Baby Teeth Page 5

  Usually, such methodic movements lulled her into a spacey, unfocused state. A place where she could decompress. But she worried about what to tell Alex. Good news: nothing’s physically wrong with Hanna. Bad news: the problem might be in her head. Would he be upset? He never saw Hanna do things like lash out at a much younger child, and disbelieved much of the bad behavior that her kindergarten teachers had reported. He was convinced they were exaggerating because Hanna wasn’t milestone typical. They’d started referring, between themselves, to “Hanna’s disability,” and while Alex insisted the world was becoming more tolerant and inclusive of such differences, the elite schools they’d enrolled her in were not.

  “She’s so smart, way above average, even without being verbal,” Alex had boasted many times.

  Suzette knew he still hoped for full, if delayed, integration. Had enough time passed? Would Hanna be ready by fall? Perhaps the new developmental psychologist could help them prepare her. It worried Suzette that Alex didn’t know everything—she’d stopped the daily updates years before when she saw the growing annoyance in his face. He made her feel like a complainer; incompetent. Their time together went more smoothly without the behavioral reports. But if she repeated the doctor’s assessment—that refusing to speak required very different treatment than being unable to speak—then Alex would have to accept that some-most-all of Hanna’s willfulness was intentional. Their daughter was playing with them, in different ways. Fucking with them. Manipulating them for her own sadistic purposes.

  She threw the sponge into the bucket and cautioned herself to stop. Accusing a seven-year-old of sadism might be taking it a bit too far. But though Suzette had tried, she couldn’t figure out her daughter’s game. She loved the girl so effortlessly when she was a baby, a toddler. People told her those were the hardest times, before a child could speak her needs, but for her they were the easiest. Baby Hanna had simple, intuitive needs. Girl Hanna was a box within a box, each layer wrapped in a bow that was really a trickster’s knot. Once, she and Alex had orbited each other, their hands clasped together as gravity spun them in perfect circles. The addition of Hanna made it all wonky.

  An image flashed behind her eyes. A runaway asteroid, knocking Hanna out of their orbit. If it were just the two of them, they could find their equilibrium again.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  She blinked away the treasonous thought.

  Hanna was still there? She hadn’t gone back downstairs? Suzette sat back on her heels and didn’t respond.

  Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

  “I said I’ll be right down.”

  Whap-whap. Hanna slammed her palm on the closed door. Kicked it. Uttered a high-pitched squeal of protest.

  “Hanna! Go downstairs! Move on to another question that you can do on your own and I’ll be down in a minute!”

  She waited, listening, hoping to hear an exasperated humphh of defeat and the retreating sound of small feet. But no. The doorknob jiggled. Tentatively, then more insistently. Hanna kicked the door again.

  They didn’t spank. And Alex never even yelled. The only profanity he used in front of her was in Swedish. But the kid was pushing it. Suzette unlocked the door and whipped it open.

  “For fuck’s sake, Hanna. Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

  The girl stood there, arms loosely at her sides, considering her mother. Then her eyes rolled back until they were solid white. Dead nothingness in the sockets.

  “Because I’m not Hanna,” the girl whispered.

  HANNA

  “WHAT?”

  That’s all Mommy said. Then she shook her head, harder and harder so her eyeballs rattled around. She clutched her tummy and slammed the door. Hanna pressed her ear to it. The lock clicked. Mommy moaned, but she didn’t cry or scream. It got too quiet, so Hanna raked her fingernails down the door’s wooden grain. Water ran and splashed. She got down on her belly to peer into the crack of space beneath the door, but all she could make out were Mommy’s feet, standing in front of the sink.

  Not quite the reaction she’d been hoping for—she thought Mommy would be more impressed. Or scared. And in case she had been more inquisitive, Hanna had a list of short answers at the ready, stuff she remembered from her Google search. It was a little disappointing that Mommy didn’t want to know about her special friend. Poo-poo to her; Hanna would try again later.

