by Zoje Stage
“Hej, älskling.”
“Hej.” She snuggled next to him, trailing her fingertips in random patterns along his back. “I missed you.”
“Feels nice. Feeling better?”
“Not really.”
“What do you think’s going on? The surgery?” He leaned on his elbow to look at her.
“Don’t know. Maybe something I ate? I do blood work the end of next week, before my appointment with Dr. Stefanski. But it shouldn’t be inflammation.”
“There’s been a lot going on. With Hanna.”
“Could be that. A little stressful.”
“What time is her appointment on Monday?”
“Four. I’ll go right from picking her up at school.”
“Do you want me to meet you there?”
“Can you?” It was a surprise that he even asked. He always left all of Hanna’s appointments—doctor, dental, school, hair—to her.
“I could probably leave about then, get there by four-thirty.”
“If you want to.”
He tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “Won’t … Beatrice—”
“Beatrix. Dr. Yamamoto.”
“Won’t she want to talk to both of us?”
In that instant, she couldn’t determine if it was a great idea or a terrible one that Dr. Yamamoto would hear them describe two entirely different children. A part of her wanted Beatrix all to herself. Alex didn’t even know about the most recent event—she’d dealt with it with Dr. Yamamoto instead. And she didn’t know how much of the appointment would be just the doctor and Hanna.
“You’re hesitating,” Alex said without judgment.
“I honestly have no idea if she wants to talk with us, both of us. We didn’t talk about that on the phone. I’m sure she will at some point.”
“Do you want me to come?”
She couldn’t say no, so she said yes.
She tried to look more grateful than she felt. For a minute they just dream-gazed into each other’s eyes. He nibbled her lips. She let him, but made no effort to move things along.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Do you miss it? When we used to talk? About everything?”
“Sure. Sometimes. But life progresses.”
“Have we progressed?”
“Sure, as a family.”
“But we only talk about Hanna now. What about us—you and me. Have we progressed?”
“It’s different now. We have more responsibilities.”
“I don’t feel like I’ve progressed,” she said. “As a person. I’ve slid. Laterally. I’m sliding. Down a gradual slope.”
His already crowded face drew together even tighter with sympathy. “You’re a good … mom, wife, partner … But I know, I understand if you want more than that.”
“I do, but…” She turned slightly onto her back and looked at the ceiling, trying to wrangle her feelings into something she could explain.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s just it. This … directionless feeling. This … going nowhere.”
“Hanna will be in school. I’d love to work with you more, if you want to.” He inched closer to her, but she wasn’t ready to engage in a more intimate way. What seemed like such a simple solution to him only complicated her nebulous uncertainties.
“I just remember … Before Hanna. And I loved my work, and working with you. But I’d get so obsessed. Thinking about a project all the time, and I have this compulsion, you know. Everything has to be finished, I can’t rest until everything’s done. And I didn’t want to think then, how I couldn’t do things because of my health. But I’m older now. And I don’t know if I should be cautious? Or throw caution to the wind. Maybe I missed my chance to be fearless. I’m too aware now, of how things can go wrong.”
“I think you can have both—do something you’re passionate about, that makes you feel fulfilled, and not have it be something that makes you unwell.”
“I just wish I knew … I don’t know what that is.” She turned onto her side to face him, their noses just inches apart.
“Very, very, very soon—soon—like really soon, you’re going to have more time to yourself.”
“Soon?”
“So soon it’s almost here. Tomorrow. Start thinking about it tomorrow. You know I’ll support you and encourage you—if you want to try something, or pursue something.” Now it was his turn to trail his fingertips up and down the exposed skin of her arm. It tingled.
“I think … I miss being more creative. I always imagined … I thought Hanna and I would do art projects together. Make stuff with paper plates and noodles and paint, I don’t know. Paper flowers. Tie-dyed T-shirts. Little felt animals, holiday decorations. I had these ideas of how it would be, the two of us. Making stuff. If she’d just shown any interest—any interest, ever. I thought that would be the creative part of being a mom, fostering that in her, coming up with things, seeing her develop, seeing her make discoveries. She keeps everything to herself. Everything.”
“I know.”
“I have no clue. Who she is. What’s going on in her head?” A tear slid sideways across her nose. Alex gently stopped it with his thumb.
“I know, älskling. I don’t want you to be eaten up, again. Like when you were young and no one cared about how you felt—”
“You care.”
“I do care. And I’m sorry, that I waited so long, that I didn’t see it sooner, that this situation with Hanna is more than just … waiting. It’s eating you up and that’s partly my fault.”
“It’s not, I just. Reached a breaking point.”
“Okay. Well, I don’t want you to break. I’m in it, I’m here. You worked so hard to find a place for Hanna. So let’s focus on you now. You. What do you want? What do you need? What do you miss? What will make you happy?”
She sniffled up the last of her tears and slid her leg between his. Her hand glided over his elbow and she felt so close to him, like she was inside him and he inside her. Their hands moved in tandem, seeking each other, and she brought his to her mouth and kissed his hairy knuckles.
