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“Okay, I’ll record an update,” Ruth said hesitantly.
“Please can you play this podcast for my daughters? They haven’t listened so far but maybe you can make them understand.”
“Sure. And well, I know things are complicated but I do appreciate you letting me interview you,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Well, I probably wouldn’t have agreed if I’d known you were investigating me.”
“Please, Daphne, just tell me. Did you do it? I need to know,” Ruth asked. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Richard or Gabrielle but my answer was the same regardless.
“Maybe we’ll save that for season two. By the way, what title did you go with?”
“The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair,” Ruth said, irritation creeping into her voice. It was clear she hadn’t forgiven me yet, that she wasn’t going to let this go. I nodded resolutely.
“Good, I’m glad you’re not buying into this Gabrielle story.”
“I just. . . well. . . I’d already ordered the merch. So now I don’t really know how to count them. The first killing wasn’t strictly murder, a good lawyer might have even got you off the next two charges, so I guess the numbers don’t matter.”
The Six Murders of Daphne St Clair. It was a title that meant so much and so little at the same time. My entire story stripped away, made catchy and clickable for the Internet, in the hopes that it would attract all the people who wanted to hear a story about murder. No need for social commentary, or humor, or any attempt at originality, just the murder please, as many as you’ve got.
“Yes, that’s probably right,” I said and hung up. I clapped the phone down faster than I meant to. Sometimes I found it hard to talk to Ruth. She reminded me of everything I had wanted when I was younger, everything I never got.
“Can I come visit you in prison?” Harper asked after I phoned her with the news.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied. “You’re a little young to be visiting convicts.”
“Maybe we can talk on the phone?” she asked sadly.
“We’ll see. Let me get settled in and then maybe,” I said, not wanting to get the girl’s hopes up. She was a good kid, and I wanted to protect her now, even if I couldn’t later.
I should have hung up but I lingered, feeling an unfamiliar urge to impart some grandmotherly life advice.
“You know, Harper, you need to figure out what makes you happy. I never knew what would make me happy, even now.”
“That’s sad, Grandma,” Harper said, her voice solemn. I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. All these years, I had been thrashing around in the darkness, trying to figure out what would fill up all the emptiness inside of me and I never found it.
“What if I can’t figure it out?” Harper asked.
“You will. A girl like you, you can do anything. Just don’t become a little shit when you grow up,” I said, hanging up before she responded. I reached for another drink, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat.
It was midnight but I couldn’t sleep, not when I knew that everything was about to change. I was sitting in my chair with my curtains open and the door cracked a smidge, just to let the breeze in. I wasn’t giving up my last chance to get some fresh air and see the stars.
That was when he appeared, a dark figure melting out of the woods behind him, loping across the grass directly at me. His steps were silent on the soft lawn, his body low and lean against the horizon.
I grabbed my walker and pulled myself up, trying to move quickly to the door but knowing I would never get there before him. He was like a terrifying specter from my past, an amalgamation of all the horrible men I’d bested over the years, come back to drag me to hell. My body trembled as I shuffled forward, moving so damned slow, even now when I was in the greatest danger.
And then suddenly he spoke: “Mom?”
I stood there, frozen. “James?”
“Yes.” He sounded almost the same, although his voice was lower, more gravelly. I made a tortured sound as if my organs were crumpling inside of me and I had to cling on to the walker to keep myself upright.
“Come in, come in,” I managed to croak, slumping back into my chair. He shut the door and pulled off the cap, and there he was. My James. My eyes filled with tears and I sat there sobbing, grateful but also indescribably tired. I had been waiting for this for decades.
James sat in the chair across from me, the chair I’d started to think of as Ruth’s chair. My eyes raked over him, trying to soak up every detail. He had been a young man the last time I saw him and now he was in his sixties. His dark hair had turned light gray and he had a full beard that hid the dimple in his chin, but he still had the same warm eyes and closed-mouth smile. Just looking at him made me happier than anything I’d experienced in the last forty years. I felt as if I was traveling back in time to when he was a toddler, to that little apartment in Brooklyn where we would lie in bed and I would touch his soft face and smell his freshly washed hair. Back when it was us against the world.
“You’re here,” I whispered, reaching over and clutching his hand like it was an exquisite gift. He nodded, although I noticed that he slowly withdrew his hand.
“Yes. I heard that you’re going to prison soon. I thought this would probably be my last chance.”