SHE MADE ALEX’S coffee, Italian roast, dark and strong just as he liked it. Even though he was running late, Hanna managed to lure him up to his study. Something to do with his phone and the picture she’d taken. He’d protested only for a second; as eager as he was to start brainstorming ideas for the new downtown skinny building, it wasn’t like he couldn’t—or didn’t—set his own hours or work at home over the weekend. She wanted to think it was harmless, that Hanna had come into their room to take a picture of her. But her queasy vulnerability lingered, and not just because she’d been naked. Hanna—or whomever she was claiming to be—wasn’t some innocent, normal kid.
Normal children loved cameras and taking photos; she remembered as much from her own childhood. Every few years, her mother had given her a new camera—Polaroid, then film, then digital. Her mother, in spite of other deficits, was big on gift giving. And her presents were usually well chosen and beautifully wrapped. As an adult, Suzette understood this had been her sole means of expressing love. She’d saved most of the nicer ribbons, still had them in a special box: shimmery fabric in metallic and holiday plaids. In her mind, the wrappings became the hugs she never received.
She sent a text telling him his coffee was ready. Right after it went through, her phone pinged with an email notification. A smile came to her face as she read the message.
Alex bounded down the stairs, with Hanna at his heels.
“I promise I promise I promise, my lips are sealed,” he said.
“What are you promising?”
Alex slid an invisible zipper across his closed mouth. Hanna hung on to her hero’s arm, jumping up and down with malicious glee.
“If they’re really sealed, I guess you won’t be needing this.” She set his gleaming, steaming travel mug on the other end of the counter, out of his reach. Whatever Hanna had gotten him to do for her was unlikely to be a pleasant surprise. It bothered her that Alex could be working against her, even if he wasn’t fully aware of what he’d been drawn into. Hanna didn’t have fun secrets. The last time Suzette had hoped her daughter was doing something sweet, Suzette opened a small gift box filled with spiders. The long-dead ones were crumbling, but some still twitched, and a few were very much alive. Not a fun surprise—even if Alex joked that Hanna was like a cat, bringing her favorite person a precious mouse.
“No no no, the coffee is innocent in all of this.” He winked at her and reached for his mug, seemingly oblivious to Suzette’s genuine annoyance.
“Fine. So guess what, I have great news.” She wanted to tell him while they were all together, in case Hanna reacted badly. Maybe she would throw a fit that he would not only witness, but also have to deal with. Suzette handed over his mug.
“Thank you, älskling.” Alex kissed her on the cheek. He sipped his coffee and leaned against the counter, waiting for her to divulge the news.
She brought the email back up on her phone. “I sent Sunnybridge an email last night, and I just got a reply. They’d be happy to sit down and talk with me. They even have time today, if I’m available.”
“Sounds good.” He turned to Hanna, who stood stoic and suspicious. “Remember, lilla gumman? I told you last night about a new school, for the fall? A more fun school than the others we looked at.”
“I think we should go this afternoon—what do you think?” She made herself sound sweet and innocent, though a part of her hoped the goading would work.
Hanna only glared at her. She turned and ran up the stairs, and a second later her door slammed shut. Suzette sighed, disappointed by the lack of drama. It would make convincing Alex of her revised idea more difficult.
“Don’t worry, any school is a big change. She’ll need time to wrap her head around it. We’ll have all summer—”
“I might ask if they can take her now,” she said, all pleasantness gone from her voice.
Alex froze, startled. “Now? There’s only two and a half months—”
“You haven’t noticed her behavior?”
“Not particularly.”
“She’s getting very manipulative. The way she plays us. She makes sure only I see what she does, so when I tell you … You can’t corroborate anything. The hitting. Spelling bad words. Talking … she’s taunting me. What did she drag you upstairs to do for her this morning?”
“Nothing. A project.” He squirmed in his skin a bit. “She’s trying something, I guess. I think you’ll like it, actually.”
Though she wasn’t cold, she zipped up the gray yoga jacket she liked to wear around the house and stuffed her hands into the pockets. She wanted to get properly dressed and call the school back, but Alex remained fixated on her and she wished he’d look away.
“Fine. I’ll handle it myself.”
“Hey.” He reached for her arm as she started to walk away. “I don’t disagree with you that she should be in school, you’re probably right—she’s bored, she needs a change—”
“I need a change. You don’t know how she is. She puts on her best face for you. Always sweet for you.”
“No, I believe that. But it’s so late in the school year, we already talked—”
“I cannot stay here, cooped up with her! You’re not listening to me.”
“I am. Älskling.” He took her in the great wingspan of his embrace.
Usually his arms were such a comfort, but she already felt too confined—burned out by the day-to-day trials of mothering Hanna, and the chronic disappointment of her own body. She wanted to run full speed into their glass wall and didn’t care if, like a bird, she broke her own neck. She’d run at it again and again until it was smeared with her blood.
She pushed him away and fought back a scream. She saw her wild-eyed panic mirrored on Alex’s face. It didn’t belong there, that frightened, uncertain look. It quelled a bit of her own anxiety and she wished she could swipe her hand in front of his eyes, past his nose and mouth, and restore the easy face he usually wore.
“I’m sorry, you just don’t…” She took a step away from him. Fidgety, she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to keep the words from falling out. “She’s doing things. I don’t know what she’s doing, but she’s playing games—”
“What things?”
“Who is Marie-Anne Dufosset?”
“What?”
Oh, that look he gave her. Like she’d revealed her insides to be just cogs and springs and explosions of fluff.
