Catch Me (2 page)

“Mommy…”

“We should light it on fire. Torch the wall. Listen to them yowl in fury, watch them dance in pain.”

The girl’s mother turned abruptly toward the windows. The moonlight caught her fully in the face, revealing eyes that were huge, dark pools. Then her mother smiled.

The girl shrank back, letting go of her mother’s hand, but it was too late. Her mother still clutched the little girl’s wrist. She wasn’t letting go. She was going to do something. Something horrible. Something terrible.

Something that was supposed to get
Them
, but that the little girl already knew, from past experience, would hurt her or her big sister instead.

The little girl whimpered. “Mommy,” she tried again, searching those too dark eyes, trying to find a flicker of familiarity.

“Matches!” her mother cried now. Voice no longer hushed, but booming, nearly gay. They could be at a birthday party, lighting candles on a cake. What a grand time! What a great adventure!

The little girl whimpered again. She tugged on her arm, trying to pull her wrist out of her mother’s grasp, struggling more forcibly.

But it was no use. At times like these, her mother’s fingers were talons, her entire body radiating a taut, wiry strength that was impossible to break. She would have her way.

Her mother yanked open the first kitchen drawer. Her left hand still clutched the little girl’s wrist, while her right hand raked through miscellaneous contents. A glossy white shower of plastic silverware rained down on the peeling linoleum floor. Sprays of ketchup packets, mustard pouches, bags of free croutons the little girl sometimes crept out of bed to eat, because her mother believed hunger would make them stronger, but mostly it made the little girl’s stomach ache, so she would pop croutons and suck on ketchup, before stuffing her coat pockets with mustard for her older sister, whom she knew was also starving but couldn’t move nearly as quietly through the house.

Soy sauce. Chopsticks. Paper napkins. Wet wipes. Her mother pawing her way furiously through drawer after drawer, dragging the little girl in her wake.

“Mommy. Please, Mommy.”

“Aha!”

“Mommy!”

“This will teach the fuckers!”
Her mother held up a matchbook. Shiny silver cover, fresh black strike stripe.

“Mommy!” the girl tried again, desperate. “The front door. We can go through the front door. Into the woods. We’re fast, we can make it.”

“No!” her mother declared, voice righteous. “They’ll be expecting that. No doubt have three, six, a dozen men already waiting. This is it. We’ll torch the curtains. Minute the wall’s fully engulfed, they’ll flee the property. Fucking cowards.”

“Christine!” The little girl cracked her voice, changing tactics. She planted her feet, drew herself up as tall as her six-year-old frame would allow. “Christine! Stop it! This is no time to play with matches!”

For a moment, the little girl thought it might work. Her mother blinked, her face losing some of its overbright luster. She stared at her daughter, right arm falling lax to her side.

“The furnace shut off,” the little girl declared boldly. “But I fixed it. Now go to bed. Everything’s all right. Go to bed.”

Her mother stared at her. Seemed confused, which was better than crazy. The little girl held her breath, chin up, shoulders back.

She did not know about
Them
. But she and her older sister had been preparing, planning, and strategizing to survive their mother for their entire young lives. Sometimes, you had to play along. But other times, you had to seize control. Before their mother went too far. Before they really were running for their lives, their mother having done the unspeakable in order to combat the unseeable in her mind.

Years ago, the little girl had suffered from bad dreams. She would hear a baby crying, and the sound haunted her. Her mother, calmer then, softer, rounder, would come into her room to comfort her. She would brush back the little girl’s hair and sing, in a sad, pretty voice, of green grass and sunny skies and faraway places where little girls slept through the night in big soft beds with warm, full tummies.

The little girl had loved her mother during those moments. Sometimes, she wished she would have bad dreams just to hear her mother sing, feel the gentleness of her mother’s fingertips tracing across her cheek.

But the little girl and her older sister didn’t have nightmares anymore. They lived them instead.

The boy, in the woods. Maybe, if she jerked from her mother’s grasp hard enough, ran fast enough…

The little girl drew herself up. She didn’t really believe a boy could save her. Never had. Never would.

