One Way Or Another You Will Pay (6 page)

With
me in my dressing gown and Bear in a t-shirt and sweat pants, we face the detectives.

Bear
puts his arm around my shaking shoulders and absentmindedly mutters, “We will find her.”

I’m
crying so hard, I can barely speak. In my mind, Savannah is not coming back. Tom has taken her like he took Sasha and he’s not going to return her to me.

He
killed his
own
child, how hard would it be to kill Bear’s?

“It’s
my ex-h…husband,” I say to Federal police officers, Harmon and Holmes. “He’s b…behind it. I know that for a fact. He’s in R…Remington Correctional Centre and he …he did this. I just, I just …”

“What’s
his name?” Harmon asks, dialing on his phone.

“Tom
Botha.”

“I’m
calling them now.” Harmon moves away.

“Arena,”
Bear whispers, “Tom doesn’t know where we live. We’re not listed, baby, we’re not…”

“When
last have you seen him?” Holmes interrupts.

“’Bout
three years ago,” Bear answers.

I
don’t answer.

Holmes
pauses with his pen in mid-air and looks at me.

My
silence makes him turn his whole body to look at me. “Mrs. Shaw?”

I
throw Bear an anguished look before I look at Holmes. “T…three days ago,” I whisper.

“ARENA!”
Bear shouts, taking a step away from me. “ARENA, NO!”

I
turn to look at him. “I’m sorry, Bear. I’m so sorry!”

“ARENA!”
Bear’s face is a mask of horror. “NO! NO! NO!” With both hands on his head, he turns around like he’s going mad. “No…no…no!” He looks back at me, a beseeching look on his face. “Tell me you’re lying, Arena. Tell me that!”

With
both hands clamped over my mouth, I stare at him.

Oh,
God, what have I done?

Holmes’s
eyes dart between the two of us, before he turns to me, his eyebrows raised.

I
sink into a chair and start to rock. “He has cancer and he’s dying, so like, I struggled with not letting him see Warren, my son, eh, our son and like…” I hang my head. “I …oh, God, oh, God! What have I done? Oh, God!”

Harmon
rushes up to us. “He’s still in. All locked up. Double-checked. And no, your ex
doesn’t
have cancer.”

My
eyes bulge. “Wha…?”

Harmon
shrugs. “Double-checked that too. No cancer.”

“He
doesn’t
have cancer?” My voice is a whisper. No wonder he looked so healthy.

He
just lured me there, set me up. I had to call ahead and give them my details so that I could visit. That’s how he got my address!

Now,
somehow, he has my baby. I jump out of the chair and whirl around with both my hands over my head. “Oh, Savannah! Oh, baby girl, what has Mummy done?!”

Bear
backs away from us, an expression on his face I have never seen before. “Going to drive around,” he mutters.

“The
entire neighbourhood is basically cordoned off and there is an APB out,” Holmes says. “No need for you to do that.”

Bear
shoots me an accusing look. I look away. With a curt nod to Holmes, Bear strides off.

I
want to run after Bear and explain why I decided to see Tom, to beg for Bear’s forgiveness, but I can’t move. My feet feel like they’re encased in cement.

With
both hands covering my mouth, I sink into the patio chair again, the cops, the red and blue flashing lights, the people in the street around our house becoming one big blur.

“Arena!”

I look up into Ritchie’s face.

“Oh,
Ritchie, he’s taken her. Tom’s taken her!”

He
holds me as I babble.

“And
who might you be?” Holmes asks, eyeing Ritchie.

“I’m
Ritchie McMillan, Arena’s brother,” he answers, stroking my hair. “I live a few streets away from here.”

“Okay.”
Holmes turns to me. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I
…I run an organization called W.A.W. Women …women assisting women. Who flee …abusive relationships.”

Holmes
nods. “Is there something going on between you and your ex-husband?”

I
shake my head. “No, no, no, no! Absolutely not! I thought he was dying and like, I wanted to see him, gauge for myself then…then maybe take our son to see him and …and I didn’t tell Bear because…because, I didn’t want to worry him and Tom, he can be so…so…”

“Your
first child who died, she was around this age, wasn’t she?”

I
nod, my bloodshot eyes to the floor, my shoulders slumped.

“Mm.”

One word from him. “Mm.” Not even a word, more a sound, but he has spoken a full sentence.
Isn’t it a coincidence then?

Slowly,
I raise my eyes to look at him.

He
doesn’t flinch or look away.

“I
didn’t hurt my first child,” I say. “And I have nothing to do with Savannah’s disappearance, I swear. I’ll take a polygraph if you want me to right now so you can rule me out.”

“Ah,
but you
passed
the polygraph the last time too, didn’t you?” His voice is filled with accusation and he stares so hard at me, I flinch.

What
can I say to him that will move the investigation forward?

“We
didn’t get her back either.” His voice is not cruel, but it’s not kind.

We
didn’t get her back either.

A
tidal wave of dread washes over me, and I clutch at Ritchie. “Oh, God, Ritchie, Sasha didn’t come back! Ritchie…Rich! Oh, God, Rich!”

My
brother just holds me tight and allows my tears to soak his shirt. Doesn’t try to force me to think positively or admonish me for my deluge of negative thoughts. Doesn’t try to stop my babbling; just lets me be.

