“Don’t be afraid, Mary,” she says, smiling. “We’re just going to talk a little bit about your past.”
That is what the last doctor told me too.
chapter fifteen
Six months. That is how far along I am; six months pregnant. Three more to go before Bean gets here. Time is running out and my problems seem to be getting worse instead of better.
I haven’t slept in weeks since this new New Girl showed up. This new New Girl is becoming best friends with Kelly. The house seems smaller and smaller with both of them in it. And I’m getting bigger and bigger.
Momma came by yesterday, but she was as far away as the moon. She had that strange look in her eye, like she was going to try to swallow all her pills again and leave me. Having “a day.” I don’t think she noticed how big I was. I don’t even think she meant to come by and see me. The part of her that is still there was just looking for something familiar.
The nursing home is also becoming a problem. Ted, for the most part, has given up trying to talk to me. But I can’t hide my pregnancy as easily as I did in the beginning, and the staff is starting to notice. The same people that have seen me and Ted together all the time. Sooner or later, they are going to put two and two together. Still, I go, because it’s ten times safer than the group home.
The pimp from 211 had a stroke last month. He’s back from the hospital, but not the same. The right side of his body is paralyzed. He can’t pinch butts or talk slick without slurring and drooling.
“Mr. Abernathy. How are you feeling today?” the nurse shouts. She is a tall woman, so he has to strain to look up at her. “You want your paper? You used to like reading every day.”
He grumbles, tears in his eyes, and looks back at the TV. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what he used to do.
“Well, here, just try.”
The nurse leaves the paper on the tray attached to his wheelchair and nods at me before walking off. I wait until she is long gone and then take the memory of his past life from in front of him. He gives me a look that is neither friendly nor mean, more like relieved. The Sunday paper is like a thick and heavy book, which I love. I grab a pen and huddle with it in the corner, out of habit, I guess.
The first word I circle is in the business section, appropriate. I know that word, I just like the way it sounds. Usually, I skip the entertainment section because it’s nothing but fantasies, except this time, my name is in the headline . . .
Excerpt from the New York Times:
“Lifetime Set to Film the Mary Addison Story’’
Lifetime network has begun development on a new TV movie, The Devil Inside, based on the novel by Jude Mitchell. The movie revolves around the death of three-month-old Alyssa Richardson, tortured and beaten to death by then nine-year-old Mary Addison. This is off the heels of Lifetime’s success with their original movie slates based on the lives of Elizabeth Smart and Anna Nicole Smith.
Addison, recently released and on house arrest, is currently being represented by the Absolution Project, claiming her innocence. The case has been set for appeal. Producers say the outcome of the case will have no bearing on the adaptation. Production will begin next summer.
Black ink smears under my finger. A book is one thing, but a movie? For hundreds of millions of people to see? People like Ms. Claire, the nursing home, the girls . . . all to watch and know.
Tears come, breath wheezing through a small pipe, and I explode. The newspapers are everywhere, weeds of my past, springing up in TV rooms, coffee tables, reception desks, and nightstands. I collect them all like flowers. Up and down the stairs, room by room, I gather. No one stops me. No one knows why they should. I carry the heavy stack of papers to the janitor’s closet, shoving them to the bottom of a garbage barrel. But the problem still remains; I can’t bury all the papers in the world, just like I can’t bury my past. So no matter where I go, Alyssa will be there. I’ll never be able to hide from the mistake that wasn’t mine alone. I try and try . . . but she won’t leave me. It’s too much to bear . . .
I bite down on my arm and let out the biggest scream, so hard it ripples back down my throat and Bean stirs. I bite harder, tasting the salty sweat and blood, the pain no match for the hysteria inside. My eyes fill with tears, buckets of them. I bite harder, the scream stuck and muffled in my throat, straining my neck, until my whole body turns red, trembling like a seizure. I bite harder.
