Remember Mia (18 page)

I clicked on the image search tool and scrolled through the first ten pages, scanning the photos of the David Liebermans of the world. Nothing jumped out at me and after a while the pictures blended into a sea of eyes, noses, and smiles. I had been at this for hours and I was getting tired.

Finally, on page twenty-plus, a picture of two teenagers caught my eye. The boy in the picture was a version of Lieberman decades ago. I clicked on the photo. It took me to the online archive of the
Millbrook Park Townsman
, a small newspaper in Dutchess County, New York.

Decades of headlines scrolled before my eyes. I concentrated on the bold words. One entry jumped out at me:
House Fire Kills Parents, Spares Children
. No reference to the name Lieberman, yet there had to be a connection, according to my search preferences. Another bold link caught my eye:
Gruesome Discovery Made
. I clicked on the link, which directed me to the full text, and I began reading.

HOUSE FIRE KILLS PARENTS, SPARES CHILDREN

DOVER, New York—
A couple died early Friday, July 3rd, 1982, when a fire swept through their home on Sparrow Lane in Oniontown, a part of Dover, NY.

The victims are Gabriel, 48, and Esther Lieberman, 41, according to New York Public Safety spokeswoman
Irene McConnell. The couple’s children, David, 17, and Anna, 13, are being treated at Dover County Hospital for smoke inhalation. Anna Lieberman was also treated for minor burns to her hands.

“When we arrived, there was fire blowing out of the windows in the front,” said Fire Marshal Donald Helm. The shed in the backyard and an old barn were also consumed by the flames. “The entire town is sad for the two children. It’s tragic.”

The fire was initially reported by a neighbor. According to Fire Marshal Donald Helm, the couple was trapped in an upstairs bedroom. The windows, according to the children, were hard to open at times. “Why they didn’t try to escape into the hallway and down the stairs, we’ll never know.”

Investigators from the State Fire Marshal’s Office were at the scene throughout the day, working to pinpoint the cause. Fire marshals and Dover firefighters searched the rubble in the afternoon, looking for clues.

The minor children are in the care of the State until relatives can be reached. The investigation into the fire is ongoing.

The resemblance to Lieberman as a teenager was uncanny. He hadn’t changed much; his acne had healed and he had added some facial hair over the years. David was the attractive one of the two, but had the eyes of an angst-ridden adolescent not wanting to pose for a photograph. David stood back, his body in his sister’s shadow. Anna was a rather plain girl, her frizzy hair parted in the middle, her lips full, and her smile open, friendly eyes looking directly in the camera. Or maybe confrontational, I couldn’t tell.

A little more browsing and a follow-up article in the same paper came up. According to a state agency spokesperson, David aged out
of the foster care system weeks after the fire. Anna stayed in the foster care system for months, until finally a relative was located.

Both our stories were so eerily similar yet a mere coincidence of events unrelated, a synchronicity that defied any possible explanation: my parents dying, an older brother leaving behind a younger sister. In both cases an aunt came and took care of the younger sibling. In Anna’s case a Laura Dembry came forward. It took only a few more strokes to find out that Laura Dembry was a member of the Church of Appointed Dominion in Plainview, New York, a hamlet in Nassau County, not too far from the north shore of Long Island. There was no reference made as to where Anna went to live. Details became scarce after that and the Liebermans’ online story ended there: orphaned children moving on with their lives. But I knew better, I knew from experience that our own personal shadows followed us through life, and I knew that in the aftermath is where the true tragedies occur. Mine, his, everybody’s. Newspaper articles weren’t the end of anything.

Our similar fates lingered in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket of fog. I randomly typed the title of one of the books on the shelf,
Baron de Rais
,
The Trial of Gilles de Laval,
into the search engine and clicked on the introduction.
Baron de Rais had considerable pleasure in watching the heads of children separated from their bodies . . . sometimes he would ask, when they were dead, which of them had the most beautiful head.

And I remembered the title of the last book, the one at the end of the long historical timeline, as if it staked claim to the present.
The Prince of Darkness
.

I needed to get help but then I imagined how this would go. How this would unfold if I went to the police. I would return to the precinct and I’d tell them about Mia, Lieberman, and his sister, Anna, about my suspicions—never mind the fact that I was the perfect perpetrator, the mother who had access to the baby, a baby who, mind you, had disappeared days ago. And the newspapers,
they would have a field day with the articles.
Since when is it illegal to collect newspaper articles?
Child porn, yes, you mention child porn and you have a case, but articles about child abuse and neglect? I can hear the police question me:
How again is this related? Explain this to us one more time? The man collects newspaper articles? By the way, you look familiar? Do we know you?

