Phoenix (Kindle Single) (2 page)

On Wednesday evening, as usual, Rachel calls from Orlando. She half-hopes April won’t speak. That might prove that the girl’s inherited some of Rachel’s own gumption. As a test, Rachel asks, “Don’t you love Mommy?” Under her breath she prays the girl won’t take such obvious bait.

The world is a horrible place. The last thing Rachel wants to create is a kid who bruises like a ripe banana.

As if April needs further testing, Rachel says, “Let Mommy sing you a bedtime song,” and she begins to croon a lullaby she knows will melt her daughter’s resolve. Backing her up are the moans and groans from next door, those sounds without language that weak people make against their will. Rachel intends to sing all of the verses, but she loses her nerve when she hears Ted’s laugh. It sounds too clear. She guesses April has set down the receiver and walked away. That means Rachel has been singing to an empty kitchen. She ends by warning, “If you don’t say goodnight, you’ll make Mommy cry.” If no one is listening, it doesn’t matter what she says. She pretends to cry. She escalates her pretend sobs to wailing. It’s easier than she imagined, and when she finds she can’t stop, Rachel hangs up.

Rachel hadn’t invented the dangers of toxoplasmosis; she’d gone online and built an airtight case. This wasn’t crazy talk. Neurobiologists had linked
T. gondii
to suicide and the onset of schizophrenia. All caused by exposure to cat poop. Some studies even suggested that the toxo brain parasites chemically coerced people to adopt more cats. Those crazy cat ladies were actually being controlled by an infection of single-cell invaders.

The problem with educating stupid people was that they didn’t know they were stupid. The same went for curing crazy people. As far as the cat was concerned, Ted was both.

On the last night in their first house, as Rachel had later explained it to the police, they’d gone to a Christmas party in the neighborhood. The two of them were coming home. They’d been drinking eggnog, and as they trudged through the snow, she’d explained to Ted that he didn’t need to be such a softie. She spoke carefully, waiting for her words to stick. The footprints she left were splayed wide apart to balance her new weight.

Rachel was still working as a Level I corporate interface consultant, but simply entering her second trimester felt like a full-time job. She worried that with a new baby the situation wouldn’t get much better. You might be able to divide a man’s love in half, but not in three ways.

The way Rachel told it to the police, she had walked into the darkened house first. She hadn’t even taken off her coat. She’d said, “It’s freezing in here.” The Christmas tree filled the living room’s front window, blocking any light from the street. In fact, everyone’s first assumption was that the Christmas tree was the culprit. The usual suspects were always scented candles, faulty twinkle lights, an overloaded outlet. Ted pegged the roving robotic vacuum cleaner. His fingers were crossed that it had overheated. Some circuit had shorted out, and it had raced around filled with flammable cat hair and set fire to everything.

Thursday night in Orlando, it’s the age-old paradox: the more Rachel tries to hurry the installation process, the longer things take. She phones herself and leaves messages. “Memo to self: Finalize nomenclature for graphics inventory.”

She takes her phone off the bedside table and begins to scroll through her photos. She has only one of April. Somehow it seems wrong to photograph a blind person. It’s like stealing something valuable they don’t even know they own. In this same spirit, Rachel self-edits to never say, “What a lovely sunset” or “Eyes this way, honey.” Around April, to exclaim, “What a beautiful flower!” would seem cruel.

She and Ted had met on a blind date, another phrase Rachel rigorously avoids.

Recently her daughter has begun to call out, “Look at me, Mom! Look at me! Are you watching?” April obviously had no idea what she was saying. That was simply the universal chorus of children, sighted or blind. The essence of being a parent was the shift from being the person who is watched to being the person who does the watching.

Again, Thursday, the girl refuses to utter a sound. Rachel scrutinizes with her ears. Rachel wheedles and promises until Ted takes the phone and says, “Sorry.” She can hear the helpless shrug in his voice as he says, “I can’t make her talk.”

To that Rachel says, “Try.” Ted has a real talent for giving up. She suggests he poke April in the ribs to make her laugh. She asks, “Isn’t she ticklish?”

In response Ted laughs, but mostly from disbelief. “You’re asking if she’s
ticklish
?” He snorts, “Where have you been the past three years?”

