Authors: Gloria Foxx
The closet door stands open as if I’d left in a rush. I
suppose I had. I can see a couple boxes, a laundry basket and some abandoned
clothes and shoes inside.
The dresser drawers are closed, but I know they are nearly
empty. The top is clear except for a framed photo facing down. I’d looked at
that photo many times, taking for granted those smiling faces, never realizing
that one day our smiles would be gone.
“You have a baby!”
I jump at the sound of her voice. I’d forgotten she stood
beside me as a deluge of memories flowed over me. Annie took her cue from me,
remaining in the doorway as I looked in on a scene that I can’t manage to
forget. My eyes stray to the crib opposite the bed. Pushed against the wall
with pink bedding and bumpers frothing between the rails, it dominates the
view. A lamb with silky swirly hair nestles with the bright green turtle in one
corner. Emma’s name is spelled out in chunky block letters hanging over the
crib. A changing table just past the crib no longer stocked with diapers still
holds wipes, powders and creams. The bottom shelf held a baby bath, ready and
waiting.
Shelves above the changing table overflowed with clothes,
mostly pink, but not too tiny. She’d been three after all. I’d purchased the
changing table instead of a dresser. I couldn’t afford both and thought the
changing table would be more useful. I know better now. I’d stopped using the
changing table after a couple months. If I’d bought the dresser, I’d be using
it still. No, I correct myself, I wouldn’t.
A pang radiates through my chest as if my heart were a bell
tolling for Emma, vibrating with the energy in the empty place inside me.
I knew how hard this would be. That’s why I shut the door,
but trying to close out the past isn’t working as well as I’d hoped. It just
keeps threatening.
Silent tears stream down my face. A lifetime would never be
long enough, making the past six months seem paltry. The greasy black rot of
grief and guilt eat at me. I struggle to keep it at bay, not wanting it to
overwhelm me with Annie standing by my side.
I struggle for control, my hands fisted, jaw clenched, breathing
rapid, almost gasping, I suck in air. I’m afraid I might faint and make a fool
of myself. I have to get away.
Spinning, I dash into the living room, leaving Annie behind.
There’s relief in not being able to see the bedroom, but not nearly enough. I
don’t sit. Agitation pulses through me. My muscles jump and twitch with
tension, unable to find calm. Instead I pace, back and forth in front of the
sofa, from my desk to the bookshelf and back again.
Annie doesn’t follow immediately, although I didn’t know it
at the time. I paced so quickly that time stood still until Annie arrived.
“Sterling? Are you okay?”
I stopped at the desk, resting my hands on the surface and
hanging my head between my shoulders. “I don’t know ... no.” The words came
almost without permission. “You’re wrong. I don’t have a baby. Emma’s my baby
sister and she’s gone.” I can’t bring myself to say died, but I’d found people
know what gone means.
“Oh Sterling, I’m so sorry.”
I can’t say anything. I’d heard this bit of empathy many
times before and it never helps. I wonder why people say anything at all. I can’t
imagine a single word in the world that might make a difference, might help. I’m
not even sure time helps. I feel just as bad today as I did months ago. Time
goes on and nothing changes.
“You know you’re wrong though.” I turn my head. Annie stands
in the arch leading to the kitchen clutching something to her chest with both
hands. The darkness inside me won’t let anything out except skepticism. I’d
been here for months, except when I pretended to be someone else, someone
strong enough to put this away and move on as if it never happened. “Emma will
always be your baby sister,” she says. “Never forget that. She won’t be Emma
the sassy second grader or Emma the sullen teen, but she’ll always be your baby
sister.”
I turn away, not wanting to share my agony, even with Annie.
The futon behind my knees catches me as I crumple, or maybe I meant to sit
while a smear of grief seeps out of me. It scorches me, sizzling my nerve
endings, blistering my soul.
“I’m sorry. I’m ruining your night.” I don’t want to cry
anymore, but I can’t help myself and I can’t stop the confessions that tumble
from my lips. “It’s all my fault.”
