USUALLY SHE MADE Alex something a bit nicer, a bit more involved, but she didn’t feel like chopping vegetables and messing with ingredients. She just wanted to get him alone. To tell him what Hanna said.
What did it mean? Could Suzette have misheard her? Were they just nonsense sounds, one of her little singsongs? She could’ve sworn she heard an accent. It didn’t make any sense. Hanna’s first words should have been something to celebrate, but Suzette writhed with uncertainty. And dread. If she heard Hanna correctly … If she wasn’t Hanna … Around and around, the doubt and terror spun. Was one of them going crazy? Both of them? And those empty eyes still made her crackle with fear.
By the time they all sat down to her basic garlic-and-olive-oil pasta with last night’s leftover veggies and a fresh salad that Suzette declined to try, she questioned if she should even tell him. It was too easy to imagine him overlooking the specificity of Hanna’s ominous words in favor of celebrating the achievement of speaking. Or, knowing Hanna, she’d screw up her face, puzzled, and act completely baffled by Suzette’s announcement and pretend it never happened. Whose side would Alex take then? Even Suzette thought it more likely that, mired in worries, she’d misinterpreted what she saw and heard. A nightmare mingling with life, not reality.
She let him dominate the conversation, grateful for the upbeat normality of his presence. He filled her in on Jensen & Goldstein’s latest success, a commission for an all-new, all-green structure on a tiny empty lot of prime downtown real estate.
“They’re going to give us a lot of freedom in choices of materials. We’ll really be able to make a unique statement. I’ve always wanted to take a crack at a really skinny, unusual space.”
“This house was practice,” she said, trying to share his enthusiasm.
“Definitely—I showed them some of the pictures. You should help us with the interiors; they like your style. Nothing complements my clean lines the way your aesthetic does.”
Her fine, considerate, supportive man, always trying to include her.
“Skål!” She clinked her wineglass against his. “And congratulations.”
She hoped her happiness for him seemed genuine, because it was, to the degree that she could muster it. He went on and on as she moved bland pasta around her plate with a fork. She couldn’t not tell him—this was something they’d been waiting for. If only Hanna had said something—anything—else.
“It’s going to be four stories, and we’re thinking of ways of making it look like a ship, round windows…”
What a heartwarming moment it could have been, if the girl had come to the door and said “Mommy.” She hadn’t heard any semblance of her name on her child’s lips since she’d babbled “mamamama” as a baby. Alex would have been so proud—of both of them—if she could have made such an announcement. He would have kissed and cooed over them both, allowing her the victory of good mothering.
What sort of mother had a child who showed up like a demon to announce she wasn’t even your daughter? And if Hanna didn’t think she was Hanna, was she more disturbed than either of them had ever considered possible?
“… while still making it fully handicapped accessible. Matt suggested long sloping walkways to connect—”
“Hanna spoke today.”
Alex and Hanna stopped chewing in unison, turning their high-wattage shock on her in unison.
“Hanna what?”
“She spoke. Said words. Out loud.”
A grin started to eclipse his face. “Älskling…” Then he turned from her to Hanna. “Lilla gumman, that’s so—”
“She said she wasn’t Hanna.”
The grin faltered. “What?”
Suzette shrugged. “That’s what she said. ‘I’m not Hanna.’ With her eyes rolled so she looked like … I don’t know what she looked like. Something … monstrous.”
Alex got that unseemly look that befell him when he was perplexed, or thinking too hard, where his features morphed together like the continents retracting, becoming the formless blob of Pangaea. Clouds of doubt whisked across his face. He put on a smile to try to mask the confusion.
“Is that what you said, lilla gumman? Did you talk to Mommy?”
Suzette expected Hanna to shake her head. And she did. She didn’t expect her to go wide-eyed with fear and huddle beside her father. Hanna slapped her palm repeatedly against her little chest, pleading with Alex to understand.
“You’re Hanna?”
She nodded and started whimpering, her eyes filling with tears. She slapped her chest harder.
“Of course you’re Hanna; no one’s saying you’re not Hanna. You didn’t talk to Mommy?”
She shook her head again and reached out for a hug.
Suzette sighed, exasperated, and propped her elbow up on the table so she could rest her weary head. Why had she fucking bothered?