After the night of the fire, all that Rachel would ever accept the blame for was throwing the switch. Before turning on the living room lights, Rachel said she’d gone to the thermostat and dialed up the heat. She’d switched on the gas fireplace at the same moment the screams had started. A wild banshee wail had filled the dark rooms. Like some wintry demon, an unearthly screeching sounded, and then the entire household seemed to catch fire. The Christmas tree flared. The black throw pillows flared. The black area rugs blazed. Ted rushed to embrace Rachel even as bedspreads and bath towels burst into raging orange flame. The air stank with smoke and scorched hair. The smoke detectors added to the head-splitting racket. They didn’t have time to back their black car down the driveway and save it before flames were flapping like bright flags from every upstairs window. They were standing on the snowy front lawn when the fire trucks came sirening out of nowhere. The house was fully involved.

In Orlando, Rachel has begun to speculate. It would be exactly like Ted to keep some awful truth from her, at least until she gets home. If April were in the hospital, if she’d been stung by a bee and had a severe reaction, or worse, Ted would think he was doing Rachel a kindness by not telling her over the phone. She goes online and searches for accidents in Seattle involving three-year-old girls in the past week. To her dismay, she finds one. According to the news item, a girl has been attacked by a neighbor’s dog. Currently she is in the hospital, in critical condition. Her name is being withheld pending notification of the victim’s extended family.

That night, Rachel listens to her new messages. They are all from herself. “Memo to self: Repercussions!” Just that one word, shrill and bullying. She has no idea to what she’d been referring at the time. She has to check the caller ID to even recognize herself. Was that how her voice really sounds?

All night the idea weighs on her: How many toddlers choke to death on rubber balls and never make the CNN scroll? She keeps hitting
REFRESH
, hoping for updates on the
Seattle Times
story. What kind of mother is she if she can’t sense whether or not her child is dead or alive?

The fire marshal hadn’t thought it was arson, not at first. The episode had made them celebrities, and not in a good way. They’d become living proof of something people didn’t want to believe could really happen.

The fire marshal had picked through the charred rooms, charting the path of the blaze’s ignition. It had started at the minimalist fireplace and traced a circle around the perimeter of the living room. Next, the perimeter of the dining room had kindled. He’d sketched a rough floor plan on a sheet of graph paper clipped to a clipboard. Using a mechanical pencil, he drew a line from the dining room up the stairs and around the perimeter of the master bedroom and bathroom.

Tucked under his arm, he was carrying something wrapped in a black plastic garbage bag. “Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” he told Ted and Rachel in the driveway. He’d held the bag open and let them peer inside. It smelled horrific, a combination of burnt hair and chemicals. Ted took one look and began to shake.

Friday night in Orlando, Rachel briefly entertains the idea of calling the police, but what could she say? She checks for an update about the three-year-old girl in critical condition. She calls a neighbor back home, JoAnne. They’ve had a passing acquaintance based on a mutual hatred of the local garbage collectors. JoAnne picks up on the nineteenth ring. Rachel asks if Ted has gotten their garbage can out to the curb this week. She doesn’t want to tip her hand.

She listens, switching the phone from one ear to the other, but hears nothing. Most of what she doesn’t hear is JoAnne’s Rottweiler mix barking. It’s always barking and clawing at their fence.

At last JoAnne says, “Garbage pickup is next week, Rachel.” She sounds guarded. She says Rachel’s name as if she’s signaling to other people within earshot. She asks how Orlando is, and Rachel racks her brains trying to remember if she’d mentioned the trip beforehand. Testing, Rachel says, “I hope Ted’s not spoiling April while I’m gone.” The pause that follows lasts too long.

“April?” Rachel prods. “My daughter?”

JoAnne says, “I know who April is.” Now she sounds irritated.

Rachel can’t help herself. “Did Cesar bite my baby?”

The line goes dead.

At least the fire marshal had solved the mystery of why their old house stank every winter. Belinda Carlisle, the marshal conjectured, had been using the crushed granite of the fireplace as a litter box. Any time they’d switched on the gas jets, Ted and Rachel had been barbecuing untold pounds of buried cat waste. The insurance adjuster told them that what had occurred was without precedent. Rachel noticed he could hardly contain his laughter as he explained how the cat must’ve been voiding her bowels at the same moment Rachel flipped the fireplace switch.

