34. Alicia

BEFORE

"The doll had the name Amy written on it?"

Alicia and Norah sat on their beds staring at Jessica. It was the first chance they'd had a chance to talk alone since Sandi left, because her visit had put them behind with their chores. It wasn't until bedtime that they were able to discuss what happened.

"Yes. It was written across her chest."

The visit had been routine. Apparently, Scott was on sick leave and so Sandi had stepped in. She'd asked about Jessica, but she'd been unconcerned when Miss Farichild explained that she was at a friend's place. The social worker hadn't asked about Amy at all.

"Maybe Miss Fairchild bought the doll for Amy?" Alicia suggested.

"But it was old and dusty," Jessica said. "It looked handmade. Like something you'd find at an old lady's house."

"Amy is a common name," Norah said, after taking a moment's consideration. "Maybe she had a doll called Amy when she was a child?"

"Probably," Alicia agreed.

But as they all fell silent, Alicia had a feeling she wasn't the only one searching for another explanation.

"Hello, Barbie," Alicia said. "I'm Mr. Teddy."

Alicia kneeled in front of Amy, the girl's teddy in her hand. They had just arrived home from school to find Amy sitting on the living room floor, clutching a bald Barbie doll. Miss Fairchild was nowhere to be seen.

Alicia bounced the teddy up and down. "Uh-oh." She threw the bear up in the air and let it drop to the floor. "I fell down."

It was a pathetic attempt at play, but Alicia was rewarded with one of Amy's magic giggles. Alicia would have thrown the teddy a million times for that giggle.

It was unusual for Alicia to seek out a moment of joy like this. In the period following Grammy's death, Alicia had noticed that on the rare occasion when someone showed her kindness—letting her cut in front of them at the shop, a teacher commenting on work well done, someone paying her a compliment—it pushed her to the verge of tears. Her vulnerability had become so embarrassing that instead of seeking kind people she sought out those who disliked her—like Edwina Wooldridge, the mean girl at school who always seemed revolted by Alicia's very existence. Something about her cruelty fortified Alicia. The certainty and security of what she was getting became like a drug. A much more powerful drug than the agony caused by a desire for love and warmth.

But it was different with Amy. Perhaps it was the darling little face that transformed with her moods, from puzzled to delighted to angry as if at the flick of a switch. Or maybe it was her theatrical gestures—the way she tapped her toe when she was impatient, or cupped her chin to think. Or maybe it was the comfort she brought. It was astonishing how much comfort one chubby little hand on your thigh could provide. Alicia became hungry for it.

"Wheeeeee!" Alicia cried, tossing the teddy in the air.

Of course, Miss Fairchild materialized to quash her joy. "Oh," she said to Alicia, not even trying to conceal her disappointment. "You're home."

"Again," Amy said, picking up the teddy and handing it back to Alicia.

"Hello, Barbie," Alicia started, bouncing the teddy. "I'm Mr. Teddy."

But before Alicia could toss the bear, Miss Fairchild snatched it away.

"No!" Amy cried.

Miss Fairchild dropped to her knees beside the girl. "I can be Mr. Teddy," she said.

"Look!" She started bouncing the bear frenziedly.

"No!"Amy repeated, louder.

But Miss Fairchild just kept bouncing that bear desperately. She was so caught up in it she didn't even notice Amy picking up the Barbie. Alicia did, though. She saw what was about to happen, as if in slow motion, but she was powerless to prevent it.

Amy thwacked the doll hard against Miss Fairchild's forehead.

Miss Fairchild gasped, tears springing to her eyes. Alicia was about to ask if she was all right when Miss Fairchild lunged forward, slapping Alicia so hard across the face so hard that she saw stars.

Amy seemed to take an active dislike to Miss Fairchild after that. And the girl's affection for Norah, Alicia, and Jessica seemed to increase in correlation to her dislike for Miss Fairchild.

"No!" Amy would squeal when Miss Fairchild tried to pick her up, her little body tensing and thrashing. "Down. I not like you."

The more Miss Fairchild smothered her with attention, the more irate Amy became. Alicia realized that she rather enjoyed it, even if it made her worry for Amy, who was too little to understand how dangerous it was to make an enemy of Miss Fairchild.