“Christine, go to bed,” the little girl ordered.

Her mother didn’t move. She let go of the little girl’s wrist, but her right hand still clutched the matches. “I’m sorry, Abby,” she said.

The little girl’s voice softened. “Go to bed. It’s okay. I’ll help you.”

“Too late.” Her mother didn’t move. Her voice was quiet, sad. “You don’t know what I did.”

“Mommy—”

“I had to. You’ll understand someday, child. I had to.”

“Mommy…”

The little girl reached out a hand. But it was too late. Her mother was already moving. Dashing to the yellowed lace curtains. Match cover popping open, flipping back. First match ripped from the cardboard prison.

“No, no, no!” The little girl gave chase, clutching at her mother’s oversized coat, trying to grab the thick wool fabric and yank her mother back.

They were dancing, whirling around in beams of moonlight, twirling around long, quivering shadows, except her mother was bigger, faster, stronger. Her mother was powered by madness, and the little girl had only desperation on her side.

The first match flared to life, a beautiful lick of orange in the dark.

Her mother paused as if to admire her accomplishment.

“Isn’t it gorgeous,” she whispered.

Then she tossed the match at the dangling curtain. Just as the little girl’s older sister stepped out of the shadows of the family room and swung a brass candlestick lamp into the back of their mother’s head.

Their mother stumbled. Looked up. SisSis struck her again, this time across the left temple. Their mother dropped like a rock.

The ancient candlestick lamp fell to the floor beside her, while with a faint whoosh, the hem of the lace curtain burst into flame.

The little girl got to the curtain first. She beat it out with her bare hands, flattening the flames against the dirty wall, smacking it until, with a charred sputter, the fire was extinguished and only the palms of her hands burned.

Breathing hard, the little girl turned at last to her sister, the two of them on either side of their mother’s fallen form. The little girl looked up at her older sister. Her older sister looked down at the little girl.

“Where were you?” the little girl spoke first.

Her sister didn’t answer, and for the first time, the little girl noticed something else. The way her sister studied her left side. The way the gray nylon of her winter coat bloomed with a dark flowering stain.

“SisSis?”

The little girl’s sister clutched her side. She splayed the fingers of her hand, and the dark rushed out, racing across the gray of the jacket, stealing the moonlight from the room.

The little girl realized now why her sister hadn’t met her on the upstairs landing. Because their mother had woken her first. Brought her downstairs first. Listened to the voices telling her what to do to her older daughter, first.

The little girl didn’t speak anymore. She held out her hand. Her older sister took it, swaying, falling to her knees. The little girl went with her, down onto the grimy kitchen floor. They held hands, across their mother’s still form. How many times they had crept into this kitchen together, scrounging for food, hiding from their mother, just meeting, just being together, because everyone needed an ally in war.

The little girl was not dumb. She knew their mother hurt SisSis worse and more often. She knew that SisSis accepted the punishment, because when her mother was in one of her moods, someone had to pay. So SisSis was the good soldier, who kept her little sister safe.

“Sorry,” SisSis whispered now, a single world of apology, a single sigh of regret.

“Please, SisSis, please,” the little girl begged. “Don’t leave me…I’ll call nine-one-one. Help will come. Just wait. Wait for me.”

In response, her older sister tightened her grip. “It’s okay.” Her breath left her in a soft, hiccuping rush. “Everyone has to die sometime, right? Be brave. I love you. Be brave…”

Her older sister’s grip weakened. Her hand fell to the floor and the little girl sprang for the phone, dialing 911 just as SisSis had taught her, because they’d known it might someday come to this. They just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

The little girl gave her mother’s name and address. She requested an ambulance. She spoke clearly and without emotion, because she had practiced for this, too. Together, she and her older sister had prepared, planned, and strategized.

Their mother wasn’t crazy about everything: Everyone did have to die sometime, and you always had to be brave.

Task completed, the little girl released the phone and raced back to her sister. But by the time she returned, SisSis didn’t need her anymore. Her eyes were closed, and nothing the little girl did made them open again.

Her mother stirred on the floor.

The little girl looked at her, then at the old brass lamp.

