Tired from wrapping into the early morning, I was too foggy to get his joke. “What?” I said.
“I mean, look at all our stuff. It’s cheap and crummy. They have too many toys. If our house burned to the ground, we could start over and make it nice. Make better choices.”
“I guess. As long as we all got out alive.”
“Of course.”
“And as long as we grabbed our visas and birth certificates because it would be a pain in the ass to get new ones.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“As long as we grabbed the christening dress your grandma crocheted for you.”
He smiled, softening and appreciating my joke. Every time he came across the hard, yellowed gown he frowned. He wanted to toss it but couldn’t go through with it. She’d embroidered his name into the tag. “Yes, wouldn’t want to lose my baby dress.”
And so when he left, he didn’t only unburden himself from screwing the same old, fidgety, dim preschool teacher, he unburdened himself from all our crappy stuff too. Probably bought himself an expensive lightweight TV, a nice La-Z-Boy, a classy set of dishes.
I search Ava’s parents on social media. Ethan posted yesterday morning. Not giving up hope. Anyone who knows anything, as unimportant as it may seem, please contact us. But his words lack urgency. They are plain, uncompelling, impersonal. There’s a phone number after his post, but it belongs to the police department. I’ve checked.
I yawn and check the time. 1:14am. I hope this isn’t one of those days Chloe decides to start her day before sunrise.
I watch Ava’s video. I’ve been watching it since she went missing, but this past week, my watching is compulsive.
I plug my laptop into a charger on the floor. I lie down and close my eyes, but my mind buzzes.
Ava’s face behind Leland’s window. Her brown curls. Her tiny palm. Her empty eyes. Her parted lips. What did she want to tell me?
You didn’t see her. You know that, right?
It’s been five months. She’s dead. Everyone knows that.
I roll over and grab my phone. I open YouTube to watch Ava’s video one more time.
10
TWIST THE HANDLE ON MY FRONT DOOR
It is her missing front tooth, the one on her right, and the fleshy gummy space remaining that gets you to smile at first. For a split second you wonder how she lost that tooth. Had she bitten into an apple, then pulled the apple away to see the fruit’s white flesh stained by her own blood? Had she been horrified by the sight of her tooth, sticking out of the apple like a grotesque sculpture, small fibrous roots at the top like tiny worms? Had she cried out at her lost body part? Or had she yanked the loose tooth out herself and, gleeful and laughing, blood filling her mouth, held it up as if she’d discovered a treasure within her own body?
Then it is her side-to-side head bobbing, slow with Neil Young’s folksy, timeless guitar strum. She’s practically touching her ear to one shoulder and then the other. She’s being silly, trying to hook a laugh from the cameraman.
Then it’s her socks, striped pink and gray, pulled halfway up to her knees and mismatched with shimmery red ballet pumps, sequined Dorothy shoes that had once been fancy but were now scuffed and worn dull at the toes. She didn’t just wear these shoes, she played tag in these shoes. Her white T-shirt has a cat’s face on the front, and the cat’s whiskers pop out stiffly from the shirt, making you worry about them getting caught in some crevice of the dryer. At the top of the shirt, there is a smeary, deep purple-blue stain, maybe from frozen blueberries, maybe from grape Kool-Aid. Her bright orange shorts have pink polka dots and they are short and snug.
She wears her syrup-brown wavy hair in two side pigtails, pulled together haphazardly, one landing higher than the other. This is a strong-willed child who can do her own hair, thank you very much.
The goofy outfit and the stain convey an impromptu video. No stage parent would dare dress their kid this shoddy while striving for YouTube fame. Unless their strategy was cleverly contrarian. Viewers hate an over-processed, over-coached child beauty queen. Maybe the parents were working off that script and had meticulously created a costume that appeared child-driven and authentic.
She is pretty in the way that most five-year-old girls are pretty. Flawless skin, chubby cheeks, and bright eyes. Brown hair that has a beachy, salt-wind sheen, both stringy and shiny. Old ladies who’d long ago tweezed their eyebrows, only to draw them back on when that was the trend, would comment on the girl’s luscious eyebrows, full and expressive.
