A Woman Alone

by Nina Laurin

  A familiar beep of the house alarm rips through the music, tearing apart the fragile notes and sending me reeling back, away from the bathroom counter. My foot slips on the tiles.

  Everything spins like a roulette wheel in front of my eyes. The counter, the sink, the mirror—all that recedes and shrinks, and the ceiling grows larger, crowding out all else. I don’t see where I’m falling but I know on a visceral level what’s going to happen before it does.

  Then the back of my head hits the edge of the tub. Pain lances my skull, and everything grows dark.

  * * *

  I dream of the night Taryn was conceived. I always said I didn’t know when exactly it happened but I absolutely knew. I just wanted to keep it to myself because I felt like it belonged to me first and foremost. Not to any prying stranger, and not even to Scott. And who could blame me? I bet I’m hardly the only woman who feels this way.

  I dream in that strange, self-aware way that feels a little bit like watching a play that you’re also the star of. I recognize the scene right away. We’re at the old house, my real house, my real home. The bathroom. I have no idea why we chose the bathroom that night, of all places, because it’s in the throes of being renovated. Half of it is just gone, old pale-blue tiles rooted out, leaving behind crumbling circles of old cement. There’s no counter or cabinets or sink—their replacements have already arrived but are still waiting to be installed, parked in the hallway in big cardboard boxes marked FRAGILE. Only the tub has been replaced already. Where there used to be one of those ugly, discolored built-in bathtubs is now a squarish, contemporary creation that very much goes with Scott’s vision for the room—clean, pure lines, very zen.

  Right now it looks incongruous, sitting there amid chaos and destruction like the sole survivor of a bombing. Maybe that’s why we decide to do it there, even though it’s far from comfortable. I remember clear as day that I worried about how my lower back slammed into the ceramic, about bruising my vertebrae when I had to wear a dress with a low-cut back that weekend. But I knew it was then. It had to be. It was the best sex I’d had in many, many months, even years. That day, in that half-destroyed bathroom, I felt the drive again, the pleasure and fun of it like in the very beginning, when things are always best.

  Weeks later, I wasn’t terribly surprised when my period didn’t come. Maybe I knew in my bones that my last wish had been granted, and my beautiful life, the life I’ve built for myself, was finally complete.

  And in my dream, it’s all so real, so vivid, it’s easy to forget that I’m merely watching it. My skin burns with kisses but it’s distant, separated from me by an invisible glass barrier I just can’t seem to cross.

  Besides, at the edge of my consciousness, something is bothering me, pulling me away in the wrong, opposite direction. A noise. A piercing, rhythmic chime that grows louder and louder until it fills my head, crowding out everything else, and the beautiful dream disintegrates no matter how I try to grasp it again and hold on.

  The realizations come rushing back like an avalanche. I know that I’m not in the bathtub at my old house but on the tile floor of the bathroom of 32 Rosemary Road. The back of my head throbs. With a groan, I roll over. My vision doesn’t return right away, sending spikes of panic through my already aching skull. But then it returns, a bit wobbly and unfocused but at least I can make out what’s around me. I stare at my hands, splayed out on the tile, and blink until I can count my fingers.

  Reaching behind my head, I feel the painful spot. There doesn’t seem to be blood, just a huge bump. Finally, I manage to sit up. The blaring continues, and I understand that it’s not inside my head. My mouth is dry, which is just as well, since I stop myself before I can reflexively call Saya. She was supposed to call an ambulance if something like this happened. She didn’t. Oh God, how long has it been? How long have I been lying there?

  It takes an additional minute to get back on my feet, although it feels longer than that. The beeping is my phone, I clue in at last.

  The panic now solidified, my vision almost steady again, I exit the bathroom. I still have to hold on to walls here and there but nothing stops me. I stumble in the direction of the phone’s siren song, out of the master bedroom, down the hall, through the door of Taryn’s room.

