A Woman Alone

by Nina Laurin

  She drives the car into the garage, where it looks like some futuristic spaceship beamed it down here by mistake, and gets out. She enters the house proper through the door in the back of the garage.

  “Mom?” she calls out. But her mother is in her room, asleep. She’s been going downhill for years now, after one tragic event too many has eroded her spirits too much to fight against her illness.

  Jessica checks on her, standing in the door of the small bedroom, breathing in the smell of staleness and medicine. She listens to her mother’s breathing, wondering if she’s imagining it and her mother is long gone. When that happens, she won’t be able to refuse SmartBlock housing either.

  She should open the window but instead, she cranks the AC and leaves the bedroom door open a crack so the air circulates. She heads to her own bedroom, hardly bigger than a closet, where her single bed takes up most of the space. There’s another room she could occupy but she doesn’t dare. It’s been standing untouched for years now, and it’ll remain that way until her mother breathes her last.

  So Jessica has been living in the smallest room since she was a child. Back then, the room looked so much bigger than it was. There are still posters on the walls of bands teenage Jessica had crushes on, and her bedspread is pink, somewhat faded from many washes. Only very few people know she lives like this.

  She draws the curtain that she opened this morning out of sheer habit and undresses, taking off the IntelTech uniform and laying it carefully out on the bed. She has five sets, hanging in the corner of her closet under plastic covers. Every weekend, she has them dry-cleaned and pressed, ready for the week to come. Mechanically, she smooths out every crease, even though it’s unnecessary. The laundry place will do it much better than she can.

  Then she takes off her bra and underwear. Believe it or not, they’re part of the uniform, and perhaps she’s being overly cautious but she can’t take chances. She gets a different pair of underwear from a drawer and forgoes the bra altogether. From her closet, she takes out a different set of clothes, an outfit that would probably give Clarisse a heart attack: ripped black jeans, a snug, cropped shirt, and on top of it, an oversize jean jacket. Then big, clunky boots, which are more of a necessity than a fashion statement. The contrast with her work attire is too shocking—she’s unlikely to be recognized.

  With the same idea in mind, she puts on her makeup: dark eye shadow, mascara, pencil, and lipstick in an ugly red-brown shade that doesn’t flatter her skin tone. This is all deliberate.

  Finally, she reaches to the very back of her closet, where an old backpack sits slumped under a pile of old sneakers. From it, she retrieves a bracelet that she casually slips onto her wrist. Its elastic band is snug, too snug, but she’ll put up with it, rubbing her hand every once in a while, flexing her fingers. What looks like a big metal buckle settles right where her chip is embedded.

  She’s no longer smiling Jessica from IntelTech, assistant to Clarisse. She’s now just Jess.

  Then, after a last look at her mother, who still hasn’t stirred, Jess heads back to the garage. Leaving the pretty white car, she gets on her motorcycle, an aged but trusty Kawasaki Ninja.

  With a roar of the engine, she pulls out of the driveway onto the street, and within minutes, she’s gone from sight.

  * * *

  When I arrive at the day care, it’s the middle of the rush. The moms and dads who work have all gotten there at the same time to pick up their offspring. Taryn ignores me for as long as humanly possible, seemingly so absorbed in assembling a puzzle on the floor of the main room that she doesn’t see me. Except she’s three years old and not very skilled at deception. I see her gaze dart toward me several times before fleeing anxiously back to her puzzle. I have to call her name three times before she gives up the charade and starts to trudge toward me.

  There’s no need for the teachers to verify just who’s picking up the kids because the microchips do that at the entrance. Still, one of them oversees the scene with a serene smile.

  That smile falters when she sees me. As I help Taryn put on her jacket and shoes, I practically feel her staring. Yet she doesn’t come up to me or acknowledge me in any way.

  “Are you going to say bye to your friends and teacher, Taryn?” I try in a honeyed voice.

  Taryn remains sullen, pretending she hasn’t heard.

  “Taryn, wave bye and let’s go.”

  But she’s standing still, with her jacket half-buttoned and her shoes with their Velcro straps open. She looks spaced out. “Taryn?” When I glance up, the teacher is still staring, and for the first time, it occurs to me what they all must be thinking after that scene yesterday. It wasn’t just Taryn watching—all her friends were too. And I, of all people, know how parents talk when they’re at home and think no one can hear. But the kids always can. They’re like little recording devices that will play back your embarrassing pronouncements at the worst possible time. Like when the mother-in-law—or worse yet, the boss—comes over for dinner. And it didn’t even cross my mind that Taryn might be mocked or bullied because of the accident. God knows I remember what it’s like to be labeled the kid with the crazy mom.

  “Sweetie?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”

  Taryn’s gaze refocuses at last. She looks at me with a kind of clear calm that’s almost eerie, too adult for her features. “I don’t go with you,” she says in a soft but clear voice.

  I frown. “What do you mean, you don’t go with me?”

  “I don’t go with you. I stay.”

  This again, I think, gritting my teeth. “Taryn, you can’t stay at day care. It’s closing. Everyone is going home. You don’t want to be left all alone here when it’s all dark and empty, do you?”