"We don't speak to Mummy like that," Miss Fairchild said at first, trying to cajole Amy out of her mood, but after the sixth or seventh injury from a flying Barbie doll, she began to lose patience.

"That's very naughty, Amy," she said one day, after Amy had tried to slap her. "Now you're going to have a time-out in your high chair."

Alicia didn't dare intervene as Miss Fairchild dragged a crying Amy to the kitchen, but she bore silent witness, hopeful that perhaps her presence would temper Miss Fairchild's anger. Norah and Jessica also appeared, perhaps hoping the same. Miss Fairchild was lifting the girl into the high chair when Amy's kicking foot—in a patent-leather Mary Jane—connected with her face.

"Argh!"

Miss Fairchild released Amy, letting her tumble to the floor. She hit her head with a grotesque crack on the wooden tray on the way down.

For a horrible moment, everything was silent. Alicia and her sisters fell to their knees. Alicia scooped her up and held the limp little body in her lap. After a terrifyingly long moment, Amy began to wail.

The girls resumed breathing, looking at each other in relief. Miss Fairchild, who was cursing and holding her chin, barked, "Put her down."

Alicia stared at her. "But… she's hurt."

"I said Put. Her. Down."

Alicia couldn't believe it. This wasn't her, or Norah, or Jessica. Amy was a baby. She was innocent. She was hurt. Crying! What kind of monster wouldn't want her to be comforted?

Miss Fairchild took some paper towel and wiped her lip, which was bleeding. "Now, Alicia."

After a glance at her sisters, Alicia lifted up the little girl and put her on the floor. Immediately Amy tried to clamber back onto her lap, wailing loudly. Alicia pushed her away. She'd never hated herself more. Miss Fairchild loomed over her, watching. Alicia wondered if she was enjoying herself.

Amy was now lying on the floor, red-faced and screaming. Every instinct urged Alicia to comfort the child, but she refrained for fear that it might lead to trouble. Not for her—for Amy.

"See, Amy?" Miss Fairchild said. "This is what happens when you kick Mummy. You have to learn that your actions have consequences."

After what felt like an age, Miss Fairchild left the room, and Alicia scooped the girl up again. Her sisters huddled around them and together they held Amy while she sobbed. When at last her tears had dried, they all pretended to be clumsy horses, crawling around the kitchen on all fours, crashing into things. Only when Amy started giggling was Alicia able to exhale.

They were entirely indebted to this child, she realized. She wasn't sure how or why or when it had happened. All she knew was protecting Amy had become their life's mission. They might not be able to save themselves, but by God, they were going to save her.

"If you hug Miss Fairchild, I'll give you this chocolate," Alicia said to Amy, waving the Freddo frog at her. Norah had earned it in exchange for doing someone's homework at school, and it appeared chocolate was a language Amy understood.

"Choc-at," Amy repeated, eyes wide.

"Shh. It's our secret."

"Seek-rit."

"Go on. She's coming."

It was shocking how effective it was. Amy turned and ran at Miss Fairchild, throwing her arms around her legs.

"Oh!" Miss Fairchild looked so pleased, Alicia almost felt guilty. "What a lovely hug."

"I wuv you."

She glanced slyly at Alicia, who gave her the thumbs-up.

But the problem with toddlers was that they didn't appreciate the importance of consistency. Some days Amy didn't feel like making a happy face when Miss Fairchild played a game with her. Other days, when the girls left for school, she stood at the front door and sobbed.

"How will you survive without your darling girls?" Miss Fairchild would say crossly.

Each day they went to school with a heavy feeling in their hearts. And though they didn't talk about it, Alicia knew that none of them could relax until the moment they turned in to the driveway at the end of the day.

"What do you think happens to Amy when we're at school?" Alicia said one day as they walked to school.

"I check her for injuries every day," Norah said. "I haven't found anything since the day she hit her head on the high chair."

But Norah sounded as uncertain as Alicia felt in her heart each time they left Amy alone at Wild Meadows. They should have listened to that uncertainty. When it came to Miss Fairchild, their instincts were seldom wrong.

"That's weird," Norah said, as they walked up the driveway after school one day. "Is Miss Fairchild in the pool?"