  She skipped out into the hallway and dropped her schoolbook at the top of the stairs. There was nothing fun to do in her room, so she padded down the hall and up to Daddy’s attic study. By far, it was the best room in the house. The angled ceiling made it so cozy, like the walls were giving her a hug. Daddy’s study revealed that he and Mommy were nothing alike. He had a mess of stuff, though he kept his big worktable tidy. A squooshy chair, a fluffy rug, and shelves and shelves of books and weird things. Light poured in through the windows in the roof. She picked up one of his models—her favorite, the Viking ship—and carried it over to the window that looked out over their street. The glass came all the way to the floor, so she sat and watched a bubble car try to squeeze in between two silver tanks. The bubble car just fit, and the lady who got out grabbed her yoga mat from the trunk and hurried off down the street.

  Daddy always said he liked Shadyside because they could walk everywhere, which reminded him of the city where he grew up. He always talked about Sweden with a big smile on his face. She often wanted to ask him about where he was from. Sometimes he told her things, like how he’d left with his parents when he was a teenager because Farmor got a position at Carnegie Mellon University. Farmor was proud that her son followed in her footsteps, which baffled Hanna because Farmor and Farfar later moved all the way across the country, to Tucson, Arizona, and Daddy had not once tried to walk there.

  She bobbed the Viking ship in an invisible sea. When it landed, she stormed ashore with her battle-ax, ready to chop up the villagers and steal their gold. Daddy said most Vikings were farmers who did little, if any, raiding, but she had no interest in being a boring farmer. When she had all the gold she could carry, she put the boat back and turned off the light. She passed her parents’ big bedroom, but inside, the bathroom door was still closed. She scooped up her book and pencil and headed downstairs.

  She was still in front of the TV, practicing writing in hieroglyphs, when Daddy got home from work. She ran to greet him. He was so tall, so he always got down on one knee to give her a hug.

  “How’s my squirrelly girl?”

  She jumped up and down as her fingers played in his cantaloupe-tinged beard and his coffee breath tickled her nose. Daddy was the most handsome man in the world. He dressed nicely, in crisp shirts and colorful ties, and his favorites were the ones she picked out for him. When she grew up she’d marry him, and then Mommy wouldn’t be competition anymore.

  “That good?”

  She nodded like her head was huge, and flashed a big smile of uneven teeth. It bothered her that they were falling out, but Mommy said it was normal. They celebrated every time she lost one, but to her it remained a horror. She liked her little baby teeth. She didn’t want a snarling mouth of adult-size teeth. Not until the rest of her face had grown up, too.

  Daddy put his lunch kit on the counter and took out the used containers that once held his food.

  “Where’s Mommy? Did you have your big round and around scan today?”

  Affirmative, said her head.

  “How’d that go?”

  She mushed her lips together and shrugged.

  Mommy slunk down the stairs, perpetually alert for Daddy’s voice.

  “My two girls, in fine dresses,” he said.

  Mommy stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss. “It was better before, with the belt and the shoes.” She glanced at Hanna with red-rimmed eyes.

  “Have you been crying?” Daddy asked.

  “Tired. A little stressed.”

  Immediately concerned, he took Mommy’s hands. Hanna hung by the kitchen counter, watching everything.

  “E
verything okay with…” He flicked his head toward her.

  “Yes.” Mommy flashed a fake smile. “Let’s talk later. I need to start supper.”

  “Need help with anything?” He pressed in close, his eyes glued to her.

  “Help Hanna with her homework?”

  “Sure, älskling. Sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded like a clackety-clack skeleton that was about to fall apart. Daddy was reluctant to let her go, to leave her alone, but finally he reached out to Hanna.

  “Okay squirrely girl, it’s you and me. What are you working on today?”

  Hanna scooped up her book and the pair of deadly pencils. She pointed up—way, way up.

  “Want to work in my study?”

