Brooklyn Gothic, page 25
“Hi, baby,” she said, resting her chin on her hands and tilting her face closer.
His face lit up and he leaned forward too. “Hi yourself, my love. How did it go?”
“Great. She wants us to help her. She agreed to have the firm represent her at her review and to let me write about her. How’s the rascal?”
Samuel (he was now Samuel and no other) gave a weary sigh, looking back over his shoulder. “He went down about an hour ago. Should I wake him for you?”
“Oh, no. Let him sleep, you must need the break.”
“I suppose he’ll be up in a few hours.” He lowered his voice, his eyes swirling with fatigue. “His gums are still bothering him.”
“If he wakes up, give him the teether. Then try the bouncy seat. Don’t give him the gel unless nothing else works.”
“I know, Casey. We’ve gone over this.”
“Hey, he’s all yours,” she laughed, but he wasn’t, not yet. “Last time you gave the gel before the teether even though I reminded you.”
“What did the pharmacist say? The gel has nothing to do with it.”
“A pharmacist isn’t a doctor. As soon as I put it on, he gets cranky. It’s numbing and it scares him. Put it on your lip, you’ll see.”
He looked down at something, as if he’d forgotten he was on Skype. She knew his look. He was done discussing the matter.
“How’s he doing with the bottles?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s taking them. Being a tad grumpy about it, he’d rather suck on mommy. Can’t blame him for that.” He looked back up, grinned, and she knew the disagreement was over—for now.
She pressed her engorged breasts together, then said, “Let me see him.” She’d decided Miles was old enough to be with his father for five days, but was anxious.
Samuel got up and dangled his laptop over the crib in the corner. Casey drank in her baby’s shiny face, his cap of black fuzz, his lush lashes spread like palm leaves on his balloon cheeks, and his fingers clenched into tiny, meaty fists. His white onesie read “I Get My Eyes From My Daddy and My ‘Tude From My Mommy”—something Samuel had presented to her with a mischievous grin.
“My little rascal,” she said, keeping her voice low and squirming on the bed, pinched with love. “Handsome devil. Not a surprise, I guess.”
“My son, so that makes sense,” he said.
“I was thinking about me, but yeah, there’s you too.” She always enjoyed teasing her husband, but the laptop was over the crib, so she was denied his reaction. “And your follow-up? How did it go?”
“Things are stable,” he said, moving back to his desk. “She says it should be fine to move back to the States.”
Casey was thrilled at this news. She enjoyed the slow, Old World beauty of Geneva, but it wasn’t the rampant humanity of New York. Her soul was in the city. And her parents were a train ride away. She wanted to be closer to them as they furthered their march into old age, which thankfully hadn’t been too traumatic so far. But she knew her luck wouldn’t hold out forever. Her parents hadn’t even met Miles yet and her mother was reminding her almost daily about it.
Add in she missed decent pizza.
A part of her was disappointed she and Samuel wouldn’t be able to move back into the mansion. She knew why he had sold such an important piece of his family’s history—because he thought he would die, and wanted to disperse the profits. Now that the aneurysm was under control, it was too late. The mansion was sold.
She didn’t hold it against the mansion that its walls had told her to kill herself—that had been all in her brain. The dark memories of the place were always overruled by her warm memories of it, of falling in love and conceiving Miles there. Perhaps one day she’d be able to convince Samuel to live in one of the condos being built within its Gothic façade.
Or perhaps it would be better to start completely fresh, somewhere with no memories, neither good nor bad.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” she said.
“Well, you know…” He scratched the side of his head.
Yes, she knew. Familiar intracranial aneurysm. In all likelihood, his condition was genetic, and he could develop another enlarged blood vessel. He’d been in a genetic linkage study for the past several months. But they’d deal with that when and if they had to. Although Samuel had been out of the immediate danger zone for about a year, they’d employed a nurse to stay in the house while Casey was away, on the off chance something happened.
“What about the center, baby? They rely on you so much,” Casey said.
When he wasn’t taking care of Miles or running the antique shop he’d bought in Carouge, Samuel spent much of his time at a community mobilization center, helping displaced people. Two bedrooms in their house were set up as transitional housing, often for those recently released from psychiatric wards or drug rehabilitation clinics.
“I can do that kind of thing in New York,” he said. “God knows it’s needed more there than here. We should be near your parents.”
“We can talk about it when I get back.” She gave him a smoochy face. “Listen, I’m starving and I want to go over my notes about Maude. I’ll call in the morning. Let me know if anything comes up with the rascal.”
“Honey, we’re fine. I’m going to give him more gel and put him down again.”
Words of protest cycloned in her mouth, but then she caught the teasing glint in his eyes. “Very funny.”
“A whole tub of gel.”
She laughed and kissed the screen. He did the same, and they laughed some more, and waved goodbye.
She plopped on the bed, delirious with the notion she could take an uninterrupted nap or shower, or eat a leisurely meal with both of her hands, instead of using one to hold back Miles as he slapped at her food.
It had been a long slog back to normalcy for her and Samuel.
