She is trapped, she knows it, but she still wants to find a way out, a way to make this right. “Don’t you dare tell me what I want. You leave me alone with my daughter, let me talk to her, and then I’ll talk to you.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Leave. Us. Alone!” Lauren spits out the words, and the hate in her voice is enough to make Zack take a step back.
“You’re scaring Mindy,” he says quietly.
Mindy is scared, Lauren can sense this without even looking at her daughter. But it can’t be helped. She has to talk to her. She has to make her understand. The words keep playing in her head, Help her understand, let her love me again.
“Don’t make me do this. You have to leave now so I can talk to Mindy by myself.”
“Talk, Mom. Just...talk. But don’t do this.”
Lauren turns to her daughter, her joy, her life. Her gun arm is still raised, and with her turn, the nose of the weapon points at her daughter’s head. Mindy gasps and scrambles backward, but there is no place for her to go. She falls off the edge of the bed, and from outside the room, there is a flurry of motion.
As Mindy falls, and Zack dives to catch her, the dog sails into the air and latches onto Lauren’s gun arm, her sharp teeth puncturing the fragile flesh. The weight of the dog takes them both down.
Lauren screams her frustration, tries to pull free, but the strong jaws are clamped tight. The pain helps her focus on the unjustness of the situation. Mindy’s eyes are huge, staring at her from under the bed like she’s a monster, and the small parts of Lauren that are still hidden crack.
“Mindy,” she chokes out. “It was the only way. I want you to understand. I love you, honey.”
Zack is standing over them, shouting at the dog. He kicks the gun away, and whatever he’s saying makes Kat release her prey and back away. Lauren is hurt, stunned, bleeding heavily, and doesn’t make a move when the cops rush in and handcuff her.
She lost. She’s lost it all.
Zack steps between her and Mindy, and she is grateful. She doesn’t want Mindy to see all of this blood. Mindy can’t see the carnage. Mindy must be protected, still.
“Mom? Mom!”
“Mindy. It’s okay, baby. Mommy loves you.”
But she knows that finally, finally, it is over.
85
The shouts, the confusion, the look of naked longing on her mother’s face, it’s all too much. Zack lifts Mindy from the floor and gently places her back on the bed, and she immediately ducks her head under the blankets. Kat jumps up to cuddle beside her and barks once, sharp. She slips the blanket down and sees her mother’s blood staining Kat’s muzzle.
She has to look. She has to be brave.
Fingers twined in the dog’s fur, Mindy lifts her head. She will never forget the sight before her: her mother, bleeding profusely on the linoleum floor, the flesh of her arm torn apart. Zack, the avenging angel, standing over her, glowering. Two people she assumes are cops wrestling her mother into handcuffs. Her father is standing motionless outside the window as if he’s been frozen to stone.
Dr. Oliver is by her side now, shushing her, holding her head away, looking at her with a doctor’s practiced eye, shushing her again. She doesn’t understand why he keeps trying to quiet her; she isn’t saying anything. But she makes an effort to close her mouth, and the sudden silence is deafening; she has been screaming, she realizes, screaming one word over and over and over.
“No no no no no no...”
She says it one last time, a whimper, her voice hoarse. The crowd parts as Lauren is dragged to her feet. Mindy sees her mother’s eyes watching her, limpid and ice-cold at the same time.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s all going to be okay.”
The man with the skier’s tan is talking. “Lauren Wright, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Juliet Ryder—”
Her mom ignores him, her eyes latched on Mindy’s, her voice a mantra now: “It’s okay, sweetie. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll fix it all. Love you. Love you so much, baby.”
Dr. Oliver yells at them all to leave. Mindy’s head begins to swim, and she has a second to wonder how contaminated she is now—all these people—before the medicine Dr. Oliver has just shot into her veins takes her away.
86
VAIL HEALTH HOSPITAL
CURRENT DAY
LIESEL
I can’t help but think about the last time I was in handcuffs.
I haven’t thought about that night in a very long time. I never want to think about it again. But my daughter is staring at me as if I’m an animal, and the handcuffs are sharp on my bones, and there is no way I can go back there, to try to explain, to try to make it right for her.
I told the police what I’m telling you.
I had just finished a bath. Sated and calm, I was carrying the razor blade I’d been using to cut myself in the warm, embryonic water to its hiding spot—taped to the back of my dresser—where my mother would never find it.
My sister’s door was closed. I heard a noise. Sounds of a scuffle.
When I entered my sister’s bedroom and saw what he was doing, I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I yelled, “Stop!” He didn’t. So I ran the razor blade across his neck to get his attention. My sister’s eyes were closed tight. Blood splashed across her face.
He went down so quickly, blood spurting everywhere—on me, my sister, the rug, the walls. There was no way to hide what I’d done, no way to pretend something hadn’t happened. I recall the queasy nausea brought on by the coppery tang of his blood, the initial sense of despair coupled with triumph. I had stopped him. He would never hurt her—us—again.
I didn’t tell them everything.