She held her hand across her eyes to block the glare from the afternoon sun. They followed her gaze. As they reached the top of the driveway they could clearly see a person in the water, and two beach towels on the grass nearby. It was weird. No one had used the pool in years, not since Alicia had arrived at Wild Meadows. And it wasn't even a particularly warm day.

"Why is she in the pool?" Alicia said out loud.

That was when they noticed that Jessica was running. Jessica had never been particularly athletic, but now she was flying down the driveway, red dust rising up from her heels.

Alicia felt the alarm ring through her even before she understood what was happening. As Norah took off after Jessica, Alicia scanned their surrounds. In the lower paddock, a tractor rolled by. The horses were having a run while Dirk looked on. Everything seemed normal. But when Alicia looked back the pool, she realized. There were two towels by the pool.

So where was Amy?

By the time Alicia started running, Jessica was diving into the pool fully dressed. Miss Fairchild waved and yelled uselessly as Norah dived in right behind her.

Alicia reached the pool as Jessica emerged with Amy in her arms, coughing and spluttering.

"You were drowning her?" Norah screamed at Miss Fairchild.

Their foster mother scoffed. "I was teaching her to swim."

The timing, Alicia realized, was interesting. She knew they'd be arriving home at this time. This performance wasn't for Amy—it was for them.

Dirk must have heard the commotion because when Alicia glanced toward the horse paddock he was looking right at them.

"Like you taught me to swim?" Jessica cried.

"Well…" Miss Fairchild looked amused. "You learned, didn't you?"

The woman wasn't even trying to deny it. She found it funny.

Amy coughed, then began to vomit water. Jessica carried her to the side of the pool, patting her back as she clung to Jessica's neck. She was so little, so vulnerable.

They couldn't just hope that things would turn out okay, Alicia realized. Not anymore. The stakes were too high. They needed to do something.

THE OFFICE OF DR. WARREN, PSYCHIATRIST

When I arrive for our next session, Dr. Warren smiles at me. It is concerning, considering where we left off our last conversation, and where he suggests this session begin, but it isn't for me to judge.

"So he let you out of the basement. What happened then?"

"Home life became a game of trying to figure out how to exist without upsetting John. I'd clean, go to church, and not talk back. Most of the time, I didn't talk at all. I tried to stay out of John's way, but there were days when, even without saying a word, I could invoke John's wrath." I re-create these moments in my mind, watching them play out like scenes in a film. "It might have been that he'd decided I hadn't cleaned something properly, or I'd used the wrong tone when speaking to him. On a few occasions it was simply because I needed to understand who was in charge. When it happened there was no discussion, no opportunity to defend myself—he just grabbed my ear and dragged me to the basement."

I think about what Dr. Warren said last time, about how I'd blamed my mother when John mistreated me. It brings furious tears to my eyes. "My mother always stood by silently. The fact that she didn't even try to intervene was worse than being locked in the basement. After a while, my hatred of her became an outlet for my pain. A focus. A place to channel it."

"How did you channel it?" Dr. Warren asks quietly.

I shrug. "It was pretty easy. Every morning, while John was sleeping, my mother ironed him a shirt and left it hanging from a hook in the bathroom. Naturally, John was as fastidious about his shirts as he was about everything else. Before my mother married John, I doubt she'd ever ironed a shirt in her life. She certainly never ironed one for my father. So she'd had to learn quickly. Oftentimes, while he ate breakfast, John would scold her because his collar wasn't starched enough or his sleeves were rumpled. Criticizing her homemaking skills was a favorite pastime for John. At first, I'd been indignant on her behalf, but after a while, I came to enjoy it.

"One day, while my mother and I were preparing breakfast, John stormed into the kitchen and flung a shirt onto the table with such force it knocked over a water glass. He shouted at my mother, ‘Look what you've done, you stupid woman!'

"My mother stared at him in confusion. Then she reached for the shirt and held it up. A large, iron-shaped burn mark could be seen on the lower back.

"Mum was so flummoxed. ‘I… I . . I'm sorry, I didn't realize…'

"I busied myself with cleaning up the spilled water.

"‘You didn't realize because you're lazy and you don't pay attention. That's why you never do anything properly.'

"John was positively wild with fury. I hadn't heard him shout at Mum before. I wondered if he was going to take her by the ear and throw her in the basement.

