“It’ll be okay, Alice. Don’t worry, it was just an accident. Kids have accidents, for goodness’ sake,” Mama tried to reassure me. “He has to have some kind of reason left, right? He’s not going to use the kids like that,” she insisted.
Like I said, Mama had a kind streak in her longer than the thirty-two miles of Mississippi white sand beaches between the Louisiana and Alabama borders.
I had no choice but to send Avery.
In front of the police department, I hopped out of the white Land Rover. The boys were crying in their car seats, as they always did during handovers. I got them out, then wrangled with their car seats while they clung to my legs and Liam stood back and watched me. I kissed them all, hugging them, whispering reassurance in their ears, and turned to get back in the car.
“Oh, I wanted to tell you,” I called, my voice shaking, loud enough to pick up on the tape. “Avery has a bruise on her back—she fell in the shower.”
“Poor little shuggie,” Liam replied, and he turned away.
They pulled out, and I waited until he turned the corner on Jackson Avenue to place a call on my cell to Tim Burr.
I’d hired Tim Burr to follow Liam on his visitations. It was one part legal savvy (another recommendation from Addison) and one part mama’s worry—I honestly didn’t trust Liam with the children. He’d threatened several times to just disappear with them. I was afraid he would hurt them. I had a tape sitting in my bedside table drawer that sent a cold dread through my heart.
“Are you going to give me visitation for the summer, or do I need to take you back to court?” Liam asks, recorded on the tape.
“The judge has already ruled on visitation for now,” I replied. Of course, I was aware of being recorded, but when I play the tapes back, I sound shaky and unsure, scared, a stricken girl’s excuse for the calm and pleasant voice I told myself to use.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to ask the judge. Maybe I should ask for full custody, too, since you’re not able to raise the children,” Liam taunts from the audio.
“Of course I’m able to raise the children, Liam.”
“You’re a danger. You’re crazy. You need psychological help.”
“No, Liam, I’m not crazy,” I say for likely the thousandth time in my married years.
This had become Liam’s new legal tactic—gas-lighting. He’d told me, in one of the police department parking lot exchanges, “If you’re not crazy now, you will be by the time me and Buford are finished with you.”
This is my new reality.
“So are you going to let them come with me for the summer?” he asks on the tape.
“The judge has already agreed and ordered that one day a week is best,” I state as calmly as I can. My voice sounds like I’m talking into a paper cup, shallow, hollow, flat. Ever since Ethel Kahn’s letter, I’ve been handing the kids over every Saturday morning, retrieving them Saturday evening, and the kids were miserable about those eight hours every week. Liam wanted more.
“We can do it the easy way, or we can do it the hard way,” he threatens.
“Ethel Kahn recommends you don’t have the kids for overnight visitation. You admitted to drinking to excess, Liam. You’re not trustworthy. You’re not even conscious past 8:00 P.M.,” I say.
“I want to take them to the beach house,” he announces.
The beach house is our catchphrase for Gulf Shores, Alabama. When people hear Alabama, they don’t think beach, but there’s a long stretch of sugar-white sand stretching the length entire of South Alabama. We used to rent a beach house there for a few weeks each year.
“Actually, I think I’m going to stay in a high-rise this time.”
There was a pause, a silence. The tape rolled on.
“Did you hear what I said? I really want to stay in one of the high-rises, some of the new construction buildings are forty floors at least. Did you hear about that father who took his kids on vacation?” he asks, a little fissure of sick joy spiking his voice.
“No.” I hesitate, sensing something coming. I am used to his tactics.
“This dad, he was in the middle of a big, ugly divorce, and his wife was trying to keep the children from him. So the guy got summer visitation and he went to Alabama or Florida or somewhere along there and jumped from the balcony of his hotel room, thirty flights up.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
“With his kids in his arms,” he adds, an unmistakable tint of threat and inexplicable glee in his voice. “What do you think of that, Alice?” he asks.
