| |
If hot meals are deadly to mothers, then my three-year-old son, Graham, saves me from impending death every night at six o’clock. Tonight, I plop down on the couch with Graham and prepare to eat leftover chicken, broccoli, and mashed potatoes—all cold due to the eternal fetching I’ve been doing for my child since we got home. It never fails. He sees my joyful face anticipating my first warm dinner in weeks, and he instantly needs at least three objects at once. Objects I must retrieve immediately or else.
I know I’m not the only mom who lives in fear of her toddler. My best friend, Violet, also dreads her three-year-old son’s colossal tantrums, the big ones where a parent thinks they might need to call an exorcist or construct a padded room so the kid can survive a minor disappointment. Unlike me, though, Vi has the support of her husband, Nick, who salvages her remaining sanity by helping out when he’s home from work.
It must be nice to have a partner down in your foxhole every day, dodging stray bullets by your side. Being a twenty-five-year-old widow with a three-year-old wasn’t something I planned, but it’s the hand I was dealt. And the last thing I want to do is pick a fight with my son. I’m already drowning in a sea of mom guilt over not being able to stay home with him during the day like his friends’ moms do, and tonight’s looming thunderstorm is likely to freak him out, so I want to keep the peace.
After fetching Graham a different blanket for the third time, I flip on the TV, and WKNX’s live news coverage comes on—as if eight straight hours of seeing Tess Miller’s face at work wasn’t torment enough. She’s a decent anchor, but her talent comes with an ego the size of Texas. To her, I’m just a lowly journalist and substitute reporter. Whenever we cross paths, she “accidentally” calls me Madison or Addie, although she knows my name is Madeleine. It’s her condescending power play designed to tear down the confidence of a fellow colleague.
“Mommy, can I watch Paw Patrol, please?” Graham’s eyes gleam with childlike purity or maybe manipulation. Either way, it works. I click the previous-channel button.
“Sure, baby.” I catch a teaser for an upcoming news story about a local death, but I’ve already committed to Graham’s favorite show and pressed the button. There’s no turning back. “Make sure you eat all your chicken and broccoli so you can have that cookie Meems left you.”
With an excited grin, he shoves the meat into his mouth faster than my sprint out the door of WKNX two hours ago.
Tess repeatedly called me “Madison” at our brainstorming meeting today, and the kicker was that Perry, our boss, didn’t bother to correct her. He chimed in and called me Madison, too, so as not to call out Tess for her mistake in front of everyone. I sat there and took it, though, and fumed at the workplace politics.
I shove a few bites of dinner into my mouth and roll my eyes as I picture myself sitting silently at the meeting while everyone proceeded to call me Madison, but I pause when I note Graham’s full-mouthed, dimple-inducing grin. It’s just like his dad’s. I drop my fork and squeeze him. Nothing could make me love this kid more, and even though I had a bad day at work, I realize how lucky I am to be his mom.
The ringing of my phone echoes through our apartment as the power flickers. Graham sprints to the kitchen and grabs it for me, oblivious to the shaking lights. “Mom’s—I mean—Mad’s phone,” he answers with a giggle before tossing it to me.
I jump from the couch to catch it, relieved I have decent hand-eye coordination so I don’t have to drop another couple hundred I don’t have on a new phone. “Thanks, bub.” I wince as I answer, hoping it isn’t Perry. He’s not exactly kid-friendly and would think it unprofessional that Graham picked up my phone.
I stiffen. “This is Madeleine.”
“Hey, honey. Did you see Tess Miller on the news just now?”
The familiar voice of my mom sends me sliding back down to the couch as I continue to eat and talk. I’d rather gag myself with my spoon than watch Tess, even though the lead-in to that story did sound intriguing.
“No, we’re watching Marshall get himself into another pickle on Paw Patrol. Why? What’s going on?” I glance to my right, and Graham has shoved his entire cookie, the one meant for his lunch tomorrow, into his mouth. I struggle not to laugh.
Mom gives me a bad-news sigh. “Your favorite author. They found her dead at her house today.”
“What? You don’t mean Allegra Hudson?”
“Yes. Isn’t it awful?”
“Oh my God, what happened?” I can’t help picturing those two beautiful boys she shared pictures of on social media. I set down my fork, trying to take it all in.
Allegra’s always been one of Knoxville’s treasures, like Dolly Parton or Peyton Manning, and it’s surreal to think of it existing without her. I don’t know how I’ll ever drive through Sequoyah Hills without thinking of this dark moment.
“Tess said the cause of death was unclear, but according to Facebook gossip, she fell down her front-porch stairs and broke her neck. You know, I keep thinking of that writing workshop she taught at the library a few summers back and how much it meant to you.”
