21st Century
Less than 24 hours later, I'm free to go for good. I leave with my son and my father through a back entrance to the hospital, so as to avoid media attention. Before we leave, John Allan informs us that Dr. Sheila Lawson has been placed on paid leave, pending the outcome of an investigation into my care at River Forks Hospital.
The press appear to be breeding like rats, because the crowd outside the house is a lot bigger than I remember it. The presence of a newborn does nothing to dampen their enthusiasm, either, and they film, photograph and scream questions at us as we run into the house. The commotion wakes the baby and he begins to cry. As my father runs around, closing all the curtains and then fussing over the mess in the kitchen, I tentatively raise Eirik's son to my breast and almost melt into a puddle of hormonal emotion as he latches on and gazes up into my eyes, like I might be the most wonderful thing he has ever seen. Which, given he is only 1 day old, might just be true.
Later, when night has fallen, the baby is asleep and the house is in a much cleaner state than it had been when we got home, my dad and I look at each other.
"We can do this," he says to me. "We can do this, Paige. The interview is tomorrow – they're coming here to do it but they don't have to know you're here. You don't have to appear."
"You're still doing that?" I ask, barely looking up from my sleeping child's sweet face.
"Yes," my dad replies. "I have to – I agreed to do it, even if they've let you out of the hospital already. Besides, the interviewer says we can use this as an opportunity to – what did he say? 'Frame the narrative.' We can explain that you're a new mom, that we need peace and quiet, that you might talk about what happened when you're ready. Or not. Hopefully we can get those reporters to leave and we can get back to some kind of normal life here."
Bless my dad. He's not even that old, but he seems to live in an older world than the one I'm used to. A world where the presence of a newborn baby in a house is enough to get a crowd of desperate, ruthless media types off the lawn. We don't live in that world anymore. I know it and my dad doesn't.
"I'll stay upstairs," I tell him. "During the interview, I mean. I don't want to be on TV."
***
Time itself seems to have taken on paradoxical new qualities with the presence of my baby. The minutes themselves pass as if slowed, each second looming past as I do next to nothing beyond staring at him, running my fingers over the contours of his tiny, sleeping face, marveling at a soft hand as it wraps itself tightly around my thumb. And even as the lovesick haze of new motherhood seems to have delayed the ticking of the clock itself, time races by. I sit down at just past five o'clock, with the baby on my lap, and when I next check my phone – expecting it to read 5:30 or perhaps 5:45 – it reads 9:10 and I'm baffled – where have the hours gone?
My dad hovers sweetly, as enchanted as any grandfather would be. I feel him holding back, though. He comments at one point how he thinks he can see a bit of my mother in the baby's mouth and chin and then I notice him biting another comment back – a comment I'm almost certain would have been about the man my dad doesn't know – my son's father.
I desperately want to tell my dad about Eirik. I want to tell him so badly I'm near bursting with it. Not yet, though. I haven't figured out what I'm going to do, and I can't very well go telling half the story, can I? I can't say oh, yes, my baby's father is named Eirik and I love him, because that will inevitably be followed with questions about where Eirik is and why isn't he here with his child and how did I meet Eirik etc. etc.
I'm going to give myself a few days. To think. To be with my son. To settle in. I won't make any rushed decisions. I won't allow these precious first days to be tainted with stress – not anymore than they already are, anyway.
The media crew arrive earlier than expected and I disappear upstairs before they come in. Then I sit on my bed, with the bedroom door open, straining to hear what's being said. It sounds like a whole bunch of people, there are a lot of voices and sounds – furniture being moved, equipment being placed, preparations being made. The baby, his belly full, mercifully does not stir.
A couple of hours and two feeds later, my son sleeps again and my boredom and curiosity grows. I walk to the doorway and stand there cocking my head towards the stairs, but I still can't make out anything that's being said.
I look back at the baby. Still fast asleep. It's just a few steps down the stairs.
When I get to the bottom I lean my ear gently against the door. That's better. Now I can hear everything. A woman is speaking, her voice serious and authoritative. I recognize that voice – Joyce Williams, the 'prestige' interviewer. Wow. She's asking my father about the baby.
"He's beautiful," my dad us saying, and I can hear the pride in his voice. "Almost 9 pounds, beautiful and strong. I love him very much."
"And your daughter," Joyce Williams asks, "how is she?"
"She's great. She's like any new mom, just completely engrossed in her baby."
