Remember Mia

by Alexandra Burt

  “Jack, I—”

  “I leave for a couple of weeks and you get in an accident in . . . Dover? What did you do there? That’s hours from here!”

  He swipes his hand through the air as if to dismiss me when I open my mouth. “Who loses a baby, Estelle? Who? Tell me who loses a baby?”

  I press my lips together. I don’t dare make eye contact with him.

  “Why did you take her to Dover?”

  The beeping and buzzing of machines behind me is the only sound in the room.

  “I didn’t, Jack, that’s the thing. I don’t know why I was even there.”

  “I was questioned by the police—no wait, questioned isn’t the right word . . .” His face twitches, then he steps closer. He lifts his index finger as if to scold me like a child. “I was interrogated. I was detained at the airport, taken to the police station, and interrogated like a common criminal. Just what did you tell them?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything. Just that you were out of town and—”

  “And what?”

  “Nothing else. What do you mean? I have nothing to tell them.”

  “They sure had a lot of questions. I was treated like a suspect.”

  “They always suspect the parents first, you know that.”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Once my boss gets wind of this . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. “Where is she? Tell me where she is.”

  “She’s missing, Jack!” I’m alarmed by the distance in his eyes. I want to cry but that would only make him angrier. All this time with Jack has paid off—I’ve learned to hold back my tears.

  “I know she’s missing, they’re searching for her. I want to know how it happened. Tell me everything. I talked to the police and the doctors, but I want to hear it from you.”

  I start with how I found the empty crib. How it was a Sunday and none of the workers were in the house. How I called Lieberman but he was out of town, just like every weekend. How nothing made sense. How I went to the police. He doesn’t say, It’s going to be okay or We’ll sort it out. He just says, “Go on.”

  When I’m done, he shakes his head. “I should’ve never left town. Never. You fooled me. You told me you were okay and I believed you. Did you leave her somewhere? Tell me where you left her.”

  Jack’s got it all figured out, like always. In his world you ask questions and get answers, but this isn’t a courtroom and I couldn’t tell him what had happened if I wanted to.

  “Jack—”

  “You promised me, promised me, you were okay, and now look what you’ve done.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t going to cut it. My daughter is gone. Gone. Did that sink in yet?”

  “I don’t know, Jack, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know where you left her?”

  “No, I didn’t leave her anywhere. I don’t know where she is.”

  “Did you leave her with a sitter? Did you leave her at an overnight day care? Maybe—”

  “No, no, there was no sitter. No day care.”

  “I should’ve known something was going to happen. I never should’ve . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

  Remember, a change of scenery would do me good, you said. It would be like starting over, you said. I believed you, Jack. I thought I could leave the other woman, the one who had taken over my life, I could leave her behind. But she followed me.

  “None of this makes any sense.” Suddenly his face relaxes. “You’ve been acting strangely ever since you had Mia. Either I worked too much or I slept too late. Nothing was ever right. I’m starting to think this was your plan all along.”

  “My plan? What plan?”

  “Yeah, you land a lawyer, get married, have a baby, divorce him, and get alimony and child support. That plan.”

  “You’re the jackpot and I’m the gold digger? We’re broke, remember? You took this job in Chicago because we are broke.”

  “I’m just trying to understand what happened. I’ve done nothing but support you. What happened to you, Estelle? Did you wake up one day and just say to yourself, Fuck Jack, fuck Mia, fuck everything? Just like that? I’ve done everything you wanted me to do, given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Now it’s time to do something for me.”

  I just look at him.

  “Tell me the truth. We can still fix this.”

  “I was in an accident. I have amnesia. I don’t know what happened.” My voice is monotone, like a robot repeating a prerecorded statement.

  “Let’s assume you really don’t remember, let’s entertain that for a minute, but explain to me how you don’t call me. Explain that to me. I’m her father—how do you not call me? Was this another one of your crazy moments?”

  “My crazy moments?”

  “One of those moments when you go off the deep end. When you can’t hold the baby, when you can’t stop crying, when you follow me to my office, when you go through my stuff, when you can’t pick up the phone, can’t dial 9-1-1! One of those moments. Do I need to go on?”

  Everything in his world is either black or white. The scary thing is that I have to agree with him, I’m not good for anything. I tried to be a good mother, I tried to do what mothers do. I wish I could make him understand how hard I tried.

  “Everything okay in here?” We turn toward the door, where a nurse stands, holding an empty tray.

  “Sorry,” Jack says and I nod in agreement. “We’ll keep it down. Everything’s all right.”

  Jack doesn’t like to be told how loud he can speak. He lowers his voice but the look in his eyes makes up for the contained rage.

  “There’s a cop sitting outside. Do you get how serious this is?”

  I nod.

  “Any idea why he’s here?” He doesn’t wait for my answer and lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s not for your protection.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask and can’t keep my voice from shaking.

  “You need a criminal defense lawyer.”

  I cringe at the word criminal.

