But it’s like she hasn’t heard me, her eyes fixed on the horizon, on something I can’t see. “I’m only trying to save you from the bad people in your life, Suzy. The people who get between us, who don’t deserve you. Like your parents. Your mommy was so negligent. And your daddy? Barely there at all. And so subservient to his wife. He didn’t know how to care for a baby. That big window. It’s so unsafe for a child’s room. Who would put a child in there without babyproofing it? And they leave you with me for so long, Suzy. It would be unfair if I didn’t love you. But I do. So, so much.”

The room suddenly feels too hot. Then cold. The air has stopped circulating, particles freezing in space.

“Anneliese, I need you to stop talking.” But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

“You were always supposed to be mine. I saw you, Suzy. I saw you before you were even born. When I lost my baby, I was broken, but then I saw you, three years later, the exact right age, and it was a miracle. I knew you were mine. A little angel landed on earth.” She smiles at me, her head propped by two barn-red pillows, a languid, toothy simper.

“Your parents, they had a child far too old. They couldn’t keep up. They wanted to live their lives instead of tending to you. Your mommy, she hurt me. She hurt you. She’d sting your eyes with the shampoo, and you’d cry for me. You’d come to me in the night. Sometimes I’d just take away the baby gate myself and you’d come to me, not her. Not them. Because you knew you were supposed to be with me. She was going to die, though, you know. And then it would be the two of us. The way you always wanted it.” She stretches out her arms.

“Shut up.” It’s a low growl. “You have no right.” My fists clench, and I am white-hot, the rage that’s been bubbling up on and off no longer able to be quelled.

And then there’s a whistle of a familiar tune. And I think, for the briefest moment, it’s coming from me, from some forgotten, dilapidated part of myself.

But it’s coming from her. And it grows louder. The air buzzing with it, the walls of the house bleating it, in a chorus.

“I hated when your mommy sang it. She was always a little off-key.”

I cover my ears, close my eyes. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I’m shouting over and over and over again. But the song persists. That strange, stupid Sondheim tune that I loved, but only from one woman’s mouth. The lyrics eviscerate me.

Susanna, Susanna, Susanna, Susanna...