  Excited, she grabbed his hand and did a little gallop.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Daddy started pulling off his tie as they headed up the stairs. At the landing, Hanna turned back to look at Mommy. She stood with a hand on her hip, studying the contents of the refrigerator. She caught Hanna’s eye, so Hanna smiled and waved. Mommy’s mouth shrunk into a tight line.

  SUZETTE

  USUALLY SHE MADE Alex something a bit nicer, a bit more involved, but she didn’t feel like chopping vegetables and messing with ingredients. She just wanted to get him alone. To tell him what Hanna said.

  What did it mean? Could Suzette have misheard her? Were they just nonsense sounds, one of her little singsongs? She could’ve sworn she heard an accent. It didn’t make any sense. Hanna’s first words should have been something to celebrate, but Suzette writhed with uncertainty. And dread. If she heard Hanna correctly … If she wasn’t Hanna … Around and around, the doubt and terror spun. Was one of them going crazy? Both of them? And those empty eyes still made her crackle with fear.

  By the time they all sat down to her basic garlic-and-olive-oil pasta with last night’s leftover veggies and a fresh salad that Suzette declined to try, she questioned if she should even tell him. It was too easy to imagine him overlooking the specificity of Hanna’s ominous words in favor of celebrating the achievement of speaking. Or, knowing Hanna, she’d screw up her face, puzzled, and act completely baffled by Suzette’s announcement and pretend it never happened. Whose side would Alex take then? Even Suzette thought it more likely that, mired in worries, she’d misinterpreted what she saw and heard. A nightmare mingling with life, not reality.

  She let him dominate the conversation, grateful for the upbeat normality of his presence. He filled her in on Jensen & Goldstein’s latest success, a commission for an all-new, all-green structure on a tiny empty lot of prime downtown real estate.

  “They’re going to give us a lot of freedom in choices of materials. We’ll really be able to make a unique statement. I’ve always wanted to take a crack at a really skinny, unusual space.”

  “This house was practice,” she said, trying to share his enthusiasm.

  “Definitely—I showed them some of the pictures. You should help us with the interiors; they like your style. Nothing complements my clean lines the way your aesthetic does.”

  Her fine, considerate, supportive man, always trying to include her.

  “Skål!” She clinked her wineglass against his. “And congratulations.”

  She hoped her happiness for him seemed genuine, because it was, to the degree that she could muster it. He went on and on as she moved bland pasta around her plate with a fork. She couldn’t not tell him—this was something they’d been waiting for. If only Hanna had said something—anything—else.

  “It’s going to be four stories, and we’re thinking of ways of making it look like a ship, round windows…”

  What a heartwarming moment it could have been, if the girl had come to the door and said “Mommy.” She hadn’t heard any semblance of her name on her child’s lips since she’d babbled “mamamama” as a baby. Alex would have been so proud—of both of them—if she could have made such an announcement. He would have kissed and cooed over them both, allowing her the victory of good mothering.

  What sort of mother had a child who showed up like a demon to announce she wasn’t even your daughter? And if Hanna didn’t think she was Hanna, was she more disturbed than either of them had ever considered possible?

  “… while still making it fully handicapped accessible. Matt suggested long sloping walkways to connect—”

  “Hanna spoke today.”

  Alex and Hanna stopped chewing in unison, turning their high-wattage shock on her in unison.

  “Hanna what?”

  “She spoke. Said words. Out loud.”

  A grin started to eclipse his face. “Älskling…” Then he turned from her to Hanna. “Lilla gumman, that’s so—”

  “She said she wasn’t Hanna.”

  The grin faltered. “What?”

  Suzette shrugged. “That’s what she said. ‘I’m not Hanna.’ With her eyes rolled so she looked like … I don’t know what she looked like. Something … monstrous.”

  Alex got that unseemly look that befell him when he was perplexed, or thinking too hard, where his features morphed together like the continents retracting, becoming the formless blob of Pangaea. Clouds of doubt whisked across his face. He put on a smile to try to mask the confusion.

  “Is that what you said, lilla gumman? Did you talk to Mommy?”