That’s when I notice his sneakers on the floor in the corner, hiding behind the sink. The new ones, under a black duffel bag next to a pile of sheets and blankets, a makeshift bed. I dig around the bag full of his clothes, stuff my face inside, and inhale. His smell devours my pain.
Ted.
It takes one minute to process what is happening.
I find him mopping in the TV room on the fourth floor, a few patients asleep in their wheelchairs around him. It’s been such a long time since I took a real hard look at him. The hair on his baby face makes him look like a tired old man who belongs on the second floor. He notices me by the door, but doesn’t say anything. He is used to me ignoring him now. I step on the wet floor.
“Stop,” he snaps. “You’ll slip and fall.”
The floor is slick with water and generic Pine-Sol. I take another step toward him.
“Yo, I said stop! I’m not playing.”
The floor is like black ice. I take another step and my foot slides a little farther than I wanted it to. Grabbing the air, I try to hold in a gasp. Ted throws down the mop and stomps over. He yanks me by the arm, dragging me to a dry patch of floor.
“What are you doing! You know what could’ve happened if you fell? You could’ve hit your fucking stomach! You could’ve hurt the baby! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
It feels good, this rough-handed shaking, the pinch of his fingers around my skin. It almost feels like love. I curl into his chest, breathing in his scent, wanting it never to end. He stops, letting me wrap around him tighter, stomach spacing us apart. His heart beats a familiar rhythm of calming music.
“Your feelings are showing,” I whisper, knowing he wouldn’t be this mad if he didn’t care.
He presses his nose into my hair and inhales. The nerves return to his body as he defrosts and hugs me back.
“So you think Kelly stole your wallet?”
Damp of sweat, Ted and I hold each other for what seems like a lifetime in a patient’s bed on the fifth floor. The delirious cries in the background are like the comforting sounds of my childhood. I miss Momma. I shouldn’t, but I do.
“I don’t know anything anymore.”
He presses his ear to my bare stomach, listening to Bean dance around.
“Did you tell the lawyer?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
He looks up at me.
“Say you have to get out of there. Now.”
“I don’t know,” I mumble.
He smooths his hand over my skin.
“What about your moms?”
I swallow and hug him tighter.
“She’s not any safer either.”
Transcript from the February 2nd Interview with Mrs. Dawn Cooper-Worthington
Detective: Hello, Ms. Cooper, remember me?
Dawn: It’s Mrs. Worthington.
Detective: I’m sorry. Mrs. Worthington.
Attorney: Detective, let’s not play games here. Mrs. Worthington came here willingly and would like to speed this along if you please. She’s an upstanding citizen, member of her church, with an impeccable record. She would like to be completely absolved from this matter once and for all.
Detective: Oh really? How kind of her to be here. How kind of you both. Well, we do have some questions.
Dawn: You asked me plenty six years ago. Lord only knows what’s come up now that I haven’t already answered.
Detective: Fair enough, I’ll skip to the new stuff. Mrs. Worthington, are you a religious person?
Dawn: What kind of question is that?
A
ttorney: Speak plainly, detective, we don’t have all day.
Detective: Very well. Mrs. Worthington, do you remember the types of toys Mary had in her room the night Alyssa died?
Dawn: Oh, it’s been years.
Detective: Take your time. I’m sure you can remember a few.
Dawn: Didn’t you ask me this before? You most certainly did ask me this before.
Detective: Refresh our memory. You’re a smart woman, you know better than us, I’m sure.
Dawn: Well, alright. Okay, so there were dolls, lots of them. A dollhouse, blocks, those Lego things. Coloring books, reading books, writing books. That’s ’bout it.
Detective: Did Mary play any dress-up games? What about jewelry? Any fake jewels or crowns? You know, those princess tiaras?
Dawn: No. Makes no sense dressing her up to be something she’s not.
Detective: Maybe Halloween costumes?
Dawn: No, we don’t celebrate that! That’s the devil’s holiday!
Detective: Do you remember what you were wearing the night you took care of Alyssa?
