ANNASOPHIA
Shrinks and doctors and nutritionists and parents agree that habitual heated discussions or icy standoffs at mealtimes ensure kids will hate eating with the family. God knows, my three kids sat through enough sniping between their parents to refuse ever to come to the table with me again. Since Michael’s murder, I’ve tried to rewrite the old scripts. Make suppers together enjoyable. Inject a bit of fun at the table. Explore conversational topics they like and discuss—sometimes hotly but always respectfully.
Now, despite the comforting smells of roasted chicken and spices, the lovely table, and the chit-chat about Molly The Wonder Dog, an undercurrent of tension tugs the five of us away from shore and into uncharted waters. Soshanna and Ari tacitly leave the decision up to me when to bring up Alexandra’s hospitalization and Maverick’s murder.
We’re here is their mental message while I extoll Molly’s talents.
Heart racing, I look at my wine glass and catch a small tic in Anastaysa’s cheek. I’ve lost count of the times she watched me down a full bottle of wine at dinner.
My smile feels so plastic I drag my knuckles across my rubbery lips. Attempting to convince Anastaysa everything is fine smacks of dishonesty. Every day with Michael, I faked that everything-is-fine lie. Dry-mouthed, I reach for water and empty the glass Ari promptly refills.
The segue I rehearsed on the way home flies out of my head. Setting down the full water glass, I say, “Let’s talk about Alexandra now. You both know I took her to the hospital this morning..”
“Is she sick?” A grain of rice falls out of Magnus’s mouth.
“Yes. She is so angry she’s made herself sick.” I glance at Soshanna for reassurance that the truth offers the best hope of getting through the next days and maybe months.
“She’s a teenager.” Magnus seems unaware of his insight and taps Ari’s wrist. He needs help cutting up his chicken.
“I’m a teenager.” Anastaysa speaks to me. “Not all teenagers go ballistic.”
“Agreed.” My breath catches.
“Me too.” Soshanna lifts her wineglass.
Magnus twists his face into an I’m-serious scrunch. “Well, Zandra says I can’t do anything right. She hates Molly. She hates me. When I call her Zandra, she calls me The Baaaaabeee.”
His you’re-an-idiot intonation echoes Alexandra’s rap cadence to perfection. I stroke his smooth cheek. “Oh, honey. I wish you’d told me.”
“That’s snitching.” Anastaysa clanks her knife on her plate. “Worse than tattling.”
The distinction eludes me. I feel as if I’m stepping into quicksand, but I say, “I disagree. I think name calling’s a form of bullying. We all have a right to push back against bullies. We should expect respect.”
“But Mamá,” she says in her normal, even-pitched voice, “Papá bullied you. He called you names. He ridiculed you. You never pushed back.”
“That’s mean, Staysa.” Tears thicken Magnus’s words.
She lifts one shoulder, eyes me, and straightens her shoulders. “That’s the truth, Magnus.”
Ari clears his throat, and Soshanna chokes the stem of her wineglass. In the deafening silence that builds, hot blood rushes to my cheeks. I gape at my quiet, easy-going daughter. Green eyes steady, she returns my stare without any signs of Alexandra’s hostility.
“Staysa’s right, Magnus.” The admission tightens around my throat like a noose. The last thing I’m prepared for is a truthfest about Michael’s character. Not when I feel stripped naked by Alexandra’s breakdown. “I should’ve stood up for myself. For the three of you. I’m learning to challenge people who put me down. If you’re afraid to stand up, come to me. I will help you.”
The words ring pompous. Empty. I hold my breath for Anastaysa’s reaction. She pushes away her half-full plate. “I’m old enough to take care of myself, but I think Magnus should tell you—or me—or an adult he trusts—if someone bullies him.”
Soshanna squeezes Anastaysa’s arm. The air buzzes with the need to accept Anastaysa’s independence. I reach across the table and brush her cheek with my fingertips. “Great advice. But so you know. You can both always come to me. Always. Got that?”
Anastaysa lowers her gaze and whispers, “I still want to know about Alexandra. What happened that you took her to the hospital? And why not a regular hospital? Why a psych facility?”
“What’s a psych facility?” Magnus asks.
Anastaysa rolls her eyes. “A place for crazies.”
“A place for people having trouble with their feelings,” Soshanna elaborates. “Sometimes they sleep most of the day because it hurts too much to stay awake. Sometimes they eat too much—almost from the time they get up until they go to bed. Sometimes they stop eating or eat next to nothing. Sometimes they feel angry or sad or worried or afraid most of the time. So, they go to a psych facility.”
