“So she was the one initiating the drinking, the drug-taking . . .”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” I stumble over my words, “I just . . . It wasn’t one-sided, like people are saying. She did bad stuff too, it wasn’t all my idea.”
“So what would you tell her parents, if you had the chance?” Clara leans in again. “What would you say to these fine folks, who’ve lost their daughter in the most tragic, violent way?”
I blink. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you try?” Clara urges gently.
I slowly turn, and look at the camera, at the empty gaping lens, with its distant reflection of myself. I open my mouth, hesitant. “I . . . I’m sorry, that’s she’s gone. There’s not a single day that goes by that I don’t . . . that I don’t think about her.” I can feel myself choking up, the glare of the lights hot on my face, Clara’s expression so fixed and hungry. But all I can think about is Elise dancing around the kitchen in the beach house that day, bright and free and alive.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, tears coming fast now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t looking out for her, that I couldn’t stop this. I miss her too,” I add, pleading. “She . . . She was like a sister to me, and now, now I’ll never get her back!”
My eyes blur with tears. I wait for the producer to call to cut, for them to stop rolling, but nothing comes. They keep filming, watching me weep, counting the long seconds as my body shakes with grief.
This is what they wanted, I realize, too late. They don’t care about my story, or presenting the other side. They just want to see me crying, and begging, and broken. They want a show.
BEFORE
“Crushed by an elephant or trampled by bulls?”
“Umm, trampled. You’d go quicker. Every hair in your body plucked out one by one or all at once?”
“Shit. Uh . . . all at once. I’d get doped up on painkillers and get it over and done with. You?”
“God no, can you imagine, a bikini wax all over your body?”
“You’re such a pu**y, you can’t deal with any pain. Remember you cried that time Elena did your eyebrows?”
“Did not! I have a very sensitive forehead! Oww!”
• • •
“Pass me that.”
“Drowning or gunshot?”
“Depends . . . Where’s the bullet hit?”
“Stomach. It’s slow and painful and you bleed to death.”
“Drowning, then. It only takes a few minutes, right?”
“Yeah, but you’re suffocating. And then your eyeballs explode.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. I saw it on some Discovery Channel show. The pressure builds up and squeezes all your insides out.”
“You’re so dumb. That’s only if you’re really deep—diving or something. Or in space.”
“Would you still bleed to death in space?”
“What? You’re crazy.”
“Shut up, I’m serious. There’s no gravity, right? So why would the blood come out?”
• • •
“See?”
“Why are we even talking about this? It’s morbid.”
“You’re telling me you haven’t thought about it? Come on, how would you do it?”
• • •
“Pills, I guess. There’s a bunch left from when . . . Mom . . . I wouldn’t even feel it happen.”
“Coward. You’ve got to feel it, all the way to the end. It shouldn’t be a get-out-of-jail-free card, you know? You should have to earn it.”
“So how?”
“A knife, I guess. Slice my wrists, bleed out all over the new cream carpets. Give my mom something to complain about.”
“Elise!”
“What? It’s the point. One final f**k-you.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
• • •
“No. I’m just messing with you. Besides, who’d hold your hand for Elena at the salon if I’m gone?”
DAY 196
Elise’s mother, Judy, comes to visit me in prison the week before the trial begins.
I’ve already taken my sleeping pill, so I drag, disoriented, as the guard leads me down the hallway, past the interview rooms, and up into a part of the prison I’ve never been before. “Where are we going?” I ask, confused, but he doesn’t reply, doesn’t say a word at all as we climb a flight of stairs. There are no bars here, I notice, looking around: The walls are painted a soft peach, the flooring, polished and new. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it a school or office building: someplace productive, where things were made and minds molded, not the opposite, a place that takes time away from us, day by day.
He knocks, once, on a door at the end of the hallway. It opens, and I’m ushered inside the room, an office. After so long with the basic plastic furniture and metal fixtures bolted to the floor, it’s a shock to see the décor here: a plush rug, bookcases, framed pictures on the wall. Warden Eckhart sits behind a wide wooden desk; he gestures for me to step farther into the room. My heart leaps with expectation, just as I hear a gasp behind me. I turn. Judy is sitting on a narrow sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She rises, staring at me with horror. “Anna . . .” The word trails away.
“Judy?” My voice tilts upward, a flight of hope. “What’s going on? Did they drop the charges?” I look around, but there’s no sign of Gates or my dad. Wouldn’t they have called them in, if I was being released? “Where’s my dad?” I demand. “Did something happen? Is he okay?”
“Oh, yes, he’s fine.” Judy blinks, her face falling. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“This is just a quick visit,” the warden interjects. He looks between us. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
He exits with the guard, leaving us alone. I don’t move. They didn’t put me in handcuffs, I realize, absently rubbing my wrists. This is as free as I’ve been in weeks.
“Oh, Anna, sweetheart . . .” Judy sinks back down onto the sofa. “Look at you.”
I don’t know what to say, so I walk slowly to the other chair and sit. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since my arrest. She’s never visited me, or written, or even looked in my direction during the bail hearing or our pre-trial motions. I’ve seen her in the courtroom, her head bent, holding on to Charles’s hand as if to save her from drowning. I know how she feels, but I haven’t had that luxury—someone to cling on to, to stay above the surface.