  “I stay,” she repeats, and her voice rises in volume just enough for me to start to break out in a cold sweat.

  “No,” I say firmly. “You can’t stay. You’ll come back tomorrow and play with all your friends again. But now we have to go home.”

  “No!” This time, her cry is high-pitched, resonating through the entire space. Other parents turn their heads. Then, other kids turn their heads, and when I throw a brief glance around, glee is written plain on their faces, like they’re anticipating some entertaining new show.

  “No go! No home!”

  “Taryn.” If there was ever a time to raise my voice, this is it.

  “No go! No go!” She turns red, her little fists clenching. “Help! Help!”

  What?

  “Taryn, stop that immediately.” But I know I’m losing control, fast, and I can’t do anything about it. All I can do is watch it like a slow-motion train wreck.

  “Help! You’re not Mommy! You’re not my mommy!”

  Jesus. There’s something new. Blood rushes to my face, and I feel myself turn redder than my toddler. Everyone is watching now. The teacher with that blank face of hers finally rushes toward us.

  Taryn practically jumps on her, hugging her legs. “This is not my mommy. I no go.”

  The teacher, whose name tag reads BELLA, gives a strained, apologetic smile. Hell, if anyone should be apologizing here, it’s me.

  “This is such a mess. I’m so sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t know why she’s like this. It’s never happened before.”

  “Ms. Holmes,” Bella says calmly, “I understand. May I please scan your chip?”

  I blink, not processing what I just heard. Taryn still hugs Bella, smearing snot all over her trouser leg.

  “May I scan your chip, please?” She’s holding out a phone. What? You have to be kidding me. “I’m very sorry but I have to.”

  Numb, I hold out my wrist. The chip scans instantly. Except instead of the typical soft beep, Bella’s phone emits an alarming shriek. The screen flashes red.

  I understand before anything else has time to happen. Red means outsider.

  Bella looks up at me, and all color drains from her face. This has clearly never happened before, and she has no idea what to do.

  �
��Ma’am,” she says at last, “could you please come with me?”

  Ma’am. No longer Ms. Holmes.

  This must be some sick joke.

  “Of course I’m Cecelia Holmes. Taryn’s mother. What does that thing say?” I ask, surprised that I’ve managed to keep my voice so calm.

  “Ma’am,” Bella starts, but I don’t let her finish her phrase—her stupid, rehearsed phrase, parroted wholesale from some dumb manual.

  Besides, I know what it says. I could bet my life that the name on the screen starts with an L.

  “How is that possible?” I hiss. “Are you all out of your minds? I come here every day, twice a day. Surely at least one of you has bothered to remember my face?”

  “Not my mommy!” Taryn shrieks like a siren. “I want my mommy!”

  And then she breaks down in tears, and all hell breaks loose.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Unbelievable.” Scott shakes his head.

  “IntelTech will hear about this,” I say grimly as I collapse onto my comfy, cozy living room couch at last. At least the chip let me into my own house.

  “IntelTech is not the issue,” Scott says softly. “Or, at least, not the only issue. You must understand that, Cece. Right?”

  It took all of an hour and a half to sort out that mess. The day care administrator showed up within seconds, followed by a veritable private fleet of IntelTech security vehicles. Led by that robotic girl who works for Clarisse. What’s her name again? Janet?

  Thankfully, when she scanned my chip a second time, it showed the correct information. Cecelia Holmes, mother of Taryn Lucy Holmes, resident of 32 Rosemary Road. But, since such a malfunction was impossible—impossible!—they had to do the full verification, you understand, complete identity check, DNA sample, the works. This is about the safety of children, ma’am, it’s in your and Taryn’s best interest, it’s why you trust us with your safety, and so on and so forth.

  I called Scott in hysterics, and he had to drive over and confirm that I was indeed his wife and not some impostor wearing her face. Not that they thought that. They’re not insane.

  At least I don’t think so.

  Later, after my identity had been verified, thank God, I furiously interrogated Bella and found out that they did special safety exercises in class earlier that afternoon. What to do if accosted by a stranger and the like. Apparently, the thing to do is to yell as loudly as you can, You’re not my mommy! Which, apparently, Taryn really took to heart. So much so that she decided to test it on her own mother.

  “And you believed it?” I asked Bella, incredulous. “You must have recognized me. Did you?”

  She looked away and mumbled something about how she sees hundreds of faces a day, and anyway, the technology doesn’t lie.

  Terrific. Just terrific.

  And the glitch? Just a nasty coincidence.

  “I really should bill all these assholes for the free show,” I now mutter to Scott. He’s looking at me with that expression—with pity. My husband feels sorry for me.

  I seethe. “You should have seen it, Scott. How they were staring at me. Bastards. I bet it’s the best thing that happened to them all week.”

  “Cece, stop that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was an accident. That’s all. And if a stranger really had shown up to pick up Taryn? You’d be the first one to be glad they have those measures.”

  “What stranger? In this place? A stranger can’t even get past the city gates without checking in and signing twelve official forms!”

  “And anyway, I think there’s a bigger problem here, and you know it. Taryn’s been acting out, you’ve said so yourself. This latest stunt is just the most public so you can’t explain it away and gloss over it. And to be honest, you’ve been a little out of sorts lately too.”