Dawn: Why yes, I had on my nice silk pajama pants and my red sweater. I was just getting ready for bed when I heard her crying. I didn’t even get a chance to take my top off yet and change into my robe.
Detective: So you didn’t take a shower?
Dawn: No.
Detective: Did you, forgive me, wrap your hair up or put it in those rollers, like women do these days?
Dawn: Ha, no, I didn’t have much time for anything like that.
Detective: So it’s safe to assume you had on all your jewelry, makeup, and such?
Dawn: I guess . . . I can’t quite remember, but I suppose so. Well, yes.
Detective: What kind of jewelry do you typically wear?
Dawn: Well, my earrings. And my bracelet.
Detective: What about a cross?
Dawn: Oh . . . no, I don’t have anything like that.
Detective: Really? ’Cause Mary mentioned you used to wear a cross all the time.
Dawn: Oh. Oh right, my cross. Well, yes, I used to. But . . . not that often. Not all the time.
Detective: Folks we talked to remembered you wearing it, almost every day. Said it was pretty distinct.
Dawn: Well, not every day. But yes. It was my mother’s.
Detective: Do you still wear it?
Dawn: No. I lost it.
Detective: When?
Dawn: About a few years back.
Detective: Do you remember specifically when?
Dawn: No. Now, what’s this all about?
Detective: There was a specific item we kept from the press . . . about something that was found inside Alyssa’s throat.
Dawn: What’s that got to do with me?
Detective: The jewel we found in Alyssa’s throat matches the description of a jewel on your cross. The one people said they saw you wear all the time.
Dawn: Well . . . well, that’s ridiculous!
Attorney: Those are some pretty big allegations there, detective. Able to back it up with proof? Evidence?
Detective: I’m hoping Mrs. Worthington can help with that. Because your daughter mentioned you were wearing the cross the night . . .
Dawn: I have no daughter! Never did. Still don’t.
Detective: What?
Dawn: No daughter of mine would ever hurt a baby like that. No sir.
Detective: So what are you saying?
Attorney: What she is saying is that Mary is not her biological daughter.
Detective: So . . . okay. So whose daughter is Mary? Where did Mary come from?
Dawn: The devil himself.
I knew I couldn’t be her child. What type of person lets her kid take the fall? The kind of person who lies to a child all her life, that’s who. A sick monster of a woman, grown and birthed out of the devil. Ms. Cora reaches across the table in the conference room and holds my hand.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I hate being the one to tell you this.”
Mrs. Worthington, or Momma, says someone gave me to her, but she won’t say who that someone is or was. They didn’t want me, so she found some way to forge documents and took me in like a stray dog. That has been the never-ending theme of my life, nobody wanting me. But why can’t I shake the feeling that I still belong to Momma, no matter what everyone says? Why does it feel like me and Momma were always supposed to just be? It’s like she got a hold on me, her blood beats inside my heart. Is that why I can’t tell Ms. Cora everything . . .
I shake my head and wiggle out of Ms. Cora’s hands. She nods like she understands, but she doesn’t. Nobody understands. Terry pushes a box of tissues near me, but I don’t need them.
“What did the police say . . . about Alyssa?” I ask.
Terry and Ms. Cora share a funny look. They’re about to lie to me.
“Mmm . . . not much,” she says. “There are a lot of unanswered questions. Everything is still a bit too circumstantial.”
That means they still don’t believe me. Ice knocks around the pitcher of water, glass sweating on the table. This could end bad. Not only will I be a baby killer and a liar, but I’ll also look like a girl who tried to blame her mother for something she didn’t do. If Momma doesn’t come clean, they could send me back to baby jail and I’ll never see Bean. Not even once. They will just snatch him right out of me.
“Don’t worry, Mary. We have a pretty solid case,” she says, but sounds as if her thoughts are drifting out the door. Terry still looks nervous.
“But?” I ask.
Ms. Cora sighs, pouring herself some water.
“But . . . I just wish we had the smoking gun.”