Holmes
just stares at us, then walks away.

All
the pain and anguish I felt over Sasha’s death revisits and I want to die. I reach for my phone, flip to a photo of Savannah and look at my baby. The fruit of our love, Bear’s and mine. A shot of antibiotics for a chest infection weakened the effects of the contraceptive pill I was on and she was conceived. Unplanned maybe, but not unwanted.

She’s
the image of Sasha but I never wanted to admit that, for fear of sounding like I was replacing Sasha.

When
she was born, she looked so much like Sasha that every time I looked at her, I cried for Sasha.

Every
time I thought how beautiful she was, I quickly staunched those proud, admiring thoughts.

It
was guilt; it tainted everything when it came to Savannah and acted as a guardrail between me and her. Made me feel like I was unfaithful to Sasha’s memory by loving Savannah so much. Logic told me that I was being unreasonable and even unfair for feeling that way, but my heart, it fought all logic with force and ferocity, determined to remain faithful to the golden-haired baby girl I left in my car, when I went to buy water for my son.

Sure,
this doesn’t make sense, but I felt like I had put Warren’s needs above Sasha’s that day and my choice caused her death.

Guilt
spilled into every facet of my life when it came to Savannah. Subconsciously and even consciously, I fought to stop the fluttering of my heart when I looked into her pools of blue eyes, when she paused to smile at me during a 3 AM feed, when she ‘spoke’ back to me, all the things Sasha did with me.

During
family photos, I insisted on Sasha’s framed portraits being seen in the photos. I fought so hard to remain faithful to Sasha’s memory, that I ‘gave’ Savannah to Bear.

No
words were spoken about it between Bear and me, but the way his eyes followed me around after Savannah was born, told me that he was onto me, onto my inner turmoil, my conflict.

You
think Post-Partum Blues is hard? Try coupling it with the guilt of having lost a child. With the guilt of having another child way too soon after the tragic death of one of your babies. The death you caused with your negligence.

I
didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, to Bear’s disappointment.

Then
when she was born, I didn’t even want to name her. When Bear came up with the name, ‘Savannah,’ there too, I found fault and became angry at Bear for his insensitivity.

Don’t
you realize the name Savannah starts with the letter‘s’ as does Sasha’s?

How
can you be so insensitive?

As
much as I loved the name ‘Savannah,’ as much as it just suited our baby, I rebelled, skirted it, found fault with it.

“Eh,
well…I mean…isn’t it hard to spell?”

Eventually,
Bear cottoned onto me. “Let’s choose another name,” he said in a gentle voice.

“No,
no, no, Bear,” I hastened to add, seeing the helpless look on his face. “Savannah is a lovely name and it just s…suits her. I’m happy with it, B…Bear.”

“Then
why you crying so much, Arena?” he asked, moving to take me in his arms. “I don’t know what to do, baby. Tell me what to do, how I can help you? You cry all the time.”

It
was then that the floodgates opened.

I
broke down and sobbed. Bawled unabashedly in his arms, babbling about my guilt, my conflict and how unfair I was being toward Savannah.

I
was in such a fragile state, my doctors feared a nervous breakdown, so my therapist, who specializes in grief counseling, had to pay me a visit while I was in the hospital.

“I
want to keep her name Sasha!” I blurted. “That’s what I really want. I want to forget that I lost a baby. Deep down, I
do
want to replace Sasha, erase the past, my fatal mistake. and …I am ashamed that I feel this way. Please help me not to feel this way.”

After
talking to her for two hours, she left and came back every day for a week for a therapy session, during which time, we formulated some coping strategies

Bear
held my hand every step of the way and nursed me back to being whole again.

He
often sat in my therapy sessions to further assist me.

During
therapy, it was agreed that we would not name Savannah for a month.

It
was a relief not to.

By
the end of the month, I was able to successfully implement some of coping strategies. I accepted the name Savannah because it just fit so beautifully, and I fought to see her as another one of my children, not as a replacement for Sasha or a punishment.

“You
can be known as a victim or a survivor,” my therapist said.

I
chose to be a survivor.

Now,
I may never see Savannah again. After all that I’ve been through when she was born.

I
should have loved Savannah more.

I
should have hugged her more.

I
should have …

Assailed
by guilt, with a fist full of should-haves, I curl into fetal position on the patio chair and weep.

7:25
AM. Fatima and Soong and a few of my good friends, women I can count on, arrive within minutes of each other, red-eyed and blotchy-faced.

“Tom
has her,” I say. “I know that for a fact. It’s no coincidence.”

They
cry with me, hold me, and weep for Savannah as if she’s already gone.

I
don’t blame them. We’ve all been there, done that, held a funeral before. How can I possibly expect them to stay positive when there isn’t a kernel of hope inside me?

In
spite of their grief, they’re a great help; making coffee, answering my phone, talking to friends, watching the TV for news and keeping me updated. Most of all, they take care of Warren and Amy.

Bear
stays away from me. Hangs around outside the house, morose and hunched. Now and then, he gets into his SUV and drives around looking for his baby.

Even
though I will myself to go to him, to take him in my arms and share grief, I don’t, because I just can’t bear to look into his accusing eyes.

Savannah,
baby, communicate with Mummy. Fight, please fight. Mummy is a fighter, you are a fighter too. Please …