“Are you saying that’s what you’re going to do? Are you trying to scare me?” I ask.
On the tape, my voice is so high I sound like I’m screaming, but in a whisper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alice. You really need help for your mental problems. I think you need to be committed,” he said.
“I’m not crazy, Liam,” I reply as calmly as I can.
The truth was his tactics were starting to work—his threats, his repeated violation of the protective order, and frequent conversations like this one had started to make me feel like I was crazy.
Crazy. Desperate. Increasingly wild of heart.
It was after a few conversations like this, and one in which he told me he’d obtained passports for the kids and had regular dreams of disappearing with them, that I finally hired Tim Burr.
I started by looking under Private Investigators in the local phone book. Every person listed I either knew or knew someone related to them. (You could tell a lot in Ocean Springs just by someone’s last name.) Finally, I asked around my girlfriends at the school and got the number of a detective on the Biloxi PD. I called the number my friend passed along, and a deep voice answered promptly with, “Yeah?”
He agreed to meet me at the butcher counter in Mohler’s gas station on Washington Avenue, a few blocks south of the 10. They had a lunch counter there, and plastic booths. I left the kids with Mama and went to meet him. I waited half an hour, feeling like the protagonist in a bad movie of the week. Eventually, my phone rang.
“I’m having babysitting issues; can you come to my house?” he asked, and he gave me directions to a tidy ranch just a few blocks away.
He was tall, action-star handsome, with a blond buzz cut and enormous arms punctuated by tribal tattoos. When he came to the door, he held the sweetest little baby girl in those massive arms. I sat on his dark red floral couch with my manila folder full of copies of the legal documents thus far, a few photos of Liam, and a typed-up report of all of Liam’s information—where he lived, worked, and an estimated timeline of his days.
He sat and listened to me, the baby bouncing on the edge of his ample, tanned knee.
“He’s a little dude, right?”
“Yes, sir, my size for the most part,” I replied.
“The little fuckers are always the meanest,” he said. “Someone this arrogant is always easy to tail, don’t worry. He’s so worried about himself he won’t have the good sense to notice who might be near him. No worries, I’ll watch him and your kids.”
I thanked him and went to leave, gathering my purse. As I grabbed the doorknob, he reached around me, pulled it open.
“One more thing—don’t acknowledge me if you see me in public,” he warned. “And every move you make outside of your house, assume you’re being photographed. It wouldn’t do any harm to be dressed up whenever you go out—like church dressed up. And carry a cake pan or a casserole a lot.”
“Like, pretend I’m June Cleaver?”
He laughed. “Pretty much. Believe me, you’ll thank me later.”
“Okay, well, I’m thanking you now,” I murmured, close to tears. Every hour or so, a great wave of sadness would wash over me, struck through with disbelief that this had so quickly become my life. But of course it wasn’t quick—it’s never quick.
“Don’t cry, darlin’,” he reassured. “You’re doing the right thing. I’ve seen too many girls
stay after being beaten up ‘just once.’ Lemme tell you something—it’s never ‘just once.’ Ever.”
“What if he sees you? He says he’s the doctor for the Ocean Springs Police Department,” I worried.
“First, for all intents and purposes, as far as he or anyone is concerned, I’m not a Biloxi detective; I’m a redneck tree trimmer. He ain’t going to give me a second look.”
“Thank you so much, Tim,” I said.
“That’s Mr. Tim Burr, tree trimmer, to you, young lady!” he teased.
I think it was the first time I smiled all week. Out front was his F-250 truck, with Tim Burr, Tree Service emblazoned on the door.
I knew, I just knew Liam wouldn’t let that bruise remain just a bruise.
Tim Burr, tree trimmer, followed Liam and the kids the day entire. They drove straight from the Ocean Springs Police Department east to Mobile, Alabama, an hour drive down the 10. Since the storm, Liam spent a lot of time in Mobile. Tim Burr called me on the way to reassure me he was on them.
