My daughter Penelope killed a woman and brought the body to our house.
The tower would crumble then.
54
EDWARD
Edward did his best but the care of Donna was overwhelming. He was ill equipped, he wasn’t proud of that, but he wasn’t cut from that kind of cloth. There was no end to her needs and at the forefront was always that one thought: he’d never be able to hire people to do the caring for him. He was afraid she’d let the truth slip. He didn’t kid himself, there was still more rock to this rock bottom he was living in, they hadn’t reached the lowermost rung of that ladder quite yet.
Donna went from silent to blabbering all day, a constant retelling of stories—the Tour of Homes with the Miss Texas gown and sash was one she kept going back to over and over. It left him wanting to rip her throat out. He had told her then how ridiculous it was but she was dead set on staging the house. She created an entire playroom, even. Who does that? No one in their right mind but she had committed herself to what she called telling a story.
But he was one to talk. Edward wasn’t in his right mind either. The grief he felt for his daughter, this gasping for air at the most unexpected moments, as he awoke at night, every time the phone rang, that was something that would ease with time, but in the meantime he wasn’t good for anything, hadn’t been to work in weeks, had neglected all his obligations and was utterly useless in general.
Donna had half a million dollars’ worth of X-rays and MRIs and ultrasounds, genetic analyses, and evaluations—insurance paid for everything but Edward had seen the paperwork, the outrageous dollar amounts spent to get to the bottom of it—and he even insisted on the most far-fetched hereditary genetic workups but not a single result presented a diagnosis. Money couldn’t buy him clarity when it came to Donna.
There was but one consensus: there was no trauma, no injury, her daughter’s body had all but broken her fall and if it wasn’t for her shattered hip, Donna was unscathed.
The fall. Edward had suspicions. Not knowing what had transpired between mother and daughter tore at him. Had Donna caused the fall? Had she tried to keep Penelope from jumping? Why had it come to that? And the condition of the room, what was that all about? What had Donna done to his daughter? He was quick to assign fault, though he didn’t like thinking of Donna that way, but he didn’t trust her at all, hadn’t trusted her in a while.
He’d get to the truth, if it was the last thing he’d do.
55
EDWARD
Sometimes, at night, he’d wake and feel someone touch his shoulder. He had no explanation for it, he didn’t think it was Penelope from the afterlife, the dead capable of making contact was nothing he prescribed to, as a physician he believed in brain waves and loss of brain activity and therefore he categorically refused to believe in such silly notions. What he knew for sure was he’d be perpetually and constantly living with a sense of guilt and anxiety—did they find out, were they on to him?—and that insecurity, that painful anticipation he couldn’t deal with. He’d never be safe and eventually the fear made way for some certainty, it’s a matter of time, a nervous kind of energy that tingled through him like electrical sparks, gathering in his toes.
The day came when the urge to end this state seemed more pressing than ever before and he woke and no longer wondered where he’d find the strength to go on but with a sudden surge of momentum he opened the windows and let fresh air in the house. He went online and located an agency for domestic employees. When he spoke with a woman on the phone, her cheerful and bubbly voice reminded him of some sort of normalcy among the bleakness that were his days and he politely asked her if people still used the word housekeeper or if they had a new title, like household employee or domestic worker. He didn’t wait for an answer and instead told her to send someone and if it worked out, that would be great; if not, she could just pick someone else for him.
“There’s been a tragedy in the family. A death. I’m trying to cope,” he said, aware that his voice was raw with emotion.
* * *
• • •
Marleen knocked on the door the very next day. She ordered groceries and called a cleaning service to give the house a good scrubbing, top to bottom. Edward told her to leave Penelope’s room untouched as if at some later time, when he had gained enough distance and space, he’d be able to tackle that part of his life.
Marleen was understanding—or used to taking orders, he couldn’t be sure—but she never so much as furrowed a brow.
* * *
• • •
There was something about Marleen that put Edward at ease. They’d sit and talk and Edward would find words that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for months and she seemed to draw those out of him as if she recognized his suffering.
He did damage control the only way he knew how.
“Donna gets confused about things,” he said. “About Penelope and what happened to her. Maybe it’s, oh, I couldn’t tell you, I don’t want to guess, but she makes up things, like she can’t help but fill in the blanks. And she has said horrible things. That Penelope killed someone and that, oh, I can’t even talk about it,” he added, covering his face with his hands.
Donna had almost let it slip before, the first time with Detective Lee, who had come to interview her, and if it wasn’t for Edward cutting it short, she might have spilled it all. Then another time in front of a doctor, she had muttered something about blood and car and death and Edward had panicked, had ushered her out of the room. It wasn’t until he met Marleen that he figured out what he should have done all along: tell people Donna was out of her mind. Riddled with grief but unaware of what happened were the words he used from then on.
Marleen assured him that she’d never tell anyone about Donna’s outbursts—a word he’d also come to use—and she wouldn’t tell a soul about anything regarding the death of Penelope.
