The woman I’ve run from, avoided. I have some questions about your husband. I thought she was suspicious of me, of Simon’s death. Now, I see her question, her email, her pursuit, in an entirely different light. A victim.
I close the office door and return to the media room, stepping over the pile of tapes, of all of the names I have yet to read. I grab the notepad, my eyes dragging back to the videotape, to the neat print and the simple name. Jess.
I’ve told myself, for four years, that she doesn’t matter, that Simon is dead and can’t hurt her anymore. I’ve told myself that what happened on this tape is fifteen years old, and that she’s a grown woman now, the scars of her past healed. I’ve told myself—I’ve convinced myself, that because I killed him, that I didn’t owe her anything else.
Something stops in my chest, and the guilt is almost impossible to breathe through. I tighten my fingers around the pen and force myself to lower it to the page.
“Bethany.”
My daughter stops, her head turning, one faint eyebrow rising at the urgent way I’ve said her name. Something in my stance, in the way I cling to the door, gives her additional pause. I must look crazy. Surely, the panic bolting through my chest is showing in my eyes. My eyes catch on her bed, the piles of stuffed animals, and I think of the prior weekend, of the two girls who spent the night with her. They’d been Bethany’s age, just five or six. Surely too young, half the age of the girl on the video. Still, my stomach seizes. “Pack your backpack with your favorite things. Whatever you can fit inside it. Be quick.”
I need to go to the police. I need to take the tapes, all of the tapes… my mind bounces to the attic, to the boxes and boxes of Simon’s high school days, yearbooks and letterman jackets and awards. I came into our marriage with a stack of notebooks and my computer. He came with a storage facility worth of past. How much of it is tainted? How many secrets are packed in these walls?
I am suddenly frantic with the need to know everything. His computer history. His student’s names. Simon teaches sixth grade, could he have… I push through Bethany’s room and into her private bath, my knees hitting the hard tile in the moment before I vomit.
I’ve been a terrible wife, a terrible mother. I’ve let a monster run free.
Another surge of matter comes up my throat and I grip the cool porcelain, my stomach contracting, breasts painfully pinned to the bowl as my lunch—spaghetti with bits of broccoli—comes up. Dirty water speckles my face from the impact of vomit, and I wipe at my cheek, Bethany’s voice timid and scared from her new place at the door. “Are you oh-kay?” she whispers.
“I’m fine,” I croak, and I wait a moment to see if my stomach is done. “Pack, Bethany.”
“Where are we going?”
A great question. First, the police station. Then? After they arrest Simon? I can’t return here. I can’t live in a house that’s housed so many lies. Maybe Bethany and I should go on a vacation. Come back and move to a new house, maybe a new city. One away from my Mother, from Simon’s incarceration. Yes. I warm to the idea instantly. Maybe Florida.
I push carefully to my feet, letting my equilibrium adjust before I move to the sink and wash out my mouth, my mind quickly flipping through the things I need to do.
Grab every tape I can find.
Empty the safe.
Put Bethany in the car and drive straight to the police.
Downstairs, there is the loud scrape of the front door as it swings open and someone steps inside. I freeze, my hand jerking out and turning off the water, my ears straining for sound. Simon.
“Helena?” My name bounces up the stairs, and I almost collapse with relief.
“Mother?” I bump the edge of the doorframe on my way out of Bethany’s room, and run to the top of the stairs.
“Helena, can I borrow your hot glue gun? I’ve got to—“ she peers up at me, her hands clasped on the banister, her head craning in an unnatural fashion. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” The question is a mix of accusation and worry. I can feel the mix of judgment and superiority before she even rounds the stairs.
“Nothing’s wrong.” The lie falls out as easily as breathing, and my mind immediately questions the deceit. Maybe I should tell her. I could show her what sits in that VCR just down the hall. I could tell her that her stupid golden boy, the man who she sided with over her daughter, is a fucking pedophile. I open my mouth, then swallow it all when Bethany bolts past me. “JayJay!!!!” My daughter bounds down the stairs, and I rapidly run through my options. I think of the feeling that had cut through me when that front door opened. I think of what time it must be, and what I still need to do, and what will happen if Simon comes home and Bethany and I are still here.
