Secrets to the Grave

34

Anne had changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a soft, loose black sweater for the evening, settling in beside Haley on her hospital bed. She thought it would be a wonder if she didn’t fall asleep before the child did. She was exhausted from the battle with Maureen Upchurch and Milo Bordain, and the knowledge that neither woman was going to give up.

Maureen would band together with Bordain now if for no other reason than to be against Anne. Milo Bordain would bring her family’s influence to bear wherever she could. Not that Anne blamed her. The woman considered Haley family. Even if she showed no outward signs of being maternal, she clearly felt a strong connection.

Anne had Judge Espinoza on her side. She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that he would not be swayed. A staunch Democrat, he would delight in thwarting the Bordains at every turn.

Haley was busy coloring in the coloring book Franny had brought for her. She wouldn’t last for long, either. Her energy came in short bursts followed by long naps. Her little body had been put through a lot, and while she now had a clean bill of health, she would still be recovering physically for days.

She hadn’t asked about her mother again.

Anne thought she probably simply couldn’t cope with the idea that her mother wasn’t here and had closed a door in her memory—temporarily. Anne suspected that when Haley couldn’t hold those memories back anymore, the floodgates would open and the emotion would pour out.

There was very little literature to draw from on the subject of childhood memory, particularly childhood memory of traumatic events. Did children’s memories function in the same way as adults’? Or were the memories of children more influenced or distorted by emotional responses? Nobody really knew. There was even less information available on how best to pull those memories out and help the child cope with them.

Anne had called her professor for advice. His suggestions had been to tread very carefully, not to ask leading questions, and to go with her gut.

“I’m sure we’ll have a lot more data on the subject after this mess down in Manhattan Beach is over,” he said. “But for now you’ve got good instincts, Anne. Use them.”

Everyone in the field of child psychology, as well as those on the front lines protecting children from abuse, were watching the developing McMartin preschool sex-abuse case in Manhattan Beach, south of Los Angeles, where staff of the preschool had been accused of horrific crimes against the children in their charge.

It was a case that immediately struck a nerve with everyone who cared about children. People were outraged at the very suggestion of sexual abuse. The allegations had been made in ’83. The pretrial investigation was still ongoing three years later. But rumors about how the children involved were being interviewed were bringing more than a little doubt about the veracity of the testimony being elicited—at least among psychologists.

Improper suggestive interviewing techniques could easily mislead and confuse small children, rendering their testimony unreliable—to say nothing of potentially causing psychological damage to the children.

Maybe she knew more about this than she realized, Anne thought. But she still felt like she was working without a net.

Haley had colored a page of chickens all red. Was that because of all the blood she must have seen the night she and her mother were attacked? Or did she just like the color red? Or had there been red chickens at her home out in the country?

“Why are your chickens red?” she asked.

Haley just shrugged and turned the page to a picture of kittens.

“I have kitties,” she said. “At my house.”

“You do?”

“When can I go home?”

“You’re going to come and stay with Vince and me for a while.”

“My mommy will miss me. Can my kitties come and stay too?”

“Hmmm ... I don’t know,” Anne said. “We’ll have to see about that.”

“When Mommy says that she means no.”

Anne smiled and stroked a hand over the little girl’s unruly mop of curls.

“Hey, would you draw a picture for me?” Anne asked, reaching for the tablet of blank paper. “Would you draw me a picture of your house and your kitties?”

“Okay. I like to draw.”

She chose a brown crayon and started her rendition of a mamma cat and her babies. In the background she drew her house. Far off to one side of the page she drew a large black figure with red eyes.

“Who is that?” Anne asked, holding her breath for the answer.

Haley shrugged and colored the grass yellow.

“Is this a person?” Anne asked, tapping a finger below the imposing character looming off to the side.

Haley nodded.

“Does this person have a name?”

“Bad Monster,” she said, and then looked up at Anne. “Are there kids at your house?”

“No. Do you have other kids for friends?”

“Sometimes Wendy comes. She’s eleven. That’s more than four. That’s more than seven. When I’m seven I’m gonna ride a bike.”

“Good for you.”

“Big kids ride bikes.”

“Does your friend Wendy ride a bike?”

“Uh-huh. Her mommy is Sara.”

“Sara Morgan?” Anne asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“I know Wendy,” Anne said. “Does Bad Monster have a name?”

“Bad Monster,” Haley repeated impatiently. “Can Wendy come and play with me?”

“Maybe,” Anne said. “We’ll see.”

“Uh-oh.”

Anne chuckled.

Haley paused in her coloring to take a drink from the crazy purple bendable straw Franny had brought.

“It feels funny,” she complained, frowning, tears welling up seemingly out of nowhere.

Anne rubbed her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

“No! No!” she cried, curling her fingers against her throat as if she were trying to pull something away.

Anne could see the hysteria building. She knew exactly how it felt—like an avalanche coming down, like a tsunami wave crashing.

“You’re okay, Haley. I’m right here. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you,” she said as the little girl fell against her, sobbing. “It’s okay. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Anne didn’t tell her not to cry. She knew that sometimes crying was like opening the valve on a pressure cooker, and once the steam was released the worst of the panic passed with it. She did what she would have wanted someone to do for her: She was a rock, an anchor, a sponge to absorb the tears and wring them out until they were spent.

After a few minutes she felt Haley’s body relax against her. Asleep.

Without moving the sleeping girl, Anne looked at the drawing she had left on the bedside tray and studied Bad Monster. Was Bad Monster black or had Bad Monster worn black clothing? Or was the color associated with fear? Maybe Bad Monster was the fear she felt metastasized into an entity, something she could isolate and push away from her sense of self.

The answers were only easy after you had them, Anne thought. Until then there were only puzzle pieces.