“Pretty,” she chimed, pointing at the stickiness while humming a song from a favorite cartoon.
“Come on over here,” I demanded. “You’ll get your shoes all sticky.”
A small ache came over me as more memories about the tree came back to me—memories I hadn’t thought of in years. Fond memories from a terribly difficult time. The long, slender branches first invited me in when I was fourteen. They’d scratched my window and tapped against the glass pane. I’d crept out onto my window ledge, my stomach in my throat as I spied the height, then gingerly stepped onto the outstretched bark. It was my first escape from the tyranny of my mother. During high school, when the fighting showed no hope of ending, I’d blindly make my way down to the yard. After a while, I memorized every step. But I only ran some of the time. Other times I’d climb above the line of our roof and find a set of branches that had knitted themselves tightly enough together to let me sit. With only the cloudless sky between me and the stars, I’d sometimes stay there all night.
“Shame,” I said to Michael. “I really loved that tree.”
“I guess I won’t be climbing it today,” Michael added.
“You’re here!” my mom bellowed from her porch. “How was the drive?”
“We only live twenty minutes away,” I answered, trying not to sound annoyed. “But it was fine, thank you.”
“Only twenty minutes,” she began. “Well, you’d think I’d see more of my grandkids then, wouldn’t you?”
Here we go, I thought as I paused on the front step.
“Yes, Mom,” I said flatly, but by then her attention had gone to Snacks and Michael.
At least she is being nice to them. Nicer than I ever remembered her being.
While our differences had rooted in my earliest years and grown wild, I was still glad my children knew her. Ours was a complex relationship—not one we could simply cut down and plant over.
An urge to check the time came over me; I forced it to pass with a thinly disguised cringe. I kept my phone tucked away in my purse, trying not to be rude. The thought of being here any longer than I had to felt like instant suffocation.
When I entered my mom’s home, I saw at once that there was more missing than just my old oak tree. The inside of our house was a mere memory of what it had been. Even the smell was different—like an old person’s home or a hospital—and I wondered when that had happened. My mom had stacked flattened boxes against her living room wall, waiting like soldiers ready to march. Waiting to be opened and put to use. Some of them had already been enlisted: unfolded, filled, then closed and sealed with moving tape. The dozens of pictures that usually lined our stairwell were gone, but had left shadows, their faded burn singeing the old wallpaper. The bookshelves full of my father’s books and collected knickknacks were gone too. I realized that most everything that was my father’s had been boxed for storage.
“What’s going on, Mom?” My mother followed the children inside, offering Twinkies and other sugary persuasions—grandparents can get away with bribery. “Dad’s stuff. Where’s it all going?”
“That man collected everything,” she said, ignoring my question with an annoyed rise in her voice. “Damned if there wasn’t more than one of them, he’d collect it.”
“Mom. Dad’s stuff?”
“Well, it’s time,” she said and waved her arms around her. “I’m not getting any younger, and your father’s been gone almost three years now. It’s time to move on.”
I never considered that my parents would live anywhere but our house. While I didn’t get along with my mother, I loved our home and the memories of growing up there. Emotion snapped at my gut. I was at a loss for words. I quickly turned away from the kids and began picking through a collection of his snow globes on the living room table.
“Do you want some help?” I offered, uncertain of what else I could say. After all, she was right. My dad was gone, and she wasn’t getting any younger.
My mother briefly lowered her guard. She raised a brow. A moment later she put on a look of sarcastic surprise and answered. “Really? You’re offering to help?”
“Come on, Mom. Don’t start,” I said, trying to coax us away from fighting.
“No. No. No. I’m not picking at anything,” she said, raising her hands apologetically. “Just want to know where my place is. Don’t want to take up any more of your time than I have to.”
I stepped up to my mother and held her arm. “I want to help.” I lied for the sake of the kids, for the sake of setting a good example and acting the part I thought I was supposed to act. “We’ll get the kids to help too.”