Will Shosanna concur with my BPD-diagnosis?
“I still don’t get why Zandra hadda go anywhere.” Magnus turns to Ari as if seeking male support. “What’d she do?”
Mentally crossing my fingers, I take a deep breath and plunge in. “Alexandra tried to hurt herself.”
“What?” Magnus frowns.
“How?” Anastaysa’s breathy voice quavers.
“She tried to cut herself—”
“That’s crazy,” Magnus states.
“With what?” Anastaysa demands.
“Her razor.” A lancet, the word shreds my tongue.
“Her razor?” Magnus falls back in his chair as if he’s learned a new term.
“Was she shaving her legs?” Anastaysa’s eyes beg me to say yes. “I nick myself a lot shaving ...”
When I say nothing, she dabs at her eyes with her napkin and shudders. “How deep?”
“Superficial.” I throw Soshanna a silent, help-me-out plea.
“One cut. Not deep enough to leave a scar,” Soshanna says.
“We get lectures at school all the time.” Anastaysa hugs her waist. “How can anyone do that? A nick hurts—a deliberate cut—she could’ve bled to death. If you and Sanna hadn’t been there— Why was she in your room, Mamá? Why was Detective Patel here?”
Hysteria sharpens the questions that spill out of her mouth like water from an open fire hydrant. The flame from the candle lights her skin to incandescent. Her eyes have turned a deep, stormy sea-green. They dare me to retreat. They warn me she will fight this battle. No omissions. No lies. No secrets.
Soshanna shifts in her chair, mouth open to give me a chance to figure out what to say, but Ari touches her wrist. She throws me a big, you-can-do-it smile. Cold creeps across my insides and sears my lungs. No more stalling. My fingers tingle to touch my daughter.
You survived going off the high dive in grade school. Jump. The cold in my gut expands. I reach for my water glass.
Impatience tightens Anastaysa’s mouth.
Jump. No sips of water.
“I called Detective Patel because I found a boy in Alexandra’s bedroom.”
Magnus’s eyes go wide. “You did?”
Anastaysa frowns. “What boy? Why didn’t the alarm go off?”
“Alexandra invited him.”
“No. No way.” Anastaysa shakes her head. “Not Nicholas.”
“It wasn’t Nicholas. His name was Maverick. Alexandra met him in a bar.”
“In a bar?” Anastaysa and Magnus ask like trained parrots.
“Give me a second.” A stall. I don’t know what else to say that offers any kind of rational explanation. My fears of BPD will scare them silly. Too much scary info.
“Have you been listening to school-gossip?” Anastaysa throws me a hard, sidelong look.
“Everything I’ve told you happened right here. In our house. In Alexandra’s bedroom. In my bedroom.” What are they saying at school?
My blood spikes from freezing to boiling. The questions raise my heart rate into the range of a coronary. Repeating where Alexandra and Maverick hooked up borders on ridiculous—since I have to tell them about Maverick’s murder. Dozens and dozens and dozens of images of telling them about Michael’s murder fall over each other. I am unable to open my mouth.
“Do you need a break?” Shoshanna asks.
For at least a century. I shake my head but immediately bob my head. Maybe the movement will force the necessary words to swim to the front of my brain. I suggest sitting on the family-room sofa.
The smiles Ari and Soshanna turn on us offer hope. He says, “We’ll clear the table.”
“Come sit next to me.” Anastaysa tugs Soshanna’s hand. “Please?”
Soshanna laces then releases their fingers. “Give your mom a chance, okay?”
Anastaysa breaks away and storms into the family room. Magnus and I follow, hand-in-hand. She drops into an overstuffed chair. “The sofa’s too crowded.”
“We’ll scrunch up.” I take the middle cushion and pat the space on either side of me.
She scowls but flounces the few steps and flops down inches away from me. “I hope this doesn’t take all night. I have homework.”
She’s afraid. She’s not Alexandra. My throat closes, but I kiss the top of her head, do the same with Magnus. “The boy I told you about—the one in Alexandra’s bed—Maverick—he’s dead.”
“What?” Anastaysa rears up, and her head slams me under the chin.
My teeth clack, I see stars.
“Are you sure?” Magnus whispers and sticks his thumb in his mouth.
The ache in my teeth keeps the ache in my heart from ripping open my chest. “I am sure. How or why, I don’t know. The police are working on who—”
“You mean …” Disbelief shatters Anastaysa’s face. “Did someone kill … that … boy?”