  Suzette expected Hanna to shake her head. And she did. She didn’t expect her to go wide-eyed with fear and huddle beside her father. Hanna slapped her palm repeatedly against her little chest, pleading with Alex to understand.

  “You’re Hanna?”

  She nodded and started whimpering, her eyes filling with tears. She slapped her chest harder.

  “Of course you’re Hanna; no one’s saying you’re not Hanna. You didn’t talk to Mommy?”

  She shook her head again and reached out for a hug.

  Suzette sighed, exasperated, and propped her elbow up on the table so she could rest her weary head. Why had she fucking bothered?

  He squeezed Hanna and kissed her hair. “Why don’t you go up to your room for a little bit so Mommy and I can talk.”

  Suzette saw the moment Hanna registered her victory. And changed tactics. She pointed to the living room, the television, but Suzette had no intention of coddling her false anguish.

  “I think you’ve watched enough TV for today.”

  Hanna slammed her foot on the ground and angrily shook her head.

  “You did. I heard it from upstairs, the entire time I was in the bathroom.” Alex quickly turned to her, a question on his face. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she said to him.

  She didn’t look at either of them as she got up to clear the table. “You can play in your room with some of your toys. Or read a book?”

  She knew what was happening behind her: Hanna would put on a sad face and try to get Alex to cave to her desires. Half the time he did; a true diplomat, he evenly divided the amount of time that either one of them would be mad at him. But tonight he was on Suzette’s side.

  “Listen to Mommy. I’ll be up later to read you a story.”

  Hanna drooped and trudged out of the room. Suzette watched her daughter’s dainty feet move slowly up the stairs. She expected her to glower at her from the landing, but Hanna quietly retreated to her room.

  Alex caressed her back as he joined her at the sink. “So what’s going on?”

  “That’s what she said. She knocked on the door when I was in the bathroom and said, ‘I’m not Hanna.’ I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to believe you—I’d love for Hanna to speak. But that seems like a weird … I can’t see her saying that, what does it even mean—”

  “I have no idea—”

  “And she seemed pretty scared…”

  Suzette leaned her back against the counter and massaged the sore spots under her eyebrows, her thumb on one, index finger on the other. Hanna’s announcement had worsened her headache.

  “You weren’t feeling wel
l today?”

  “Being there, at the medical center…”

  He kissed her forehead and started massaging the rest of her scalp. “Have you thought more? About finding someone to talk to?”

  “I’m not crazy, she really—”

  “For the PTSD. I hate that you get like this, maybe someone can help. Did you take any Percocet today?”

  She lurched away from him.

  “I was not on drugs! I was not high. I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with taking it, if you’re still having pain—”

  “Alex. Are you even listening?”

  For a moment they stood there, still and watchful as hunters. Or the beasts about to be shot.

  “Yes. I was listening. And I was trying to find a logical explana—”

  “There’s no logical explanation, just forget it. Forget it.”

  She dumped their leftovers into Pyrex containers and shoved them into the refrigerator. Alex studied her, his expression cautious.

  “Was she whispering? Was she maybe just singsonging—”

  “Yes. I’m sure that’s what it was. Because she couldn’t possibly be a different child with me than she is with you. She hit a toddler while we were at the store.”

  “When?”

  “Today. I took her for a treat.”

  “I can’t help it if I don’t see—if I’m not always there—”

  “There’s the rub of it.” She reached back into the refrigerator and grabbed the half-empty bottle of white wine. “She’s smart enough to make sure you never believe me.”

  She scooped up her wineglass from the table and carried it over to the couch, refilling the glass on her way. She set the bottle on the coffee table and stretched her legs out, flipping on PBS NewsHour. After a moment, Alex joined her, refilling his own glass as he settled in beside her. Neither of them said anything through an entire segment analyzing extreme weather events and the impact of climate change.

  Finally, he slipped the remote out of her hand and lowered the volume. He eased closer to her, his head on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.”