"‘This was a brand-new shirt,' he cried. ‘Who is going to pay for a replacement? Are you going to get a job and start working? No—who would hire a lazy stupid woman, like you?'

"‘I… I'll pay for it out of my housekeeping,' my mother stammered.

"Her ‘housekeeping' allowance was barely enough to buy food. If she had to buy a shirt, we'd all be living on fresh air for the week. At least, Mum and I would. But it would be worth it.

"‘Iron me another shirt,' John said, storming from the room.

"I managed to give Mum a tiny smirk before she hurried after him.

"From then on, finding ways to make John angry with Mum became an outlet for me when things got tough. It wasn't hard. I'd go back to a spot on the floor that Mum had already cleaned and walk on it with dirty shoes. I'd use their bathroom and ‘forget' to dry the soap, so that it congealed in the basin. I'd take a few dollars from the tin where he hid his money."

Dr. Warren's pupils had dilated with pleasure.

"Mum never told him it was me. Maybe that's why I kept doing it."

"To get her back?"

I consider that. "More to prove to myself that she had some feelings left for me," I say. "Anyway… now that John's attention had shifted to her, I had more freedom. I still had to clean, go to church and refrain from talking back, but as long as I did these three things, John didn't really bother me. He didn't seem to care what time I came home from school, or who I hung out with, or what kind of grades I got.

"It was around this time that a boy in my class named Troy started to notice me. Troy wasn't particularly attractive or charismatic, and he had an irritating habit of saying ‘anythink', but he had one important thing going for him: he liked me. When you feel like nobody likes you, it's hard to overstate the thrill of that. It didn't matter that I didn't like him back—or, indeed, that I actively disliked him. His interest in me was intoxicating.

"And so we'd meet before school and hang out near the sports equipment shed on the oval and kiss. He'd pass me notes and letters torn from the pages of his school diary, saying he thought about me all the time. After school, we'd hang out as a group with some of our classmates, or sometimes it was just the two of us at his place, in the garage that had been converted into a rumpus room. We'd roll around in our clothes, kissing and fondling. And after a while we took our clothes off.

"The sex wasn't great; in fact, it was on the dull side. But I enjoyed my time out of the house, being a normal fifteen-year-old, roaming the streets with my friends, riding on the handlebars of push-bikes and shoplifting from the general store. Troy was always by my side, like a faithful puppy dog. When the sun began to set, we said our goodbyes and went back to our own homes. Usually I'd find Mum was cooking and John was reading the newspaper or a book in the living room. But one day, they were waiting for me at the door. I recognized John's demeanor. His gaze was sharp, his jaw tight. The veins in his forearms bulged. My mother stood silently beside him as always.

"‘Where have you been?' he asked me.

"I hated that I was nervous. ‘I was… just hanging out with my friends.'

"John's eyes narrowed. ‘Friends? Or a boyfriend?'

"I didn't reply. My mother lowered her gaze, as if this all had nothing to do with her.

"‘Answer me,' he roared. ‘Do you have a boyfriend named Troy?'

"Troy. He knew his name. I wondered how. ‘I go to school with a boy named Troy, but he's not my boyfriend.'

"John's eyes widened dramatically. ‘He's not? Then perhaps you can explain to me why you were kissing him behind the fish-and-chip shop this afternoon?'

"Now there was nothing to say. But John was happy enough to fill the silence by calling me names. Slut. Whore. Trash.

"‘From now on you come straight home after school. No going to friends' houses. No after-school sport. School, home. That's it.'

"He grabbed my ear, wrenching it painfully, and with my mother watching on he dragged me down to the basement."

"Are you okay?" Dr. Warren asks.

My eyes well up. "It was just so unfair. I had no one. My father was dead. My own mother chose John. Then I couldn't have a boyfriend…" The tears spill over. "Every human being needs someone, don't they, Dr. Warren? One person that's in your corner. One person who's yours?"

Dr. Warren's gaze is fixed on mine, his mouth slightly open. He gives himself a little shake. "I… would say that's true."

I nod, wiping tears from my face. "And if someone doesn't have that one person?"

Dr. Warren's gaze drifts from my face as there is a knock at the door.

"Ah," he says. "That's it for today."

But he looks a little sad that I am leaving.