Little Girl Gone

by Alexandra Burt

  The fire was initially reported by a neighbor. ‘Why they didn’t try to escape into the hallway and down the stairs, we’ll never know.’

  The children were downstairs at the time and rescued by a team of firefighters. Investigators from the State Fire Marshal’s Office were at the scene throughout the day, working to pinpoint the cause. Fire marshals and Dover firefighters searched the rubble in the afternoon, looking for clues.

  The minor children are in the care of the State until relatives can be reached. The investigation into the fire is ongoing.

  The resemblance of Lieberman as a teenager was uncanny. He hadn’t changed much; his acne had healed and he had added some facial hair over the years. David was the attractive one of the two, but had the eyes of an angst-ridden teenager not wanting to pose for a photograph. He stood back, his body in his sister’s shadow. Anna was a rather plain girl, her frizzy hair parted in the middle, her lips full, and her smile open. Or maybe confrontational, I couldn’t tell.

  A little more browsing and a follow-up article in the same paper came up. According to a spokesperson of the state foster care system, David aged out of the foster care system weeks after the fire. Anna stayed in the system for months until finally an aunt, Laura Dembry, came forward. It took only a few more strokes on my keyboard to find out that Laura Dembry was a member of The Church of Appointed Dominion in Franklin Plains, close to the New York and Vermont border. There was no reference made as to where the aunt was from or where Anna went to live. Details became scarce after that.

  Both our stories were so eerily similar, yet a mere coincidence of events unrelated, a synchronicity that defied any possible explanation: my parents dying, an older brother leaving behind a younger sister. In both cases an aunt came and took care of the younger sibling. In Anna’s case a Laura Dembry came forward. It took only a few more strokes to find out that Laura Dembry was a member of the Church of Appointed Dominion in Plainview, New York, a hamlet in Nassau County, not too far from the north shore of Long Island. There was no reference made as to where Anna went to live.

  Details became scarce after that and the Liebermans’ online story ended there: orphaned children moving on with their lives. But I knew better, I knew from experience that our own personal shadows followed us through life, and I knew that in the aftermath is where the true tragedies occur. Mine, his, everybody’s. Newspaper articles weren’t the end of anything. Our similar fates lingered in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket of fog.

  I randomly typed in the title of one of the books on the shelf in David’s apartment, The Trial of Gilles de Laval, Baron de Rais, into the search engine and clicked on the introduction. ‘Baron de Rais had considerable pleasure in watching the heads of children separated from their bodies … sometimes he would ask, when they were dead, which of them had the most beautiful head.’

  I suddenly remembered the title of the last book on David’s bookshelf, as if it staked claim to the present. The Prince of Darkness.

  A thought passed through me like lightning. What if he’s gone? What if Lieberman has taken Mia and he’s disappeared …

  I thought police, I need to get help, but then I imagined how this would go. How this would unfold if I went to the police. I’d tell them about Mia, Lieberman, and his sister Anna, about my suspicions – never mind the fact that I was the perfect perpetrator, the mother who had access to the baby, a baby that, mind you, had dis-appeared a day ago – and who waits this long to report their own child missing anyway? Would I tell them about water I didn’t have, water that miraculously happened to appear on my counter? A wallet that was missing, a wallet that had been there all along?

  And the newspaper articles, they would have a field day with Lieberman’s articles, for since when is it illegal to collect newspaper articles? Child porn, yes, you mention child porn and you have a case, but articles about child abuse and neglect? I can hear the police question me, the man collects newspaper articles? What proof do you have? By the way, how do you know about these articles?

  Eventually I’d be unable to answer their questions. I’d become just short of even comprehending their questions, and then I’d be unable to calm down and my edgy voice would repeat the same nonsense over and over again, Tinker Bell, Tinker Bell, and I might as well be talking to the walls because the story was nothing but a macabre and ill-conceived soap opera, a half-baked, crackpot pipedream by a woman who repeated the same incoherent story over and over again.