  The phone sits on the dresser, trilling and trilling away. The contact flashes on the screen: Taryn’s day care.

  This is where the phone has been all along. I’m not sure how it got there, or whether I even entered Taryn’s room since I got home. But in the moment, I forget to think about it. I just grab for the phone, my hands shaking wildly.

  “Hello?” I yell into staticky nothingness. “Hello?”

  For some reason, the sound picks up on the room’s speakers. “Ms. Holmes,” says the stern voice. I sort of recognize it—it’s one of Taryn’s teachers. I just can’t quite remember which one. They all blend together in my mind.

  “Yes! It’s me.” I’m panting. “Is Taryn all right?”

  The woman clears her throat. “We called you twelve times. It’s gone straight to voice mail. We were about to contact the police.”

  Oh God. “Did something— Is Taryn okay?”

  “Taryn is…fine. She’s just fine. But you must come and pick her up right away.” Her voice is dry and menacing.

  “What happened?”

  “We’ll discuss it with you when you get here.”

  I race downstairs and, against my better judgment, get in my car. I don’t bother keying in the day care address. I just drive there from memory, hoping, praying the car behaves.

  It does. At least for now. Saya is quiet. No strange music blasts from the speakers, and the brakes seem to be working normally. I pull up to the day care and into the parking lot, climb out, and go inside.

  Only now it hits me: Everyone is gone. There are no children being dressed by rushed, impatient parents anywhere. It’s a while past closing time. I must have been out for longer than I thought. I can only wonder what they think of me now.

  Taryn is playing all alone in the middle of the main room. There’s something eerie and unsettling about the sight. Just my child, with her glossy hair held in a ponytail with her favorite unicorn hair tie, in her denim pinafore that she loves, sitting on the floor surrounded by toys, seemingly oblivious to the fact that there’s no one else around. I see those oversized Legos, toy horses, mismatched teacups. All the stuff I used to covet, incurring Therese’s wrath, my daughter now takes for granted.

  “Taryn,” I call out. She glances away from the strange sculpture she’s constructing out of the Lego blocks for a second, only long enough to acknowledge my presence.

  “It’s time to go, Taryn,” I repeat, and get no reaction out of her whatsoever.

  “Ms. Holmes,” comes the same voice from the phone. I turn and see the teacher standing in the other doorway, the one leading to the eating area. She must have been standing there all along. I don’t know how I could not have noticed. I recognize her, of course I do—she’s the one who was here the day Taryn made that scene. Screaming that I wasn’t her mom. Just thinking about it makes my face flush. I feel like I’m the one who did something wrong, a recalcitrant kindergarten bully.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I speak up. “I hadn’t meant to be so late. I had an accident, a bad fall, and the house—”

  “Yes, yes. But, Ms. Holmes, this isn’t just about you being late. Even though it’s not the first time.”

  “Just charge the fine to my account,” I stammer, knowing that the fines charge automatically, just like the bills and groceries and the cost of my second coffee I sometimes stop for after dropping Taryn off. This would make it Scott’s problem, which is just as well.

  “Cecelia,” she says with that telltale intake of breath that usually presages all kinds of bad news. So we’re on a first-name basis now. I struggle to remember what the hell her name is. “I’ve tried to bring this to your attention before, and so have my colleagues. But I see nothing has been done about T
aryn’s behavior problems.”

  “Yes, she’d been acting out at home too. We’re seeing someone,” I say guiltily. My cheeks flare when I remember what I’ve just done at the office of the person we’re supposed to be “seeing.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not enough,” she says. “Too little, too late. As much as we sympathize with you and your plight, and with Taryn, of course, there are other children here. And their parents count on us to ensure their safety and a positive experience in this environment. I’m afraid Taryn has become a threat to that.”

  All the while, my daughter is playing peacefully. When I glance sideways, she’s no longer building whatever it is with the blocks. Instead, she’s picked up one of the toy horses, this one with a bright red mane, and is pretending to feed it from a saucer. She’s ignoring us completely. Pretending to?