Eventually I’d be unable to answer their questions. I’d fall just short of even comprehending their questions, and then I’d be incapable of calming down and my edgy voice would repeat the same nonsense over and over again,
Tinker Bell, Tinker Bell
, and I might as well be talking to the walls because the story was nothing but a macabre and ill-conceived soap opera, a half-baked, crackpot pipe dream by a woman who repeated the same incoherent story over and over again.

And I would carry on with this conspiracy script and not ever make any kind of sense, and then they’d put me in a cell and order a psych evaluation but—with the state of the budget and it being a Sunday—I’d have to wait until Wednesday afternoon and before I could convince anyone of my sanity, Lieberman and his sister would be God-knows-where.

—

I squint and pound my temple with my fist. Every time I emerge from the past, I’m shocked. How many times did I want to forget painful memories of my life? And now this, here I am, trying to remember them all. What a joke, and again, the joke’s on me.

“Call the police.” I can’t control the tremor of my raspy voice.

I watch Dr. Ari pick up the phone and ask for Detective Wilczek. My stomach starts contracting and my face must show my inner state because Dr. Ari points at a door behind his desk. In there, I heave and heave until clear liquid comes up. The stench of stomach acid fills my nostrils.

When I sit back down, Dr. Ari is still on the phone. I watch his mouth move, occasionally his brows furrow, then his face darkens. He hangs up the phone.

“They’ve been looking for Lieberman and his sister all along. Not a trace,” he says. “Both of them. Off the face of the earth. It’s not a crime to disappear; they are looking to question them but haven’t located them yet.”

I hardly comprehend the words but I know what they mean. Gone. Everyone’s gone. And then I ache and I realize I might have to live in this body for the rest of my life. A body that feels like it’s wrapped in jagged little edges of pain. Does this story even sound like the truth? This story of orphaned siblings so similar to my story. Where is the logic, how likely is it that the story I’m telling is real?

It could be the truth. Stranger things have happened. A story told is a powerful thing and retelling it over and over leaves trenches in your mind and before you know it those trenches get deeper. A foxhole turns into a dugout, deep enough to hide in.

Yes, it does sound like the truth.

A
s I stir my orange Jell-O into mush, Marge and I watch the women, six of them, ranging from eighteen to thirty-something, their wraithlike bodies performing eerie dietary rituals, stabbing forks into tiny pieces of sustenance, and miraculously the tines hold on to the morsels; after the women chew elaborately, they conclude the ceremony by gulping down large cups of water. A majority of the time they merely rearrange dietary food groups into mounds of rejection, always aware of their obsession to deprive themselves of nourishment. The orderlies fiercely patrol the borders during mealtime, especially between our table and the group of women who Marge and I refer to as “Farmers’ Delight.”

Marge at times is an enigma to me. Dr. Ari is rumored to have a very limited number of cases and mainly oversees other psychiatrists on his staff. What is it about Marge that he chooses to be her psychiatrist? I know Marge struggles with the death of her mother but I’m starting to question if she’s not as innocent as she wants me to believe.

I’ve grown to like her and we’ve bonded, at least as much as this sojourn allows us, and watching the women is a fun distraction until Marge develops peculiar culinary habits of her own: she stuffs large amounts of food into her mouth and swallows without chewing. Her face is expanding by the day with her sleeve hems cutting into her arms, and her waist is ballooning. She is turning into a globe, her belt cutting her in half like an equator line.

“Are you going to eat that?” Marge points at a slice of white bread on my plate. Watching me turn my Jell-O to mush earlier must have torn her up inside.

Marge keeps eyeing the bread, not in the least bothered by the bite marks. There’s no warding off Marge when it comes to food; she seems determined to grow beyond the walls of this institution.

“Let me have my lunch in peace,” I say but what really bothers me is the fact that I want to ask her about her mother’s death, yet at the same time I’m perplexed by my newfound aversion to secrets and lies.

“Don’t get testy, I’m just asking. If you’re not going to eat it, let’s switch trays.” She eyes the leftovers at the Farmers’ Delight table and I anticipate dire complications in our near future. Everybody’s success is guaranteed; she wants their food, they don’t want food at all. A match made in heaven.

“What are you trying to do to yourself? Did you talk to someone about this?” I’m perplexed at her size; her hips expand beyond the chair and even her glasses cut into her temples. I picture the day her eyes will disappear in folds of fat and wonder how long the hospital will allow her to go on. If the anorexic women are not allowed to leave food on their plates, someone, sooner or later, ought to intervene in Marge’s bingeing.

“Dr. Ari said they’ll start supervising me during meals. But so what? There are ways to get food. There are always ways to get food. You think they’ll give me their desserts?” Marge is eyeing
the anorexic girls and they are returning the favor. I see one of the girls nod ever so slightly. A deal has been struck.

I have my own theory about why Marge has decided to be the ever-expanding woman: She’s killed her mother and now wants her back. She intends to re-create her mother’s body within her own skin and she won’t quit until someone stops her. I feel for Marge, yet I try to keep some distance because I don’t want to get drawn into her web of obsession.