One moment, Belinda was taking a secret late-night crap in the dark little cave of the firebox. In the cold house, maybe she savored the gentle warmth of the pilot light. She would’ve heard the cricket
click-click-click
of the electronic spark igniter. Instantly, jets of blue flame would’ve shot at her from every direction.

It had been this furry, flaming demon that had exploded, screaming, and raced around the house, setting fire to every cloth item before falling dead in an upstairs closet beneath Rachel’s dry cleaning, stored in flammable plastic.

Saturday, Rachel phones home three times and gets the voice mail. She pictures the house empty. It’s too easy to picture Ted weeping beside a hospital bed. When he finally picks up, she asks for April. “If that’s how you want it, young lady,” she threatens, “no Christmas, no merry-go-round, no pizza, unless you speak up.” She waits, not wanting to be hurtful. She blames her mood on a rum-and-cola, a double, that cost more than a turquoise belt buckle from TV. “I had a little girl who was blind,” she taunts, trying to provoke a response. “What are you, now, Helen Keller?”

It’s the rum talking. On television, an enlarged topaz sparkles hypnotically, rotating slowly with the sound turned down.

In the depth of the quiet, Rachel can hear breathing. It’s not her imagination. April is breathing, sounding stubborn, huffing angry little snorts as if her chubby arms are crossed over her chest and her cherub cheeks are flushed red with anger.

Taking a gamble, Rachel asks, “What do you want Mommy to bring you when she comes home?” A bribe will help everyone save face. “A Mickey Mouse?” she offers. “Or a Donald Duck?”

She hears a faint gasp. The breathing stops for an instant before the distant, high-pitched voice squeals, “Oh, Daddy.” Delighted, it says, “Pull my hair, Daddy! Fuck me up the ass!”

It’s not April. It’s the guests next door, a voice filtering through the wall.

“How about we use a solid-gold, thousand-pound bar of chocolate-covered Rocky Road ice cream?” Rachel deadpans. Pressing the receiver against her chest, she pounds a fist against the wall and yells, “How about a pretty pony fucks you?”

Over the phone she hears the little robot vacuum humming around—a replacement—cleaning the floor and bumping into walls, like (what else?) a sightless animal. Ted sits on his ass half the day, but he still wants his labor-saving Sharper Image gadgets. It scares Rachel, the idea that April might accidentally stumble over the vacuum, but Ted insists she’s smarter than a cheap machine.

In a flash, Rachel knows. Even if she’s a little tipsy, it all makes sense. Ted blames her for what happened to Belinda Carlisle. He’s not brilliant, but he’s not stupid. Holding a grudge is something April inherited from her father. He’s bided his time, and now he’s getting his revenge.

A thin crack opens up in her voice, and now all of her panic rushes to escape. She asks, “April, baby, is your daddy hurting you?” She tries to not ask, to stop asking, but the effort is like trying to un-pop a balloon.

By the time April had been born, they were settled in a cookie-cutter ranch house a few blocks away. Ted had wanted to bury the cat in the new backyard, but the fire marshal never surrendered the remains. The ranch house was less dramatic. It had no open fireplace and no bidet, but with a blind child, that was just as well. How could Rachel not be affected, living pregnant for six months with smoldering cat turds? As the obstetrician put it, the toxo parasite attacks the optic nerve, but Rachel knew there was more to it than that. It was retribution. Of course, Rachel swore she hadn’t seen Belinda Carlisle before she’d flipped the switch. And Ted had accepted Rachel’s statement at face value.

There were lies that married two people more effectively than any wedding vows.

On Sunday, Rachel phones and insists that Ted listen. “The next call I make is to the police,” she swears. Unless April says something to change her mind, she’s going to call Child Protective Services and request an intervention.

Her husband, Mr. Passive-Aggressive, laughs a confused laugh. “What do you want me to do, pinch her?”

Pinch her, yes, Rachel says. Spank her. Pull her hair. Anything.

He asks, “Just to clarify … if I
don’t
smack my kid, you’ll report me for child abuse?”

Nodding, Rachel tells the phone, “Yes.” She pictures him drinking coffee out of the black-glazed mug he salvaged from the fire’s wreckage. The color and finish are so ugly, the mug looks as good as new.