I didn’t tell them that after I slit his nasty throat, I stood over him, his tainted blood purling on the crappy carpet, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water, and felt nothing but joy, a deep well of happiness that I’d never felt before, as I watched him die.
I didn’t tell them Juliet watched with me, eyes wide as an owl, blood dripping down her chin. Fifteen glorious minutes of watching him suffer, the best sister time we’ve ever had.
When it was over, I wiped Juliet’s face, gave her a dose of Benadryl, and put her to bed in my room. I washed my hands, which were covered in red, and my own face. I wrapped my arm in gauze, the cuts were very deep, and put on a long-sleeved shirt.
Then, I went back to Juliet’s room. His eyes were glazed. One lifeless palm cupped his chin, the other was on the floor. He’d moved since I left. I didn’t want to touch him so I kicked the bastard in the ribs to make sure he was well and truly dead. When he didn’t move, I watched him for a few more minutes, and then I went to wake my mother.
I didn’t tell the police that my mother stared at her husband for a full five minutes before taking me to the kitchen. That she sat me down at the kitchen table and poured a glass of brandy down my throat because I’d started to shake. Nor that we spent an hour talking about what to do.
My mother was in shock. She had no idea Bennett had turned his affections to her daughters. She was glad he was dead. She told me that. And bless her heart, she decided to take the fall. She decided to tell the police she killed Bennett Thompson, that she had caught him molesting Juliet and flew into a rage.
She wept when I told her what I suspected. My period was late. He was responsible.
Knowing that last truth, though, allowed her to be clear-eyed about the situation.
That beautiful woman was willing to go to jail for me.
I decided to let her.
She called 911. The ambulance came, and the police.
She told them what she’d done. That she’d caught her husband trying to rape her youngest daughter. That she’d grabbed the closest available weapon—a razor from the bathroom—and in a rage, cut his throat
.
They believed her, too. She was good. She didn’t embellish; she didn’t flinch.
It was Juliet who ruined things.
Juliet, who stood in the door of the kitchen, splashes of blood on her, drunk on Benadryl, weaving, nearly. I guess I gave her too much.
Juliet, who offered up the truth to the kind EMT. A single sentence that condemned me forever.
“Mama was in her room, and Liesel came to save me. Liesel cut him.”
My mother looked on helplessly as the police found the bastard’s blood under my fingernails.
An hour later, the police took me away, the metal sharp and cold on my wrists.
* * *
The courtroom was closed, no reporters, no witnesses, just my mother, the psychologist, the lawyers and the judge.
The judge felt badly, you could tell. Her reading glasses on a cord around her neck reminded me of my stepfather’s last red grin. I managed to keep that to myself. She droned on and on, tapping a pen on her blotter. She was pretty. Her forehead furrowed when she talked.
It all boiled down to this: There was nothing she could do. A man was dead by my hand. I had to be punished.
When she’d seen the row of cuts on my forearm, the psychologist who’d examined me figured out pretty damn quick why I had a razor blade in my hand when I’d happened upon my stepfather trying to rape my little sister. On the psychologist’s recommendation, the pretty judge sentenced me to inpatient treatment at Middle Tennessee Mental Health Institute for a period of no less than twelve months, to both punish my sins and help me right my ship.
For reasons unknown to us all, the pretty judge allowed me to spend one last night at home. I took advantage of the situation, slit my left wrist. This time, I used a kitchen paring knife. Better blade.
Do you blame me? I mean, I would much rather be dead than incarcerated with a batch of psychos.
My sister found me. The irony is not lost. She screamed for my mom, who was in the kitchen, alone, drinking Chardonnay from a large glass. Mom rushed me to the hospital though she shouldn’t have been driving, and the folks in the Emergency Room stitched me up, cooing softly all the while. The things I remember from that night are so strange. The pain of the blade; the cries of my mother, the gentle voice of the nurse; the flat, sharp eyes of the psychiatric resident, his no-nonsense, dispassionate shrug when I screamed.
Without a second chance to pack my things, I was admitted to the psychiatric ward. The hospital was informed of my upcoming incarceration, and my delicate condition, and it was determined I would serve my term there in University Hospital instead since I was already on site. There were people my age, and the intake nurse knew the judge well and put in a word for herself as a guardian of sorts.
I remember so little about those first few days.
The sting of the needle injecting me with liquid calm.
The roommate.
But the rest... I remember it all.
And I know all the letters by heart.
Especially the last one.
I hadn’t heard from her in a long while. V always got quiet and disappeared; it was just her MO. Then she’d pop back up.
I didn’t encourage her to stay in touch. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be friends anymore. She just reminded me of the worst time of my life, a time I wanted to forget, to bury. I didn’t want my sordid past affecting my life anymore.
But when she wrote me that last time, I had to help.
She was so disturbed. Depressed and unhappy and desperate to be free from this world. She wanted Mindy to have a chance at life, though. She wanted Mindy and Zack to be happy. I tried to help her. Truly.
I suggested she check back into University Hospital STAT. She refused. “I will never go back there. Never. But you can help me. You can help me go, and make sure the baby is all right until Zack comes back.”
It took some convincing, but I agreed to help.