Then Ava Boone opens her mouth and sings the first line of Neil Young’s wistful “Harvest Moon”. Her voice takes you by surprise at first because it is hoarse and deep-toned for a small child. Then chills prickle along your scalp because, wow, this little girl can sing. She grasps melody and nuance, so unnatural for a five-year-old. And she isn’t just a lovely singer, she is a performer. She holds her eyes wide and serious, then she breaks into a huge smile.
She is a beat behind on a few of her lines, and the man playing guitar, you assume it is her father, softly sings a few verses with her. Besides her slight lisp from the missing tooth and needing a little help with the lyrics, Ava Boone nails it. She makes you remember, Oh, this song. I haven’t heard this since my cousin’s wedding. This is a great song.
After the chorus, she decides she’s done. To make her finale memorable, she strikes this surprising pose. All at once, she shoots her arms out to the sides like a tightrope walker, abducts one of her legs, and tilts her head sideways, sticking her tongue out. She holds the pose for a moment, as if a photographer has said, OK, kids, now give me a silly pose. It’s right as she strikes this hyperactive pose that the video ends, and you’re left staring at the frozen image of her laughing eyes, wide open mouth, and tongue skewed to the side. This static image haunts parents’ minds everywhere.
Even though the video is gripping, it didn’t go viral when it was first posted. Her video didn’t get played on Entertainment Tonight, and she didn’t get a call from Ellen. Her acoustic rendition of “Harvest Moon” went unnoticed for weeks.
But fame loves tragedy. Two days after she went missing, her one-minute nineteen-second video had over four million views. Some people posted offshoots of the video, dissecting, narrating their characterization over her singing, proselytizing the tragedy of child beauty queens and parents pushing their children toward the bright, luring yet dangerous flames of fame. I bet they don’t wish they drew attention to their beautiful child now. They talked about her magnetic personality. In hushed, apologetic tones, they said, You could see how someone would be drawn to her energy.
People like you, like me, watch the video compulsively, yet secretly, hiding our Ava Boone viewing as if it were porn—Oh, yes, I’ve heard of the video. No, no, I haven’t seen it. Tell me about it.
We watch it as a cautionary tale, as a reminder to not put our children on display, to resist the urge to brag-share our children’s beauty, talent, intelligence, and wit. Keep our children’s gifts secret. Bottle their personalities up and keep them for ourselves. The Boone family shared Ava with strangers, and then a stranger took Ava away.
We watch because she is enchanting. Most five-year-olds can’t keep their eyes focused on the same location for ten seconds; this one stares right at us, bewitching us with her voice and demure while singing a memorized song. Here is a clever girl with a mind of her own who likes to dress herself and, as mismatched as she is, ends up appearing stylish. We like her, we want to be near her.
We watch because the video has an exclusive, private feel, and we are voyeurs at heart. Soft in the background is a man’s gentle voice. He must be the one improvising on guitar. His chords are experienced, yet imperfect. This is a tender, spontaneous moment between father and daughter, and we, as mothers, cannot resist.
We watch the video to crack the case. We search for clues. What is her father doing off-stage? Is he relaxed and smiling, an old hippie strumming his guitar? Or is he pushy
and menacing behind the camera, mouthing, eye contact, eye contact! The camera never wobbles. He must have propped it. Twice she scratches her neck under her hair. Is she a fidgety, sweaty, itchy child or is she trying to send a signal? There’s a laminated world map behind her to the left. Is that red pushpin in Ontario, Canada? Why Ontario? That small fluff of white blanket to her far right, that’s someone’s bed, isn’t it? Is this the parents’ bedroom? The wall is painted pale gray, an unlikely color for a little girl’s room. Did the father do it? They say he had no motive; they say he had an alibi—not a great one, but an alibi—but did the father do it?
We watch the video to mourn the child. We may be self-seeking and vitriolic, we may be hideous and insatiable, we may be grabby monsters, but we are not heartless.
And we watch the video because we forgot how beautiful that song is. With its nostalgic harmonics and legato, it has always been a lovely, haunting song. Now it is haunted.
