the office called them ‘the beauties’. Watching Sophie pick at her cake, Anna had been sure that even when she was forty, she would be young and beautiful, still attracting attention with her long blonde hair and perfect smile.
‘Having children won’t do that to me,’ she had thought and then quickly took another sip of champagne because it was the same thought she had had about her own mother.
‘I only wish you have a daughter just like you,’ Anna’s mother had spat at her during an argument over doing the laundry.
‘Well, she certainly will never have a mother like you,’ Anna said in reply.
‘I’m not sure about having kids,’ Melanie said as the party broke up. ‘They don’t seem like much fun.’ She and Anna had lost touch after Maya was born. Melanie might still be single, for all Anna knew.
Anna had not had a party to celebrate reaching the milestone birthday, although Keith had brought home a large chocolate cake with a ‘four’ and a ‘zero’ painted in white butter-cream icing, which Maya shouldn’t have been allowed to eat. She had let her daughter blow out the candles, and then grab the icing roses off the top and snatch a whole piece of cake with her hands, making a mess of everything. She didn’t really feel like having a piece after that, but she can still remember the smile on Maya’s face as she tasted the rare mouthful of pure sugar. Joy is always easy to see on a child’s face, regardless of who that child is. Anna touches her cheek, and realises she is crying again and that both detectives are watching her.
‘Sorry, can I get another tissue?’ she asks.
‘The box is empty, Walt,’ says Detective Moreno and she stands up quickly. ‘I’ll go and get another one. Would you like a drink, Anna? Some tea or coffee, or water?’
‘Thank you, Detective Moreno. Yes, I would love some tea—strong, with no sugar.’
‘I’ll take a coffee,’ says Detective Anderson without even looking at Detective Moreno.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, and please call me Cynthia, and Detective Anderson, Walt. We want you to relax and we’d like to make this as easy as possible.’
Once she’s gone, Walt stands up and walks over to the camera, checking it, Anna assumes. He has large hands with the ragged fingernails of a worrier.
She wonders what it would be like to lie next to him, to have him touch her. She closes her eyes briefly and imagines the scape of a rough nail against her skin.
‘What kind of a husband would he be?’ she thinks. ‘What kind of a father?’
Since Maya was diagnosed, she has often found herself looking at other men and thinking about how different her life would have been if she had chosen someone whose faulty genes had not mixed with her own faulty genes and created Maya.
‘There must be something wrong with me to think like that,’ she had said to her therapist when she found the courage to confess these thoughts. The therapist, an older woman named Mollie, had taken her usual minute to ponder a question from Anna before she said: ‘It’s an idle thought, Anna. I’m sure other parents in your situation wonder the same thing from time to time.’
‘Is there a way to test for that? Like, I mean, is there a way to find out if one of you is carrying the gene?’
‘No, Anna; I don’t think there is a way, not yet. If there was, would you feel better knowing that the gene came from Keith or that it came from you, or that it was recessive from both of you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Anna had said.
‘There is no one to blame, Anna. We’ve talked about that. It just is, as some things just are.’
‘An aphorism, Mollie, really?’ she had said.
‘It’s the truth, Anna. No good comes of such speculation.’
Anna had suppressed the urge to leap to her feet and stamp her foot like a child. ‘I don’t like it,’ she wanted to say. ‘I don’t like it.’
In the last nine years, Anna has seen at least five different therapists, none of whom
‘Having children won’t do that to me,’ she had thought and then quickly took another sip of champagne because it was the same thought she had had about her own mother.
‘I only wish you have a daughter just like you,’ Anna’s mother had spat at her during an argument over doing the laundry.
‘Well, she certainly will never have a mother like you,’ Anna said in reply.
‘I’m not sure about having kids,’ Melanie said as the party broke up. ‘They don’t seem like much fun.’ She and Anna had lost touch after Maya was born. Melanie might still be single, for all Anna knew.
Anna had not had a party to celebrate reaching the milestone birthday, although Keith had brought home a large chocolate cake with a ‘four’ and a ‘zero’ painted in white butter-cream icing, which Maya shouldn’t have been allowed to eat. She had let her daughter blow out the candles, and then grab the icing roses off the top and snatch a whole piece of cake with her hands, making a mess of everything. She didn’t really feel like having a piece after that, but she can still remember the smile on Maya’s face as she tasted the rare mouthful of pure sugar. Joy is always easy to see on a child’s face, regardless of who that child is. Anna touches her cheek, and realises she is crying again and that both detectives are watching her.
‘Sorry, can I get another tissue?’ she asks.
‘The box is empty, Walt,’ says Detective Moreno and she stands up quickly. ‘I’ll go and get another one. Would you like a drink, Anna? Some tea or coffee, or water?’
‘Thank you, Detective Moreno. Yes, I would love some tea—strong, with no sugar.’
‘I’ll take a coffee,’ says Detective Anderson without even looking at Detective Moreno.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, and please call me Cynthia, and Detective Anderson, Walt. We want you to relax and we’d like to make this as easy as possible.’
Once she’s gone, Walt stands up and walks over to the camera, checking it, Anna assumes. He has large hands with the ragged fingernails of a worrier.
She wonders what it would be like to lie next to him, to have him touch her. She closes her eyes briefly and imagines the scape of a rough nail against her skin.
‘What kind of a husband would he be?’ she thinks. ‘What kind of a father?’
Since Maya was diagnosed, she has often found herself looking at other men and thinking about how different her life would have been if she had chosen someone whose faulty genes had not mixed with her own faulty genes and created Maya.
‘There must be something wrong with me to think like that,’ she had said to her therapist when she found the courage to confess these thoughts. The therapist, an older woman named Mollie, had taken her usual minute to ponder a question from Anna before she said: ‘It’s an idle thought, Anna. I’m sure other parents in your situation wonder the same thing from time to time.’
‘Is there a way to test for that? Like, I mean, is there a way to find out if one of you is carrying the gene?’
‘No, Anna; I don’t think there is a way, not yet. If there was, would you feel better knowing that the gene came from Keith or that it came from you, or that it was recessive from both of you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Anna had said.
‘There is no one to blame, Anna. We’ve talked about that. It just is, as some things just are.’
‘An aphorism, Mollie, really?’ she had said.
‘It’s the truth, Anna. No good comes of such speculation.’
Anna had suppressed the urge to leap to her feet and stamp her foot like a child. ‘I don’t like it,’ she wanted to say. ‘I don’t like it.’
In the last nine years, Anna has seen at least five different therapists, none of whom
Similar Books
The Remarkables (The Remarkable Owen Johnson, part 1)
A. D. Elliott
Weird But True
Leslie Gilbert Elman
The Hunger
Janet Eckford
A Wild Swan
Michael Cunningham
Exist (Vampire Assassin League Book 30)
Jackie Ivie
Chocolate-Covered Crime
Cynthia Hickey
Hard Evidence
Roxanne Rustand
David Lodge - Small World
Author's Note
William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger
Anne Perry