I remember the day she died clearly as if watching an old
movie in Technicolor. Some parts are vivid, others faded, but everything from
that day made it into the film. I’d dreamed of what my life might have been, if
only she’d never been born. I’d imagined myself as a college student with no
more responsibility than planning my future and passing the next test.
“It’s not your fault Sterling. Rand is prosecuting, what’s
his name? Rock?”
“Brock, but I brought him into her life and in the end, I’d
wished her away. Now she’s gone and I have what I always wanted. I’m no longer
saddled with the responsibilities of my mother. It’s like the clock reset. Time
turned back and it’s now moving forward again on the right path, a path I
wanted so dearly. I have my life back, at her expense.”
“That’s not your fault Sterling. We all wonder what might
have been. We all sometimes wish our lives had gone differently.” She leaned in
the doorway, her arms hugging around her middle. “The trick is putting the bad
days behind us, without losing touch with the good days. What happens to us is
part of who we are. Instead of trying to shut out Emma or forget her, you
should do something to remember her.”
I’m quiet as I contemplate. It makes sense, but it doesn’t
make me feel any better. I’d been kidding myself, trying to compartmentalize.
Maybe Annie’s right. Maybe I need to remember.
“Tell me what happened to Emma, and tell me about Brock?”
I don’t respond right away, not sure if I can talk about it
yet.
“Sterling? Are you still with me?”
I’m avoiding the question. I’m not ready to talk about this.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to talk about this.” My words sound almost
like a moan.
“Okay then don’t talk about it. Tell my why your sister
lived here with you?”
“My mom could never control her drinking. She got arrested
for drunk driving just after Emma was born.”
“Oh no. Poor baby.”
“I’d mostly ignored her until then, caring for her when mom
couldn’t but never becoming attached. I was eighteen when she was born and I
had other plans.”
“You couldn’t help but grow attached to her though, could
you?”
I shook my head no, although I’m not sure what I was
denying.
“Child services wanted to take her. It was either me or
foster care.”
“You made the right choice Sterling.”
“I’d taken care of my mom in one way or another for most of
my life. I thought I could do it. I could take care of Emma, get a degree, pay
the bills. I moved here, close to campus and it’s cheaper, but with one week
left before classes, I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t think straight. I even
considered calling child services, but I couldn’t do that to Emma so I withdrew
from school before I even started. Now I’m not sure I made the right choice.”
“Of course you made the right choice Sterling.”
“Even if it’s true, it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Annie still stood in the doorway watching me, waiting for
more. “Who’s Brock?”
“How do you know about Brock?”
“Rand called him by name when he and the detective brought
the restraining order. Who is he?”
“An old boyfriend.”
“Abusive?”
“No. Well, not physically, not until that night.”
“What did he do?”
I didn’t want to talk about it. I considered sacrificing a
friendship to avoid telling Annie my secrets, but I don’t think she’d let it
go, or maybe she wouldn’t let me go.
“Tell me Sterling. You’ll feel better.”
“Once I started I couldn’t stop. It all came flooding out.
It wasn’t the powerful, crashing tidal-wave kind of flood, but rather the
insidious relentless flooding that comes from rain that won’t stop. The water
keeps rising, inch by painful inch. The rain continues, floodwaters advancing,
subtle, yet corrupt until there’s nothing you can do to stop them except to
submit, overrun, defeated.
“My mom served thirty months. I guess the more drunk driving
convictions you have, the longer you serve.”
“That makes sense,” she said.
I’m not sure if it did, but I slogged on. “My mom was
finally out and she had Emma for the night. I still had placement, but Mom was
building a relationship with her, working toward getting her back.”
“She didn’t drink and drive with Emma in the car, did she?”
Annie’s eyes flared big, her mouth making an almost perfect round at the
thought.
“She didn’t, although if she had a car she probably would
have.”
“So what happened?”
“Emma was fussy and mom couldn’t take it. Emma didn’t know
her. Anyway, Mom couldn’t handle it. Later she told me ‘If only I didn’t need a
drink.’”
