I Loved Her

“You have to help me.”

The cop sitting across from me, middle-aged and burdened with a jaded sense of justice, stubs out his cigarette.

"I don't remember anything. You have to believe me.”

His partner, old and tired of this job, of humanity, sighs heavily.

“Why won’t you listen? I can’t tell you anything. I’m telling you the truth.”

The cop, the middle-aged one, hits the table suddenly and the sound echoes, bounces off the peeling walls surrounding us.

“We have your DNA. How could it not have been you? It was your DNA on the weapon. You’re caught. You tell the same old story, the same old ‘I don’t remember,’ the same lies.”

I start to cry. I can’t help it. He always scolded me for that, my crying, my weakness. He was always the stronger one.

His partner puffs out his cheeks. He comes closer to take a seat at the table and begins to speak softly to me. I feel myself relax at the soft buzz of his voice. He sounds so much like him.

“We’re just trying to help you. You can plead out, get an easier sentence. If you won’t tell us the truth, then we can’t help you.”

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt, clear my throat. “I know that. I’m telling you the truth.” 

I take a deep breath, hold the cigarette smell in my mouth. I love that smell. He always smelled like that, I could taste it on his lips when we kissed.

My head is killing me, but I don’t want to sleep. It’s hard when I’m tired. I haven’t slept much in several days, not since this all began. I’ve been afraid to fall asleep. “I don’t…” Another breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He says nothing, just closes his eyes and locks his fingers together in front of his mouth, elbows on the table, but not like he’s concentrating. He looks like he’s praying. The cop, the meaner one, impatiently lights another cigarette, inhales in a hurry, exhales slowly. It’s the same brand that he used to smoke, I notice. I feel dizzy.

“I’ll tell the jury what I know, I’ll tell them the truth, and you can rot in hell,” he says. His voice is calm, like the eye of a hurricane. It reminds me of something, something dark, something creeping at the back of my skull. My throat closes and I can’t breathe.

When I don’t say anything, when the silence settles in the air like his cigarette smoke, he kicks the chair back in anger and leaves the interrogation room. The door rattles behind him.

His partner remains, his eyes still closed. He startles me when he speaks. His mouth moves so subtly it’s like he’s not even talking.

“You’re going to go on death row.”

The base of my skull throbs. “No,” I say.

“You’re going to go on death row,” he repeats. “You’re going to die.”

“No I’m not!” I get up, walk in a circle. My eyes burn. The blood gushing to my head, under my skin, feels like it’s on fire. I realize that a part of me believes him, wants to believe him, because a part of me feels like something is wrong. Why can’t I remember anything from that day, from that night? “I’m not guilty. How can I be if I don’t remember anything? They’ll let me go.”

He sighs again, heavier than the last time, like the air is sinking, weighing him down. He gets up, picks up the folder on the table with all the photographs, and moves toward the door. After a pause, a second thought, he turns back.

“Here,” he says. He places the folder on the table, gently, like it’s made of glass, and leaves.

I don’t want to look at them, but I do, I want to see, I want to remember. I don’t remember anything about that night. But I know I didn’t do anything wrong. They have the wrong woman. I didn’t kill anybody.

I sit down, open the folder and flip through the photos, one by one. Most of them are crime scene photos, pictures of overturned furniture and blood splatters. There are a lot of blood splatters.

Then come the pictures of the body, oh god the body, and there’s so much blood, oh my god there’s so much blood, and it looks so wrong, but the face is so peaceful oh god she looks so peaceful and I feel myself slipping, my eyes blurring, and my skull reverberates harder and harder, like it’s going to crack.

The last thing I see is his body, still wet, still glistening with blood.

I come back into the room a couple of hours later. She is asleep, her head on the table, resting on her arms. The folder of crime scene photographs sits close to her, next to her fingers, but untouched. I close the door and she stirs at the sound.

She blinks bleary eyes, smiles at me.

“James,” she says. “Thank God you’re here.”

“I’m sorry?” I say.

She blinks again, then a second, and a third time. Suddenly her faces flushes and she bites her lip. “I-I’m sorry, officer. You…” She smiles at the space over my shoulder, her eyes shining. “You smell like my husband.” She laughs softly. “I always wanted him to stop because it was so bad for his health, but I actually loved the smell.”

She’s crazy. But not crazy enough, the psychiatrist said. Not crazy enough to be innocent. I come towards her and take a seat at the table, stub out my cigarette. “Mrs. Green, I need you to understand: if you don’t tell the truth right here and right now, then you will most likely face a death sentence.”

Her shoulders sink. She shakes her head and buries her face in her arms, like a child. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Mrs. Green--”

“I don’t want to talk anymore!” She cries quietly, softly. “I want to see my family,” she mumbles.

I feel the anger pulse in the veins in my hands. My neck grows warm. I rub my temples, try to keep it under control. “Mrs. Green, you know that you can’t see them.”

“I want to see them.” The pitch in her voice is shrill, maddening. 

I look down at my hands, watch them clench and relax. I have a daughter. I have a daughter the same age.

