It’s eerie that Anneliese is the only person around to confirm her story, one that I can no longer take at face value. Am I right to let an old family drama taint our relationship? Whatever she claims, my father’s methodical way of telling this story will never leave me, always his answer whenever I complained about having no contact with my mother’s family. His voice will stay with me.

And that thought overtakes me, goads me to cover my mouth with my sleeve and hold my breath. I want to know, for a moment, what my father experienced in his last minutes. What my mother did, too. Maybe then they’d tell me what to do.

24

January 1997

She has them. Their ears cocked, arms extending to touch her shoulder, fingers reaching for her hand, huddling around her like a blockade, keeping her warm. Keeping her safe. Brows furrowed, soft murmurs. She used to have no feelings toward them. They were nuisances, obstacles to sidestep as she waited for the next moment she’d see Suzy. But somehow, this is even better, breathtaking, an intoxication. She’s never captivated a room before.

“And you’re saying she left Suzy in bed, wailing so hard she wet herself, for hours while she slept off a hangover?” says one mom, repeating the details in all their grotesque, wordy glory as if to feel them roll around her tongue, privately savoring their ignominious taste.

“I can’t believe she never wakes before noon,” mutters another, a nanny this time, a Jamaican woman whose accent has retreated during the decade she’s been living in the States.

“The poor husband. He seems like a good man. I’ve read some of his books,” says another, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “And she made you take care of Suzy over winter break while they went away? God, you deserve a vacation.”

They’re sitting on a picnic bench by the playground, clustered together like crows. It’s an unseasonably warm winter afternoon, the sun bright and high in the sky. The children are cleaning up the classroom before they’re released for the day. One mom has taken out a Tupperware bowl full of trail mix, absently munching on it before passing it around to the others.

Annie wrings her hands. Looks down at the slats of wood, sanded down to avoid kid fingers getting splinters. Then looks back up, assessing the gazes of all these women. Their pitying, caring eyes gazing back at her, patiently waiting for the next revelation in this horror show, the next story, so they can satiate themselves. Because Annie sees that, too. One reason these women love to listen is because they walk away with a new sense of confidence, of security, in their superior, orderly lives. They want to be reminded, again and again, that they are good mothers, good caregivers, good women.