He squeezed Hanna and kissed her hair. “Why don’t you go up to your room for a little bit so Mommy and I can talk.”
Suzette saw the moment Hanna registered her victory. And changed tactics. She pointed to the living room, the television, but Suzette had no intention of coddling her false anguish.
“I think you’ve watched enough TV for today.”
Hanna slammed her foot on the ground and angrily shook her head.
“You did. I heard it from upstairs, the entire time I was in the bathroom.” Alex quickly turned to her, a question on his face. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she said to him.
She didn’t look at either of them as she got up to clear the table. “You can play in your room with some of your toys. Or read a book?”
She knew what was happening behind her: Hanna would put on a sad face and try to get Alex to cave to her desires. Half the time he did; a true diplomat, he evenly divided the amount of time that either one of them would be mad at him. But tonight he was on Suzette’s side.
“Listen to Mommy. I’ll be up later to read you a story.”
Hanna drooped and trudged out of the room. Suzette watched her daughter’s dainty feet move slowly up the stairs. She expected her to glower at her from the landing, but Hanna quietly retreated to her room.
Alex caressed her back as he joined her at the sink. “So what’s going on?”
“That’s what she said. She knocked on the door when I was in the bathroom and said, ‘I’m not Hanna.’ I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to believe you—I’d love for Hanna to speak. But that seems like a weird … I can’t see her saying that, what does it even mean—”
“I have no idea—”
“And she seemed pretty scared…”
Suzette leaned her back against the counter and massaged the sore spots under her eyebrows, her thumb on one, index finger on the other. Hanna’s announcement had worsened her headache.
“You weren’t feeling well today?”
“Being there, at the medical center…”
He kissed her forehead and started massaging the rest of her scalp. “Have you thought more? About finding someone to talk to?”
“I’m not crazy, she really—”
“For the PTSD. I hate that you get like this, maybe someone can help. Did you take any Percocet today?”
She lurched away from him.
“I was not on drugs! I was not high. I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking it, if you’re still having pain—”
“Alex. Are you even listening?”
For a moment they stood there, still and watchful as hunters. Or the beasts about to be shot.
“Yes. I was listening. And I was trying to find a logical explana—”
“There’s no logical explanation, just forget it. Forget it.”
She dumped their leftovers into Pyrex containers and shoved them into the refrigerator. Alex studied her, his expression cautious.
“Was she whispering? Was she maybe just singsonging—”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s what it was. Because she couldn’t possibly be a different child with me than she is with you. She hit a toddler while we were at the store.”
“When?”
“Today. I took her for a treat.”
“I can’t help it if I don’t see—if I’m not always there—”
“There’s the rub of it.” She reached back into the refrigerator and grabbed the half-empty bottle of white wine. “She’s smart enough to make sure you never believe me.”
She scooped up her wineglass from the table and carried it over to the couch, refilling the glass on her way. She set the bottle on the coffee table and stretched her legs out, flipping on PBS NewsHour. After a moment, Alex joined her, refilling his own glass as he settled in beside her. Neither of them said anything through an entire segment analyzing extreme weather events and the impact of climate change.
Finally, he slipped the remote out of her hand and lowered the volume. He eased closer to her, his head on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
Maybe this was her moment, when Alex was being contrite. “She’s bored. She’s too smart to just … be with me all day. And I’m tired…”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have had you schedule her stuff so soon after your—”
“No, I’m glad. I’m glad we went. The new doctor was helpful.”
The peace brokered, they angled toward each other, the news program forgotten.
“He found something?”
“Nothing’s physically wrong with her—we can definitively put that concern to rest.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I think so. He suggested a psychologist—a developmental psychologist, and was quick to say not a psychiatrist, because he didn’t think she needed medication—”
“Okay…”
“But, maybe there’s something else going on. Something … There could be something bothering her, holding her back.”
Alex took a moment to consider her words. “That makes sense. We understand her so well. But I hate to think that she won’t have opportunities, and people won’t get to know her. I don’t know why she … But from all the sounds she makes … She’s so expressive, and I think she can talk—”
“You do?” She sucked in her lips to keep from pointing out his hypocrisy.
“Maybe it was something she struggled with at first. Maybe she’s self-conscious about it. Sometimes I wonder if she talks to herself, and has a lisp or something and doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t want to sound different. Maybe she’s become obsessed … That’s what worries me most, I guess. That she’s telling herself negative things. And because we don’t know what they are we can’t undo them.”