  And I would carry on with this conspiracy script and not ever make any kind of sense and then they’d put me in a cell and order a psych evaluation but − with the state of the budget and it being a Sunday − I’d have to wait until Wednesday afternoon and before I could convince anyone of my sanity, Lieberman and his sister would be god-knows-where.

  These memories should be etched into my brain, be permanently ingrained in my memory. I squint and pound my temple with my fist. Every time I emerge from the past, I’m shocked. I see images: a silhouette of a man, a basket of fruit. How many times did I want to forget painful memories of my life? And now this, here I am, trying to remember them all. What a joke, and again, the joke’s on me.

  ‘Call the police.’ I can’t control the tremor of my raspy voice.

  I watch Dr Ari pull out his cell phone and ask for Detective Wilczek. My stomach starts contracting and I exit the van. On the sidewalk, I heave and heave until only clear liquid comes up. The stench of vomit fills my nostrils.

  I watch Dr Ari through the open door, still on the phone. I watch his mouth move, occasionally his brows furrow, then his face darkens. He hangs up.

  ‘They’ve been looking for Lieberman and his sister since the disappearance. Not a trace,’ he says, ‘both of them. Off the face of the earth.’

  I hardly comprehend the words but I know what they mean. Gone. Everyone’s gone. And then I ache and I realize I might have to live in this body for the rest of my life. A body that feels like it’s wrapped in jagged little edges of pain.

  Chapter 18

  After the fieldtrip to the brownstone Dr Ari suspends the sessions for the time being. It takes a couple of days for the pyrotechnics in my brain to die down. The first night I pace my room, unable to sleep. My mind plays tricks on me, one moment it goes completely blank, the next it overflows with images I can’t place.

  ‘We must take a break,’ Dr Ari says and refuses to continue the sessions. ‘Rushing this process along is not beneficial.’

  I beg and plead but he remains steadfast.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he says, ‘if I allow you to inflate your memories, you create a completely false and exaggerated version of the truth. You might even remember something that never occurred at all.’

  The second night I sit in my room, my heart beating in my chest. I watch light spilling through my window, elongating the window squares into distorted rectangles, just eventually to surrender to the dark. I can’t say that I trust myself; aren’t my memories just a made-up story I get to revise once we resume our session? I run it through my mind over and over; the dumbwaiter, the newspaper articles, Lieberman. Am I so close to the truth that those visions pass under the radar, or are they so big Dr Ari could never dream I could make something like that up? I wonder where Dr Ari is going to draw the line, at what point will my story sound so ludicrous that he’ll start shaking his head in disbelief.

  I promised Dr Ari to trust him on this journey and so I surrender and go about my life at Creedmoor until we resume the sessions.

  Four days later, as I stir my orange Jell-O into mush, Marge and I watch the anorexic women, six of them, ranging from eighteen to thirty-something, their wraithlike bodies performing eerie dietary rituals, stabbing forks into tiny pieces of sustenance, and, miraculously the tines hold on to the morsels, after the women chew elaborately, they conclude the ceremony by gulping down large cups of water. The majority of the time they merely rearrange dietary food groups into mounds of rejection, always aware of their obsession
to deprive themselves of nourishment.

  The orderlies fiercely patrol the borders between them and me and Marge during mealtime. There are things about Marge that puzzle me; Dr Ari is rumored to have a very limited number of cases and mainly oversees other psychiatrists on his staff. What is it about Marge that he chooses to be her psychiatrist? I know she’s here because of the death of her mother but I start to question if Marge is not as innocent as she wants me to believe.

  I’ve grown to like her and we’ve bonded, at least as much as this transitory sojourn allows us, and watching the women is a fun distraction until Marge develops peculiar culinary habits of her own. She stuffs large amounts of food into her mouth and swallows without chewing. Her face is expanding by the day with her sleeve hems cutting into her arms, and her waist is ballooning. She is turning into a globe, her belt cutting her in half like an equator line.

  ‘Are you gonna eat that?’ Marge points at a slice of white bread on my plate. Watching me turn my Jell-O to mush earlier must have torn her up inside.