“Harvest Moon”, a cornerstone of weddings, is stained for years to come by the raspy voice of a little girl lost.
* * *
I’m dreaming. I’m walking in flip-flops in the street because there’s no sidewalks. I lift the lid of someone’s garbage bin, toss a bag in, and keep walking.
Nine houses later, I ditch my flip-flops to another garbage bin. Barefoot now, I weave my way back to my street, where there are sidewalks lit by street lamps.
Twist the handle on my front door…
Something flutters against my cheek and I smack it. My heart hammering, I open my eyes to darkness.
Everything feels wrong.
Air is too moist, too cool, and steeped in smoke. There’s a rustling noise overhead. Movement, too, but everything is blurry. Your contacts are out. My feet are cold. You’re barefoot. My bed feels hard and straw-like. Strappy stringy things against my calves. Because you’re on the lawn chair/recliner thing.
What?
I’m outside. Terror grips me. I roll out of the recliner and onto the deck as quickly as I can, which is not that quick. Kitchen light is on, illuminating my cluttered countertops and revealing that the sliding door is open, but the screen is closed. Cold and sweaty, I hustle inside and slide the glass door behind me as if I’m shutting out monsters. I flip the lock.
Wow. Sleepwalking outside. That’s fucking new.
My hair feels strange. I pull off a black winter beanie. Weird.
Yes, but not weirder than sleepwalking outside.
I drop the beanie on the floor and make my way upstairs, graceful as a drunk. Both kids are sleeping, safe and sound. I collapse into bed, checking the clock before my eyes fall shut. 3:18am. I can get a few more hours.
11
WE DON’T BITE
At 5:17am I give up on sweaty, restless sleep, my calves choked by sheets, and search “sleepwalking” on my phone. I squint one eye shut and read with my remaining eye as if I’m straining to see through a microscope. I feel both exhausted and anxious, so reading with one eye seems like I’m striking a balance.
According to Mayo Clinic, a person who sleepwalks doesn’t typically have memories of the incident. Symptoms range from a person sitting up in bed and opening their eyes to more complex behaviors such as driving, urinating (closets are a popular target), screaming, and violent attacks on the person trying to awaken the sleepwalker.
This last symptom chills me. Chloe and Wyatt are the only people who might try to wake me. Should I have them lock their doors at night? That seems alarmist, even for me.
Sleepwalking is most commonly triggered by fatigue, febrile illness, or medications.
Well, there you go, shithead. Fatigue. You haven’t slept in days; you deserve to wake up outside in the lawn chair, wearing a beanie.
I google “Can Adderall cause sleepwalking?”
It can, but it’s rarely a direct cause. Neurostimulants commonly disrupt sleep. Once someone becomes sleep-deprived, they might end up sleepwalking.
I strip off my sweaty clothes and run a hot bath, squirting cheap apple-scented shampoo into the stream of water because I am out of soap. In a zombie-like, hunched stupor, I watch bubbles grow. I ease into sudsy, sickly-sweet scented water, my limbs a little shaky. When water envelops my thighs, I push the moldy faucet knob off with my foot. I tip my head back against the tub, careful to keep my bandages above water.
A doctor might say, “Looking at your chart, it shows that your psychiatrist upped your Adderall dose weeks ago. I think the neurostimulants are at the root of your sleepwalking. You should lower your dose or take a break altogether.”
I argue with this make-believe doctor’s logic: But I was fine until this week. It’s my neighbor. I can’t sleep because of my neighbor.
“He’s dangerous,” I whisper, my morning voice stuck and phlegmy. I picture Chloe on her belly on the swing, her hair airy like dandelion fluff, a Tootsie Roll in her mouth and three more clutched in her hand.
Besides, I can’t function without drugs.
Wyatt’s ladder creaks. Seconds later, pee splashes into the toilet down the hall. He flushes, and Chloe whines.
Here we go.
By the time I have my underwear on, they are both screaming. I poke my head through my shirt, and Wyatt storms in, furious and with tears in his eyes. “She bit me. If she bites me again, I’m going to bite her back.”