I paused in my disjointed, convoluted story and looked Annie’s
way. She didn’t look confused. She appeared interested and compassionate I
thought. Looking away again, I continue.
“Mom brought Emma back so she could go out drinking. I was
at work. She left Emma with Brock.”
“Ohh nooo.” Annie whispered on a groan.
“Work was much like any other day. I didn’t know anything
was wrong. I didn’t even realize my life had changed forever when I saw the
accident on the freeway. It was below me as I passed over, almost home. I said
a quick prayer for the people involved, like I always do, but I was too late.”
Annie didn’t speak, listening quietly and watching with big
eyes round with shock.
“Brock was home and in a rage when I arrived. It wasn’t pretty.
He didn’t hit me. No, he pushed me around, shoved my face into the floor, the
counter, the kitchen table. At one point, he had the entire top half of my body
jammed into the refrigerator. My head was wedged into a corner, a pitcher of
fruit punch spilled across my back and shoulder, a jar of jelly under my chin,
cutting off my breath.”
“He broke your wrist?”
“Yeah.” I trudged on with my story, like the advancing
flood, not looking at Annie. I watched my fingers as one hand slid over the
other, trying to relieve the tension that kept building in my wrist.
“At first I didn’t understand what was happening, my
confusion making it all the more terrifying. I thought he’d gone crazy.
Snarling eruptions prompted churning horror and helpless confusion. He ranted
that it was my fault and threw me into the living room. I had no control and
that left me feeling terrified for myself and thankful that Emma was with my
mom.”
I relive that night as the words pour out. A jagged iciness
floods over me and into me as I tell the story. Cold fills the hollow created
by fear as I continue.
“He was incensed when I asked questions, so I stopped.
Placating sent him off on a tirade. I wanted to be fierce. I wanted to fight
back, but instead I took it until he stormed out the door.”
We are both quiet for a minute, but I’m not done yet.
“I ended up with a dislocated shoulder, broken wrist, black
eye, bloody lip and too many bruises and cuts from flying debris and broken
dishes to count. The funny thing was that it didn’t hurt, not while it was
happening. Oh it hurt like hell later, but during I could handle anything as
long as Emma wasn’t at risk.”
“I’m so sorry Sterling.” Annie sat down next to me, pulling
my hands into hers, holding tight. I’m reminded of when Boston held my wrist,
massaging it so I didn’t need to, although now, the bigger pressure flooded out
of me in words.
“It turns out my noble intentions didn’t mean anything. Emma
had already died.”
Annie patted my hand and brushed my hair from my face as I
continued.
“When he stormed out, I thought my nightmare had ended. I
picked myself up off the floor. My left arm was useless, but I applied a wet
cloth to the swelling around my eye and mouth. I washed away the fruit punch,
dabbed at the blood and managed to get my wet shirt off. Minutes later, a solid
pounding knock rattled the door. The police had arrived.”
“Thank God,” said Annie
“I shuffled to the door, one flip flop missing, the other
broken, flapping at my toes and threatening to trip me up. I pulled open the
door and silently thanked the neighbors.”
I’m transported back in time as I tell my story.
“Sterling Adams?”
“Yes?” It came out like a question. “Yes I am.”
“Were you driving at the 762 interchange about an hour ago?”
I didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was maybe an
hour. “Yes. Why?” Again I was wary. They didn’t seem interested in domestic
violence. He went for his radio.
“Dispatch this is 242. I need an 11-41 at current location.”
“What’s that?” I began to panic, my voice rising
The officer reached for my arm saying something I couldn’t
hear over the buzzing in my ears. I jerked away, pulling against my injured
shoulder and wrist. The pain fired up my arm like a rocket and then everything
went black.
“The next thing I knew,” I continued telling my story to
Annie, “I was in the emergency room. I had one arm handcuffed to the bed, the
other heavy, weighed down with a cast and numbness. I could barely lift it.
“Whaaaat? That’s outrageous!”
“Brock didn’t have a license, so he registered his car in my
name. He was in the accident I saw on my way home from work. When he ran from
the scene, they had no way to know I hadn’t been driving the car, especially
since they found me injured like I’d been in a crash.”