  “Jack, I’m not a criminal. I don’t remember what happened. I’m beside myself!” Is it possible for a nonexistent ear to throb? I know my outbursts only reiterate the fact that, in his eyes, I’ve lost my mind. I know I must look like a deer right before the bumper makes contact.

  “I woke up and she was gone. Everything was gone. That’s all I remember.”

  “Something must have happened. Did she cry and you got upset? Did you do something to her?”

  I try to sit up but the pain in my ribs is excruciating.

  “Look at me.” Jack steps closer and he grabs my chin, turning my head toward him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me what happened.”

  “Do you think I’d hurt our daughter?”

  The candor of my question startles him. His eyes widen, but immediately he catches himself and lowers his voice back down to a whisper. “I’m not saying you hurt her. All I’m saying is that I blame you for what happened.” Jack opens his briefcase. “One more thing,” he adds.

  There is always one more thing with Jack.

  “I’m not sure if you’re getting this, but there’s a possibility you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars or strapped to a gurney if you don’t remember what happened. Now is the time to grasp the severity of your situation.” He pinches his lips into a straight line and adds, “I’ve talked to the doctors at length, and if I can convince the DA, I’ll get you into a clinic with a doctor who specializes in memory recovery.”

  I stare at him, and then I lower my eyes.

  “Where’s this clinic?” I ask.

  “Here in New York. The doctor, some foreigner from the Middle East, specializes in trauma-related memory loss.” His shoulders relax but even his expensive suit can’t hide
the fact that suddenly he looks like a deflated balloon. “I need you to sign a voluntary admission to a psychiatric facility for an unspecified length of time.”

  I attempt to organize my thoughts into separate, manageable portions. It barely seems possible. Memory recovery. I imagine wires hooked up to my brain, truth serums, and my retina relaying images to computer screens. A psychiatric facility. Unspecified amount of time. I’m agreeing to go to a loony bin and I won’t be able to check out.

  “I don’t belong in a psych ward. I’m not crazy.”

  Jack cocks his head and raises his brows as if he has caught a kid in a lie.

  “In your eyes I’m just this lunatic, right? Why don’t you just say it? You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “Not crazy in a certifiable sense, not crazy as in failing a psych exam, but I believe that you need help and that this clinic might just be your only chance. And most of all, it’s Mia’s only chance.” His voice is soft now, almost seductive. “I don’t think you have any other choice. This is it.”

  I force my legs off the side of the bed. My rubbery socks search for the sticky linoleum floor. I feel suspended, unable to find the ground. The second the pen rests at the end of my name, I feel an overwhelming urge to take it in my fist and scratch out my signature until the paper is torn to shreds.

  Jack grabs the pen and pulls it from between my fingers and checks his watch.

  “That doctor will help me remember and we’ll find Mia. We’ll find out what happened, right, Jack?”

  He closes his briefcase and leaves the room before I can even get my feet on the ground.

  CHAPTER 5

  One day after I finished college, I told myself, Take one year and figure out what you want to do with your life. I was waiting for a sign, some sort of higher intervention one might refer to as palm-reader stuff. I’d walk down 57th Street and tell myself the next billboard that catches my eye, the next car graphic, tote bag, or flyer blowing my way was going to be the answer.

  At the time, I worked at a health insurance call center, where I met a woman who at first glance seemed out of place. Delilah, middle-aged, short, and heavyset, was covered in tattoos she hid amazingly well under white oversized blouses and cardigans. She was far removed from the twenty-somethings filling up the cubicles around us. Every time she pushed back her cardigan sleeves, a gesture signaling a difficult customer, a tattoo on her forearm emerged: Dead Men Tell No Tales.

  “You keep looking at my tattoo,” she said one day from the cubicle next to mine, and muted her headset.

  “Quite a message,” I replied.

  “Kind of a funny story,” she said.

  “Dead men tell no tales? How funny can that story be?” I asked.

  Delilah told me she’d been a prison guard for twenty-five years. With every passing year her people skills and faith in humanity took a turn for the worse. Her husband left her and she had no relationship with her five children—they weren’t even speaking to her. As a matter of self-preservation, she decided to spend the rest of her working career in customer service. “Forces me to work on myself every day,” she said and switched to a noncommittal voice accepting the next call in the queue.

  The concept intrigued me and I wondered about my own character shortcomings. I’d never sought lasting friendships, never seemed to truly connect to anyone else, and I had basically remained a loner all my life. I wondered if I just needed to meet new people or maybe the right people, or just put myself out there so I’d fit in somewhere. I quit my job at the call center that very day.

  Two days later I found a job as a hostess at La Luna, a bar and grill in Manhattan, mostly frequented by judges, DAs, defense lawyers, prosecutors, and armies of executives working in the surrounding buildings. La Luna’s neighborhood on Lexington and 50th was a hodgepodge of restaurants and bars, office buildings, law offices, and an occasional Starbucks to break up the monotony.

  Weeks later, I saw a man standing in line, waiting to be seated. He wasn’t stunningly attractive and there wasn’t anything unusual about him that caught my eye, but still I couldn’t wait for him to get to the front of the line.