“Sometimes I think…” It was so new, the idea. She hadn’t really considered voicing it. Maybe Hanna had felt the same way, the first time she’d spoken. Maybe it had come as a surprise to her when the words emerged, revealing something that had existed only inside her. It wasn’t impossible that her idea would sound as strange to Alex as Hanna’s first words had been.
“I’ve been thinking about a book, for a while now. Not writing one. But an art project, with different pages. Different textures. Different kinds of paper. And some of the pages have miniature paintings, and others are like a photo album, and others like a … I don’t know, a scrapbook of found objects. I just have this idea. About creating something that opens.”
“Then you should make something. That opens.” And he kissed her.
For a moment she was transported to the early days. The early nights. When he was everything. When she was someone. When the two of them were enough. And having a child meant the exponential increase of their love, because they wanted more ways to express it. Now they knew how a child divided them, as individuals, and a couple. She wanted them back, the couple they had been. But she couldn’t … not right then.
“Shhh, sweetheart…” She made the words a whisper, as if she could quiet his longing. “I’m sorry…”
“I don’t want you to be sick.”
“I don’t either.” She resented her body’s betrayal. She still couldn’t express how insecure it made her, how she lived on a precipice. The most basic parts of her could fail, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
He switched off his lamp and held her in the dark. He stroked her back while she silently prayed. She resolved to begin her book the very next day, sketching out the ideas that had terraformed from nothingness as she washed and folded and scrubbed and chopped. Someone else could finally quiz Hanna on her spelling and explain the fund
amentals of math and read with her the biased accounts of the history of the world. She would make something. Something else. Something better than Hanna.
* * *
Looking at her daughter in the rearview mirror, she almost felt sorry for her. Hanna sat somberly, buckled in like a prisoner on her way to be executed, no hope for a last-minute reprieve. Suzette was grateful for her passive acceptance, even though it registered in the girl as defeat; she didn’t have the energy to argue or wrangle with her. All morning, while trying to keep things moving along—making sure she got dressed and brushed her teeth, fixing her hair and lunch, chatting lightly over breakfast—she’d needed to run to the bathroom. Her stomach wasn’t better at all, and mornings were always the worst. She’d have preferred not to leave the house, but at least she’d have the bulk of the day to herself. She made a list in her head of the beige-colored foods she fell back on when her digestion was at its worst: baked chicken and white rice, oatmeal, noodles, potatoes, toast with peanut butter, bananas. She’d stop at Giant Eagle on her way home and stock up.
Hanna perked up when they drove past the playground, her eyes on the climbing rig. It saddened Suzette to see so clearly, for once, what her daughter was thinking, what she wanted, knowing she couldn’t give it to her. She couldn’t deny that school was the end of a certain kind of freedom.
“It’s normal to feel a little nervous on the first day. But you’re going to have fun. You’ll get to do all sorts of things that you can’t do at home.”
Hanna didn’t acknowledge her.
She parked a half block from the school, behind a long caravan of other parents. Some of them still escorted their young children, while others sat and watched, pulling away only when their sons or daughters disappeared inside. Suzette didn’t take Hanna’s hand, sensing how the girl was bracing herself and in need of her own space. They walked side by side, each consumed in a personal gloom.
Just inside, Mr. G was waiting to greet them. He stood beside a tall, fifty-ish woman with rosy cheeks and untended hair who looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed. Her jeans were tucked into a pair of colorful rubber boots and she had chapped, red hands. Everything about her made Suzette think she should be on a muddy farm, wrangling piglets instead of children.
“Good morning, Hanna! Hi, Mrs. Jensen.”
“Oh, are you okay?” Suzette asked Mr. G. At first glance she’d hoped he was merely dressing up as a pirate, but there was an actual bandage beneath his black eye patch.
“Minor accident. One of those weird things, nothing to worry about.”
“That’s good. I think Hanna’s all ready.”
“Great—this is Ms. Atwood,” he said to Hanna, even though she wouldn’t look at him. “She’s going to be your primary teacher.” He turned to Suzette. “And she’ll keep you informed of Hanna’s progress.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you.” Suzette shook Ms. Atwood’s hand. The teacher had a very strong grip.
“Likewise. We’re really excited to get to know Hanna. Want to see your homeroom? I can show you where to put your things.” Hanna dropped her chin against her chest. “Follow me.”
Somewhat to Suzette’s surprise, Hanna followed a few steps behind Ms. Atwood, her big backpack bobbing along, and allowed herself to be led away.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I think that’s actually a really good start.”
“I think a part of Hanna really does want to explore some other options. She’s in good hands, don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
“See you at three-fifteen?”
She waved at Mr. G and headed out. Behind her, Mr. G greeted other students. The hallway filled with a cacophony of sounds—more varied than the typical school chatter of her youth. Hanna, apparently, wasn’t the only one who preferred noises to actual words.
Before she started the car, she sent Alex a quick text: so far so good.
* * *
She put the groceries away. More things for Hanna’s lunches: little tubs of organic applesauce, sliced cheese for her sandwiches, a big bag of the dried fruit and nut mixture she liked. And her personal stockpile of beige food.