“That slimy bastard!”
Annie’s defense made me smile, a closed-lip watery smile,
even though the worst of the story was yet to come.
“Did he try to make it look like you were driving?” Annie
asked. “Wait,” she interrupted herself. “If Brock was driving and fled the
scene, where was Emma?
“She was in the car, without a car seat. The police say she
died on impact.” A single tear made a solitary journey down my cheek, stopping
to pool in the crevice where my nose meets my face. It finished it’s lonely
expedition with a slow slide past the corner of my mouth before dropping off
the side of my chin, falling into eternity.
“My heart breaks for you Sterling.” I liked that Annie
called me by my name instead of using pet names. You’d be surprised how many
people use baby and sweetie and honey for consolation, even when they’ve never
used them before.
“Thanks.” It’s all I have to say, but it’s huge. This is the
first time I’d thanked anyone for an expression of sympathy since Emma died.
Maybe I’m getting better after all.
“Now you have to go get him, make him pay for what he did to
your sister.”
“I guess I do.” One conversation on a cold evening and now I
want to testify. I’m angry and I want Brock to pay for what he did to my
sister, what he did to my life. I also feel bad for how he’s ruined his life
and my part in bringing him into my mixed-up crazy family.
“I think you should leave the door open.” Annie pulled
something from her lap, the photo from my dresser. She must have picked it up
when we were in the bedroom. She handed it to me. “Close it if you must, but
don’t shut her away. You should keep her here, close to you.”
I smile a watery red-faced smile, but it feels good as Emma’s
loopy blonde curls and dimpled cheeks blur before my eyes.
* * *
“Sterling. Get up.”
“Hmm … leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”
“I’ve been pounding on the door for the past ten minutes.
Now get up.”
I rolled, looking at Annie through half-slitted eyes. “How’d
you get in here?”
“Your door’s not locked. Anyone could have walked in.”
“Looks like anyone did,” I grumble.
Annie opens the blinds before coming back to whip the duvet
away. “Now get up!” She clucked. “I’ll make coffee while you get ready.”
She’s clucking at my clothes from yesterday, rumpled and
twisted around my body. I feel better after telling Annie about Emma, but I
feel strange too, off-kilter, like I can’t get my act together. I wasn’t
drinking. It provided numbing relief the first couple times but never comfort.
Sitting up on the edge of the futon, I drop my head into my
hands. Why is Annie here? Pressing my fingers hard into my eyes, I struggle to
gather my thoughts. “What are you doing here?” I wince at the shrill demand in
my voice.
She appears in the archway to the kitchen with a coffee pot
in hand and a pointed look. “We’re going to student services today to talk about
taking time off so you can go to court. Then we need to track down your
instructors to make arrangements for your work. You might be able to complete
some of it early rather than making it up during the Christmas break.”
I groan, sliding my fingers through my hair wishing I could
climb into a hole and hide from the world. “Do I have to?” I know I’m whining
and avoiding problems won’t make them go away, but oh what I would give to hide
from the world for awhile.
“Yes you have to.” Annie slid the carafe into the coffee
maker and came back to me. Sitting on the edge of the futon, she pulls my hands
into hers and gets into my face. “Emma can’t speak for herself, so you need to
speak for her. You need to be her voice.”
She’s firm, but I try to argue anyway. “I feel like such a
hypocrite testifying when I’m guilty too.”
“But you’re not guilty Sterling. Testifying will help you to
see that.” She moved her hands to my shoulders, giving me a shake. “Now get up.”
She pushes on my shoulder refusing to let me wallow. “You need a shower … and
brush your teeth. You stink.”
Pushing to my feet, I shuffle around the coffee table, grab
some clothes and head to the bathroom. I can smell the coffee brewing.
I feel almost human, showered with clean clothes and half a
cup of coffee in me as we head out the door.
When we returned, I had approval from the dean, advance
assignments for all my classes and arrangements to take finals a week early.
I have a lot of work to do in the next couple weeks, but
life is looking up, and I have Annie to thank for that.