She glanced over at the kids, their upturned faces filled with half-smiles, uncertain of what we were talking about. She smiled. “I’d appreciate some help. And maybe we could talk?”
Loaded question, stay away!
She was forever trying to talk about us. About me. About how awful I was as a teenager. Truth is, I wasn’t an awful teen. She was just a terrible mother. Katie was more her daughter than I ever was. She loved Katie, and everyone knew it. I’m not the jealous type, and my mom’s affections for Katie had nothing to do with my Killing Katie designs. They’re not related. They never were. In my heart, I think I am a little too much like my mother, and that is why we never get along.
“Sure,” I answered with a bemused smile on my face.
“And how is Katie?”
“Mom . . . Katie mentioned she visited you last week!” I snapped. “I’m sure you already know the answer to that!”
My mother stepped back, her hand on her chest. “Was that a week ago already?” she answered coyly. “Seems so much longer than that. These days, can’t tell one week from the next.”
“What happened to Dad’s tree?” I asked, changing the subject, changing my tone, trying to be civil.
Just be civil, I heard Steve say in my head.
He was the real reason I brought the kids to see my mother. Every four weeks or so, he’d remind me. You should go see your mother. My idea of a phone call instead never sufficed. He’d again give the stern suggestion: You should go see your mother. As if it meant more to him than to me. And maybe it did. I only needed to look at my babies to understand why. I hated to admit it, but he was right.
“You don’t hate your mother,” Steve often said, trying to placate me during my outbursts when would I scream and cry over something that had happened a dozen years ago. I wanted to hate her. I did. But in my heart, I knew that I loved my mother, loved the idea of her—I just never liked her.
“It was time to take that old tree down,” she said, pawing at the tissue paper on the table as we began wrapping the snow globes. “God-awful thing. Ugliest damn tree in the neighborhood.”
“What? She was a beautiful tree,” I objected, feeling insulted, feeling a renewed loss for my dad.
“That was your father’s tree. I’d been after him to cut that eyesore down for years, but he insisted on keeping it.”
“Well, he kept you, didn’t he?” I joked, pushing a bit of a dig into the sentiment. “You’re an eyesore too.”
“Funny girl. Aren’t you?” she answered, a sly sneer on her lips that looked creepy. “You just wait until you start to fade from your husband’s eye. Happens to all of us. No matter how beautiful you are.”
She was trying to be hurtful. I recognized the tone, and caution signs began flashing in my brain. “Mom, it was just a joke.”
“I know. I’m kidding too,” she said, her voice playful yet condescending. “Thank you for bringing my grandkids over to see me. Who knows how much longer I’ll have?”
I ignored her as I busied myself with another snow globe. She’d live forever. She knew it too. Not like my father. Salt-of-the-Earth tough, but a teddy bear that had more love in him than he knew what to do with. A month after retiring, a month of finally being able to wake when he wanted to, walk where he wanted to, do whatever he wanted to, he dropped dead from an aneurysm. His death broke my heart, but more than
that, it put a wedge between me and my old home. Without him to act as our referee, our buffer, coming over for a visit was just too hard.
“How about some sandwiches?” Mom sung, carrying the words on a tune I’d heard since I was a little girl. Snacks was first on her feet, running into my mom’s arms.
“Snack?” she asked her grandmother.
“You betcha! You can have a snack.”
Watching her with my kids felt surreal, like watching a movie of someone I didn’t know.
But I would’ve liked to have known you too, I thought briefly.
I suppose it’s like that in every person’s life, watching their parents act differently around their grandchildren.
Maybe it’s not all bad. Maybe I should come over more. Just be civil to her, I heard in my head. I shuddered and closed my eyes.
Dad, I miss you.
FIVE
EARLY ONE TUESDAY morning, my eyes opened. Five fifty-eight. The alarm clock’s glaring red numbers said that I had another two minutes. I groaned, disappointed. Steve lay next to me, a soft flannel blanket rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. I shut my eyes and tried to find a way back to my dreams. Random images swam into my view, telling me nothing, telling me everything. Sleep was gone—it was already too late. And no matter how much I wanted my two minutes back, I’d already lost the chance to ease into the day.