“Hello, ladies.” I hear Oliver’s voice behind me and Marge’s face deflates as her plan has been spoiled for now.

Oliver puts his tray on our table and pulls up a chair. Orderlies don’t eat with patients but I welcome the distraction. He smells of disinfectant, lotion, and peppermint.

“Thanks again for the other day,” I say, recalling the cool lemon-scented wipe on my forehead.

“Sure,” Oliver replies and I’m not sure he knows what I’m referring to. “I’ll be eating my meals with you from now on. I hope you don’t mind?” he adds and he directs the question toward Marge, who raises her eyebrows. We all know he’s here to keep Marge from killing herself with cafeteria chow.

He bites into a cracker and starts peeling the label off the orange. His hair is dark brown, his eyes a deep ocean blue. His eyebrows slope downward and give him a rather solemn expression. He wears a playful smile and kindness seems to be etched into his face. His voice is deep, with a serious undertone. He’s probably average anywhere else, but within these walls he’s a rock star.

“Why are your hands so . . . beat up? Are you working construction on your days off?” I try to sound nonchalant and casual.

“I build stuff, with wood.” He chews and I patiently wait for him to elaborate. “It’s called wood turning.”

Marge is annoyed by his presence. She has gone through another change; besides the alteration of her ballooning appearance she doesn’t hold back anymore. When I met her, she was shy
and timid and hardly talked to anybody. Now her words exit her mouth with the same speed she fills up her body with food.

“Wood turning? What’s that? Dressers, chests, stuff like that? Why don’t you just go and buy furniture? Seems like a waste of time. Just saying . . .” Marge eyes his orange.

“It’s nothing like carpentry or building furniture. I make bowls, lidded boxes, vessels, urns, pens—that kind of stuff. Delicate things, whatever requires attention to detail.”

“Are you gonna eat that?” Marge asks and points at Oliver’s orange.

“I’m going to eat at this table from now on, until further notice. Just to keep an eye on everything.”

“Show us something then,” Marge says and glances back and forth between the two of us and smiles. “One of those wooden things you make.”

Out of Oliver’s scrubs pocket appears a rounded object. An acorn, not bigger than a robin’s egg, complete with a lid and a stem.

“See, I made this from sandalwood,” he says. “I use special tools like this one and carve the details. This is called a gouge edge. For very small details, like the cap.”

The tool in his hand, the gouge edge, is a concave-blade miniature chisel with a rounded and troughlike groove at the very tip. Oliver places the gouge on his tray. I pick it up. It’s not bigger than a regular-sized pair of tweezers.

“It’s perfect for small details.” Oliver holds the acorn up by the stem. “This is”—he pauses for dramatic purposes—“an acorn.” He holds it gently, as if it might break. “The tool is used to carve small indents, to make it look real. I rubbed wax on the cap to make it darker.”

“Looks like a real waste of time to me.” Marge gets up and slides her tray over the table and turns her attention to the anorexic girls.

Oliver mumbles something under his breath and starts peeling
his orange. “By the way”—he leans closer into me and lowers his voice—“you’ll have a visitor soon.”

I look at him, puzzled. “A visitor?” I ask. “For me?”

“For you.”

“Who?” I think of Jack immediately, then I abandon the thought. Thinking of him makes my stomach feel queasy and I try to concentrate on Oliver.

“I didn’t get that part.” He pauses. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but I thought it might cheer you up. You haven’t had a visitor since you’ve been here.”

A kaleidoscope of faces pops up in my mind: the DA, the detectives, Nell, Jack. I’m unable to shut the images off. I extend my perception outward, take in the sound of the loudspeaker, the loud chatter around us, the clanking of lunch trays, and the screeching of chairs. I try to breathe and relax but my heart rate won’t slow and I concentrate on Oliver, his nail puncturing the skin of the orange, his thumb working its way under the peel, finally tearing off a section of the skin.

Marge pushes her chair toward the table with the anorexic girls, talking and giggling and pointing at various food items on their trays.

Oliver gets up and raises his voice. “Ladies, no funny business—you know better than that.” He points toward the cafeteria exit. “Lunch is over.”

The girls get up in unison and leave their trays behind. I watch Marge making her way to the dirty dish bin. A visitor. My thoughts jumble, pull me in every direction possible. My heart beats too fast to stay seated and so I get up, grab my tray.

“You forgot your stuff,” I say, and I hand the gouge and acorn to him while balancing my tray with one hand.

He grabs the gouge and slides it back into his pocket.

“Keep the acorn.”

“Keep it?”

“I made it for you,” he says.

“You made me an acorn. Any specific reason?”

“You’ll see.”

“Can I get a hint?”

He cocks his head to the left and says, “You know, I think a hint would ruin it. So I’m going to let you figure it out on your own.”