“What’s that?”
“You know, that key piece of evidence, something that puts one hundred percent of the blame on your mother. Physical, tangible, direct, scientific evidence.”
“Oh,” I mumble and nibble on my lower lip.
“But I don’t want you to worry. Your story is key here. It corroborates the autopsy and evidence. So let’s not worry about that for now.”
I’m not worried, but it looks like she is.
“How about some lunch! Terry, why don’t we order a pizza!”
I nod and lean back in my seat. The truth is, I have the smoking gun. I just don’t want to be the one to give it up yet. Police already think I’m shit for putting the woman who raised me through this; they might not even believe me. And if they do, they’ll think I’m shit for being a tattletale. No, it has to be her. After everything she’s put me through, I want Momma, or Mrs. Worthington, to be the one to shoot that gun herself and tell the truth. She still has so much pain left to feel.
When I get home and check in, I hear Ms. Carmen in the office with Ms. Stein. The two of them have been pretty quiet all week. They’re up to something, I just don’t know what.
“Mary! Come in here,” Ms. Carmen says. “Sit down.”
She closes the door behind me and grins. There are a few more empty Entenmann’s boxes on the floor. Ms. Stein has been celebrating.
“We have some good news,” Ms. Stein says, a sly smile spread across her fat greasy face.
“With all the . . . issues you’ve been having,” Ms. Carmen starts. “And your condition, we feel it’s best to find you a more suitable placement. So, there is a halfway house that will be a more appropriate fit you will be transferred to. It’s for teen girls like you, pregnant and underage. They’ll be able to provide you with safe, proper care until your baby comes to term. And then . . . well, we’ll see.”
Her last sentence hangs in the air like a threat. Nothing in life surprises me anymore. It’s one unexpected thing after another, so I don’t react. I don’t say nothing. I just sit there, absorbing the words and what they will eventually mean. They glance at each other and smile. My silence is a victory in their eyes.
“Where is it?” I finally ask.
“Upstate,” Ms. Carmen says. “About three hours from here.”
That’s why they look so dam
n happy. They’ve been trying to get rid of me, I mean really get rid of me, for months and they finally did it.
“And before you ask,” Ms. Stein says. “Winters is on board with this plan. He’ll be taking you first thing Saturday, so start packing.”
“We’ll submit your leave of absence papers to school, and the nursing home will find a replacement at another house,” Ms. Carmen says.
Wait, no nursing home means no Ted!
Panic hits me like a car, my insides on fire. I leave the office in silence without being dismissed. I’ve heard about places upstate. No trains, no buses, no cabs, no corner stores. Just a deserted jungle. And Ted . . . I can’t live without him.
New Girl isn’t in the room, thank God. I lock the door behind me and plug up my phone, digging around for the paper I wrote Ms. Cora’s number on until the thought of her makes me stop.
What am I doing?
Ms. Cora works hard, but not fast enough. She’ll want to do this the right way, all the proper paperwork and stuff. But by the time she finishes following the rules, I’ll be long gone, lost in the woods, never seen again. Every time I try to do right, things come out worse. I could try Ms. Claire, but would she even believe me? I don’t know one adult who ever really has.
I dial the only number I know by heart and it goes straight to his voice mail. Maybe he’s at the nursing home. I think. I hope. I call again to leave a message.
“They’re going to send me away. We have to leave. Now.”
That is all I can think to say. I put the phone back and button up my coat. My insides are still burning. I have to find Ted. We only have two days left.
I open the door and New Girl is a white wall in the door frame. We stare at each other, her lips in a tense straight line, which means only one thing: she’s been listening the entire time.
“You have a phone?”
Her face is smooth, but her tone is deep. My heart goes missing, my voice too, all hiding from New Girl. She walks toward me and I back into the room.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Nowhere,” I mumble.
She looks me up and down, standing so still, eyes cold as snow. Her fingers start tapping her thighs like she taps on the computer.
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