Who could walk away from their child? No one in their right mind, certainly.
She didn’t deserve Mindy. I did.
87
July 2000
Dear Liesel,
I need to talk to you. I’m having a really rough time. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Or, I do, but I don’t understand. This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life, but it’s like I’m sinking, drowning in a deep lake of black. No matter what I do, I can’t get my head above the water, and I’m gulping down mouthfuls of hate and sorrow. I don’t know how to handle this. I am so tired of the blackness, of the sadness, of the horror of pretending to be a happy wife, a happy mother-to-be. I just want it all over. I’m alone. I am so tired. I need the baby out of me. I can’t take being pregnant another minute. I can’t take any of it. I don’t want this. I don’t want this life. Getting pregnant was such a mistake.
And Zack... I can’t stop thinking that there is always a chance he’ll ship off and never come back, that something awful will happen to him. He’s already been shot once. He says he’s going to resign his commission, but he’s an intelligencer through and through. I bet he won’t be able to. And if he dies, then I’ll be alone with a baby.
The medicines don’t work. The doctors care, but all the talk and compassion in the world can’t change me. It is my genetic makeup, not my fault. I stopped taking the meds when I found out I was pregnant, and I’ve been sinking deeper and deeper. I’ve tried using them the past few weeks, but it’s too late. They’ve never worked right anyway. They’re pointless.
The baby kicks inside me, letting me know she doesn’t care whether I live or die, just so long as she can be born.
She should have that privilege. Me, I just want to get her out of me. I want to move on, at last.
Please, can you call me? I need your help.
Love,
V
88
VAIL HEALTH HOSPITAL
It is embarrassing to Lauren, being handcuffed to the gurney like she is a common criminal. The sting of the lidocaine injection makes her flinch, but she sits, stoically silent, as the ER doctor cleans and stitches her arm. Thirty-five stitches on top and bottom from the fucking dog bite, more from where she’d fallen, catching her shoulder on the counter when the dog attacked. She hadn’t even felt the blow; she was completely focused on Mindy’s forlorn, frightened face.
She didn’t mean to point the gun at Mindy.
God, she really didn’t.
In a life defined by impetuous moments and accidental actions, this will haunt her forever. The gun was meant for her, and her alone.
Thirty-five new stitches, to go along with the forty she’d received when she was a girl. She’d told everyone in her life her scar was from a car accident, from her arm plunging through the windshield. Looking at it now, under the glare of the hospital lights, the thin, pale line, straight as an arrow from wrist to elbow, the edges only slightly raised, she is thrown back in time again.
The knife, running through her flesh like butter, the skin parting, the moment of emptiness before the cut fills with blood, the light, airy feeling of her blood pressure dropping, the happiness that she isn’t going to be humiliated any further. The inky darkness, full of peace. The ride to the ER, the siren, the lights. The wrenching horror when she wakes, bandaged. The long walk to the ward.
Vivian.
All roads lead to Vivian. All memories, all love, all hate, rise from the specter of their combined past. Why can’t the bitch stay dead?
Two Vail police officers stand watch over her; their CBI fellow is in front of the door talking animatedly to the Nashville cops. Jasper has joined the group outside in the hall; she can hear his voice demanding to see her. At least Jasper won’t desert her. Jasper will never desert her.
The silent doctor gives her a pill to swallow—“For the pain”—and she takes it gladly. Even with the lidocaine numbing her
tender, torn flesh, the dog bite itself hurts like hell. Deep in her body, her soul hurts worse.
When she finishes gulping down the tiny cup of water, she says, “I need to speak to the police. Let them in, please.”
The doctor looks at her in surprise. “You’re sure? Most people in your situation would rather me run interference.”
“I want them, now.”
“Okay.”
He flings back the privacy curtain and disappears into the hallway. The group comes in immediately, clearly curious as to why she’s asking to see them.
“Who will be in charge of prosecuting me?” Lauren asks.
“You have the right to an attorney,” the ski bum starts to say, but she cuts him off.
“I am waiving my rights. There are witnesses. I need to talk to the person in charge.”
“Then that’s me. But I ain’t talking to you without giving you a Miranda warning.”
Jasper immediately goes red with fear and fury. “Lauren, shut your mouth right now. You can’t talk to them until the lawyers—”
“I am going to talk to them. You can stay, or you can go, but I’m going to talk to the police now. I waive my rights.”
“Lauren, the drugs they’ve given you are messing with your mind. I will represent you...”
She shakes her head slightly and smiles sadly. “No, you won’t. I have to do this, Jasper. Please.” And to the cop standing at the foot of the gurney—“Sir, mister... I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Special Agent Stockton. CBI.”
“Agent Stockton, I would like to confess to the murder of Vivian Armstrong.”
Jasper starts to shout. “Do not say another word, Lauren. Not a word. I want it on the record my wife has been given painkillers, that extenuating circumstances exist, she hasn’t been Mirandized, that this confession is illegitimate—”
“That sounded pretty legitimate to me, sir. Please, step back, or I’ll have someone do it for you,” Stockton says.
Tear Me Apart Page 37