GUILTY 3

AFTER Danniella Waters Thursday May 18, 2016 It’s been thirty minutes since we discovered the empty crib. The police arrived almost immediately, asking us dozens of questions, moving through our home with a fine - tooth comb. There are three officers here, two men and a woman. My husband had them convinced from the get - go that I may have had something to do with our daughter’s disappearance. ‘My wife suffered from severe postpartum psychosis.’ ‘She’s not one hundred percent stable.’ ‘She’s doesn’t remember what happened. I may have had mixed feeling about Emerald in the past, but all those thoughts were diminished months ago. I’m better now. I would never harm another living being, especially my own child. That’s when they started looking at me peculiarly, walking on egg shells around me, ensuring they spoke in gentle tones. As if I’m some lunatic who might break at any moment. They can believe Winston’s desperate accusations, but I know the truth. Someone came in here and took my child. But I understand. They have to do their job. Even if that includes interrogating me. He tells me it’s just standard questioning, but I know that the seed of suspicion had been planted in all of their minds. Charles Ashby, that’s the officer’s name. He has dark brown eyes and looks at me like I’m a small bird. He begins by asking me to recite everything that I did today, right up until the moment that Winston came home and found the empty crib. I scan through my memory, racking my brain for all of the details. It proves more difficult than I’d like, but I don’t mention this. Instead, I take deep breaths, fold my hands in my lap, and attempt to speak as clearly as I can without letting my voice falter, revealing the illusion of my confidence. He writes everything down, nodding his head in sync with my words. Once I’m done rehearsing the events of my Thursday, he goes on to ask if I’ve been feeling stressed lately. I suppose the voice inside that wants to laugh and say: Stress is an understatement. Do you have children, Officer Ashby? He looks too young to have kids. He can’t be more than twenty - three. Twenty - four at most. He asks me what I do for a living. How long Winston and I have been married. When did we move into this house. Do I get enough sleep at night. Do I have any ill thoughts towards my daughter. I try not to laugh. Once he’s finished his questions, he leaves me to sit on the couch alone, but not without his weary eyes trailing behind. I watch the scene unfold in front of me. A crime scene unit has been dispatched and is now analyzing the house. A man in a navy blue jacket asks me if we have a place to stay tonight. He explains that this is now a crime scene, and they need to gather evidence. I flinch at the words crime scene. My eyes wander to the front door, where another navy jacket is knelt down, fixated on the door handle, determining if it was tampered with. Minutes that feel like hours pass, and when I blink, nothing is changed. I check the time, six - fifteen. I spot Officer Ashby standing in the corner speaking with my husband. I’m sure Winston isn’t getting the third degree that Charles Ashby kindly delivered to me. I’m distracted, staring at the wall, a vacant look on my face, when a man in a dark grey suit approaches and asks if he can have a seat. I nod. The only thought going through my mind is the colour of the wall. It’s a dark shade of green. Hideous, really. I don’t know why Winston chose that colour. I don’t know why I agreed to even let him choose that colour. But that’s what marriage is about, compromise and acceptance. He introduced himself as Detective Gerald Sullivan. ‘Would you like me to get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?’ He speaks softly and his eyes are sympathetic. His disposition is one - eighty from Officer Ashby. ‘Coffee.’ I say. ‘Coffee would be nice. Two sugars, please.’ He nods and takes off towards the kitchen, Navy jackets are filling the house, sealing off Emerald’s room with white and red tape, searching for fingerprints and any sign of intruders. Another one is posted by the front door. He’s waiting for someone to check the door handle for fingerprints. All he’s going to find is mine and Winston’s. Unless whoever took my daughter was stupid enough to leave obvious evidence behind, which I highly doubt. A stranger off the street didn’t just stumble across a house, come inside, and take my child. This abduction was properly executed and well thought out. Diabolical. The Detective returns and places the mug in front of me on a coaster. I stare at it for a minute before picking it up, allowing the heat to warm my hands, and take a small sip. ‘If you’re up to it, I’d like to ask you some more questions,’ he says, removing a small notepad from his pocket. I eye the notepad, watching the way he fumbles with it in his hands. I look up and meet his eyes. ‘Sure. Yes, of course. Anything.’ He nods and clears his throat. ‘Where were you when your husband realized your daughter was missing?’ ‘I was on the couch. I had just woken up.’ ‘How long were you unconscious for?’ ‘I’m not sure. I guess I must have dozed off around … Two - thirty, maybe? That’s when she went down for her nap.’ The lie comes easier than I imagined. The truth is. I don’t remember what time I fell asleep. I don’t remember anything. ‘So that leaves two and a half hours of unaccounted time,’ he says as he writes in his notebook. ‘Approximate time of disappearance can be placed anytime between three and five o’clock,’ he continues to write, then looks up and meets my gaze. ‘And you were home all day?’ ‘Yes, I work from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’ ‘Can anyone verify that?’ ‘My boss,’ He writes something down. ‘Who looks after Emerald on days when you’re at the office?’ ‘Her nanny - Marcia.’ Mar - See - Ah. I look up at him. ‘You think she had something to do with this?’ ‘We have to gather information from everyone involved in you and your daughter’s life. That includes friends, family members, babysitters… You understand, yes?’ I nod my head. ‘Why were you asleep when your husband came home?’ He revisit’s the topic of my unconsciousness. I stare at him, unsure how to answer without revealing how aggravated I truly am by that question. ‘I was tired,’ I say. ‘I’ve been working a lot and looking after Emerald.’ ‘My intentions are not to offend you, Mrs Waters,’ He says, sensing my irritation. ‘We have to cover all bases. Look at the big picture.’ He pauses, looks down, flips another page over, writes something. He looks back up at me. ‘If I could continue,’ ‘Sorry,’ He clears his throat. ‘Have you been feeling stressed or under pressure lately?’ I bite my tongue. I know what’s coming next. Did you have a mental breakdown. Mrs Waters? Did you snap and kill your daughter, Mrs Waters? I stare at him, trying to remain neutral. ‘No more than usual. Just the usual work stuff.’ ‘And caring for Emerald?’ ‘What about it?’ ‘Has it been difficult for you lately? I ‘m sure it’s hectic being a new mother,’ he says, but doesn’t mention the postpartum. I exhale quietly. ‘Yes, it is difficult at times. But I can handle it. I’m a tough woman. I’ve always been able to handle myself, detective.’ He jots something else down in this notepad and I discretely try to strain my neck to see what he’s writing. He looks up at me and I shift backwards. ‘How has your husband been lately? Under any stress from work?’ ‘No, Not that I know of. He loves his job.’ I take the detective’s advice and try not to be offended by his words, even though I know every question has an assumption. I know my husband wouldn’t hurt our baby girl. ‘To your knowledge, does anyone have a grudge against you or your husband? Anyone who might want to do this to you?’ ‘No, Not that I can think of. We’re friendly people. We have braais in the summer with the neighbours and attend staff Christmas parties. We don’t have many close friends, but the ones we do have would never do anything like this.’ ‘How about any debts? Money loans? Anything you can think of that someone perhaps might have against you?’ ‘No. We don’t owe anyone money. We pay all of our bills on time.’ He nods and writes something down. ‘Would you mind giving me the contact information for anyone who’s been in or around the house in the past few months? The nanny, neighbours, family, friends; anyone you can think of. We just want to check everything out, ask some questions, and find your daughter, all right, ma’am?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I say. He flips the notepad open to a new page and hands it to me. I look up at him. ‘Everyone?’ ‘Everyone you can think of.’ Three hours later and I’m sitting on a cold hotel bed. Perhaps the bed is warm, but it’s me who is cold. I need to shower - let the steam fill up the room, the scalding water run down my back. We should be able to return home in the morning, but until then, our house is a crime scene. The police have both of our cell phones tapped in the event that we get a ransom call, It’s a likely possibility. Whoever did this knows we have money. Perhaps that’s all they want. Before leaving, Detective Sullivan assured me that they would do everything in their power to find Emerald as soon as possible. He promised to call me immediately if they found anything. There’s something about him that makes me feel reassured, safe. Perhaps it’s the way he speaks to me like I’m an actual human being. He’s giving me a chance to tell my side of the story. The other officers already have their preconceived judgements. Winston has been pacing the suite, sporadically crying since we arrived. It’s so hard for me to hear him cry and know there’s nothing I can do to do stop the pain he feels, But what bothers me even more is the fact that I’m in a better state than he is. I should be broken - devastated. Devoted mother, heartbroken at the bare thought of her child missing. But for some reason - a reason I don’t want to think about - I’m not as distraught. I’m holding myself together fairly well. Not to say that I’m not that I’m worried, because, hell, I am. I’m so worried that whoever did this is going to kill Emerald. Maybe they already have. The thought alone makes me ill, Emerald is gone. Our six - month old infant was abducted. There is no positive way to look at his situation. But there’s this tiny part inside of me - a part that I don’t like to look at too often - that feels a sense of…relief. Is that horrible to admit? I’d be lying to myself if I said otherwise. I love my daughter. But I can’t help but feel a reprieve from her absence. As though my prayers from all those months ago have finally been answered…..