The girl shouted something at Holly in Russian—but, this time, Holly understood. It was as if she’d spoken Russian all her life! The girl, who was wearing Tatiana’s broken body, screamed, “She has a bad heart!” This girl, even with her limp arm, managed to raise her fist to her chest and pound on it. “Even your fucking neighbor Randa told you! ‘Your daughter’s fingernails are blue! Her eyelids are blue! Why do her lips turn so blue? It’s not even cold!’ And what did you do? You stopped talking to her! You blamed it on how she reacted to the chickens, but you knew it was because of what she would say about Tatty if you ever spoke to her again: ‘Tatty needs to see a doctor!’ ”
“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Holly said. “She was taken to a doctor in Russia. There was nothing wrong with Sally!”
“Fuck you,” the girl said. “She never was Sally! You didn’t even bring me a Christmas present! Where do you think Sally went when you left her there for months? Who do you think was taking care of Sally then? Who do you think is taking care of Sally now? No American wants a child with broken legs. A child who’s been dropped, or beaten. Or a child who has a bad heart. That’s why you pretended not to know until you couldn’t not know!”
“That’s not true!” Holly said desperately. “I never cared about any of that. I loved you. You were the sweetest, smallest thing I ever loved. I loved you both. I never cared! I would have taken either of you, or both of you! I would have taken you broken, I would have taken your sister with a bad heart. I would have, I did!”
No you didn’t!
Although the scream was deafening, Holly didn’t bother to put her hand over her ears. She knew where the voice was coming from, and she put her hands over her eyes, and she knew that, when she looked up, Sally would be gone.
EVERYTHING, HOLLY KNEW, would be different when Eric got home, when morning came.
She swallowed, willing herself to cry no more. For the rest of the day, she would not make a sound. There was no sense upsetting Tatiana. She would never even have to know. Holly would never tell anyone. It wasn’t something she would even share with Thuy. Just as she had never told anyone about the chickens, and the way, that summer, when they’d gotten the chickens from the farm outside of town, Holly had so stupidly believed they would be happy. That the chickens would stay inside the fence, peck at grubs, live in the lovely little Amish chicken coop she and Eric had mail-ordered for them.
She had never told anyone how, while Tatiana napped, Holly had been lying with a book in bed with the window open—because it was early summer, and beautiful, with a sky so blue it looked as though there were some kind of membrane over the world, pulled so tightly across space that it could have been punctured—and listening to the chickens under the bush outside the window, squawking.
She’d known, hadn’t she, that the squawking was louder than usual? But Holly had allowed herself to believe that they were only squabbling over pillbugs, fighting to get at a worm. How Holly had loved the sound of the chickens! There was, truly, nothing lovelier than a few chickens in the yard. (So much depends upon…) Holly was sorry that the neighbors didn’t approve (“Suburbanites don’t understand farm animals; this will be a disaster!” one letter to the editor had admonished) but to have your own chickens, to scramble your chickens’ golden eggs for breakfast—
It wasn’t until much later that day that Holly discovered their squawking had been the noise of four hens pecking a fifth one to death. That the worst of it had taken place in Randa’s yard. That they’d chased the victim—the one she’d stupidly, horribly named Sally—through a hole in the fence. By the time that hen made it to Randa’s honeysuckle bush to hide, it was too late.
CAREFUL NOT TO disturb her, Holly pulled the coverlet over her daughter’s shoulder, patted it down gently, caressed her shining hair with the lightest of touches. Then she bent down and picked up her phone from the floor and held it to her own ear:
“Hello?” she asked, but the connection had been cut between herself and Thuy by then, and Holly was sorry about that. Tatiana would have loved to have talked to Thuy, to Pearl, to Patty. Tatiana loved Christmas. She loved to say Merry Christmas to her family, to her friends.
Holly turned around, leaned over Tatiana in her bed, slipped the iPhone into her daughter’s hand, and folded the stiff fingers around it, just in case Thuy called back, and then she tiptoed out of her daughter’s room, closing the door very quietly behind her.
REPORT #321-22-2-7654
DATE OF DEATH: December 25, 20--
TIME OF DEATH: Approximate 7:30-8:30 a.m.
DECEDENT: Tatiana Bonnie Clare
AGE: 15
PARENTS OF DECEDENT < 25: Holly E. Judge/Eric M. Clare
LOCATION OF DEATH: Decedent’s Domicile/11-- Great Forest Road/----- ------
---------, Michigan 49---
CAUSE OF DEATH: Myocardial Infarction Due to Heritable Congenital Defect/Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome
NOTES: Father returns to domicile approx 8:45 p.m. after blizzard delay/family emergency. Finds mother distraught/unresponsive in living room. Several minutes later finds daughter deceased in bedroom. At first suspects homicide. Signs of struggle: Broken glasses/dishes/food and clothing strewn about premises. Mother insists daughter is alive/will not leave room. Speaks of intruder described as teenaged girl. “Sally.” “From Russia.” Notebook/recent writing/references to being “followed.” (Acute stress-related psychosis?) Violence/home invasion ruled out by police. Decedent’s clothes changed repeatedly by mother throughout day postmortem. Decedent “force fed,” & moved repeatedly from room to room throughout day postmortem. Mother remains under observation.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For assistance and support of all kinds, I am eternally grateful to Bill Abernethy, Jack Abernethy, Lucy Abernethy, Lisa Bankoff, Dominique Bourgois, Antonya Nelson, Katherine Nintzel, Carrie Wilson, and Olga Zilberbourg.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURA KASISCHKE teaches in the MFA program and at the Residential College at the University of Michigan. A winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for poetry, she has published eight collections of poetry and nine novels, two of which have been made into films, including The Life Before Her Eyes. She lives in Chelsea, Michigan.
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