the day it happened
I step into the media room and yawn. The heavy curtains are closed, blocking out the sun, the room cozy in the dark. We’d painted the walls a deep midnight blue, one that paired well with the cream carpet and the dark leather theater seating. I eye the closest recliner and consider taking a break, curling up under a blanket and reading for a bit. Maybe I’ll take a short nap.
I discard the idea and move to the wall, the one dominated by a giant projector screen. Opening the built-in cabinet, I eye the rows of VHS tapes, moving past Simon’s childhood videos and onto the sports videos, all of games played decades ago. My current scene needs a football backdrop. I need inspiration, and enough game lingo to sound authentic. Watching a few old games will do the trick.
My husband is addicted to videotaping things. In one cabinet are a hundred slim DVD cases with Bethany’s first steps, her birthdays, her play dates with friends. In another cabinet are videos of our wedding, honeymoon, the day we moved into this house. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and hear him watching them, muted sounds barely audible through the wall. It’s odd, but so am I. I’d rather him over-document things than not document them at all.
I move to the sports section, and grab one at random—Packers vs Vikings 1998 Superbowl—and push the VHS tape in, switching the input on the remote and waiting. Hopefully, the video would have his walk into the stadium, some behind-the-scenes glimpses at the hallways, crowd, and vendors.
The screen flickers to life and I settle back against the couch.
The video is mislabeled. It’s of a girl, one who can’t be older than twelve. She runs through a yard, her blonde hair bouncing, curls flying, spinning, colliding. She skids to a stop, and her smile fades.
I don’t recognize the scuffed Nikes that come down those steps. The camera video is poor quality, the action jerky, the yard unfamiliar. I also don’t recognize the girl, her lips chapped, her face flushed. But I recognize the voice when it comes, when it says her name in a way that twists my stomach. Simon.
The camera bounces, then is set on the step, its elevated position giving me a clear view of him as he approaches her. He wears faded jeans, ones that are tight, the style of the eighties, his T-shirt sleeves cut off, and sunglasses perched on his head. He’s young—maybe sixteen or seventeen, and when the girl steps away, his hand reaches out and grabs her wrist.
He looks so confident. Had he been that confident when he’d approached me at the fair? Had he been that aggressive when he’d kissed me for the first time? Dread closes my throat, and my palm is suddenly sweaty around the remote. I drop it, and watch in horror as a giant version of Simon pulls her to the ground.
The sounds are muffled. There is a crunch of leaves as her legs thrash against the ground. The yelp of her voice right before he clamps his hand over her mouth. I swallow my own scream when I see her head turn to the side, her eyes wide, his voice in her ear, whispers that don’t reach the camera. My stomach cramps as I watch the loose flop of her shoes, her legs pinned by his thighs, her struggle useless. He presses a kiss against her cheek in the same moment that his hips thrust and her eyes clamp shut.
I reach out and stop the tape. I try to stand, and can’t. I sit there, in front of that hundred-inch screen and don’t move.
I can’t think. I can’t do. I stare at the blue screen and relive every minute of that tape. His excited grunt. His whisper against her ear. My eyes drag off the screen and over to the cabinet, to all of the other VHS tapes, all labeled in Simon’s neat font. My stupid husband had assembled enough brain cells to hide his hellish past in clear sight. Football. A label I was guaranteed to never reach for. There are so many others. Golf Tournaments. Hockey matches. Baseball. How many of them are like this one? How truly terrible is the father of my child?
Something in me lurches, a panic, the realization that time is ticking, and I am wasting it. I glance at the blackout curtains, and wonder how low the sun is, trying to remember the last time I looked at a clock. It’s afternoon, probably at least three. Hopefully not four. He will be home soon, may be driving here right now from the school, his SUV eating up the miles.
I push to my feet and stagger out of the room, my shoulder catching on the doorjamb, my eyes blurry as I make it to the hall, Bethany’s door closed, the distance so far, the time too short, my heart galloping in my chest. I am having a panic attack. All of the signs are here. I wipe at my forehead and my fingers come away wet. My chest aches, breath labored, tingling in my fingertips. I need to find a clock, to see how little time we have. I can’t be here when he gets home. Just one look at me, and he’ll know. I push open Bethany’s bedroom door and catch a piece of my heart when I see her at her desk.
Blonde hair. Not long enough to be braided. Pajama pant leggings, a dinosaur print repeating along the length of her leg. Would a man ever grab her in that way? Would a teenage boy whisper threats and promises against the soft skin of her forehead? Would her innocence be lost on grass and dead leaves?
I close my eyes and set down the pen, moving the notepad off my lap and taking a deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety building in my chest. It’s been four years, yet this room is just the same. The smell of leather in the air. The expensive drapes, recliners, framed movie paraphernalia. Simon’s gaming desk. The giant projector screen and surround-sound speakers. Now, at my spot on the floor, my back against a couch—I am in reach of the duffel bag, the one that still sits, just inside the door. I pull it toward me, remembering how quickly I had packed it, the inside still an unorganized mess of VHS tapes. I carefully sift through them, digging to the bottom and finally finding the one—Packers vs Vikings 1998 Superbowl—that I watched that day.
I came into this room planning to watch it first, before writing, but stepping inside, feeling the swell of emotions rise in my throat—I didn’t need any further trigger, didn’t think I could manage to see it again, to hear those muffled screams magnified through the extensive surround sound system. I shut the door, made it to the floor, and started to write, the memories as fresh and painful as if they just happened.
Now, I look down at the damn tape. It’s heavier than I remember, and I turn it over in my hand, taking a good look at it for the first time. The label is worn, as if it was handled often, and there is tiny writing on the front sticker that I hadn’t noticed before. I turn my head and read it. Jess. I pick up a second tape, looking at the same place. This one has an initial after the name. Beth S. I rummage through another five or six, my mind straining to recall any of the names from Simon’s stories or past. None of them ring a bell. Then, a name that gives me pause. Charlotte B. A pain in my chest, one that started with the first name and grew with each new spotting—flares. Charlotte B. I shove aside the notebook and push myself up. Fumbling with the door, I rush into the hall and startle Mark when I burst into the office. “Call Charlotte Blanton.” I pant out the words, my heart beating rapidly. “She works for the New York Post. Ask her if she is from North Virginia.”
The woman I’ve run from, avoided. I have some questions about your husband. I thought she was suspicious of me, of Simon’s death. Now, I see her question, her email, her pursuit, in an entirely different light. A victim.
I close the office door and return to the media room, stepping over the pile of tapes, of all of the names I have yet to read. I grab the notepad, my eyes dragging back to the videotape, to the neat print and the simple name. Jess.
I’ve told myself, for four years, that she doesn’t matter, that Simon is dead and can’t hurt her anymore. I’ve told myself that what happened on this tape is fifteen years old, and that she’s a grown woman now, the scars of her past healed. I’ve told myself—I’ve convinced myself, that because I killed him, that I didn’t owe her anything else.
Something stops in my chest, and the guilt is almost impossible to breathe through. I tighten my fingers around the pen and force myself to lower it to the page.