In that split second, I make a decision, one that removes any risk to Bethany from the equation.
“Can you take Bethany?” I turn, and enter her room, opening her closet and grabbing the first shoes I find, sprinting back to the hall and down the steps—almost colliding with my mother, who is headed up.
“Take Bethany where?”
“To your house. Just for an hour or two. I’ll come by and pick her up.”
“Let me guess. Struck with inspiration?” There is that plaintive tone in her voice, the one that thinks my stories are childish, and family should always come first.
I grit my teeth and take advantage of the accusation, one that won’t broach new questions. “Yes. Just for an hour or two. I’ll come by and pick her up from your house.”
“You know I always love to watch her.” She smiles tightly. “But I would like that glue gun if you have…”
“I’ll bring it with me. I need to find it.” I hold out Bethany’s shoes and can’t stop the tremble in my hands. “I’ll be there soon.”
“With the glue gun,” she prods. I’m not bringing her my freaking glue gun. I am going to collect every shred of evidence I can find, pick up my daughter, and run. I’m going to keep Bethany by my side until I know that he is in handcuffs, and then we will move far away. Far away from this woman and her judgments. Far away from this house and that media room. Far away from the man who will never, ever, look at my daughter in that way.
“Yes.” I smile and all but push her down the stairs. “I promise I’ll bring the glue gun.” Bethany flies by in her dinosaur pajamas and I call out her name. She turns, her arms obediently reaching up and wrapping around my neck, a quick grip of messy fingers and peanut butter breath. I hug her tightly, her body squirming, her patience gone by the time I release her. “I love you.” I whisper against her hair. “Be safe.”
“Love you Mama.” She brings a hand to her mouth and blows a kiss, the dramatic gesture one learned from a recent movie, the act practiced on every person she comes in contact with. She zigs to the right and then the front door is open and she is out into the sun, my mother looking after her disapprovingly. “She’s wearing pajamas,” she states, as if it mattered, as if tiny dinosaurs affect a child’s day. I myself am still in pajamas, though mine are boring and navy, the same ones from yesterday. She glances at my top, at its big fabric buttons, and sniffs.
Everything in my life suddenly rests on bus duty. Would Simon have it? Would I have an extra forty-five minutes or is he in his car, right now, pulling into our neighborhood? If he gets here before she leaves, everything will be ruined. If he passes her in the neighborhood, he might flag her down and ask questions. My panic rises. “Mother, please go.” I feel faint with panic and I grip the banister, almost sinking down to sit on the first step.
“Okay, oh-kay.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “You really don’t look well, Helena. Next week, I’m getting you in at my acupuncturist. No arguing about it. I’m putting my foot down.”
“Fine.” I lick my lips and can taste the salt of my sweat. “Next week.”
She pats my arm and her self-satisfaction hangs in the air. “Good girl.” When she walks out the door, it is as slow as a pallbearer. When she shuts the door, I bolt back up the stairs.
There are so many tapes. I don’t have time to determine which are real memories and which are horrific moments. Half of them are small cassettes, the kind that fit inside a standard-size VHS. I’ve been stupid. All of these sporting events, recorded in person? Simon hadn’t been jetting around the country at sixteen, eighteen, twenty—a camcorder in hand, shooting pro football games. He had been in that town in Virginia, living in that farmhouse, wowing the local residents with his dimples and spiral pass. I grab a duffel bag from our closet and fill it with tapes. I eye the DVDs, our movie collection impressive, and consider adding them to the bag. Could a homemade DVD be tucked inside that Friday the 13th sleeve? Or inside the Madden 2016 case? I step away from the entertainment tower without grabbing them, the duffel bag too heavy already. I am lifting it over my shoulder when my gaze catches on the giant desk, one that took three men to carry upstairs, custom-designed to hold two monitors, a Mac Pro tower, and every possible upgrade. His computer. It is a convenient babysitter, one that keeps Simon busy for hours every evening while Bethany sleeps and I write. I don’t know the passwords, haven’t touched the thing in years. My stomach turns at what it might hold, at what websites he must visit.