There's defensiveness in my dad's tone when he says that and I realize that's partly why he's agreed to do the interview – to try to introduce a different narrative to what has become a sensationalistic and negative story.
Joyce Williams pauses briefly before asking the next question. "And do you, Mr. Renner – or your daughter – have any comment on the statement given by Dr. Sheila Lawson just over an hour ago?"
My father has been caught off guard – so have I. Dr. Lawson is giving statements now? Is that legal? I lean harder against the door.
"Uh, Dr. Lawson?" My dad asks. "I – er – I didn't know that she, uh –"
"Of course Dr. Lawson is barred from discussing your daughter's case, Mr. Renner, but it was reported a few hours ago that she has been fired from her job at River Forks Hospital. When we caught her outside her home she – actually, Jim, do we have the tape?"
My stomach sinks. What has that awful woman said? She's smart, it's almost certain she's found a way to say something without actually, legally 'saying something.' There's a small commotion going on in the living room and I can't help but crack the door, just an inch. I have to hear what Dr. Lawson said.
My father is on one of our sofas, which suddenly looks very worn and old under the intense lights which have been set up behind the cameras, most of which are pointed right at him. Joyce Williams is seated facing him, slightly off to the side. A man wearing headphones is handing my dad a phone.
A few seconds later, Dr. Lawson's voice fills the room.
"As you know, I'm not legally allowed to talk about Paige Renner or anything to do with her care," she says, in a voice dripping with faux concern. "And I'll need to speak to my legal team before I can give you a more official statement. But what I will say right now is that I have spent my entire career protecting vulnerable children and young people from those who would do them harm. Sometimes it's their parents, sometimes their teachers, school bullies, anyone. And sometimes, it's themselves."
Dr. Lawson pauses dramatically after that statement and I feel the first bubbles starting to boil up in my blood.
"Some young people are a danger to themselves, through no fault of their own. Mental illness, personality disorders, the consequences of past trauma – it can be anything, and we should be compassionate in our approach to them. But if you were to ask me what I think about allowing an infant to be cared for by one of these damaged –"
"That's enough!"
My father, holding the phone, has stopped the video playing and is glaring angrily at Joyce Williams. I can see how hard he's trying to hold it together. I myself am lightheaded with rage. How was that comment from the doctor not about me? How is anyone listening to that ever going to think she's not talking about me? Of course she is!
"You're upset, sir."
Joyce Williams is addressing my father, whose face is bright red now. He looks to his side, at the man who handed him the phone. "You said this wasn't going to be a 'gotcha!' You said this wasn't going to be hostile!"
The man, off-camera, signals something to Joyce Williams and she turns to one of the cameras and announces a commercial break. Seconds later, my dad jumps to his feet and rips the microphone off his lapel.
"What is this?!" He shouts, at no one in particular. "You can't just ambush me with something like that, like I'm some goddamned rube! Get – get the fuck out of my house. Right now. All of you. Out. OUT!"
Immediately, Joyce Williams and about three other people surround him, speaking softly and kindly, assuring him they didn't intend to cause any upset, that this is his chance to defend me, that unless he continues the interview, he's wasting his chance to 'change America's mind.'
My father, bless him, knows bullshit when he smells it. He brushes off the entreaties of the perfectly coiffed, perfectly unctuous Joyce and her flunkies and shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, don't touch me. That was an ambush – you should have warned me that you were going to play that tape – live – of Dr. Lawson. We're done here. You do have to leave right now."
And as I watch the media team continue their efforts to convince my dad to finish the interview, something happens. Something like the camera suddenly being pulled way, way back in a movie. A new, wider perspective is suddenly laid out in front of me.
Even if these people leave, right now, they're not going anywhere. Not really. This is 2017, where scandals never die. They live on, zombie-like and constantly mutating online, in all those discussion forums and comment sections and Youtube videos. No, the media isn't going anywhere. Nor is the interest. I've barely glanced at my phone since coming home, and even I've seen enough to realize that this is the biggest story in the country – and that the interest in me and my story is not the kind, concerned interest of a loving friend or relative. It's viciously intense and, terrifyingly, not really interested in getting at the truth, so far as I can tell. No, it's become something else, some kind of cultural monster that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with reflecting people's own narratives about their own lives, about themselves, back to them. To one group I'm an innocent victim – ruined, of course, utterly ruined, destroyed by the unspeakable things they're certain have happened to me – but innocent. To another I'm the worst kind of manipulator, a brainless, heartless young woman desperate for attention and fame, toying with the media and using my own child as a way to keep the spotlight focused right on me. Those are the two main stories. Believe me, there are others. Countless others, from the mildly wacky to the truly insane.