“Because I’m a nutcase, right?”

He chuckles, pulling up his shoulders.

“Okay then,” I say and slide the acorn in my pocket.

I exit the cafeteria and make my way to Dr. Ari’s office. After I knock on the door, I expect my unscheduled appearance to irritate him, but to my surprise I hear a cheerful “Yes?” As I open the door and walk in, I make sure to remain closer to the door than to his desk. Dr. Ari stands by the window, a lint remover in hand, meticulously stroking his navy blue wool coat. I just stand there and stare at him. I don’t know how to ask about the visitor without him probing how I found out, without giving Oliver away.

“Estelle, I was just thinking about you.” He pauses and checks his appearance in the mirror. “Your brother Anthony’s asked for permission to come and see you.”

—

Anthony Paradise, the last time I saw him, had just turned eighteen. I remember his olive complexion and his green eyes. I’d heard he’d gone to a military academy, a choice I have always been puzzled by. There were scholarships and so many opportunities, but he chose a military academy instead of one of the Ivy League schools that were so keen on recruiting him. After I moved in with Aunt Nell I asked about him constantly, but she was always short on words, and I’m no longer sure what I heard from Nell or what I made up myself.

Oliver is nowhere to be found, and Marge is out hunting and gathering and expanding her frame. I realize that I have no one. No
friends. I might as well say it like it is—I’ve never really had friends. All the relationships I’ve had were thin and inadequate, almost nonexistent. A faint recollection of memories shared at some point in the distant past, yet no lasting connections, no scrapbooks, no matching jewelry or framed photographs. Not one person I can call and talk to. And even if I had a number to call, what would I say?

Hi, this is Estelle, remember me? I just wanted to catch up, so how have you been? I’m in a psychiatric institution because I seem to have misplaced my infant daughter, some people even believe I had something to do with her disappearance. I just need to sort a few things out and so your name came to mind and I just thought I’d call . . .”

I can’t get Anthony off my mind. His impending visit, Dr. Ari’s comment
Tomorrow, I’ll let you know the time
, makes my heart throb in my ears. I mention my unease to Dr. Ari, I even request anxiety medication, but he denies me chemically induced peace like he denies cutting me slack during our sessions. In here you deal with things, that’s all there is to it.

For the rest of the day I concentrate on the familiar sterile and hurried efficiency of Creedmoor, but I find it almost impossible to deal with the constant intrusion of the eerie background music reminding me of what and where I am. The sirens don’t sound too often because this isn’t an emergency room and patients don’t generally arrive by ambulance, but are brought in by family members or social workers. Today, though, the siren sound is higher pitched than usual and I know an ambulance is approaching and the pitch will lower once it retreats. There are the rubber soles squeaking on linoleum, the occasional loudspeaker messages that no one understands, wheels of carts and beds, and even occasional moaning. Sometimes screaming. Never silence. Even my olfactory bulb is being bombarded with the scent of latex and bleach and cooking odors wafting through the hallways from the kitchen.

Then I try to shut out the noise and I manage for the most part
by focusing on the scuff marks on the shiny floor and the scraped walls. Just when I think I’ve managed to stay in control, the sound of IV stand wheels meddles with my attempts and I wonder where one really finds silence at all. An underground mine, maybe, a soundproof chamber? A monastery where monks adhere to the self-imposed vow of silence? My thoughts go topsy-turvy and my mind is about to explode like an overheated lightbulb.

As I walk the hallways, I keep an eye on the floor, tan with tiny specks of gray, white dots here and there if I look really close. I ignore the conversations of nurses passing me, the orderlies with their clipboards and jingling keys, the loudspeaker with its commands:
Doctor scratch scratch, please scratch, at the lobby, scratch
. I hear nurses chat from behind a glass wall down the hallway, farther down the hallway there’s laughter, cabinets closing, a phone ringing. The world around me is like shards stuck in my brain and my coping ability, already far from being stellar, keeps declining, clogging up the few thoughts I can keep on an even keel. I wonder if there’s a pool in this place, somewhere in the basement, some ancient remnant of water therapy for the insane, so I can immerse myself in water so deep the sound waves are dampened, all signals weakened so the world diminishes altogether.

At midnight I carry an empty water bottle in my hand as an excuse for leaving my room. Water coolers are on each floor and in the stairwells, and no one will question me because no one drinks the tap water at Creedmoor, the rusty waterline stains in toilets speak to the water quality and are a clear warning to avoid its consumption.

The west wing is abandoned and most of the doors, rooms, and offices are locked. This part of Creedmoor is not in use, the funds for the renovation probably somewhere in the deep pockets of a wealthy donor, as Creedmoor’s days are numbered.

I hear footsteps, too slow for a nurse or an orderly, maybe the security guard checking whatever he checks in this unoccupied part of the building, and I hide in an alcove.