“You know, maybe it’s this house,” Marleen added and rubbed her upper arms as if some chill had burst into the room. “Maybe she should recover in a different place. On neutral ground, so to speak. Where her mind can start fresh.”
“You don’t understand,” Edward said. “Donna picked out every doorknob and every light fixture in this house. Every single piece of furniture. She wouldn’t want to be away.”
“There are places that can accommodate her,” Marleen had said, and Edward leaned in closer.
As he listened to Marleen, for the first time in a long time he saw all that had been irking him, all that had ached inside of him, this jumble that had been his life lately, he saw it dissolve. Maybe he could solve the puzzle after all.
* * *
• • •
Two months later Edward looked into the place Marleen had mentioned to him. His initial hesitation turned into that’ll show her, he thought. If she can go on pretending, she might as well do it some place else.
“Donna,” he said in a stern voice, “we can’t go on like this. I need you to get better. I found a place for you to recover and in the meantime just concentrate on that. And I’ll do the same.”
Where else was she going to go? She would be destitute if it wasn’t for him. He’d watch the progression of it all but he had a feeling she’d play that blabbering idiot to perfection, that role she’d pull off like the flawless actress she was. Supporting her financially was a small price to pay as he considered the alternative: being trapped in this house with Donna until they both expired. If she was going to act like she was crazy he might as well lock her away and leave her to rot.
* * *
• • •
Marleen agreed to accompany Donna to oversee her convalescence at Shadow Garden. After Donna left, the house was empty, the scent of lemon cleaner hung in the air, the stuffiness that had seeped into the curtains had been washed away but he was alone and that was something he wasn’t prepared for.
Edward stood by the back door, saw the woods in the distance, so menacing, as if they wanted to convey to him how utterly isolated he was. He stepped into the backyard for the first time in a long time. Not knowing what he would do in this big house all by himself—the outdoor kitchen neglected, the lawn chairs covered in the spatter of green and white droppings—all seventeen rooms and the expansive lawn, the pool, the pool house.
He could downsize. He could sell the practice, the patents were enough to guarantee him a pleasant life, maybe not one in Hawthorne Court with seventeen rooms, but something half the size. One third of this house would do, maybe a town house. Some distance and maybe he’d be up for performing surgeries again. He’d wait it out, see what was in store for him.
In the kitchen he found a ripped-open envelope and began making a list of what all had to be done to restore the house so he could sell it and move on.
He was hopeful. That day he was hopeful.
56
EDWARD
It started off inconspicuously, like the flu creeping up on him, with a general fatigue at first, followed by a headache and a sore throat, culminating into a full-blown fever. He smelled blood everywhere. He couldn’t stand for doors to be closed, couldn’t stand the scent of floor cleaner and silver polish, all those odors left behind by the people who cleaned his house because just below it, just beneath the pine scent, there was a stench of blood, a layer of stink he couldn’t get rid of. The stench was everywhere, even in the basement. In the backyard. High and low, inside and out, near and far, here and there.
Blood. Iron atoms. Rusty. Iron cation (Fe2+).
He opened windows which in turn created a cross breeze that made the doors slam shut. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Think about what you did, the house seemed to say, mocking his every attempt to move on.
Months went by, he could tell by the changing of the seasons, but he didn’t feel time pass at all. Often, he woke in the middle of the night and felt a pull toward his daughter’s room, which had been sitting untouched since that night. Then one day it dawned on him that it was almost the day of Penelope’s death and he could feel the looming anniversary creep into his bones. He was dreading it.
During those wakeful moments, his resentment for Donna grew. She lived carefree and without responsibilities, tucked away at Shadow Garden, and he wanted nothing more but to wash his hands of her but there was something reminiscent of a debt he owed her. He paid her extensive medical bills, she wanted for nothing and he felt he owed that to her. He paid Marleen to care for Donna at Shadow Garden and every so often he stressed the fact that Donna couldn’t be trusted. He explained it just right so a possible confession would fall on deaf ears, about Donna’s situation, and her cognitive disabilities, and he was proud of himself that he had managed to leave it basic and open for interpretation.
“She might get confused about what happened,” he told Marleen. “She gets confused easily about Penelope and it would be best if you encourage her to stay busy and not ruminate too much. She makes up stories in her head. Wait until you hear the one about the Miss Texas pageant. She’ll show you the dress. It’s all made up, you can look it up. The sash. The dress, all of it. Just don’t argue with her, just give her time to get better.”
Not for one minute did he think about Donna returning to Hawthorne Court, for them to resume their marriage, their life together. But the cogs turned. In the back of his mind they turned and revolved around one thing: closure.
* * *
• • •
The grass had grown long, the seed stalks were higher than the turf by inches, and crabgrass had taken over. Mulch had been washed away by rain, the bushes impeded the view—not that Edward ever enjoyed the view anymore—the woodwork outside had begun to crack, needed a coat of shellac, but he couldn’t be bothered. He was aware of the decline, the moribund state of it all.