Afterward, devoid of the ambition she’d had the previous night, she lingered barefoot in the middle of the downstairs. With all the lights off, subdued daylight filled the great room. She’d helped in designing the space and the decor was all hers, but she didn’t always feel a sense of ownership, a sense of belonging. The yard beyond the glass looked more hostile and wild than usual. She decided it was a trick of the light that made the tall hedges look dark and savage. It was such a different space in the sunshine, but Pittsburgh was susceptible to heavy, overcast days. It affected her mood and made her think of her mother: maybe she could have been cured with more light—bigger windows, better lightbulbs.
Maybe not. It might have helped. But it wouldn’t have been enough. Her mother needed the heat and hope of an internal sun, but she exuded the nothingness of a distant and dead planet.
Think of the book. Pick a page. Make a sketch.
But all that came to mind was Hanna’s room and the number of days since she’d been in there to clean it. She fought herself for a while, standing there like a misplaced statue. She should go dig out the rest of her art supplies, the professional-quality paper and pencils she kept in a tub in her closet. It wouldn’t be hard; she had a storage system for everything in the house and knew where everything was. But she couldn’t quite get herself motivated. The silence was distracting, not inspiring. She told herself it wasn’t wrong to do what she most felt like doing in that moment. And what she wanted to do was clean. And perhaps then, inspiration would come.
* * *
She dusted the shelves above Hanna’s bed that held her nighttime things: her clock and flashlight, the night-light she didn’t use anymore, a few books and stuffed animals. She flitted the duster over the bare top of her dresser, then moved on to the storage shelves that held the rest of her books and all her cubbies. She shifted them to get between the cracks, then peered into each one as she swept over her things. Hanna loved receiving the art supplies, but Suzette couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t use them. It occurred to her to raid her daughter’s supplies as a starting place for her book. But Hanna, like she did, kept her things in very specific places; she would notice if anything went missing. And thievery was beneath her.
When she finished dusting, she grabbed the dry Swiffer mop from where it leaned by the door. She loved Swiffering the floors. She moved with grace, like a dancer with a partner, collecting all the stray hairs and nearly invisible bits of debris. When she pushed the mop under the bed, it came out with bits of paper clinging to it. From the collage of dead people, she assumed. When she reached in again, the mop caught a barrette and three of her new paper clips. Suzette puzzled over these objects as she picked them up and wiped them off. Hanna’s room was never in a state of disarray. She’d respected Alex’s moratorium on staying out of her room for a few days, but how had so much stuff come to be under her bed in the meanwhile?
She got down on her hands and knees to get a better look. What the fuck was that?
Using the Swiffer, she fished for a lumpy object that tumbled forward. A potato?
Reaching back under, she secured the rest of the detritus—small objects that couldn’t have collected in the far corner by accident. Was her daughter hoarding things? Stashing them away for some future obscure purpose?
She picked up the potato from the floor and examined it more closely. Things had been stuck into it, like a real-life Mr. Potato Head. It had two pencils, golden and brown, inserted at the bottom like legs, and a rudimentary partly drawn face: a smile and a mustache rendered in heavy black pen. One of her new flower erasers sat glued on top at a jaunty angle, like a hat. It had a green thumbtack for the right eye. But the left one …
“Oh shit.”
The mangled left eye dripped red crayon blood and the red nub stuck out of its carved socket. If it had been a dif
ferent color, or if Hanna hadn’t drawn red, oozing drops, it might not have reminded her of a wound—of Mr. G.
But Mr. G’s bandage and patch were over his left eye and she couldn’t help making the connection to his injury.
Had her daughter made a voodoo doll?
And if it wasn’t a voodoo doll, it was still hideous. That Hanna paired the almost-cute flower hat with a bloody gouged-out eye made her want to weep for her splintered child. Why would she do such a thing? She had nice toys, many that she never played with.
The more she looked at it, the creepier it seemed. She shuddered as ghosts tapped her shoulder. Was this her new ploy for getting out of school? Harming her principal?
Impossible. She didn’t believe in witches and voodoo dolls.
Did she?
What was it doing under the bed?
Why did Hanna make it?
Why, after years when she wouldn’t even doodle, was she suddenly making sick, disgusting things?
“Why couldn’t I have a fucking normal daughter?” She ripped out the crayon and the pencils and threw the monstrosity to the floor. It bounced, leaving a wet splat, but she didn’t bother to wipe it up. The little flower hat tumbled off.
The thing made her skin crawl and she wanted to extract it from her mind. She grabbed her cleaning things and stormed out, leaving an uncharacteristic mess in her wake. At the head of the stairs she froze, bucket of supplies in one hand, mop in the other. It was all too much—the rage, the frustration. But she was alone, and could finally let it out. She screamed and stomped her feet. In a fit of rebellion, she pitched her bucket down the stairs and threw her dry mop like a javelin after it.
After a minute she stopped, but her echo rang in the house.
She felt better. Empty. Drained of poison.
She trudged down the steps one by one. Gathered up the rag. The spray bottle. The duster. The mop. Dropped them in the kitchen. Too depleted to slog back upstairs for a nap, she threw herself onto the couch, her arm over her eyes.