I look back up the stairs, listening for any sound of fussing. It's not just me who's going to have to deal with this scrutiny, either. It's my father, my friends – my son. And he won't have his father around to guide him through it.
I peer back out through the door as the CNN crew continues to cajole my father, and I can almost feel it – the cold certainty of steel infusing my spine.
You can stop this.
Maybe it's Eirik, maybe he's the trigger for this sudden surge of strength – the thought of him, of what he would do in this situation. Maybe it's coming purely from inside me, a natural reaction of boiling anger to the whirlwind of lies and bullshit swirling around not just me, now, but my family – my baby and my father. I can't know, in the moment, what the cause is. All I can know is that I've had enough. Of everything. Something has to be done, a decision has to be made. I take a deep breath and step out into the living room.
It takes a few seconds for people to notice me. One of the crew members is the first to look up and see me standing there and I watch as her eyes widen and she paws at the man beside her and points at me.
"Jim, Jim – JIM!"
Jim, irritated already, almost brushes her off but she grabs his shirtsleeve and he looks up. And then his eyes widen, too. More people look up. A little ripple of whispered excitement runs through the crew.
"Is that her?"
"Get the lights back on."
"Where's the baby?"
Eventually, it's Joyce Williams herself who speaks directly to me. "Paige!" She smiles, extending her hand out to me. I take it and smile back, not buying it for a second. "Would you like to take a seat beside your –"
"No."
Everyone in the room stops what they're doing and looks at me when they hear the tone in my voice. If I'm not mistaken there is a slight edge of 'is-she-going-to-lose-it-right-now' in their interest, too. I don't bother telling them they're going to be disappointed.
"I won't take a seat next to my dad," I say, my voice firm. "He said the interview with him was over, and it is. I have something to say, and you can film me when I say it, but I'm not answering any questions. And if you want to do this we have to do it right now because my son will be awake soon and he'll be hungry."
Joyce Williams looks at her crew members. The crew members look at Joyce Williams. Jim, who seems to be in charge in some capacity, nods to a couple of people. "Do it, set it up. Now."
Less than ten minutes and one very short, very one-sided negotiation later I'm seated in front of the bright lights – bright enough that I can actually feel the heat coming off them. The camera is pointed at Joyce, though, and she's talking directly into it, explaining that my father has ended the interview early but that they now have me, Paige Renner, and that I've agreed to answer a few brief questions. It's one question, but I don't bother correcting my interviewer – if I have to walk off on live TV because she steps outside the bounds I've just laid out, that's her problem, not mine.
"And now," Joyce says, "we have an exclusive interview with the young woman America has been waiting months to hear from – Paige Renner. Paige," she turns to me, along with one of the cameras. "Is it true you've given birth to a boy?"
I control my breathing and keep my expression neutral. "Yes."
"And what can you tell us about the time after you went missing?" Joyce starts.
I shake my head, just a little. "I'm sorry, I don't want to talk about that. What I do want to say is that I am not mentally ill or delusional. I do not have amnesia or borderline personality disorder. I was not kidnapped by aliens, or any of the other insane theories I've seen floating around online."
"But what about –"
I keep going, ignoring Joyce's interruption. "What I want to say is that I love my son and I love his father. I won't be making any other statements to the media, and none of my friends at Grand Northeastern, nor any of the staff at River Forks Hospital, knows any more than any of you, so you can leave them alone. If I have anything else to say, I'll say it myself. Thank you."
Joyce waits, the way interviewers do, to see if I'll leap to fill the awkward silence after I finish talking with more information. I do not. Finally, she speaks again. "And does your baby have a name yet?"
I look right into the camera, realizing only at the moment the words come out of my mouth that yes, my son has a name. "Eirik. His name is Eirik."
"Eric?" my interlocutor asks, raising one eyebrow conspiratorially, as if we're just two girlfriends having a chat – and that the conversation is not, in fact, being broadcast live to the whole country.
"Eirik," I repeat myself, slowing down and pronouncing it carefully. "Ei-rik. Like 'eye' and then 'rick.' He's named after his father."
