Anna Quinn - The Night Child

She is quiet. She is bone tired. “Yes,” she says. She sits back down on the couch.

He closes the door, sits next to her, puts his jacket around her like a shawl. She looks out the window into the courtyard filled with rhododendrons and ferns and begins to tell him everything—about Margaret, the dissociation, Paul and Elisa, her worries about Fiona. He holds both her hands while she speaks. He wipes her eyes when she weeps. He promises to do everything possible to keep Elizabeth safe. Promises to call Child Protective Services right away. Promises to be there for her whenever she needs him. He tells her she is the bravest person he’s ever met.

Fiona has emptied a box of candy hearts onto her pillow and is sorting them by color. She’s wearing her bluebird nightgown and the Minnie Mouse slippers Paul bought for her on their family vacation to Disneyland last year. Innocence surrounds her, makes her appear fragile and ethereal, and Nora feels then a fierce love for her, a need to take her somewhere unceasingly gentle and good, a place without pounding fists and ugly sounds, a place where she can protect her from anyone who might creep fear into her tiny heart. “Did I ever tell you that you are the most wonderful little girl in the universe?” Nora says.

Fiona giggles. “Yes, Mommy, a billion times. But, Mommy! Listen! I need more of these!” she says, holding high a purple candy heart that says hug me. “Valentine’s Day is soon, and I want to put a heart inside each of the cards I give out.”

“Where did you get these?”

Fiona stops counting and looks nervously at Nora. “Elisa gave them to me. She walked with Daddy and me to school this morning, and she gave each of us a box—is that okay, Mommy? Daddy … Daddy told me not to tell and I … I …”

Be calm, be calm, be calm . “Of course that’s okay, honey; she’s our neighbor, and she seems very nice.”

But of course it doesn’t feel okay. It’s demoralizing. She’d sensed from the start there was something more between Paul and Elisa then a platonic friendship. But she can’t think about that right now, not on top of the day’s events.

“Fiona, could you put those away now and get ready for bed?”

“Okay, Mommy, but we can get more, right?”

“Yes, honey, we’ll get more. We have two weeks until Valentine’s Day. Now clean up.” And they will have plenty of time. John has placed her on a three-month leave. He had to, she knows that. She is, in fact, grateful and relieved.

Fiona puts the hearts back into the box, one by one, reading each one as she does. Nora wishes only to lie down. Close her eyes. But now, “Mommy, here’s one for you! It says, ‘Kiss me!’”

Nora looks at Fiona’s innocent face, at the pink candy heart in her small hand, at the words kiss me, and at once something is wrong—nausea rises in her throat. She cups her hand over her mouth, jumps up, runs to the bathroom, and vomits.

“Mommy?”

Nora flushes the toilet, grabs a towel from the rack, sits on the edge of the tub, and wipes her face. Fiona stands in the doorway looking as if she might cry.

“Mommy, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course I am honey,” she says, struggling to talk. “I think I just ate something bad for lunch, that’s all. I’ll be all right. Now could you brush your teeth please, and I’ll be right there to tuck you in.”

The phone rings. She walks to the bedroom to answer it. It’s John.

“Nora—God. I’m so sorry to tell you this,” he says.

She already knows. “Elizabeth?” she says faintly, sits down soft on the bed.

“Two hours ago. Cut her wrists,” he says, his voice choking up. “No note.” The suffering large in his throat.

The phone cold in her hand. No, Elizabeth. Not this. She closes her eyes. Of course there wouldn’t be a note. Elizabeth had already left plenty of fucking notes.

“Fuck,” she says into the phone. John says something, but she can’t hear him through the aching.

“Mommy, are you coming?” shouts Fiona. Nora whispers goodbye to John and hangs up the phone and stands up slowly, walks slowly to Fiona’s room. Fiona is still playing with the candy hearts.

“Mommy,” Fiona giggles, jumping up and down on her bed, pushing a candy heart into Nora’s face, “you still haven’t done what the heart says!” And she begins to chant loudly in a singsong voice, “Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!”

Something ugly and huge pushes and thrashes inside Nora’s head and fury forces its way out and the enormous hand of it slaps the heart from Fiona’s tiny hand and the heart flies across the room, hits the closet, and drops to the floor. The fury can see that the heart is still alive—the kiss me gapes mockingly. The fury leaps at it. Dares it to continue gaping, but the kiss me doesn’t stop and the abominable feet of the fury pounds the cursed heart to pieces, again and again and again, using all its strength to kill it, to smash it to dust, to death, to silence. Such strength, but there! The fury has done it. The fury has won.

Dead silence now.

A soft whimper from the bed.

Nora blinks, blinks, blinks. Heart thudding. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God . Something’s happened. Pink dust by her feet. What the hell happened? She remembers the fury rising, but nothing more. Margaret? Oh, God .

Nora turns to see Fiona on the bed, stuffing all the candy hearts back into the box as fast as she can, tears streaming down her face.

“Oh, Fiona.”

Fiona shoves the box of hearts into her nightstand drawer, climbs back into bed, and pulls the covers over herself so that not even her head shows. Muffled sobs build up and spill out, pool in a pink liquid around Nora’s feet.

Nora feels small and evil. The lump of her daughter hiding under the blanket cuts her deep.

“Oh, Fiona,” she says softly and climbs into the bed, uncovering her and taking her in her arms. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Fiona pushes herself into Nora then, thumb in her mouth, sucking hard, cradled in Nora’s arms until she falls, finally, asleep.

Nora arrives at the bottom of the stairs just as Paul comes in the door, alcohol on his breath. She’d heard his keys fighting the lock.

“Whoa. You don’t look so good,” he says.

“Damn you,” she whispers and walks into the kitchen.

Paul shrugs off his coat, hangs it in the closet. “Hey, sorry I’m late. But you got my message, right? That work was a barn burner?”

“Really?” she says, with an exhausted edge, pouring herself a glass of red wine. She sits at the table and stares at the glass. Paul pours himself a glass of Jameson and sits across from her.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

She sips in silence for a moment. “You weren’t working late,” she says looking at him, tapping her index fingernail unconsciously on the thin stem of her glass. “You weren’t working late,” she says again, even though she should have said, “Something horrible happened when you were gone.” She keeps on tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tapping until he speaks and then she stops tapping.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were with Elisa.” She needs to be careful now. She begins tapping again. Stares at Paul. She taps for a minute or two. His eyes, weighted with guilt, light fires inside her. “You’re fucking her,” she says.

His face reddens. He drains his glass, gets up from the table, and goes to the cupboard. He takes the Jameson down again and pours himself another glass. “And what if I am?” he says, finally. “What the hell do you care? We haven’t had sex in months! Do you realize that? Do you? And even then, it was like fucking a corpse. You go all rigid the second I put my hands on you.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, paces around the kitchen. “Jesus, this is not what a marriage is supposed to be like. I want more than this, Nora.”