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  In the car, I search through my purse for my key ring, which holds my car keys, cottage keys, the key to my post office box, and the key to Nathan’s house. I still have it. I call him. No answer. I leave a message, tell him to meet me at his place. As I drive to Cedarwood Lane, the afternoon grows blustery and bleak. Winter frets at the edge of autumn, waiting to barge in.

  I park in the empty driveway, duck against the wind on my way to the kitchen door. I feel a jolt of sadness. This could have been my home, here with Nathan and Anna. If not for . . . I can’t think about it now.

  The house smells slightly of burned macaroni and cheese. In the kitchen, I find a crusty pot soaking in the sink. Otherwise the house is neat, just a jacket thrown over the couch, the usual shoes jumbled by the front door. Unread newspaper folded on the table in the foyer. The guest room is untouched, as clean and tidy as it was when I last left the house. Nathan’s bedsheets are rumpled on one side, the other side smooth. In the bathroom, his toothpaste, shaving cream, and hairbrush are scattered across the countertop.

  I peek into Anna’s room. Her bed is made, her books and mementos lined up on the shelves. Her desktop looks neat, the photograph of the three of them still taunting me. I think of the dirt on the windowsill, her muddy pajamas. The missing jewelry box, her missing cell phone. Anna, hiding in the tree house, cutting me out of a photograph.

  I grab a spade from the stuffy toolshed, slip around to the back of the house. Outside Anna’s window, the ground is scuffed, her footprints still visible in the dirt beneath the eaves, where the rain can’t reach. What if she climbed out the window and crouched behind the privet bush in her bird-print pajamas? And buried her jewelry box and her phone? If she did, why?

  I start digging in the dirt below her window. It doesn’t take me long to hit an unyielding object. On my knees, I brush dirt off the jewelry box and wrench it from the ground. It’s in a sealed plastic bag. No, three plastic bags. My heart pounds through my skull; my gut twists. Rain spits down, a cold wind pummeling the trees. I fill the empty hole with dirt, smooth over the soil, clean the spade and put it away. I stamp the dirt off my shoes before going inside the house.

  “What’s in here, Anna?” I say aloud, removing the plastic bags, wiping off the jewelry box with a clean towel. I place the box on the coffee table. I try to open the lid, but it’s stuck. No, locked. But it’s a toy lock, maybe easy to pry open. My phone rings. Nathan.

  “What are you saying about Anna burying the jewelry box?” I hear sirens in the background, yelling.

  “She drew it in Julie’s art class,” I say.

  “What?” The sirens grow louder.

  “I’m at your house. Come back as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “We should talk—”

  But he has already hung up.

  Damn it.

  I go to the kitchen for a knife to pry open the jewelry box. On the countertop, I find a business card, a black-and-white image with a shiny pearl-themed background. The words on the left read “Divorce Attorney”; the address and telephone number are on the right. On the bottom, in blue pen, someone wrote, Hedra, Friday, 2 p.m. An appointment? No doubt. Hedra plans to meet with a divorce attorney, Arthur Nguyen.

  Of course. He thought he saw two shadows beneath the motion sensor light. A divorce attorney, hired by Nathan and Hedra. What could he know?

  I throw on my coat and boots and jog up the road to his house. Evening is falling. The rain has stopped for now. Light shines in the dining room window; his red BMW sits in front of the garage. I take a deep breath, head up the walkway. The bell echoes through the house. Bert yaps in the distance
. I look up the street; no sign of Arthur. The barking seems to be coming from the backyard.

  I cup my hands to the window next to the door, peer into the dimly lit hallway. The light in the kitchen is on, too. I see the edge of a stainless-steel refrigerator, the corner of the dining table. I knock on the door. “Mr. Nguyen!” I call out. “Mr. N!”

  No answer. I turn the knob. Not locked. A creak as the door swings open. I step into the foyer, trespassing. But people have been doing a lot of trespassing lately. A lot of crossing lines. “Mr. Nguyen! Hello! It’s Marissa Parlette! You know, Nathan’s fiancée?” As if I needed to announce this now-defunct fact. “Former fiancée,” I mutter. Still, no answer.

  I survey the gaudy interior furnishings, the dark colors, kitschy statues, mementos from his travels. Rows of photos line the bookshelves, showing his three daughters, his wife, who left for California. Maybe they got sick of Arthur representing philanderers. I know I’m bitter, but I can’t help these thoughts.

  If he’s not here, why is his car in the driveway? Why is Bert barking somewhere in the backyard, the front door open, the lights on? Something doesn’t sit right. I retrace my steps, hurry out the front door, race around behind the house, down the slope. A white shape hurtles toward me. It’s Bert, dirty, tangled—a mop of a little dog.

  I kneel to pet him. “Bert, it’s okay. Where’s your dad?” Usually, Arthur walks Bert on a leash, keeping him close. I turn toward the house—the back door is open, a triangle of light spilling out. Arthur never lets Bert run loose. Bald eagles often circle overhead. They’ve been known to pick up small dogs.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside,” I say with growing unease. I pick up Bert and carry him back into the house. I head back out to the garden. “Mr. Nguyen!” I call out, my heart beating, beating. I follow the path past his vegetable patch.

  “Mr. Nguyen,” I call out again, heading for the pond. Something is there. Floating. I run, losing my breath. I recognize his red-and-white plaid shirt, billowing outward, his hat, a halo of dark hair. A body. Arthur Nguyen is floating facedown in the water. “Mr. Nguyen! Somebody help!” I call 911 on my phone. “This is Marissa Parlette,” I say when the operator comes on the line. “Send an ambulance to the corner of Cedarwood and Waterview Roads in Tranquil Cove. Arthur Nguyen lives here. He’s in the water, facedown.”