“Yeah, it definitely meant a lot.” I hold back tears as I think about the surprise event she held in our quaint little town of Powell, just twenty minutes outside of downtown Knoxville. As an aspiring writer, I felt like I’d hit the jackpot when I learned not only that admission was free and the event was in my hometown but that we would be able to chat with Allegra. Sydney Gray, the librarian, had wished me a happy belated birthday as I approached Allegra for my one-on-one time. As I said thanks, Allegra’s head perked up. “Your birthday was yesterday?”
“Yes,” I stammered. I wasn’t starstruck so much as dumbstruck.
“Mine too!” she answered.
I couldn’t believe it. We were bonding, just two Knoxville writers with the same birthday.
“Wish I was as young as you are, though.” She winked.
I smiled back at her, unsure of what to say.
“What’s your name, dear?” She seemed truly interested in speaking with me.
“Madeleine.”
“Love that name! It’s always been one of my favorites. In fact, it was one of the names I had picked out to use if either of my boys had ended up being a girl. Alfred Hitchcock used it in one of his movies I watched a lot growing up.”
“Right. Vertigo. One of my all-time favorites too!” I said.
During our chat, Allegra warned me that the publishing industry was tough. Then she grabbed my hand and urged me not to let that hinder me from working hard and following my dreams. Tears formed in her eyes as, I assumed, she remembered her own early struggles in the industry and the sacrifices made along the way. I could only nod like an absolute idiot, but nonetheless, our conversation had left me feeling... special.
Like many in Knoxville, I felt a connection to Allegra’s voice and views on a level I can’t explain to my mom, who doesn’t read very often. Allegra did everything I’d ever dreamed of doing and did it well. She was a local-turned-national best-selling author, believer in Christ, wife, mother, and philanthropist. And according to a recent article in Health magazine, she did it all while suffering from panic disorder, just like me.
I look at Graham and remember how her suspense novels’ intricate plots distracted me from worrying about my early contractions when I was pregnant with him, one of the most trying seasons of my life. Work of Life hit me the hardest because it was about a single mom who refused to be a victim of the sabotage of a disturbed cousin trying to take over her life. She was struggling with the loss of her husband and was vulnerable, but by the end of the book, she’d overcome a malicious villain and proven herself. That gave me hope and inspiration.
“Apparently, there’s going to be a candlelight vigil tonight at eleven at Sequoyah Hills Park,” Mom says. “And there’s already speculation of foul play.”
Of course there is. That’s what she built her career on, a good murder mystery. “Leave it to Facebook and nosy Knoxville neighbors to think they know the truth before we can confirm everything and report it accurately.”
“I know, honey. It makes your job as a journalist so much harder with people spreading rumors all over Facebook and Tweeter.”
“It’s okay, Mom. And it’s Twitter, not Tweeter.” I chuckle. “I’m sure we’ll all work hard at the station to get the whole story and allow the glorious Tess Miller to report it and get credit as usual. But in all seriousness, the Facebook groups are sometimes right. Or close enough.”
***
AT NINE O’CLOCK, I collapse onto my bed, still dressed in my work clothes because I’m exhausted after trying to explain to Graham that God did not, in fact, make the Bubble Guppies on the fifth day. I can’t stop thinking how tragic it is that the notoriously big-hearted and talented Allegra Hudson was taken from her husband and children at such a young age. My stomach tightens as I think of those she left behind and their anguish, but I can’t let myself dwell on their grief, something I know all too well.
I close my eyes and picture Graham and me in a nice house like Allegra’s, me with a successful job—one that doesn’t consist of writing dull web stories about who won the piglet beauty pageant at the county fair—and feel temporarily elated. When I imagine my perfect world, my boss, Perry, isn’t there looking at me like he’s mentally undressing me, lingering in my office when it’s just the two of us or touching me as we speak.
Perry pushes the boundaries of professionalism, but I’m uncertain whether he’ll ever cross the line completely. So far, I’ve had a stellar ability to squirm out of any touchy-feely moments with a fake sneeze or a sudden itch, and I’ve created many reasons to call someone else into my office, like my best work-friend, Marcus. But part of me wonders what would happen if I weren’t so proactive.
The thought of quitting, however, makes me even more anxious. I don’t know how I would pay all my bills and keep food in our mouths, much less keep up my camera-ready appearance for my sometimes-vain job as a journalist-slash-last-minute-fill-in-reporter. Most nice moms in Knoxville are stay-at-home super-moms, nurses, or teachers. Leave it to me to be unconventional, but creativity drives me. At times, for Graham’s sake, I wish I’d picked a more normal and kid-friendly career.
