Page 131 of Gone Tonight
Evidence of her compassionate heart, or something else?
Last week, while I was helping Catherine pack up the things she needed for her new apartment, scenes from her childhood played in my mind, like a reel from a home movie.
But not the bittersweet, tender scenes mothers usually reach for when their child leaves the nest.
I didn’t envision Catherine’s first day of kindergarten, or the stuffed dog named Brownie she carried around for two solid years.
I thought about the fire she created that left me with a permanent scar and could have burned down our kitchen.
And her bed-wetting that persisted far beyond the appropriate developmental age.
And the mangled body of the squirrel that so intrigued her. The dead mouse under her bed. The cat that went missing from the home of our next-door neighbor with the wind chimes.
James once asked me this question about the little cat named Smokey, but now I imagine Catherine’s voice chiming in, entwining with his:Do you think I’d hurt an animal?
I didn’t want to know the answer. It’s why I never let her have a pet, not even a gerbil or fish, no matter how much she begged.
At night, when sleep refuses to descend and grant me peace, I tell myself these data points don’t prove anything. They are individual stars, not a constellation.
Still, what I would give to be able to peek inside my daughter’s mind.
I don’t kid myself that I know Catherine through and through. I hid big pieces of myself from her. She may not even know yet that certain parts of herself exist.
During my good moments, I almost convince myself I have nothing to worry about. I tell myself my tendency to catastrophize is sharpening my fears to an unrealistic point. Catherine’s life will unspoolgently—she’ll marry and have a few kids. I’ll go to every school recital and birthday party.
I try to picture this brightly colored reel of the future, to will it into existence: Catherine and her husband heading out to celebrate an anniversary while I wave at them from the couch, a baby in my arms.Go have fun,I’ll say.I’ve got this.
Life will be easier from here on out. The worst is behind me.
There’s just one thing I can’t get out of my mind.
When Catherine looked at me after she plunged the lethal doses of insulin into James’s neck, I didn’t see fear or remorse or doubt in her denim-blue eyes.
They were utterly serene. They were her father’s eyes.
The old adage rattles around in my brain, taunting me:Apple from the tree.
This weekend, I visited the McCormick Riverfront Library again. I’m accustomed to planning for every eventuality, to calculating all possible risks. It’s how I kept us safe for so many years.
But now my research takes me in a different direction. I try to distill the information I have into a prediction of what it may mean when a daughter is born to two murderers. There seems to be a genetic component to violence, but whose genes will prove dominant in Catherine?
I tell myself Catherine doesn’t have an addiction to violence, like her father.
She’s like me. Catherine killed in the heat of the moment, and only because it felt justifiable.
Now I drop my car keys into the side pocket of my purse and suddenly I see Catherine on the night she killed James, wiping down the car key from James’s pocket before tossing it away, as if guided by something stronger than instinct.
Never leave fingerprints,James whispers in my mind.
I’ve learned enough about murderers to understand that for some, the taste of their first kill whets an appetite. It’s as if a switch has been flicked.
For some, it ignites possibilities.
A breeze ruffles the air, which is already warm at 7:45 a.m. on this June morning. Catherine should come into view any second now. She’ll want to be here early for her first day.
The mournful wail of an ambulance splits through the air as the vehicle turns the corner, approaching the ER entrance. And in its wake comes Catherine, striding down the sidewalk, excitement blooming on her lovely face.
My hand rises to cover my heart.