  “Out of sorts,” I repeat, incredulous. Part of me is angry but another part is wondering if he’s just noticed it now.

  “That’s one way of putting it. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, Cecelia. I didn’t want to pressure you. After all, it’s a personal thing and your decision and all. But the atmosphere at home is becoming more and more stressful. For me and for Taryn. It’s rubbing off, and I think that’s why she’s misbehaving.”

  “This better not be going where I think it’s going.”

  “Sorry. It is. I think you should seriously consider going back to therapy.”

  I groan.

  “I knew you’d react this way. So I’m offering a compromise. Besides, I think it’s already affected not just you but all of us. Including Taryn. And I know that’s not what you want.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I think all of us should go. To family therapy, together. There’s a psychologist right here in Venture—”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why are you so dead set against it?”

  “A shrink is one thing. An IntelTech shrink is another. Unless you’re okay with the idea of all your neuroses being logged into some database and used by their friendly partners for marketing research.”

  He looks affronted. “No. I checked. Health records, including mental health, are exempt from that.”

  “And if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.”

  “Cece, please.”

  “It was a waste of time last time. And completely ineffective. Why should we drag ourselves through it again?”

  “I’m only saying we should give it a try. Please. Here, I looked her up.” He picks up his tablet and taps the screen. Instantly, my tablet pings on the coffee table. I pick it up, and the page opens, one of those web pages in shades of beige with soothing loopy fonts. A woman’s smiling face in a frame. She wears gold-rimmed glasses.

  “She seems lovely. Her name’s Dr. Alice Stockman.”

  * * *

  TRANSCRIPT: Session 9, Lydia Bishop.

  Dr. Alice Stockman, PhD.

  June 7th, 2018

  AS: Good morning, Lydia.

  LB: Good morning, Dr. Alice.

  AS: How are you doing this week?

  LB: You know, I really hate that question. [laughs] Don’t worry, I know it’s only to establish rapport. But the question should be, how are your problems doing this week? Because that’s why I’m here, right?

  AS: I want you to feel like you can talk about anything, not just your problems, as you call them.

  LB: Sure. It’s just, you know…it’s really hard to shake the weirdness of it all. You understand that this is strange for me.

  AS: In the sense that you should be sitting where I’m sitting, is that right?

  LB: Yeah. But not just that.

  AS: Then I’m not sure what you mean.

  LB: [lowering voice] The whole…privacy issue?

  AS: Lydia, we’ve discussed this before. Yes, my office is on SmartBlock territory but I don’t work for IntelTech. The recordings, or anything you tell me, are for my use only.

  LB: I thought about it since last time. The cassettes. It’s because you worry they’ll hack your computer or something, isn’t it?

  AS: [laughs]…or it could just be that I’m not very tech-savvy.

  LB: [strained laugh] See? There it is again.

  AS: What do you mean?

  LB: I’m jumping to the worst conclusions. Sorry to beat you to the punch. You’d have figured it out soon enough anyway. It’s in my nature, and I know myself. After all, I’m a psychologist too. Just like you. [pause] Or at least I used to be…

  AS: Do you think that because you no longer practice, you’re no longer a psychologist?

  LB: Do you think that I still am one?

  AS: Do you still have your license?

  LB: Oh, Dr. Alice. Don’t play obtuse, please. It’s so condescending. You know that I do. Because of course you would have looked it all up, and I can’t even blame you because it’s publicly available information. The reason that unlicensed frauds get away with it is because people get dazzled by pieces
of paper framed on a wall and fancy terms being thrown around and don’t bother to check.

  AS: If I ever looked anything up, it’s only in the context of figuring out how to better help you.

  LB: Of course. Yes, I still have my license to practice. Although they did try to put that into question, after…everything. There was a hearing, if you can believe it. I had to answer a bunch of questions about my work. Well, no, not so much about my work, they couldn’t care less about that. I had to answer a bunch of questions about Walter. They even tried to get me to hand over my recordings of our sessions. Yeah, right. In the end, there was nothing for them to hold on to. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  [long pause; LB chuckles sadly]

  LB: But in the end, it made no difference, did it? Because here I am. Not practicing. And I probably never will again.

  AS: Why do you say that?

  LB: Dr. Alice, don’t do that. Don’t I at least deserve a modicum of consideration as a fellow professional? It’s obvious. Who on earth would book a session with a shrink who killed her own patient?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  My previous experiences with a shrink turned out less than convincing. First, a long, long time ago, there was Ms. Felipe, with dreadlocks and ripped jeans. After my stint at the foster home and subsequent return home, social services didn’t forget Therese and me. My caseworker was Ms. Felipe, who insisted I call her Dana and tell her everything. Like we were friends. She was actually really cool—I’m sure that’s the exact image she wished to project. But that was when I learned the consequences of lying that had nothing to do with hellfire and brimstone. Once you started, you had to continue, on and on and on into infinity. Now that there was an official case file out there saying that Therese gave me a bruise once—that meant Therese gave me a bruise. Everything I told Dana had to be weighed carefully against that information, to make sure nothing contradicted it or cast it into doubt.