  Marge keeps eyeing the bread, not in the least bothered by the bite marks. There’s no warding her off when it comes to food; she seems determined to grow beyond the walls of this institution.

  ‘Let me have my lunch in peace,’ I say, but what really bothers me is the fact that I want to ask her about her mother’s death, yet at the same time I’m perplexed by my newfound aversion to secrets and lies.

  ‘Don’t get testy, I’m just asking. If you’re not gonna eat it, let’s switch trays.’ She eyes the anorexic table and their leftovers and I anticipate dire complications in our near future. I know she is expanding her reach beyond our table to the anorexic girls. Everybody’s success is guaranteed; she wants their food, they don’t want food at all. A match made in heaven.

  ‘What are you trying to do to yourself? Did you talk to someone about this?’ I’m perplexed at her size; her hips expand beyond the chair and even her glasses cut into her temples. I picture the day her eyes will disappear in folds of fat and wonder how long the hospital will allow her to go on. If the anorexic women are not allowed to leave food on their plates, someone, sooner or later, ought to intervene in Marge’s binging.

  ‘Dr Ari said they’ll start watching me during meals. But so what? There are ways to get food. There are always ways to get food. You think they’ll give me their desserts?’ Marge is eyeing the anorexic girls and they are returning the favor. I see one of the girls nod ever so slightly. A deal has been struck.

  I have my own theory about why Marge has decided to be the ever-expanding woman: She’s killed her mother and now wants her back. She intends to recreate her mother’s body within her own skin and she won’t quit until someone stops her.

  I feel for Marge, yet I try to keep some distance because I don’t want to get drawn into her web of obsession.

  ‘Hello, ladies.’ I hear Oliver’s voice behind me and Marge’s face deflates as her plan has been spoiled for now.

  My heart skips a beat when Oliver puts his tray on our table and pulls up a chair. Orderlies don’t eat with patients, but I welcome the distraction, he’s good-looking, and smells of disinfectant, lotion, and peppermint.

  ‘I’ll be eating my meals with you from now on. I hope you don’t mind?’ Oliver says and he directs the question towards me.

  Marge raises her eyebrows.

  We all know he’s here to keep Marge from killing herself with cafeteria chow. I look at his tray: two apples, an orange, crackers, and a bowl of vegetable soup, and elaborates.

  ‘Vegan.’ He bites into a cracker. ‘Did I tell you I love your hair? It’s very … Parisian.’ He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve no idea where that came from. I wouldn’t even know what Parisian hair looks like.’

  Oliver starts peeling the label off the orange. His hair is dark brown, his eyes a deep ocean blue. He has dark eyebrows, which slope downwards and give him a rather serious expression. He wears a playful smile like he wears his scrubs, and kindness seems to be etched into his face. His voice is deep, with a serious undertone. He’s probably average anywhere else, but within these walls he is a rock star. I wonder what his life is like beyond Creedmoor.

  I ask what I’ve been longing to ask ever since he drove the van to North Dandry. ‘Why are your hands so … beat up? Are you working construction on your days off?’ I try to sound nonchalant and casual.

  ‘I build stuff, with wood.’ He chews and I patiently wait for him to elaborate. ‘It’s called woodturning.’

  Marge is annoyed by his presence. She has gone through another change, besides the alteration of her appearance, she doesn’t hold back anymore. When I met her, she was shy and timid and hardly talked to anybody.

  Marge’s mouth is so full and we can hardly understand her. ‘Woodturning? What’s that? Dressers, chests, stuff like that? Why don’t you just go and buy furniture? Seems like a waste of time. Just saying …’ Marge eyes his orange.

  ‘It’s nothing like carpentry or building furniture. I make bowls, lidded boxes, vessels, urns, pens – that kind of stuff. Delicate things, whatever requires attention to detail.’

  ‘Are you gonna eat that?’ Marge asks and points at Oliver’s orange.

  Oliver completely ignores her question. ‘I’m going to eat at this table from now on. Until further notice. Just to keep an eye on everything.’ He is clearly talking about Marge and her eating habits, but his words, I want them to be directed towards me.