As if to confirm my annoyance, the morning news snapped on. The newsman spoke in a throaty rasp, spouting the latest stories about our small suburban town. At the top of the news, the sudden homeless problem: a vagrant exodus from the big city. The newly elected mayor could be thanked for that mess. He’d made good on a campaign promise. But the results landed on our doorsteps. Another story clicked—a woman this time—her radio voice telling of a vicious assault, a stabbing that had left a young woman in critical condition. I perked up, searching through the dim light of our room as if looking for cartoon bubbles hovering above our bed. I didn’t hear the next story, or maybe I did, but the alarm had become a distant noise to ignore by then. Steve began to stir. Rolling over, he pushed his arm around my middle.
“Come on, babe,” I mumbled, tapping his shoulder. “Time to get up.”
“Minute,” he grumbled as he pulled up closer. His warm body invited me, and I easily fell against him. We listened to the radio’s morning hum while my mind moved dully through the motions of the coming day. The thought of murder abruptly interrupted. That sometimes happened. It turned on and off in my mind like a switch, mechanical and exacting.
That morning, I made a decision. Somewhere between Steve’s soft snoring and the radio’s drone, I’d made a decision that would change my life forever—it would change many lives. My realization was a bit like a hot wind before a storm: a subtle warning. Later, it would become a bigger part of me. As if there had never been a question. Only this storm wasn’t going to pass anytime soon. The decision clicked in my mind and settled in my soul.
“It’s time,” I whispered sleepily. Just saying it gave me a crazy sense of relief.
“In a minute,” Steve countered, not realizing what he was responding to. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, having never felt a sense of resolve quite as powerful as this one.
I swung my legs over the bed and gripped the carpet with my toes, squeezing the fabric while trying to remember where I’d placed my slippers. When I stood, my legs shook and felt wobbly, and my middle warmed as though a heating blanket had been wrapped around me. There were no obviously motivating factors to my decision. No revenge in mind or a need to be a martyr for some greater cause. I’d simply felt that it was time to become me.
Life is too short, I heard in my head. So maybe I should do something. A rush of adrenaline woke me up faster that morning than any coffee ever could. I nearly jumped as anticipation of what I wanted to do crashed into my thoughts. There was so much to plan. And I had no idea how to get started.
I playfully lifted the covers and sheet, egging Steve on to get up. But it was John that I saw laying on our bed—a dime-size hole in his head and a putrid smile on his face. I reeled, shocked and disturbed by the image. The smell of the cemetery was suddenly in my nose and on my skin, and the sounds of whimpering and sniffling crept into my ears, drowning the waking songbirds outside our bedroom window. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the image to disappear. When I opened them, I saw Steve still asleep with the bed covers wrapped tightly around his body, draping over his shoulder. The anger I’d felt at John’s funeral sprang to life again and I yanked the covers back. Steve’s eyes popped open in surprise and confusion. He tried covering himself, but I’d pulled the blankets back too far for him to reach.
“What gives?” he asked.
“Come on,” I answered. “It’s time to get up.” He could read through me easily enough and shook his head.
“You’re still mad,” he mumbled, making his way past me. I grabbed at him, stopping him. I covered myself with his arms and began to cry. I resented my wifely tears, but I feared Steve being killed even more than being ashamed.
“I can’t watch you do this . . .” I began to say. “Don’t want to lose you, okay?”
“I know, babe. And I remember wanting to be a lawyer. I do.”
“Would you think about it?” I asked, feeling hopeful. “Think about Snacks and Michael. Think about John’s kids.” His body tensed when I said that, but then relaxed as he let go.
“I will. I’ll think about it,” he told me, entering the bathroom. I could see him shake his head as he added, “But it’s going to be about the money. Always is.”
“I know,” I told him.
Was there money in murder? The question came to mind and took my tears away. What if there was a way to profit from what I wanted to do?
