Erica Spindler - Blood Vines

Her mother destroyed her art, why not all physical remnants of her son? The thought planted and Alex stopped, heart racing. No. She refused to believe that. Somewhere in this house her mother had stashed a record of her son’s short life.

The attic, she thought. The only place left.

She made her way there, pulled down the attic steps, then climbed them, cold air swirling around her as she ascended. When she reached the top, she yanked the cord attached to the single lightbulb.

Weak light illuminated a lifetime of stored stuff. Brown cardboard boxes, dozens of them, stacked one on top of the other. A cry rose in her throat. Where did she start? It would take her days to go through every box.

Whatever she had to do. One step, one box at a time.

She began at the front right. Her progress was slow; between the cold and the dust, her nose began to run. It’d be smart to go grab a coat and gloves, but she refused to stop even for the few minutes that would take.

Her gaze fell on a large steamer trunk, the kind people had used in the 1800s for cross-Atlantic travel. It was locked, she saw. Secured with a combination lock, the kind she had used on her high school locker.

Heart thundering, she made her way to the trunk. She gazed down at the only thing between her and its contents.

She tried a couple obvious combinations: her mother’s birthday, her own birthday, consecutive numbers. When those didn’t work, she looked around for something to break it open with.

Her gaze landed on an aluminum baseball bat propped up in the corner. Alex retrieved it, lifted and swung. On the third whack, the lock gave. She removed it, released the hasp and opened the trunk.

Her breath caught. Inside, her mother had carefully stored photographs and letters, stuffed animals and baby toys. A christening gown, she saw. Several unbearably small, blue outfits. A binky. Booties.

Alex caressed each item, rubbing the soft fabric between her fingers, then against her cheek. She buried her face in a Teddy bear’s fuzzy belly and breathed deeply. Was it her imagination or did it still smell of baby powder and formula?

Her chest tightened and tears stung her eyes. A brother-her brother. One day she had awakened and he was gone. How had she processed it? She must have been frightened and confused.

Alex wiped the tears from her cheeks and gently laid the bear back in its makeshift bed. She chose a small photo album next, opened it and stared transfixed at the first photograph.

Her mother. Young and lovely. Smiling-no, beaming-for the camera, a baby cradled in her arms. And beside her, gazing up in adoration, was her three- or four-year-old self.

She’d never seen her mother happy, Alex realized. Manic, yes. But never like this-glowing with joy.

What part had the loss of her child played in the woman her mother had become? What part had it played in her illness? Her violent mood swings?

With a sense of desperation, Alex flipped through the album, soaking in the images of people she didn’t know, studying their faces, expressions, body language. Everything. Longing to remember.

From downstairs came the sound of the front door slamming. She swung toward the stairs. “Hello?” she called.

“Alex? Where are you?”

“Tim! I’m up here! In the attic.”

Moments later he appeared at the top of the stairs. “Alex? What the hell-”

“I had a brother,” she said, voice shaking. “A stepsister, too. Come look.”

Thursday, February 18

1:50 P.M.

Together they carried the trunk from the attic to the living room. They sat on the floor, and words tumbling one over the other, Alex told him about finding the news story, the detective’s name and number being circled, calling the number and finally about the detective’s visit.

When she’d finished, she held out the photo album, open to the picture of her mother holding Dylan, Alex at her side.

For long moments he studied the photo, then lifted his gaze to hers. “Unbelievable. It makes me wonder what else she was hiding.”

“What else could she be hiding? My God, Tim.” Alex tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned toward him. “This is it. What I always felt was missing. I thought it was not knowing my dad. Or my mother’s emotional distance. But it was the brother who was taken from me.”

“Literally missing.” Tim nodded. “It makes sense, from a psychological standpoint.” He flipped through the photo album, expression thoughtful. “The creation of art is a type of birthing process. The destruction of that very personal creation a form of self-hatred.”

“You think her cycle of painting, then obliterating what she’d created was tied to the loss of her son?”

“I think it makes sense.” He stopped on a photo and gazed intently at the image. “She represses her emotions-her anger, guilt and despair. But repressed emotions have a way of erupting, coming out sideways, directed at something or someone else. This is classic avoidant coping strategy.”

“Guilt?” Alex said, frowning. “I understand anger and despair, but why would she-”

“Feel responsible? Come on, Alex, put yourself in her shoes. A mother’s supposed to protect her children, keep them from harm’s way. A mother’s instinct is ‘supposed’ to kick in, alert her to danger. And what did she do? She left her children alone. And the unthinkable happened.”

Alex rubbed her arms, cold. “How could I have forgotten, Tim? I was five years old. I had a baby brother, then I didn’t. Surely I would have remembered him?”

He caught her hands and rubbed them between his. “Your mother took you away from all the people who knew Dylan. She packed away all physical reminders of him. Children are sponges. They pick up on everything. You quickly learned that asking about your brother was met with disapproval. Maybe even tears. Or a spanking. Perhaps when you asked about him, she denied his existence.”

He squeezed her hands, then released them. “You complied. You simply ‘forgot.’ Truth is, it probably didn’t even take that long.”

Alex blinked against tears. “Okay, I get all that. But why can’t I remember now that I-”

She bit the last back. A faceless baby, screaming.

She did remember.

“Oh my God, Tim. It makes sense now.”

“What does, hon?”

“The other night, when we were in bed together, I had this weird vision. It’s what got me so freaked out. In it there was a faceless baby. The baby was screaming.”

“Textbook symbolism, Alex. The baby has no face, therefore no identity. Your subconscious was screaming at you to remember.”

Her tears spilled over and he scooted to her side and wrapped an arm around her. She buried her face in the crook of his neck.

He allowed her to cry, saying nothing.

After a time, her tears slowed, then stopped. “It’s so horrible,” she whispered. “All of it. What happened to my brother. My mother denying his existence. What that denial did to both of us. How could she not have seen how destructive it was?”

“If it helps, no, she probably didn’t see how destructive it was. She was trying to spare you more pain and ease her own.”

They fell silent. She leaned against him, comforted by his steady breathing and the rhythmic beat of his heart. When he shifted away from her, she was cold and drew her knees to her chest and hugged them.

“How old was your brother when he was abducted?” He picked up the photo album and thumbed through it.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”

“How old were you when your mom married this guy?”

Again, she didn’t know. She frowned. “Why?”

He tapped one of the photos. “This man, standing beside your mother, was this her husband?”