“By the way, I talked to my buddy at Ocean Springs Police.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“They never heard of him,” he said.
“Never heard of whom?” I asked.
“Never heard of your husband.”
“At the police department?”
“Right. Never heard of the dude.”
“Ocean Springs Police? But he said he’s their doctor, that he takes care of the whole department,” I continued.
“Yup, like I said, they never heard of him. Trust me. I talked to my cousin, and he asked around.”
“So it was all a lie to, what, scare me?”
“Yes, it was all a lie. It’s not that unusual, though the doctor angle is new to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“A man tells a woman he has an ‘in’ with the police department for one reason and one reason only—to make sure she don’t call ’em when he beats the living crap outta her.”
I felt as if I’d fallen from a tree and landed hard on my ass. In front of church. On Easter. Like an altogether gullible stupid fool.
Everyone kept telling me that his threats were hollow, and moments like this confirmed that he was, indeed, a liar. A bully. But he’d also been threatening to kill me, almost daily, for the last year, and he’d nearly made good on that promise. Now his biggest threat was that he’d find a way to make sure I never saw the kids again.
They stopped briefly at Magic Castle, an indoor playground. At Target, they went in and bought socks. Apparently, you weren’t allowed to jump barefoot at the Magic Castle. After, they went to lunch at Liam’s favorite Mexican restaurant, then headed back to Magic Castle. They stayed and played three hours while Tim Burr sat just left of a big birthday party, acting like a bored dad on his cell.
Liam talked on the phone the entire drive back from Mobile to Ocean Springs, and instead of getting off the 10 and going to his condo, he took the last exit and drove into the parking lot at Ocean Springs Hospital.
Tim Burr called and told me they were inside, but not to worry, he’d seen no one get injured. I told him about the bruise then, and he said, “Ah, got it. I’m going to stay extra close. Can you afford a few hours after he drops them off?”
“Yes, sure.”
A sick feeling rose in my throat.
After about an hour inside, the kids emerged with Liam and got in his car, and they all went back to his condo.
“They’re out now—looks like maybe Avery threw up on herself. They’re headed back to his condo now. I’ll keep you posted.”
I hung up, snapped shut my phone, sat staring at it, numb.
A half hour or so passed with them in the condo, and they all came out and went to the pool. Just before the appointed time, Liam piled them into his car and brought them back to me at the police department parking lot.
They were wet-haired and long-faced when they got out of his car, falling into my arms. Liam tried to pull them back to embrace him, but they leaned away from him, staying at an arm’s length. He said nothing to them, just got back in his car and drove away.
Avery burst immediately into sobs.
The story poured out of her, lurching, her little chest heaving. As she told me what happened, it was like she was coloring in the pictures of what Tim Burr had told me. The day in Mobile had gone well until, Avery said, Liam had lifted up her dress at the Magic Palace and saw her bruise. The entire drive back to Ocean Springs, he’d been on the phone.
“He says you’re going to go live in a hospital for people who are sick in their brain, Mama,” she sobbed. “And that we have to live with him but that’s he’s going to take us to visit you at the hospital but that you gotta live there for the rest of your life, Mama,” she wailed.
“Yeah,” added Grayson, unblinking, “why you gotta live at the hospital, Mama?” he mumbled around the thumb planted firmly in his mouth.
“He took me to the hospital, Mama, and I had to get an x-ray, and I threw up all over myself. I hate the hospital, Mama. I don’t want you to live there, even a special one!” she cried.
“Me either,” said Grayson. “And I don’t like hospitals.”
“Mama sick, Mama sick,” cooed Aidan.
“And then, and then, and then, and then,” Avery cried, the sobs making her inhale in sharp contractions of breath, her mouth gaping in pure sorrow.
“Slow down, shuggie. You’re okay. Take a breath and tell Mama what happened at the hospital.”
The tears fell in big, fat silent rows down her cheeks. Finally, she cried out, “He made me take a shower, and then he took my picture naked, Mama.”