“You can’t, Wyatt. You’re too big and you know better.” I teeter on one leg as I shove my foot into pants.
“If I don’t bite her back, she’ll never learn. She’ll kill someone and end up in jail for life.”
Three years old on a one-way train to murder. Come on, Wyatt.
He is angry at her and too dramatic, but also worried for her future. Sweet, I suppose.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, “and don’t say ‘kill’.”
“I know more than you,” he says, then slams my door against my wall, denting the drywall—damn doorstop is busted—and storms out of my room. I stare at the cracked crater. This house is falling apart on its own, it doesn’t need help.
You can’t let him get away with putting holes in walls.
You don’t have time for a brawl. Set them up for a positive day. Punish later.
I find Chloe in her closet, ripping pages out of a book.
“Chloe, if we rip up books, we can’t read them anymore and we’ll have to throw them in the garbage.”
“Don’t throw my books away. You a nasty girl, Momma. If you throw the book away, you gonna be in big trouble.”
Can everyone just fuck off a little?
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I say, barely holding onto calm. “Do you want to come down for breakfast?”
“I want juice,” she says, holding tight to her tiny blanket and reaching up for me.
I pick her up and carry her on my hip to the kitchen. “Chloe, if you are mad at your brother, come tell me. Don’t bite. We don’t bite.”
“Shut your mouth, Momma.” She jams her blanket against my mouth, smothering me. She means to suffocate me.
Yesterday the pair of them had been icing-sweet.
Today they are spoiled yogurt, sour and bloated, full of poison.
Under pressure, people turn into monsters. Everyone has different pressure points. Wyatt cracks when Chloe gets violent. Chloe cracks when—well, she’s three; looking at her the wrong way infuriates her.
“We don’t stuff blankets in people’s mouths,” I say. “Naughty spot.” I set her on the step stool in the corner.
Chloe screams, cries, and flops her body sideways onto the floor. I pretend to ignore her display, but I’m sweating. Needing to put some distance between my ears and her screams, I retreat to the closet-sized laundry room. Mildew. Like a punch in the nose. Crap. I forgot to switch the clothes into the dryer. No better time than the present. I open the lid.
All the wet, spun clothes and the inside walls of the washer are covered in super-absorbent diaper balls. Wonderful. I fish the diaper out and close th
e lid. No time for this type of infuriating project right now.
Wyatt is doing his homework at the table. The kid had all weekend, of course he waits until right before school. I keep my mouth shut. “Do you want eggs or cereal?”
Hulk whines at the back door. “Gimme a second, Hulk.”
“Eggs,” Wyatt says. I crack two eggs in a pan and pop bread in the toaster.
I go to let Hulk out. She is gone, but she left a puddle of pee.
Wyatt is slurping cereal.
“I thought you said eggs.”
“I said cereal.” He stares into his bowl. Shovel, slurp, chew.
I open my mouth to argue, I’m positive he said eggs, but what’s the point? I want him out the door as quickly as possible.
Minutes later, I watch Wyatt ride his bike down the driveway. I tell him I love him. He hears me, but says nothing as he pedals away. I step away from my house until I’m on the sidewalk, my eyes moving back and forth from Wyatt’s meandering, wobbling bicycle to my creepy neighbor’s front door. Wyatt turns the corner. Out of sight. I hope the fresh air, the act of pedaling, the chirping birds will melt his anger, and he will arrive at school bright-eyed and full of peace.
An alarming smell hits me when I walk back inside. Eggs are burning. I hustle to turn off the stove.
Chloe is missing. Upstairs, a door closes. At least she’s not out in the yard.
With paper towels I soak up Hulk’s puddle of piss. I scoop Wyatt’s burnt eggs onto a spatula and walk to Hulk’s bowl. “Stay, Hulk.” She sits beside her bowl, legs trembling as she waits, bug eyes hanging on my every move. Drool clings to her bottom lip. I drop the eggs on top of her kibble.
“Go ahead, girl.”
She Lies Close Page 6