red. You never wore anything but sneakers and plain black pumps. Still, you slip them back on, struggle to stand up, fight the comfort of having firm wood support your thighs and buttocks.
It is time to go. Home again, home again, jiggity jig. You have a vision of a train speeding past a small plot of parched earth, of a clothesline strung between wooden poles from which hang a man’s trousers, a woman’s housedress, and some frilly dresses that belong to a young girl.
A tall dark man, a sweet melancholy face, kneeling by your side as you dig a hole in the dirt. He puts his hand in his pocket, brings out a fistful of coins, opens his hand, and lets them fall into the hole. Then he helps you push dirt over them, pat it down so there’s no trace.
Buried treasure! he says, and laugh lines appear around his eyes. But you know what you need? he asks. A map. To remind you, so you can retrieve the treasure when you need it. I won’t forget, you say, I never forget anything, and this time he laughs out loud. We’ll come back in a year and see if you can find it, he says. But you never did.
It’s time, you say, and begin to push yourself up.
The woman leans over, puts a hand on your arm, and gently but firmly pulls you back to a sitting position. You went away for a minute, she says.
I was remembering my father, you say.
Good memories?
Always.
That’s something to be grateful for. She sits for a moment, motionless, then shakes her head.
There was a disturbance at your old residence last night. A neighbor reported an attempted break-in. Was that you?
You lift up your hands, shrug.
If it was you, you weren’t alone; the neighbor saw two and perhaps other people at your former house. By the time we got a car there, everyone was gone.
There is a burst of music. A sort of cha-cha. The woman gets up and retrieves a small metal object from a table, holds it to her ear, listens, says some words. She looks at you, and says something else. Then puts down the device.
That was Fiona, she says. She’s on her way.
Who’s Fiona? you ask. The visions come and go. You would prefer them to come and stay, to linger. You enjoy these visitations. The world would be a barren place indeed without them. But the woman isn’t listening. Suddenly she leans forward. She is focusing everything on you. She vanquishes the last remnants of your vision with her gaze.
It’s time for the truth, she said. Why did you do it?
Why did I do what? you ask.
Cut off her fingers. If I understand that, I can put the rest together. If you killed Amanda, I believe it was for a reason. But I don’t believe you would kill and then maim gratuitously.
Maim. An ugly word, you say.
An ugly business all around.
Some things are necessary.
Tell me why. Why was it necessary? Tell me. This is for me. Once I take you in, once you are committed to the state facility, that’s the end of it. Case closed. But not really. It will never be, in my mind, unless I know.
She didn’t mean for it to go that far.
What? What didn’t she mean?
It was coming a long time.
Sometimes things build up. I understand. I do.
There’s a knock on the door. The woman gets up, lets in a young woman with short hair.
Mom! She rushes over and hugs you, won’t let go. Thank God you’re all right. You had us all so worried. Detective Luton has been a godsend.
We’ve been going over things, says the older woman.
The young woman’s face tightens. Yes? Does she remember? What has she told you?
Nothing yet. But I feel we’re close. Very close.
That’s great, the young woman says mournfully. She has not let go of your hand. If anything, she is clasping it even tighter. Mom, shhh. You don’t have to say anything. It doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing worse they can do to you. You will not be judged fit to stand trial. Do you understand me?
A messy job.
The older woman speaks up. Yes, it was a messy job. How did you get rid of the bloody clothes?
Mom, you don’t have to say anything.