The neighbors seemed to be waiting for Donna to return, and when she didn’t, they began to talk. He noticed them disappearing into garages, stepping back into foyers, or hurriedly slamming car doors and spitting gravel as they sped away. When they saw him on the porch or on the lawn, they turned away without a nod or a greeting, unsure what to make of him, a man in faded pajama pants and a stained T-shirt, and a Scotch plaid flannel robe untied, two sizes too big for him.
Even the book club had moved on, no more selections appeared at the front door and two new houses had been built at the end of the cul-de-sac—New American style. Donna would have something to say about that. Builders had bought most of the parcels that were left and they had begun to divide the plats into smaller lots and cement trucks rolled in, and pneumatic staple guns echoed through Preston Hallow.
Once, at a gas station, he ran into a neighbor. He no longer recalled his name.
“How are things?” the neighbor asked, head cocked to the side, somber, empathetic.
“As expected,” Edward replied and looked the man up and down, couldn’t remember a single meaningful conversation they had had, though they had met frequently at parties and functions. The wives had their book clubs and lunches but what had the men really talked about? The brand of whiskey they were drinking? Sports wasn’t something that was interesting to him, maybe investments, taxes, the best accountant in town?
“How’s Donna?” the neighbor asked.
“As expected,” Edward said again, as if he had no opinion about anything. It was what it was, and as expected wasn’t far off.
Edward excused himself, cut the conversation short. “Run along now,” he added, as if the man was a child, but he didn’t care about him or the neighbors or the house or anything for that matter.
The weekly cleanings had ceased when Marleen left with Donna and though he meant to pick up the phone and hire someone else, he never did. Limbo was what he was in; he couldn’t sell Hawthorne Court, had neglected it. No, he had done more than neglect it; he had all but abandoned it, and the list of improvements he had made lay hidden in some drawer. He contacted a real estate agency but avoided the well-known ones that handled luxury homes, didn’t want word to get around, all he needed was to get a feel for what it would take to put the house on the market.
A real estate agent came by and as if fate wasn’t done handing out suffering, the agent, a young woman in a designer dress, reminded him of Penelope with her flighty way of walking through the house and her attempt to grasp the property and numbers of rooms, randomly asking questions and not taking any notes. The woman was young and inexperienced and nervous and he bristled on the inside and thought of Penelope, who had probably been worse at this job than her.
* * *
• • •
Before he arranged for Donna to move to Shadow Garden with Marleen, he watched Donna like a hawk. Once, he had coaxed her out of bed, had taken her by the elbow and somehow they ended up talking about that ridiculous light fixture she had insisted on, a “piece of art” she said, a sunburst pendant he’d always despised and which seemed out of place in the otherwise classical style of the home. Donna told him a lengthy story about their trip to Italy, how she had seen a similar piece, and Edward knew this story to be true and so he continuously jogged her memory, and there were things she’d divulge if he jogged her memory just right. It was more Donna letting her guard down than him being sly, and a plan formed in his mind.
That scheme he’d come up with, foolproof one day only to be full of flaws the next, gave him a moment of pause. He ought to try.
57
EDWARD
The plan was as bold as it was far-fetched: he’d surround Donna with things that had some sort of emotional significance attached to them, and eventually, when it all came back to her and all the tiny puzzle pieces culminated into the larger picture—what happened the night Penelope fell to her death—he’d swoop in and she’d come clean.
Marleen had developed a fierce loyalty toward Donna and he had to choose his
words carefully so she’d go along with his plan.
“You know about Donna’s cognitive problems and the depression. Who could blame her, right, after all she’s been through? If we just surround her with things from happier times, she’ll perk up a bit. Make an effort to get better. Being here, where it all happened, it was just too much for her. You were right. But she’ll come around. I know she will. Just imagine what she’s been through. It’s such a blessing for her to be able to recover and your help is instrumental, Marleen. I’m so glad I found you.”
He began to pick furniture to send to Shadow Garden. Marleen planted items he gave her: a book, her vanity, silverware. A statue. He called them little seeds of memory and he hoped they would unsettle Donna enough to remember, and he thought of them like stoking a fire to get it to burst into flames. A slow but steady wearing her down, getting her to connect the dots, until the final breakdown when he’d finally know the truth.
Marleen was oblivious, thought his attempts to comfort Donna heartwarming. He’d let the phone ring twice then he’d hang up and later that night meet her by the door leading to the storage room, a room that she kept locked at all times. He showed up after Donna was asleep or had just taken her medication. He knew he had to be careful; if Donna ever saw him and Marleen together, she’d figure something was up. Donna was smart, she’d pick up on it, he knew that about her. She smelled rats everywhere.
Edward felt guilty in the beginning but eventually manipulating Marleen became easier and easier until it no longer concerned him. To her, the items he picked from Hawthorne Court—and he had an entire room dedicated to them—were meant to give Donna solace during her recovery: photo albums he had painstakingly put together with reminders of a trip to Italy, a picture of Penelope on the beach, a trip to a farm picking strawberries.
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