My checkbook calls to me from the nightstand as I picture all the things I can’t afford even with a job. With a lingering, familiar sense of failure, I gather myself off the bed so I can void and rip up a check I wrote last night to my hairstylist for my appointment tomorrow. After finding several overdue medical bills in the mailbox thanks to Graham’s recurring bout of strep throat a few months ago, I knew what I had to do, even though my dark roots have grown a good inch and a half out from my bleached-blond hair. With my remaining money, I write checks for the water and electric bills, refusing to touch my savings for something like getting my hair done.
Then I pull out my laptop. Maybe today’s the day that someone will have magically posted a job where they pay me to write novels with the promise of a Big Five publisher and a movie deal. Dream on, Mad.
I check the listings for the second time today, and my shoulders fall along with my hopes for a better job. No other journalist positions are listed in Knoxville, and I still don’t have anywhere else to go. So I must continue to make it work at WKNX, no matter how discouraged the job makes me. I slam my laptop shut, take a deep breath, and face reality. It’s time to get ready for bed, and I’ve got to do this all over again tomorrow.
***
THE RAIN BUILDS IN the shadowy sky. My empty Riesling glass is in my bathroom sink, and Graham is tucked under his Paw Patrol blanket in his bed down the hall, where he’s drifted off into a peaceful sleep. I wash my eye makeup off as the power wavers again and the vanity bulbs flicker. Once, twice, three times. Chills cover my body as I envision myself in bed, trying to sleep in the dark alone, something I haven’t been able to do since the accident.
The darkness reminds me of a few months ago when the electricity was cut for a few days after I couldn’t pay the bill. I’d run over a nail and needed a new tire. Something had to give in my already-tight budget, and paying the power bill late that month was all I could think of without asking my mom for a loan or dipping into emergency funds. When the lights remain on, I exhale a sigh of relief. Then I remember that as I was reading to Graham at bedtime, he told me I must have been invited to a birthday party since he’d found a card for me under the front door.
I walk from my bedroom into the great area of my apartment, where the living room, kitchen, and entryway all sit together in a dated open-concept floor plan that I’ve tried hard to make up for with my shabby chic decor. I head toward the front door. Before it lies an envelope with my name handwritten on it, but every letter is scribbled in zigzags I don’t recognize. I wonder if someone elderly wrote this or if someone deliberately disguised their handwriting. As soon as I touch the envelope, the sky lights up every window in my apartment, and a loud boom vibrates the ground.
The lights go off, and my nervous breaths come in and out, faster and faster, as the carbon dioxide levels in my blood drop. My panic attacks have any number of triggers: fear that I forgot a homework assignment in grade school, overheating in the shower so that I couldn’t breathe, the queasiness that comes from giving blood, and the list goes on. But the blinding headaches I’ve started having recently seem to have no cause at all, and I pray that a headache doesn’t come now.
Panic disorder is real, and I’ve spent my whole life talking myself down from the unreasonable places anxiety takes me, but this situation is a trigger I can’t shake. After stuffing the envelope down my tank top, I grow more uneasy as I make my way across the room to the kitchen. I feel my way past the living room furniture, careful not to trip, until I touch the junk drawer by the kitchen sink.
I stumble to my right then lose my balance. My foot grazes something hairy that doesn’t belong on the floor, and I trip over my feet and fall to avoid it. The fur-like object doesn’t move, and I scoot away from it. Gasping for breath, I wait for the object to make a sound or move, but nothing happens. My fingers inch toward the object, and I wince as I feel for what it might be. I’m probably being ridiculous. Strands of long, humanlike hair wrap around my extended fingers, and I pull my hand back and scream. What the hell? Is there a dead body on my kitchen floor? I immediately leap to the worst-case scenario.
I scoot back and take a few deep breaths like my childhood therapist told me to and work up the courage to feel for the object again. It’s unlikely to be a dead body and is probably something completely rational. My fingers reach past the head of hair and find something cold, hard, and far too small to be anything human.
When I discover it’s only one of my old porcelain dolls, I let out the pent-up air in my lungs, grab my chest, and suck in a new breath. Graham must have dug one out of the storage bin in my closet again, but I know I picked up all the toys before I put him to bed. Surely, I would’ve noticed this one being out, but I don’t know who else could’ve put it here.
I kick the doll aside, stand up, and reach for the drawer. I dig around blindly, desperate for my flashlight. My hands shake, and I’m terrified that I might not be alone in the room. When I grasp the flashlight, I hold on tight as I press the light on and study my surroundings. No one’s here but me. Once more, I look at the envelope tucked into my top. On second glance, the shaky letters look intentional. I tear into the envelope and find an equally zigzagged handwritten note inside. It reads: Allegra Hudson was murdered—a source. I jump, and the lights come back on.