  “Will you quit with the claptrap,” I snarl at the teacher. I can tell immediately that my tone throws her. She’s been standing there with her arms crossed, with that air of superiority, and now she drops her arms at her sides. “Just say whatever it is you have to say to me. What did she do this time?”

  The woman regains her composure. The look of smugness returns to her face, if not as blatant as before. “Taryn attacked another child during crafts time. Completely unprovoked.”

  “Attacked?” I ask. I know Taryn can be a handful—hell, no one knows it better than me—but she would never hurt someone on purpose. And seeing her there, playing peacefully, it’s hard to believe what this woman is saying.

  “Luckily, we use special craft scissors,” she goes on but my mind has a hard time following. I can hear the words but can’t quite grasp at their meaning. “They have dulled points. Even then, Sierra had to be taken to the infirmary. And of course, there was no hiding the bruise on her neck from her mother.” The woman glares. I feel at a loss.

  “How—” No, that’s not what I meant to ask. “Why would she do this?”

  “I think only Taryn can tell us that. And she doesn’t seem so inclined.”

  “It can’t have been for no reason at all. Listen to yourself. This girl, what did you say her name was? She must have done something…must have said something…”

  I trail off, realizing that I’m the one who should listen to myself. Blaming this girl I don’t know.

  “Sierra didn’t do anything. I assure you.” The woman must realize that I’m fraying at the edges. But if anything, it only makes her more self-assured. “This isn’t the first time Taryn has acted out unprovoked. Several other children can confirm this, and I’m sorry, Cecelia, but I can no longer pretend like nothing is happening.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means”—there’s that intake of breath again, only now she has the upper hand and she knows it—“that we regrettably inform you that Taryn may not return here.”

  “You’re expelling her?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “You can’t just—” I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists, trying to get a grip. “You can’t just spring it on me like that.”

  “According to our records, you currently stay at home—”

  “I work from home,” I interrupt, even though this is far from true.

  “There’s no harm done if Taryn stays home for a few weeks. Keep seeing whoever you’re seeing. And hopefully, if Taryn shows progress in the future, we might consider readmitting her.”

  My mind reels, overwhelmed with all this information.

  “Taryn!” I snap. Even though my voice is on the edge of screaming, she doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look up. She keeps playing with the horse like nothing is happening.

  I’ve had enough. I storm across the room, knocking over her block sculpture. Only when the blocks go flying everywhere does she finally pay attention. She looks up, the expression on her face so heartbroken and angelic that I wonder, for the shortest moment, if I had somehow imagined all this.

  “Mommy?” she asks in a small voice. In that second, I just want to pick her up and hug her and tell her it’s all been a terrible mistake. But I overcome it.

  “Taryn,” I say, struggling to keep my voice calm, “did you really do this?”

  “Do what, Mommy?”

  “Did you attack that girl with scissors?”

  Three-year-olds aren’t known for their brilliant thespian skills. Even as she shrugs and shakes her head, a smile flashes across her face. A look of smugness. And I realize with a sinking feeling that I’ve seen this look before.

  I drop to my knees, which hit the carpeted floor harder than I expected. “Oh, Taryn,” I groan. “Why would you do that? Why?”

  Her silence is my only answer. I scoop her up without bothering with her coat and outdoor shoes and go outside. Annoyed with such disregard for her autonomy, Taryn begins to wiggle. “Put me down, Mommy,” she whines, her voice muffled by the shoulder of my sweater.

  Ignoring her pleas, I unlock the car hands-free—that tech does come in handy sometimes. I practically shove her into her seat in the back. She screeches and tries to kick and then makes a grab for her tablet, which I snatch away at the last second. With the driver’s side door open, I collapse into the driver’s seat, tablet in my hands.