The day Casey had talked with him at the mansion after leaving Dr. Putterman’s office, she’d left to catch a train back to her hometown. He didn’t try to talk her out of it, and said he would send the rest of her belongings. When she’d packed, she’d made sure to take Jennifer’s thank you card, and with it, the picture of Hector and Alvira Nonez.
At home, she had a steady if low-paying stream of writing jobs, and her world was small and confined. She loved her parents, but they grated in the way that parents can, though at least her mother seemed to instinctively know not to barrage Casey with questions about her former boss and almost-husband.
Casey knew she had to make a decision about the baby, but night after night, she found herself unable to do anything but hope the decision would be made for her, that perhaps she would miscarry. When a week went by without that happening, she finally accepted that she was choosing to have the child. Her inaction was her action. She had absolutely no idea how she was going to raise a child on her own, and the thought of it scared her senseless.
The first thing she’d have to do is tell her parents about the pregnancy, because she could already see telltale signs of her body changing that they hadn’t noticed.
But then she hit the toilet with projectile vomiting, spending the next few days hardly anywhere except the bathroom tile. Her parents insisted on driving her to the hospital. That day, she’d told them she was expecting.
“Of course I know that,” her mother had sniffed, as if insulted that Casey imagined a pregnancy would have gone unnoticed.
While on an IV drip, Casey learned she had hyperemesis gravidarum, a form of severe morning sickness. The next day, still in her hospital bed, she’d received an email from Samuel. One that changed everything.
“Please look at this,” he’d written. “I couldn’t remember the name of the venue, and my name wasn’t on the caption, so I couldn’t find it in a search. But eventually, I found what I needed. I don’t expect this means anything for us, but I thought I should send it. I’m in therapy with a woman named Dr. Elin and my radiosurgery went smoothly. I hope you are well, Samuel.”
She opened a link. It brought her to a website with a picture of several people dressed in Halloween costumes.
There he was, the man on the far left. Dressed as a cowboy. The hat, the vest, the boots, the jodhpurs. And a gold belt buckle. She hit the zoom button several times and couldn’t quite make out the blob in the middle of the buckle, but could swear she saw the same mollusk-like swirls she’d remembered from the buckle in his safe.
According to the description, the Halloween bash, thrown by a roving event company, had been on a New York City hotel roof five months before the Nonez murders.
This seemed to prove he’d owned a gold belt buckle that looked very similar to the one Hector owned before Hector had been killed. Though she wished she could definitely make out a buffalo on Samuel’s buckle, she could not.
Then the dreams started. Every single night, she had dreams of him, dreams of being in his arms and kissing him, and in each one of these dreams was an overpowering sense that he was innocent.
After a particularly bad night of almost constant nausea, she reached out to him, and told him of her pregnancy and its complications. She felt more vulnerable than she’d known it was possible to feel, and it was deeply instinctual to reach out to the man who’d helped create the being growing inside of her.
He flew in from Geneva and rented a hotel room nearby. Each day, he spent most of the day with her, leaving only when visiting hours were over. They spent the time silent or discussing general things having nothing to do with the murders.
He updated her on his aneurysm, which had closed off nicely. He still suffered migraines but had a new medication. And he told her about his antique store, the community center, and the various characters he’d met through both. Before she knew it, they were laughing.
It felt so good and natural being around him, and she could tell her parents were impressed with him, and relieved someone had swooped in to take charge. Having seen how devoted Samuel was, Casey’s mother became his biggest fan.
When Casey was told it was safe to leave the hospital, she went with him to his hotel with her parents’ blessings.
She couldn’t work, could hardly make her own meals, and was astonished to find herself utterly dependent on him. She began to believe the sickness had a purpose, sent to her by a conspiring universe insisting she get over her doubts. Do you see how loving he is? Do you think men like this are easy to find?
They chartered a private plane to return to Geneva so Samuel could be near his doctor. At the five-month mark, Casey’s bouts of nausea disappeared.
Soon afterwards, they were married at the registry office.
When Miles was born, Samuel was as heavily involved with the baby as he’d been with the pregnancy. She could see Miles loved him too and would light up with a special grin reserved for his dad.
Miles seemed like a normal baby, not that she had anything to compare him to other than what she’d look up on the Internet. He burped, he pooped, he kicked his squat, rumpled legs, he giggled and made unintelligible noises, and he stared longingly at her with wide eyes that never seemed to blink while she nursed him.
But when he’d started with an infernal screaming a few weeks ago, the worst idea that had flittered through her mind flourished horrifically.
She knew antisocial personality disorder could be hereditary. When the pediatrician blamed Miles’ colic on teething, her relief was extreme.
When Miles was eight weeks old, her mind had suddenly turned on her. In a half-sleep, coming out of a dream, she’d whispered to Samuel, “What was Natalie wearing the night she was attacked?”
This was the first time she’d said anything about his “false memories.” But neither she nor her subconscious had forgotten them. It was during a dream she realized if Samuel could say something about Natalie that wasn’t in a news story or her article, and if Casey could verify it with Natalie, then both she and Samuel know the truth.
