“Mindy. It’s okay, baby. Mommy loves you.”
But she knows that finally, finally, it is over.
85
The shouts, the confusion, the look of naked longing on her mother’s face, it’s all too much. Zack lifts Mindy from the floor and gently places her back on the bed, and she immediately ducks her head under the blankets. Kat jumps up to cuddle beside her and barks once, sharp. She slips the blanket down and sees her mother’s blood staining Kat’s muzzle.
She has to look. She has to be brave.
Fingers twined in the dog’s fur, Mindy lifts her head. She will never forget the sight before her: her mother, bleeding profusely on the linoleum floor, the flesh of her arm torn apart. Zack, the avenging angel, standing over her, glowering. Two people she assumes are cops wrestling her mother into handcuffs. Her father is standing motionless outside the window as if he’s been frozen to stone.
Dr. Oliver is by her side now, shushing her, holding her head away, looking at her with a doctor’s practiced eye, shushing her again. She doesn’t understand why he keeps trying to quiet her; she isn’t saying anything. But she makes an effort to close her mouth, and the sudden silence is deafening; she has been screaming, she realizes, screaming one word over and over and over.
“No no no no no no...”
She says it one last time, a whimper, her voice hoarse. The crowd parts as Lauren is dragged to her feet. Mindy sees her mother’s eyes watching her, limpid and ice-cold at the same time.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s all going to be okay.”
The man with the skier’s tan is talking. “Lauren Wright, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Juliet Ryder—”
Her mom ignores him, her eyes latched on Mindy’s, her voice a mantra now: “It’s okay, sweetie. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll fix it all. Love you. Love you so much, baby.”
Dr. Oliver yells at them all to leave. Mindy’s head begins to swim, and she has a second to wonder how contaminated she is now—all these people—before the medicine Dr. Oliver has just shot into her veins takes her away.
86
VAIL HEALTH HOSPITAL
CURRENT DAY
LIESEL
I can’t help but think about the last time I was in handcuffs.
I haven’t thought about that night in a very long time. I never want to think about it again. But my daughter is staring at me as if I’m an animal, and the handcuffs are sharp on my bones, and there is no way I can go back there, to try to explain, to try to make it right for her.
I told the police what I’m telling you.
I had just finished a bath. Sated and calm, I was carrying the razor blade I’d been using to cut myself in the warm, embryonic water to its hiding spot—taped to the back of my dresser—where my mother would never find it.
My sister’s door was closed. I heard a noise. Sounds of a scuffle.
When I entered my sister’s bedroom and saw what he was doing, I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I yelled, “Stop!” He didn’t. So I ran the razor blade across his neck to get his attention. My sister’s eyes were closed tight. Blood splashed across her face.
He went down so quickly, blood spurting everywhere—on me, my sister, the rug, the walls. There was no way to hide what I’d done, no way to pretend something hadn’t happened. I recall the queasy nausea brought on by the coppery tang of his blood, the initial sense of despair coupled with triumph. I had stopped him. He would never hurt her—us—again.
I didn’t tell them everything.
I didn’t tell them that after I slit his nasty throat, I stood over him, his tainted blood purling on the crappy carpet, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water, and felt nothing but joy, a deep well of happiness that I’d never felt before, as I watched him die.
I didn’t tell them Juliet watched with me, eyes wide as an owl, blood dripping down her chin. Fifteen glorious minutes of watching him suffer, the best sister time we’ve ever had.
When it was over, I wiped Juliet’s face, gave her a dose of Benadryl, and put her to bed in my room. I washed my hands, which were covered in red, and my own face. I wrapped my arm in gauze, the cuts were very deep, and put on a long-sleeved shirt.
Then, I went back to Juliet’s room. His eyes were glazed. One lifeless palm cupped his chin, the other was on the floor. He’d moved since I left. I didn’t want to touch him so I kicked the bastard in the ribs to make sure he was well and truly dead. When he didn’t move, I watched him for a few more minutes, and then I went to wake my mother.
I didn’t tell the police that my mother stared at her husband for a full five minutes before taking me to the kitchen. That she sat me down at the kitchen table and poured a glass of brandy down my throat because I’d started to shake. Nor that we spent an hour talking about what to do.
My mother was in shock. She had no idea Bennett had turned his affections to her daughters. She was glad he was dead. She told me that. And bless her heart, she decided to take the fall. She decided to tell the police she killed Bennett Thompson, that she had caught him molesting Juliet and flew into a rage.
She wept when I told her what I suspected. My period was late. He was responsible.
Knowing that last truth, though, allowed her to be clear-eyed about the situation.
That beautiful woman was willing to go to jail for me.
I decided to let her.
She called 911. The ambulance came, and the police.
She told them what she’d done. That she’d caught her husband trying to rape her youngest daughter. That she’d grabbed the closest available weapon—a razor from the bathroom—and in a rage, cut his throat.
They believed her, too. She was good. She didn’t embellish; she didn’t flinch.
It was Juliet who ruined things.
Juliet, who stood in the door of the kitchen, splashes of blood on her, drunk on Benadryl, weaving, nearly. I guess I gave her too much.
Juliet, who offered up the truth to the kind EMT. A single sentence that condemned me forever.
“Mama was in her room, and Liesel came to save me. Liesel cut him.”
My mother looked on helplessly as the police found the bastard’s blood under my fingernails.
An hour later, the police took me away, the metal sharp and cold on my wrists.
*
The courtroom was closed, no reporters, no witnesses, just my mother, the psychologist, the lawyers and the judge.
The judge felt badly, you could tell. Her reading glasses on a cord around her neck reminded me of my stepfather’s last red grin. I managed to keep that to myself. She droned on and on, tapping a pen on her blotter. She was pretty. Her forehead furrowed when she talked.
It all boiled down to this: There was nothing she could do. A man was dead by my hand. I had to be punished.
When she’d seen the row of cuts on my forearm, the psychologist who’d examined me figured out pretty damn quick why I had a razor blade in my hand when I’d happened upon my stepfather trying to rape my little sister. On the psychologist’s recommendation, the pretty judge sentenced me to inpatient treatment at Middle Tennessee Mental Health Institute for a period of no less than twelve months, to both punish my sins and help me right my ship.
For reasons unknown to us all, the pretty judge allowed me to spend one last night at home. I took advantage of the situation, slit my left wrist. This time, I used a kitchen paring knife. Better blade.
Do you blame me? I mean, I would much rather be dead than incarcerated with a batch of psychos.