  ‘Show us something then,’ Marge says and glances back and forth between the two of us and smiles. ‘One of those wooden things.’

  Out of Oliver’s scrub pocket appears a rounded object, complete with a lid and a stem. An acorn, not bigger than a robin’s egg.

  ‘See, I made this from sandalwood,’ he says. ‘I use special tools like this one and carve the details. This is called a gouge edge. For very small details, like the acorn cap.’

  The tool in his hand, the gouge edge, is a miniature chisel with a concave blade, it has a rounded and trough-like groove at the very tip. Oliver places the gouge on his tray. I pick it up. It’s about the same size as a regular pair of tweezers.

  Oliver holds the acorn gently by the stem. ‘This is …’ he pauses for dramatic purposes, ‘an acorn.’ He holds it gently, as if it might break. ‘The tool is used to carve small indents, to make it look real. I rubbed wax on the cap to make it darker.’

  ‘Looks like a real waste of time to me.’ Marge gets up, balancing her tray on both hands.

  Oliver mumbles something under his breath and starts peeling his orange. ‘By the way,’ he leans closer into me and lowers his voice, ‘you’ll have a visitor next week. I’m not supposed to tell you, but you never have any visitors.’

  I look at him puzzled. ‘A visitor?’ I ask. ‘For me?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Who?’ I think of Jack immediately, then I abandon the thought. He had made his intentions clear, yet I can’t deny that I’m holding out hope he’s changed his mind. The thought of him makes my stomach feel queasy and I try to concentrate on Oliver.

  ‘I didn’t hear that part.’ He pauses. ‘Don’t tell anyone I told you.’

  I go over a list of additional possibilities – the DA, the detectives, Nell, Jack – and it prompts a kaleidoscope of faces to pop up in my mind. I’m unable to shut the images off. I try to breathe and relax but my heart rate won’t slow and I wonder about Oliver’s reasons for overstepping his boundaries. I try to forget about this clandestine visitor, but regardless of how hard I try, I can’t.

  Marge pauses next to the table with the anorexic girls. They are talking and giggling while Marge is pointing at various food items on their trays.

  Oliver gets up and raises his voice. ‘Ladies, no funny business, you know better than that.’ He points the group towards the cafeteria exit. ‘Lunch’s over.’

  ‘For you too,’ he says and Marge makes her way to the dirty dish bin.

  A visitor. My thoughts jumble, pu
ll me in every direction possible. My heart beats too fast to stay seated and so I get up, grab my tray. I see the acorn and the gouge on my tray and turn to Oliver.

  ‘Your stuff,’ I say and I hand them to him.

  He grabs the gouge and slides it back into his pocket.

  ‘Keep the acorn.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I made it for you,’ he says.

  ‘You made me an acorn. What’s the significance?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘A hint maybe?’

  He cocks his head to the left and says, ‘You know, I think any hint would ruin it. So I’m going to let you figure it out on your own.’

  ‘Because I’m a nutcase, right?’

  He chuckles, pulling up his shoulders.

  ‘Okay then,’ I say and slide the acorn in my pocket.

  I make my way to Dr Ari’s office and knock on the door. I promise myself not to push him on a date to resume our sessions but I need to know about the clandestine visitor. I expect my unscheduled appearance to irritate him, but to my surprise I hear a cheerful ‘Yes?’ As I open the door and walk in, I make sure to remain closer to the door than to his desk. I don’t know how to bring up the visitor without giving Oliver away.

  Dr Ari stands by the window, a lint remover in hand, meticulously stroking his navy-blue wool coat. I’m mesmerized how he performs such a mundane task with obsessive determination. The firm strokes of the lint brush bring up a childhood memory of Anthony cleaning a pool. A white pole with a net at the end in his hands, he skimmed debris for hours, capturing every blossom, every bug, and every unidentifiable piece of flora floating on the surface of the small pool.

  I just stand there and stare at him. I don’t know how to ask without him probing how I found out.