She lifted up the heavy lamp, thin arms straining, eyes watching how the silvery beams of moonlight gleamed across its dull surface.

Her mother moaned again, regaining consciousness.

The little girl thought of lullabies and matches; she recalled soft hugs and hungry nights. She remembered her older sister, who had genuinely loved her. Then the little girl clutched the top part of the shadeless lamp, stood above her mother’s body, and one final time, hefted its weight into the air.

M
Y NAME IS
C
HARLENE
R
OSALIND
C
ARTER
G
RANT
.

I live in Boston, work in Boston, and in four days, will probably die here.

I’m twenty-eight years old.

And I don’t feel like dying just yet.

I
T STARTED TWO YEARS AGO,
with the murder of my best friend, Randi Menke, in Providence. She was strangled in her living room. No sign of a struggle, no sign of forced entry. For a while the Rhode Island cops thought maybe her ex had done it. I guess there’d been a history of domestic assaults. Nothing she’d ever told me, or our other best friend, Jackie, about. Jackie and I tried to console ourselves with that, as we wept together at Randi’s funeral. We hadn’t known. We just hadn’t known or of course we would’ve done…something. Anything.

That’s what we told ourselves.

Fast forward one year. January 21. The anniversary. I’m at home with Aunt Nancy in the mountains of northern New Hampshire, Jackie’s returned to her corporate life as a VP for Coca-Cola in Atlanta. Jackie doesn’t want to mark the occasion of Randi’s murder. Too morbid, she tells me. Later, in the summer, we’ll get together and celebrate Randi’s birthday. Maybe we’ll hike to the top of Mount Washington, bring a bottle of single malt. We’ll have a good drink, have a good cry, then sleep it off at the Lake of the Clouds AMC hut.

I still call Jackie on the twenty-first. Can’t help myself. Except she doesn’t answer. Not her landline, not her work line, not her mobile. Nothing.

In the morning, when she doesn’t show up for work, the police finally give in to my pleas and drive by her house.

No sign of a struggle, I will read later in the police report. No sign of forced entry. Just a lone female, strangled to death in the middle of her home on January 21.

T
WO BEST FRIENDS,
murdered, exactly one year and roughly one thousand miles apart.

The locals investigated. Even the FBI gave it a whirl. They couldn’t find anything definitive to link the two homicides, mostly because they couldn’t find anything that was definitive.

Bad luck, one of the guys actually told me. Sheer bad luck.

Today is January 17 of the third year.

How much bad luck do you think I’m going to have on the twenty-first? And if you were me, what would you do?

I
MET
R
ANDI AND
J
ACKIE
when I was eight years old. After that final incident with my mother, I was sent to live with my aunt Nancy in the wilds of New Hampshire. She came to fetch me from a hospital in upstate New York, two relatives, two strangers, meeting for the first time. Aunt Nancy took one look at me and started to cry.

“I didn’t know,” she told me that first day. “Trust me, child, I didn’t know or I would’ve taken you years ago.”

I didn’t cry. Saw no purpose for the tears and didn’t know if I believed her anyway. If I was supposed to live with this woman, then I’d live with this woman. Not like I had anyplace else to go.

Aunt Nancy ran a B&B in a quaint resort town in the Mount Washington Valley, where rich Bostonians and privileged New Yorkers came to ski during the winter, hike in the summer, and “leaf-peep” in the fall. She had one part-time helper, but mostly my aunt relied on herself to greet guests, clean rooms, set up tea, cook
breakfast, provide directions, and all the other million little odd jobs that go into the hospitality trade. When I came along, I took over dusting and vacuuming. I could spend hours cleaning. I loved the scent of Pine-Sol. I loved the feel of freshly polished wood. I loved the way I scrubbed the floor again and again, and each time, it looked pretty and fresh and new.

Cleaning meant controlling. Cleaning kept the shadows at bay.

First day of school, Aunt Nancy personally walked me down the street. I wore stiff new clothes, including black patent Mary Janes I polished obsessively for the next six months. I felt conspicuous. Too new. Too fresh out of the box.