  “Jack Connor,” he said and straightened his tie. He was expecting a party of two to join him and wanted me to give him the best table in the house. I liked the way he looked into my eyes and weighed his words before he spoke.

  He followed me to a table at the far end of the restaurant, looked around, and pointed at a table by the front window. “I think I’d prefer that one.”

  That’s how I met Jack. Me challenging myself, him telling me what I offered him wasn’t good enough. Later Jack read my name off the tag on my blouse, his voice a soft baritone.

  “Estelle Paradise.”

  Over the years, I had heard many jokes regarding my name and I was prepared for one then but none came. Jack was lanky and wholesome, but the dark circles under his eyes spoke of long hours and work beyond his physical capacity. I realized that his left eyebrow was noticeably raised and had a much more pronounced curve, as if the world was under his constant scrutiny.

  “You keep looking at my eye,” he said.

  “I don’t mean to, I’m sorry.” I blushed and turned away. There was something slightly off about his face and his facial expression seemed to be in a constant state of disapproval.

  “Hypertropia,” he said and wiggled his brows. “It’s a muscle imbalance, the visual axis of one eye is higher than the other. It’s hereditary. I wore glasses when I was younger but short of surgery one eye will always be slightly higher than the other.”

  The very next day he dropped by for a drink. He sat at the bar and watched me as I walked the floor.

  “You know what you should do?” Jack asked that day.

  “What’s that?” I held a stack of menus like a shield between us.

  “Check to see the progression of the tables instead of just marking the occupied tables at your station.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  He looked at me, puzzled. “To see if the tables are on dessert or if they’ve paid their checks. It expedites the operation.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said and laughed, trying not to focus on his eye again.

  “Would you go out on a date with me?” Jack’s voice shook slightly, enough to be noticeable if you paid close attention.

  “We’re not allowed to go on dates with patrons,” I lied and brushed invisible crumbs off my blouse. No one cared whom we dated; the waitress and hostess turnaround was staggering.

  His eyes remained on my chest, and then he got up and downed his drink. “If I stop coming here, will you go out with me then?”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I said.

  A month later, we went on our first date. I wore my best dress, black, sleeveless, while he wore khakis and a blue unbuttoned shirt. A movie and then dinner, during which we both had too much to drink. In my tipsy stupor I must have told him about my rent being late because he offered to pay for the next month. “Come on,” he said, “let me do something for you.”

  That line got to me. Any other night the comment wouldn’t have. After all, I was used to getting by and had always been able to muddle through, but money was tight, and I was struggling to keep up with my student loan payments. Jack’s comment later was “Liberal arts? No degree at all is better than a liberal arts degree,” and so I was stuck in a hostess position while all the waitress slots, popular for their high tips, were filled. I had yet to gain any additional insight into what I wanted to do with my life and I wondered if Delilah had told me a story altogether.

  That night, Jack’s shirt smelled of starch and I wondered how his lips would feel on mine. My mouth on his mouth. A taste of what life could be if I let him do something for me.

  On our second date, during which I expected reality to set in and expose how different we really were,
Jack put his coat around my shoulders as the temperature dropped on our walk to the restaurant. The itchy wool and the smooth lining was every cliché of every romantic movie I had ever seen. The guy who put his coat around the girl’s shoulders is the good guy, good guys give you their coat, and bad guys take your clothes off. During dinner, I told him about my dating rules.

  “Thirty days, no making out, no sex.” It was more or less my way of evoking a response regarding his intentions, but Jack, unshakable, undeterred Jack, didn’t flinch.

  “I’ve got my own rule. It’s more like one hundred and eighty days, but okay. I accept,” he said and added, “So, we’re officially dating?”

  “Whose side are you on?” I asked while we passed the MetLife Building. “Careerwise,” I added and moved my body closer to his as we walked hand in hand. “I’ve always wondered how lawyers figure out if they prefer being a defense lawyer or a prosecutor. Seems like two very different sides of the law to me.”

  “You just pick a side,” he said and furrowed his brow as if my question made no sense at all.

  When I asked him what he wanted to do years from now, he said, “I’m looking to become assistant DA. From there, district DA, then judge.”

  “And then you’ll run for public office, like mayor or something?” I joked.

  “Mayor?” He paused. “Probably not. I don’t do well with crowds and public speaking. Supreme Court maybe. They submit their rulings in writing. Seems like the perfect fit.”

  Jack was arrogant, but at the same time his overconfidence was harmless and refreshing and made me want to know more about him.

  “Defenders probably see the good in everyone,” I said. “Prosecutors expect everyone to be a criminal. Don’t you have to take a stand in your heart?”

  “My heart? That’s a very emotional way of looking at the world.”

  “Tell me about growing up,” I said, wanting to change the subject.

  Jack named his childhood experiences like he was reading a grocery list. “New Jersey, public schools, wrestling team, single mom.” He paused slightly, then continued. “An only child, sort of. My mother was an employee at the New York Public Library. We struggled, to say the least. My mother was a saint, she never even raised her voice at me.”