  It looks so innocuous, a cartoon character on the home screen doing a little dance. Mindlessly, I tap on the screen to make it unlock. Except my code yields nothing but an error message. I try again, only to get the same result. My hands must be shaking too much. I enter the code slowly—it’s not Taryn’s birthday but the date she was conceived, the day I dreamed of while I was knocked unconscious—but it doesn’t seem to be working. “Saya!” I bark, shocked at the hoarseness of my own voice. “Unlock.”

  “The code you entered is incorrect,” she informs me in that gentle mechanical voice after a second’s pause.

  “Reset the code,” I snarl.

  “A confirmation will be sent to your phone. Are you sure you wish to proceed?”

  “Yes, goddammit!”

  My phone gives a soft plink, which makes me jump even though I should have been expecting it. With sweat-damp hands, I tap and tap through the motions to reset the code. Finally, the tablet screen goes dark, and then the home screen loads.

  At first glance, nothing is wrong. I scroll through the apps: cartoons, games, entertainment, learn’n’play, numbers, colors, the alphabet. All—supposedly—sophisticated things that evolve as your child learns, ensuring optimal development. Nothing like any old screen time of yesteryear, just mind-numbing entertainment. I can’t believe I bought into all this so easily. Why? Just because it made life so simple?

  Finally, I find one folder at the very end. Unmarked. I tap on it, impatient.

  It’s a scene from some movie, someone being decapitated. The sheer violence of it knocks the breath out of me. I keep tapping. There’s footage of a school shooting. Frames from horror movies. And God knows what else.

  How long has it been going on—how long has she been watching this with no one the wiser?

  How did I let it happen? And how did it get here in the first place?

  Scott—no, no way, that’s impossible. No one else had access to Taryn’s tablet. Except, of course, the house itself.

  Numb, I shut the door, tuning out Taryn’s frantic shrieking, and start the car.

  I know where I’m going—not my first choice but I simply can’t think of an alternative. Only one thing I know for sure. I’m not spending another second in that house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  My thoughts are a chaotic jumble that I can’t get under control. I must get out of here. Away from the house. Away from Venture. It wasn’t just in my head, Lydia exists—well, existed. God only knows what that damn house has done to her…

  That’s when it hits me. Oh my God. The cassette player. The tape.

  It’s all in my purse, which I left sitting on the living room couch.

  I punch the horn in a powerless rage. The car that’s passing me honks furiously back
but I’m far beyond caring.

  By the time I pull up to the house with a screech of tires, Taryn has screamed herself out and is slumping sulkily in the back seat. “Mommy will only be gone for a moment,” I tell her in a shaky voice. She doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken. I leave the car running as I exit and head for the front door.

  The house looms over me, at first glance as ordinary and harmless as a house can be. The same as it was the first time I saw it, when Scott and I came to visit. Clarisse and Jessica were with us that day, all smiles and politeness, keeping just the right amount of distance as we explored the rooms. It truly was beautiful—everything you could possibly want. No wonder I was fooled.

  I remember how Clarisse had unlocked the front door—she didn’t have to, that was the trick. She asked me to try the door, which I did, ascertaining that it was locked. Then she placed her hand on the door handle, and the door unlocked all by itself. No one will be able to come in except you and the people you’ve expressly authorized, she told us. Any attempt at a break-in will trigger security measures.

  Now I pull and tug on the door handle to no avail. The door remains locked. The house locked me out. I curse through clenched teeth. I really should have seen this coming.

  “Saya,” I say, trying to keep calm, “open the door.”

  “Please present identity chip,” replies an indifferent voice. I mash my wrist on the sensor.

  “Chip not valid,” says the voice, and I swear I can hear a note of gloating. “Identify yourself, please.”

  “I am Cecelia Holmes,” I say. “I live here. And you’re going to open this door right now.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no one named Cecelia Holmes on the register.”

  I take a deep breath. “I need to see Lydia,” I say. “Lydia Bishop. Does that ring a bell?”

  My answer is silence. The silence lingers for a second, then five seconds, and then ten.