“Naked?” I yelled, alarmed.
“Yeah, but after that, we got to go swimming,” she said, still crying but settling down, her sobs relaxing into quiet tears pouring down her fair little cheeks.
“You went swimming?”
“Yeah, but then Dada said that there was too many brown people at the pool.”
“Avery, we don’t care what color people are, right?”
“Mama, he says you hurt me,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, shuggie. I would never hurt you,” I said, trying not to cry.
“I know, Mama, I know.”
WELCOME TO THE CIRCUS
Addison called first thing Monday morning with the news that Liam, via Buford, had filed an emergency motion to appear. Liam was requesting the court issue an emergency change in physical custody. As expected, he was accusing me of physical child abuse on Avery.
“There’s more, Alice,” Addison said, her voice quieter than usual. “Have you ever been committed to a psych ward or tried to kill yourself?” she asked.
I sat on the other end of the line, silent.
“Alice?”
“Um, yeah. I mean, no. Why are you asking me this?”
“Well, they’re accusing you of much more than abusing Avery.”
“Like what?” I asked in what may have been my final moment of glorious ignorance of what was to come.
Addison continued, “They’re saying you’re suicidal, homicidal, and an immediate danger to both yourself and the children. They say you’re a habitual liar, with a genius IQ, who has had multiple abortions.”
“What? He can just say anything he wants?” I asked, stunned.
“Well, he has something to back it up.”
“Like what?” What could he possibly have to back it up?
“Ethel Kahn has written a letter that she believes you have dissociative identity disorder, are an immediate danger to the children, and that the children should be removed from you immediately.”
“She met with me for forty minutes and never said a word!” I yelled into the phone. “And I haven’t seen her since.”
“Well, Liam’s been seeing her, and they’ve apparently been going through your book. They’re introducing it as evidence.”
“My book? My award-winning book that was an inspiration and hope for survivors of sexual
abuse? From NYU Press? My book of literary poetry? That book? How could that possibly be used against me?”
“I don’t know what’s in there, Alice, but they’ve submitted it as evidence of pornography, perversion, and parental unfitness,” Addison said.
Pornography.
Perversion.
Parental unfitness.
“They submitted my book as evidence against me? To take my children away?”
“Yes, they did. Well, actually, they submitted a photocopy of the book. They left off the cover material, coincidentally.”
“So it looks like I’m some coffeehouse poet with a bunch of random ramblings?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did I fall asleep and wake up in 1952?”
“You’re too intelligent for the likes of them.”
“But seriously, that book isn’t autobiography. It’s literary poetry, not nonfiction. If it was, I’d have killed my father, been a prostitute in Japan, a stripper, with a sexual attraction to Jesus.”
“Of sweet baby Jesus.” Addison sighed. “I’m going to need a copy of that book. And can you get some, I don’t know, famous writers to write you letters that it’s not all a true story? I think we’re going to need to educate the court.”
A small sob escaped my mouth.
Years earlier, Liam had forced me to promise to never write another poem. I had never stopped, but I’d stopped writing them down. Now I silently promised to never write another poem if I could just keep my children.
If poetry makes me lose my children, I hate poetry.
“Alice, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you this.” She paused. “What is your relationship with your daddy now?” she asked.
“My daddy?” I screeched out.
This was getting more sickening by the minute.
“Addison, he passed away two years ago. I was going to go see him one last time, but I was five months pregnant, and I had three babies. And Liam would not go visit my family with me, and he wouldn’t help me with the children. And my daddy was dying and he called me and asked me if I was coming, and I said I couldn’t. And my daddy died that very day. On the same day. And a few weeks later is when I lost my baby, and when the doctor dated it back to the last day of thriving, it was the same day my daddy passed. No matter what Liam says, or what they’re highlighting from my book, my daddy and I had a great relationship when he finally passed. Liam was the one to encourage me to make peace with him before he died,” I stuttered out.
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