Joyce Williams can't believe the scoop she's getting. People have been speculating about the identity of my baby's father ever since I turned up in that pharmacy in River Forks. "His father?" She repeats, not quite managing to contain the excitement in her voice.
But I'm standing up already, removing the microphone that's been attached to my shirt even as Joyce pleads with me to sit back down. My dad steps in, getting between us.
"No, you heard her, that's enough. You have to leave now."
***
An hour later, my dad and I are sitting across from each other at the dinner table. The furniture still hasn't been moved back into its proper places but the CNN crew is gone.
"You know they're not going to leave you alone?" My dad says dejectedly, picking at a pile of instant mashed potatoes on his plate.
I meet his eyes, nodding. "Yeah, I know. I was just thinking the same thing."
"I hate this," he continues. "I hate that you – and my grandson – have to put up with this. With being stalked like animals. I wish I had enough money to just take all of us – I don't know, somewhere else, somewhere far away. I'm so sorry Paige. I'm so sorry I can't protect you. It's my job and I can't –"
I reach out and put my hand over my fathers. "Dad, stop. This isn't your fault – none of this is your fault. And you couldn't stop it anymore than anyone could – including me."
We sit quietly for a little while, picking at our unappetizing dinner. I'm thinking of how delicious a venison stew would be right now, straight from the gigantic clay pots that simmer for hours over the cooking fires in the Viking camp, when my dad speaks up again.
"So his name is Eirik, huh? How do you spell that?"
"E-I-R-I-K," I reply and my dad looks emotional. "Dad," I say, patting his forearm. "Dad. Dad! What is it? What's –"
"I understand why you don't want to talk to the media," he say, breathing deeply, trying not to cry. "And I know I haven't been a good parent to you, Paige. But –"
Suddenly, it becomes clear to me. My dad thinks I haven't told him anything about my life during the months I was gone because I resent him in some way, or I think he's been a bad father.
"No," I say. "No, Dad. No, that is not – that is not what any of this is about. I don't think you've been a bad father, that isn't why I haven't said anything. Oh my God, is that what you think? We talked about this a long time ago –"
"Why then?" He replies plaintively. "Paige, why? Why won't you tell me?
"I can't," I reply. "I can't tell you. But I can show you."
My dad looks at me, confused. "You can – what? You can show me? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I can show you, Dad. I can explain it to you by showing you. Not right now, not today. Soon. Tomorrow, maybe. I need to talk to someone first."
"To Eric? Eirik, I mean?"
"Dad," I say, taking both his hands in mine and looking into his eyes. "Will you trust me? If I tell you that soon you'll find out everything, you'll understand everything about where I went and who I was with, will you just trust me?"
He sits back, still looking mystified, but he nods his head. "OK. I mean, I don't understand anything that's going on here right now, Paige, but OK. I trust you."
I force myself to eat a few mouthfuls of mashed potato, mindful of the need to keep my calorie intake high because I'm breastfeeding – and because I'm about to go back to a place where calories aren't always in such easy supply. A couple of minutes later, I ask my dad another question.
"Did you mean what you just said?"
"About what?"
"When you said you'd take us away if you could, somewhere far away, somewhere where no one knew who we were?"
My dad's face falls. He feels that he's let me down, and that hurts my heart. "Yes," he says quietly. "Yes, Paige. I'm not sure you understand that the only thing keeping me here – in this particular house, and this particular town – is you. Well, now it's you and little Eirik. I don't care where I am, as long as the two of you are with me. Even when you went away to college, the only reason I stayed here is so you would have somewhere to come back to – a home."
My heart fills with love. "Oh Dad," I whisper. "Is that true?"
"Of course it's true, Paige. You and your mother are all that ever mattered to me. When she died, it was down to just you. I know I let you down –"
"No!" I say, standing up and going to him, wrapping my arms around his stooped shoulders. "No, Dad. Don't say that. No one let anyone down, OK? I told you this before, remember? Before I went to college? It's not what I feel, it's not what happened. We both lost mom, and losing her broke both of us. I've never resented you. Never."
My father's voice is very, very soft now. "You mean it?"
"Yes!" I cry. "Yes of course I mean it. I love you, Dad. I've always loved you. And I'm not going anywhere, OK? We're going to stick together from now on, all three of us."
As if on cue, Eirik begins to fuss and I reach down into the bassinet near my feet to pick him up.