Suzette squeaked her finger along the rim of her glass. Typically, Alex had a different explanation for Hanna’s continued silence: the hopeful possibility that she might be self-conscious, not defiant.
“Well … I’m hoping the therapist can reassure her, in some way that we can’t. I just wish…”
Alex cupped her cheek with his hand, his face earnest and full of compassion. “I know you just want the best for her. Don’t feel like you’ve failed.”
She wasn’t sure anymore which failure should bother her most. That Hanna wouldn’t talk, that Alex wasn’t fully on her side, or that she’d lost faith in her own instincts. For far too long they’d tried to justify, each in different ways, Hanna’s aberrant behavior. Should one of them have suggested a psychologist sooner? Were they behaving more like Suzette’s mother than they realized?
“This is a good thing to try. Dr. Yamamoto sounds very experienced,” she said, her tone more urgent than she’d intended, as if they could yet ameliorate whatever damage might have been caused to Hanna by their delay.
“And I’m fully supportive.” As he reached out to her, his face softened. “I don’t mean to make you feel like you’re on your own, and especially … You need to heal and be well. I don’t always know how to help, but I want to…”
A tiny, hard rubber ball came bouncing down the stairs. A second later, another one followed. At the bottom, they sprang about wildly and Hanna scampered down after them. She spun in circles, trying to catch them.
“Hanna. Go back to your room, please.”
Hanna ignored her. She caught one of the balls and bounced it again, loping after its drunken movement as she swayed and held her arms out for balance.
“Hanna?” Suzette got up and walked around the couch, her arms crossed, her back to Alex. She didn’t want him to see how she strained to control her temper. She wanted to lash out, scream, “Or whoever the fuck you are!” but couldn’t. “Can you play upstairs until we’re finished?”
A ball bounded past Suzette. Without even giving her a glance, Hanna flew after it.
“Lilla gumman? Mommy and I are talking. Go on up, I’ll be up soon.”
Plodding as she gathered up her bouncy balls, Hanna finally drifted upstairs.
Hanna’s rebukes had become minor, but constant, acts of torture. A pinching of delicate skin. A solitary, but well-aimed, punch. Suzette felt purple and damaged, and didn’t have the energy to hide it.
“She always listens to you,” she said, sinking back down so she was perpendicular to Alex.
“She doesn’t see me as much.”
“She likes you better.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is.”
“She doesn’t speak to me either, älskling.”
There was that. Maybe it was a victory, however fiendish, that Hanna had spoken to her first.
“Maybe it’s time to give Sunnybridge a call,” he said.
Suzette held her breath. She couldn’t let it all gush out and reveal her relief. Slowly, she reached for her wineglass and took a sip.
Alex had always been reluctant about Sunnybridge. The stupid name aside, it was an alternative (hippie) school that focused on the arts, and he thought it wasn’t academically inclined enough. When Hanna was still a baby, they’d debated between sending her to Green Hill Academy or the Frick School, which both proved to be impressive and pioneering in their academics.
Hanna was asked to leave Green Hill after five weeks. Suzette and Alex sat before a small panel of teachers and administrators and were informed that Hanna just wasn’t emotionally ready for kindergarten. Her “inability to interact” proved to be “more troubling than anticipated.” Alex, especially, grew offended as the meeting deteriorated and the teachers’ polite façades fell away. He’d never seen Hanna “snarl aggressively” and couldn’t believe their accusations that she “hid toys just so the other children couldn’t use them” and “broke things to be spiteful.” They feared that eventually Hanna would hurt another student—“We suspect her of setting the cafeteria trash bin on fire”—at which point Alex demanded a refund for the remaining tuition and stormed out.
Suzette meekly apologized to the staff and hurried after her husband.
Before the Green Hill Academy expulsion debacle, she’d known Alex to have the least arousable—and quick to dissipate—temper of any human she’d ever met. But for days afterward, he simmered.
So Suzette got Hanna enrolled at the Frick School, and Alex’s mood returned to normal. Hoping it would help, she gave the new teacher a heads-up on the ways that Hanna had struggled at her previous school.