The sound of the shower running came from our bathroom. I stopped what I was doing and stared through the door to watch as Steve stripped to nothing. I loved to watch him. We had a little time to spare, so I decided to join my husband. We said nothing more about death or money or law school. In fact, we said nothing at all.
From our morning shower to the first cup of coffee, I didn’t question my decision. I didn’t try to guess if there was money in murder. Of course there must be. A whole industry had capitalized on wanting people dead. With Snacks still in bed and Steve on his way to the office, I helped Michael get ready for school. For most of the morning, I fought the urge to scream out, celebrating the revelation that I might be able to support Steve and our household.
Too far-fetched? I asked myself a thousand times. I’d know more once I started to do the research.
Michael’s small hand quieted my hazardous rush of thoughts as he reached up for his school backpack.
“Mom?” Michael’s voice chirped, snapping away my attention. “I’m gonna miss the school bus.”
“Right . . . right. Sorry,” I stammered as my mind continued to race with an overload of a million new ideas. “Your lunch is packed, and I added a little extra for you too.”
“A Twinkie?” he asked, excitedly. His voice sounded lower and I noticed a rougher quality and a break in its tone.
Was his voice changing? Puberty? Already? I realized with a stabbing sadness just how quickly my little boy was growing up.
I waved two fingers, bouncing them up and down in front of him. His eyes lit up with a hungry spark.
“You rock, Mom. Thanks.”
“But only after you’re done eating.”
“I know,” he countered, and then hitched up onto his toes for a kiss. Leaning over and planting my lips on his cheek, I realized Michael seemed taller too. I felt a mix of pride and sadness as I watched him spin around and sling a backpack over his shoulder. I followed his footsteps as he traipsed across the lawn toward the school bus stop. The nighttime chill and the autumn air had set the dewy grass to frost. My son’s size fives cut into the carpet of white. Other paths cut in from all different directions—a mix of size fours and sixes and a few eights from the o
lder kids. The paths tracked across the lawns of our small neighborhood, following a course that had been set for them.
My emotions began to mingle with my earlier revelation and the sentiments that came from watching my son. I was a mother, a wife, and a homemaker.
This is the way it is supposed to be. I’m happy, I told myself. But I was immediately struck with the fluttering reservations I’d searched for earlier. Who am I to risk everything, anything? But Steve, I demanded. Sure, there were jobs that didn’t risk my going to prison, but my mind was set and I wasn’t going to change it.
I stood on our porch and felt the cool air run across my face and through my hair. In my mind, I imagined that I was a winter butterfly, cocooned and living inside a lie. Something ticked inside me then, some deep, selfish notion that I embraced and held onto like a starving animal with food. I’d lived the life that had been scripted for me, and now it was time to hunt, it was time to eat, it was time to become me.
SIX
OUR HOME COMPUTER never looked so intimidating before. The large, blank screen stared at me, daring me, as if knowing what I was about to do, as if knowing what subtle treacheries my fingertips would search for. I quickly pushed my thumb against the power button and listened as the computer’s guts whirred, coming to life.
I twisted Katie’s friendship ring—a nervous habit I’d developed soon after we’d given them to each other. I had no idea where to get started. Just exactly how did one become a murderer? I doubted that I’d find a wiki page online, offering a step-by-step guide . . . or maybe there was? I simply had no idea.
But there were other things that I wanted to do too. There was so much more than just the web searches. I needed a new box, a secret box. One that would keep my designs safe. I’d kept my first one, and I often thought of it fondly. I knew that it would always be safe from curious eyes. I’d hidden my secret box beneath the floorboards of my old room. While just a beat-up, tattered cigar box from a great uncle whose face I can barely remember, I knew its every detail. When I had last opened, the faint cigar smell was as I remembered it: old tobacco, tangy but pleasant. The batting I’d lined it with had thinned and lost its cloud-fresh white, but the corners had stayed true, securing the secrets of my youth. And inside, my first Killing Katie designs were still legible—once the paper’s endless curl had been straightened.
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