“You are interrupting a session with a patient,” she said. She opened the door and blocked the entrance with her body.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” said the detective. I could see his dark, bulky form outside. Then I was aware of the flashing lights through the window. “We need to bring Lana Granger in for questioning.”
“This young person is in a fragile emotional state,” said Dr. Cooper, still barring the door.
“I understand,” he said. “But we still need to speak to Miss Granger.” Did he lean on my name oddly? Did they know?
“Lana,” said Dr. Cooper. Her face was pale with concern. “Write down the name and number of your attorney. I will call him and meet you at the police station. Do not say anything until someone is there to represent you.”
“Okay,” I said. She handed me a pad and pen and I did as she’d asked.
I saw the detective cast an annoyed look in her direction as she allowed him entry into her office. Then I gathered up my things and let him lead me outside to his squad car. I assumed that he was trying to rattle me by making such a big show of bringing me in. But he didn’t know me very well.
They left me in a cool gray room for a while, where I sat patiently waiting. I kept my body still and my eyes focused on the table in front of me. If I had been smart, I’d have shed a few tears, looked frightened. I knew they were watching me; I could see the red light on the camera mounted in the far right corner of the room. They wanted you to fit a particular mold, and when you didn’t, they were suspicious. That was one of the things that had sunk my father, that first aroused suspicion. He didn’t seem worried enough when she was missing, grief-stricken enough when she was found. He didn’t howl and collapse, didn’t put on the show everyone expected to see. But we are a family of stoics; we aren’t hardwired to display our feelings. Inside, my father was shattered. For two nights I listened to him sobbing in his empty bed while I lay alone in mine.
He and I never had much of a relationship. He traveled much of the time, and what I knew about him even as a child was that when he was around, my mother cried a lot. There was fighting, yelling carrying through the Sheetrock walls. He was dark-haired like me. He sat at the head of the table when he was home, and we ate dinner while he awkwardly tried to facilitate conversations So, tell me about school. What are your teachers like? How’s the violin coming along? We endured him.
When he was away, we often ate dinner in front of the television, picking out our favorite movies and sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of little standing trays. We painted in the afternoons, or went for long walks on the beach. Then I’d do my homework while my mother cooked our dinner. My early life with her-when we were alone-was quiet. I wasn’t a normal kid. I had a few friends. Okay, I didn’t have any friends, until I was much older. I had doctor’s appointments and took medication. I was often overwhelmed by events at school. There were always problems, and I frequently needed to come home. I try not to think about it. I wasn’t a nice little kid, and I always just wanted to be with my mother. How hard it must have been for her.
But I have trouble painting a picture of her now. Sometimes I can’t remember her face, or the sound of her voice. Because I was a child, I knew her only as she related to me. That’s why she has slipped away, I think. Because I am no longer a child, and she has been gone for so long.
What would she say to me now? Take a deep breath, she used to say when I spun out of control. Just be yourself, she’d advise when I was nervous about people or a new school (there were many schools). Just do your best. It was all she had. But unfortunately that was not the best advice for a kid like me.
The door opened and Detective Ferrigno walked in. He was a man who always looked tired, who always seemed to be carrying a burden. He sat heavily in the chair across from me and started to rub his eyes. He leaned his elbows on the table and then held me in his gaze. He smelled like hamburgers and onions.
“You and I need to talk about a few things,” he said.
“I would prefer to wait until my attorney is present,” I said.
“You’re not under arrest,” he said. He gave me a comforting shake of his head. “I just need your help.”
I offered him an uncertain smile. “And I want to help. But I need to speak to my attorney first.”
“Why?” he asked. His concern, his mystification, was not quite sincere. “Are you hiding something from me?”
I focused on details to calm myself. There was an analog clock on the wall that seemed to have stopped at ten past twelve. The gray paint was peeling in places, and there was a crack in the ceiling.
“Of course not.” I put my hand on the faux-wood table. It was bolted to the ground, as was my chair.
“Then we don’t need to go there, do we? You know, attorneys and all that.”
I was done talking to him, communicated this by looking away from him and not answering. There was a rhythmic sound, blood pumping in my ears. I knew I didn’t seem scared to him, but I was. What was this all about? What did they want from me?
“Okay,” he said. “How about I talk and you just listen? Maybe you’ll feel like chiming in?”
The fluorescent lights above us buzzed unpleasantly in the thick silence of the room. He was waiting, watching me. I gave him an indifferent glance, then looked at the mottled laminate floor-easy for cleaning blood, vomit, what have you.
I think about you all the time, she said. Beck’s voice was soft and her skin was so white it glowed in the moonlight. She was shivering. I wanted to reach out to touch her, but instead I wrapped my arms around myself.
Do you think about me? she whispered. Do you ever think about that night?
No, I lied. I don’t.
She rolled over on her side, pressed up against my shoulder. Then she put her head in her hands and started to cry.
How can you be so cold? she asked, and the note of despair in her voice cut me to the bone. She was a girl who needed to love and be loved. She was all heat and noise; her energy burned and roared. Her anger was a hurricane, and her love was more terrifying than that. I felt like a glass vial beside her, empty and brittle, quivering in her thrall. Oh, I wanted to hold her, I did. I wanted to tell her that I loved her and that I thought about her all the time when we were apart. But I was too fragile and she gave off too much heat. I was about to shatter.
After a while she looked up at me. Her eyes were wet and red, her cheeks flushed. She was so beautiful she glowed.
You don’t have to hide, she said. She reached for my face and I didn’t draw it away. I know who you are.
You don’t, I said. My voice was hoarse and low.
But I do. She moved in closer, and I couldn’t pull away from her. I tried to push her away, but it was a weak effort and she saw it for what it was, kept pressing in. Finally, I let her curl her arm around my neck and draw herself nearer, nearer until she was straddling me. She ran her fingers through my hair and now it was my turn to shake.
Shhh, she said. It’s okay. Let me love you. And she said my name. My real name. I was shaken to the core by the sound of it on her tongue. She did know me. She knew all of me. OhGodohGod, she knew everything. I had never been more terrified.
And then she put her mouth to mine, and I wrapped my arms around her. Her kiss was so hot and wet, so sweet, and I let myself drown in it.