Suzette knew the young woman, with a delicate snail tattoo on her wrist and the tiniest stud in her nose, had no idea what she was in for. But she hoped—prayed—that Hanna would respond to her youthful, boundless energy, be enamored of her snail (or the rebellious mini piercing), and try to please her. Suzette had already decided she’d shield Alex, as best she could, from the truth if it didn’t work out. He’d never shown a remote or depressive side until the expulsion, and she couldn’t handle him in such a state for a prolonged period.
When Suzette picked her up after her first day, the teacher remarked, “She might be quiet but she’s not shy, quite the little spitfire.” The end was already in sight. On her fifth day, the young woman twisted her long fingers in worry and reported that Hanna wasn’t adjusting well. She wouldn’t stop breaking all the crayons into little pieces. But worse, she liked to grab the goldfish out of its bowl. They’d caught her at it a few times, until they finally found the goldfish dead, scattered among a collection of similarly sized plastic animals. On her eighth day, Suzette was called in after Hanna had pretended to pass out from hunger. It was one thing for them to question if Hanna had ADHD; it was another for them to doubt Suzette’s parenting.
Suzette didn’t wait for another day. She withdrew Hanna from school. And told Alex the obvious part of the truth: without an ability to speak, Hanna grew frustrated among new people. Suzette offered to homeschool her. She’d already taught her to read and do simple arithmetic. Alex embraced the idea—embraced her.
For Alex to finally come around to the idea of Sunnybridge meant perhaps he was realizing there was a bigger problem. He hadn’t, as she’d feared, been insulted by the idea of a psychologist. Maybe he had a more selfish desire, with the new downtown commission, that she’d have more time to help him. Maybe he’d become infected by her fear of rotting intestines and shitting in a bag. She couldn’t always tell what motivated him: someone else’s best interests—hers, their daughter’s—or his own. But it was possible that a school with a more playful approach would be a pleasant distraction for Hanna.
“It’s April already, too late for this year,” she now said, filling her glass with what was left of the wine. “But I can see if they’ll admit her for second grade.”
“I’m sure they will.” He was nothing if not loyal to his daughter. “She’s so academically advanced for her age, they’ll see she’s a silent genius.” The delicate skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled.
“I’ll set up an appointment.”
Alex leaned forward and kissed her. “See? Therapist. New school. It’s all going to work out. Maybe she’ll even be talking by the fall—maybe we’ll have lots of schools to choose from.”
Did he really believe that?
Alex got up, stretched his long limbs. “Better head up. Should I say anything to her?”
“Yes—that would be great. I made the mistake in the car, I thought she might be more open to school since it’s been awhile. She doesn’t realize what she’s missing. Maybe if it comes from you…”
She carried their wine goblets to the sink.
“What do I tell her about the therapist?”
“Maybe focus on … Something just for her, without us. Maybe just plant the idea, a different kind of relationship, someone who isn’t a parent or grandparent.”
Alex nodded. “I’ll keep it really low-key. I don’t think she handles pressure well, being on the spot.”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help sounding relieved. “I’m glad you understand. Jag älskar dig.” She knew how it pleased him when she expressed her love for him in Swedish.
“Jag älskar dig.” He blew her a kiss and took the steps two at a time.
Alone in the empty downstairs, it was easy for Suzette to imagine what it would be like. With her schoolbooks back in the cupboard, there was no trace of Hanna. And if the girl were in school, she’d have six hours a day to herself. Maybe she’d start sketching again. She could become a valuable member of the Jensen & Goldstein team, not a ghost on the periphery. She could take a cooking class. Or a dance class. She could start a blog. She could grow a real garden, full of fresh organic vegetables to feed her family. She wouldn’t always eat the vegetables—sometimes her finicky digestion rebelled against brightly colored, hard-to-absorb foods. But in her mind, the act of growing would earn her a prize. Better than store-bought, and truly local.
It seemed possible that’s what all the other mothers were doing, the ones whose children spent their days at small, expensive schools. They probably already knew how to knit socks and sew their own clothes. They probably stood side by side with their husbands to thatch the roof and jury-rig a composting toilet. Suzette wanted to do better. She longed for more-practical life skills, and knew Alex would support her endeavor to negate their carbon footprint.
She wasn’t opposed to hard or dirty work, even if she had a lot of catching up to do. More ways to strive for perfection, and prove her worth.