“Marie-Anne Dufosset! Is this some story you’ve been reading to her? Some French thing you watched together? Someone you told her about?” She stepped toward him, pleading with her hands. “Who is she?”
“Suzette, stop.”
At the sound of her name, she stopped—moving, ranting, breathing. Not that she minded Alex’s Swedish endearments, but in the absence of ever hearing her own name, sometimes she forgot she had one.
“I don’t know who Marie-Anne Dufosset is. Why would I know that? What does that have to do with…?” Such perfect, innocent confusion. Devoid of anger, and oozing with concern.
Had she lost her mind?
“I’ll google it. Never mind. You’re late. I need to call the school.”
“Do you want me to … I could stay? Go with you? I shouldn’t leave you like—”
“I’ll figure it out, it’s fine.”
He did that thing she loved and took hold of her upper arms while resting his forehead against hers. Beneath the coffee, he smelled like toothpaste, and his body radiated warmth. She breathed him in. He stood there, letting her absorb him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out.”
“Suzette—we’ll do whatever we need to do. Your health is as much a priority—I don’t want you to get sick again—”
“I know, I have the shots, they help…”
“Still, I’ve never seen you so rattled. I could work at home more—”
“You were just home for two weeks, you can’t be my nursemaid forever—”
“Was it better?”
Just thinking of how much easier it had been made her drumming heart settle into an easier rhythm. Those two full weeks after The Surgery had been like a vacation. Alex around to help with everything; Hanna on her best behavior. “Yes,” she admitted.
“I could do half days at the office.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. So don’t get upset if the school says she can’t start now. We’ll get her enrolled somewhere for the fall. And I’ll be here more, okay? Maybe we’ll switch it up, and you can head into the office sometimes, it’s been awhile—would that help?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I feel tired. All the time.”
She’d tried explaining it to him before, how her energy existed in precious spools that came unwound faster than she liked. He tried, but couldn’t really understand any more than she could about how it felt to be someone else. She gauged herself against what she saw other people do and how they moved through the world, their days filled with work and errands and chores and social lives and home lives, and no one else seemed too tired to live. But for her, by four o’clock in the afternoon she was often too weary to even stare at the television. What no one understood about her cleaning was how mindlessly purposeful it was for her. She needed to disconnect a few times a day, like a battery in reverse that recharged when it wasn’t plugged in. It was part of having Crohn’s disease, though the gastroenterologists weren’t interested in that part. Dr. Stefanski told her to take the matter up with her primary-care physician. It helped when Suzette kept a regular schedule for eating and sleeping. Sometimes a bit of light exercise in the morning spurred a burst of energy. But as she got older—as her days stretched out with Hanna—it seemed as if nothing helped. She was becoming a wind-up toy with a faulty crank.
“You need to tell me. More. Let me help you,” Alex pleaded.
Suzette nodded and finally wrapped her arms around her husband.
“You don’t have to do it all today,” he said.
“I want to. I need to, it’ll be fine. You should go, I know you want to get started.”
“Let’s talk more later, okay?”
They kissed, and he grabbed his coffee and car keys, shuffled into his shoes, and left.
She’d once imagined herself as a woman who wouldn’t need a man. She’d survived without a father, after all. The world didn’t revolve around men. But after she fell in love with Alex, she learned the truth of it: she never wanted to live in a world without him again. He smoothed the searing edges of happenstance and gave her a life that wasn’t capricious or cruel. She knew she could never live so well on her own, with the compromised income of compromised energy. And she’d worked so little that if she managed to qualify for disability, the payments would be meager. Together, they were the nurturing cycle of a life that mattered. Sun, soil, rain, roots, fruit, sustenance. Joy.
She called Sunnybridge and took the appointment they offered for eleven o’clock.
When she went upstairs, Hanna’s door was closed. She pressed her ear to it and listened. And heard what sounded like scissors cutting paper. Alex said she was making a project, but Suzette assumed it was something on his computer, not something that Hanna might assemble by hand. The thought of her working industriously in her room actually gave her hope. Maybe she’d finally use some of her markers or pencils. She didn’t know why Hanna never used them, especially because she knew she liked them. It wouldn’t even bother her if, later, she found scraps of paper littering the floor. In fact, the possibility made her smile.
“I’m taking a quick shower—everything okay in there?”
Hanna rapped her knuckles on the floor, like a knock—the code they’d developed for those times when they couldn’t see her, but needed a reply.
“Okay.” She hesitated for a second, debating whether to caution her to be careful with the scissors. She decided against it; Hanna wouldn’t like her hovering, or babying her.
Suzette enjoyed sixty seconds of hope, imagining what her daughter’s creation might be. She had faith in Hanna’s creativity, though it had rarely been applied in conventional ways. Maybe it would be the next stage in a welcome, albeit strange, process toward communication.
Her hope ended when she closed the door to her room and googled Marie-Anne Dufosset on her phone.
* * *
She felt defenseless in her nudity, even with the bathroom door locked. She couldn’t stop imagining Hanna wielding a pair of large scissors, stabbing her to death in the shower. It was a gruesomely melodramatic concern—especially since Marie-Anne Dufosset was barely a footnote in history. But according to Wikipedia, in 1679, at the age of eighteen, she was the last woman burned as a witch in France. That the article gave scant evidence the teen had ever done anything remotely witch-like was beyond the point. That Hanna even knew of her and had some reason to admire her—to invoke her spirit—was concerning enough.
Now that she knew the name of the game—Scare Mommy—she should be able to defend herself. But goose bumps rose on her skin, even under the heat of the water, when she thought about her creepy daughter. The whites of her eyes. Her ability to sneak up on her as she slept.