She had felt him shift, as if he’d been awake the whole time, and he’d mumbled, “I don’t know what Natalie was wearing, because I wasn’t there. What is it you’re saying to me?”
She could feel his fear. It was coming off him in raw waves. Right then, she remembered what Dr. Putterman had once said: That Samuel had only tried to kill himself because Casey also believed his “false memories.”
If she continued with this line of questioning, he might do it. And, one day, she’d have to explain to Miles why his father had taken his own life. That he had done it because of Casey.
“Nothing,” she’d reassured him. “I had a bad dream. Of course you weren’t there.”
Putting her laptop to sleep after her Skype call with Samuel, Casey decided to order up food rather than go to the hotel’s restaurant. As she glanced over the menu, she thought about Maude Jones.
She hadn’t been able to forget what Dr. Putterman had said about people who were wrongly imprisoned on false confessions.
Casey wanted to bring attention to certain cases and decided the best way to do it would be to publish them on her own blog, tentatively called “(No?) Crime and Punishment.” Maude Jones would be her first test case.
The jumbo shrimp and white asparagus (and a glass of wine! no breastfeeding!) looked too tempting to deny, and she called in her order.
She lay down, though she knew there would be no rest, and likely, no sleep tonight. Not with what lay ahead of her tomorrow.
All day, every day, what she needed to do stayed at the farthest borders of her mind. Now it was here, in front of her, and she let out a long, despairing moan, crunching her knees up on the bed.
Casey had become two separate people. She was the wife who spoke to her husband about their child and their family’s future together, as if that future was guaranteed.
And she was also the reporter who would do what she needed to do, and would do it tomorrow.
44
Casey sat down in the bright, airy living room on a floral-print couch. She crossed her legs and rocked one over the other, glancing around at the framed photos crowded on the fireplace mantel and the end tables. The biggest photo showed a dozen young children with sun-flecked bangs, dewy eyes, and guileless grins, a few scowling. These could be the ones, the ones that had been saved.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Casey said.
“Of course. Would you like some tea? Water?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Natalie Marshall was across from her in a matching floral print chair and she leaned forward, smiling. “Nice to finally meet you, Casey. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
Casey’s fingers grew heated and tingly; they went limp in their sockets and she wondered if she would be able to pick up her phone.
“Is something wrong?” Natalie asked.
“No, I’d like… ” She swallowed to unstick her throat. “I’d like to show you something. I don’t—ah—I don’t know how to do this except to do it.”
Casey’s gaze wandered past Natalie, to the big windows along the kitchen wall and into green expanse of the yard and the thick clusters of pine trees beyond that. The peaceful vista was divided by a silver pole with a bird feeder and a squirrel maniacally clawing into its seed.
“What I want to show you, if you think this is something, we can’t tell anyone what happened here today,” she said, her voice thick and gummy. “We’d have to figure out another way.”
Natalie’s gentle expression morphed into full-on confusion. “What? What is it?”
Casey reached into her tote and dug inside the open zippered pocket. She drew out her phone. “I’d like you to look at someone and tell me if you recognize him.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell me if he looks familiar.”
She activated her screen and pressed the photo icon, averting her eyes before she could see him. She held her arm out and turned her face away as if the phone reeked of a swampy odor.
The police sketch. One night, while Samuel was at his therapy session, Casey had made herself look at it again through the anonymous browser.
She had stared and stared until she didn’t know whose face it was, until it could have been anyone’s face, or not even a human face. Like those times when she was a child and had gotten a kick out of repeating a word over and over until it was only a sound with no recognizable meaning.
But it wasn’t the sketch that made her come see Natalie. And it wasn’t the sketch that made her buy a disposable phone and start doing the things she needed to do.
What had made her come here happened about three months ago.
Casey had been in Samuel’s study looking for notes he’d taken on a refugee who’d once stayed in the house.
The refugee, a young woman of twenty-two, had an extraordinary tale about her solo escape from Aleppo after her entire family had been killed, and making her way to Turkey, then Greece on a raft, and then to Geneva. Casey was in touch with her and interested in helping her turn her experience into a book. Samuel had said he’d taken notes on the woman for the community center, and they should be in a file drawer in his study.
Inside a folder, she’d come across a white envelope the size that would hold a greeting card. The size alone piqued her curiosity, as she wasn’t sure who would be sending her husband a card.
She opened it and saw a “Congratulations!” card with a sparkly stork carrying a bundle in its mouth, a baby’s feet poking out of it. Opening the card, she saw by the looping, delicate handwriting that it was from a woman.
* * *
Dear Sam,
I’m not sure this card is appropriate with everything going on, but I wanted to offer my congratulations. And no, she hasn’t told me. I saw her discharge papers, which she left in the car. I admit I looked at them because this whole thing has me so worried.
Anyway, I couldn’t be happier for you both. There was a time when I’d hoped for this for the two of us, but that’s neither here nor there. I know you’ll be a wonderful father, and everything will work itself out so you can be there for Casey and the baby.