The muscles in my jaw tighten. I push the chair back, stand up, lean in closely to her face. She inhales, exhales. Her eyes shine in an odd way and she squeezes them shut. 

“You will never see them again.”

Three knocks on the door. My cue to leave her, leave her to her guilt and her death sentence. I look at her, watch her avoid my gaze, study her studying the one-way glass. I pick up the folder of photographs and leave. I don’t look back, don’t dare to, because I know that I will want to kill her, and it’s not yet her time to die.

I sit on the bed and try to think of something to say to her, but nothing comes. I feel my face redden, feel my eyes grow hot and pulse with tears. I swallow, grip the pen in my hand tighter, tighter, tighter still, until my fingers throb.

I read what few words I’ve written over and over, grasping and reaching at syllables, but nothing sounds right.

Dear Bree,

Mommy loves you a lot. Mommy will always love you, with all her heart, but you’re not going to see Mommy for a while. Mommy has to—

The letter stops. My throat tightens, my sight blurs. How much can I tell her? Can I tell her that Mommy has to die?

“Why can't I remember?” I say. My voice echoes back to me off the metal bars and I can hear the hopelessness, the desperation. The tears come silently, easily, and I let them.

“I’m sorry, Bree. I’m so sorry.”

I release the pen and paper to lay back on the cot. I try to remember my daughter’s face, her smile, her laugh, but the dull gray fluorescent light makes my skull swim.

I can smell cigarettes. It might be my imagination, but I swear it, I can smell them, his brand. “James,” I whisper.

I close my eyes. I hear his voice. I feel his warmth, his hands. His calloused, rough hands, squeezing, constricting, my throat closing, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, oh god James why, I thought you loved me I thought we were perfect, our daughter is in the other room, please stop, I don’t want her to see this I don’t want her to see this.

He slams my head against the wall. I bleed red, then white, then black.

I fall asleep.

“A hamburger, nothing on it.” The waitress smiles, looks to my partner.

“The steak please.”

“I’ll have that right out,” she says. Her heels click away.

I take a sip of my coffee, avoiding our usual small talk. My partner takes note, shoots me a knowing look.

“Something bothers you about it.”

I sigh, wrap my hands around the heat of the coffee mug. “Something felt wrong about her. I’ve tried, but I can’t pinpoint it.”

He raises his bushy graying eyebrows. “I don’t think you should mull over it so much. The evidence was there.”

I slip a cigarette from the carton in my jacket pocket, secure it between my lips. I flip the lighter open, hear her voice. “James…”

I think better of it, take the cigarette out of my mouth. “I thought she was lying. I was so sure she was lying. I mean, who wouldn’t remember something like that? But the way she behaved… maybe she really couldn’t remember.”

My partner shakes his head firmly, his bald spot reflecting the bright diner lighting. “I doubt it. Everything made sense. Her husband abused her repeatedly, but she loved him so much she wouldn’t let him go. We’ve seen cases like that a dime a dozen.

“What makes her unique,” he says, his mouth a grim, taut line, “is that when she found about the mistress, and when he probably said he wanted a divorce, she murdered him.”

“And their daughter,” I whisper. I think of Emily, my daughter. I think of the way the little girl was tucked into bed, like she was sleeping. You wouldn’t even know if you didn’t see the marks on her throat or the wound on her head.

“Anyway, it’s too late for second thoughts. Her execution was this morning.”

“It just bothered me,” I say, “the way she never budged from her story. Like she really believed herself.”

He shrugs. “Maybe she did. Didn’t the psychiatrist say she probably blocked out the memory because it was traumatic or somethin’?” He frowns. “Doesn’t excuse her from murder.”

“I know. I just—“ I take a breath, close my eyes. “I just can’t believe she could hurt her own daughter.”

It was such a normal day. The sun shined normally, the birds sang normally, people walked and talked normally, I went to the grocery store like I normally do after work on Tuesdays… James said he would pick up Bree, said we could go to the pier or the park, spend the evening together, as a family… I knew that he was sorry for what he did, sorry for hurting me. I knew that he loved me and I knew I could forgive him, knew that he wouldn’t do it again, it would be different this time, because we loved each other.

“James?” I called into the house, grocery bags in hand. It was unusually quiet, but I was humming and the keys in my hand were jingling so I didn’t notice, I didn’t notice anything. “Bree?”

I heard it then, the crying. Broken, shattered moans. I followed it to the hallway between our bedroom and Bree’s.

“Oh my God.”

James was sitting on the floor, his head between his knees. He looked up at me when he heard my footsteps, his face wet, glistening. I had never seen him cry before, but I wasn’t surprised, I wasn’t looking at him, not even as he stood up and reached for me, said my name. I was looking at Bree, staring at her body, at the blood, oh god so much blood, pooling around her head.

“Bree?”

She wasn’t moving, oh god she’s not moving, what did you do, what did you do.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying. “I’m so sorry. I lost my temper and she was crying and I just needed to think but she wouldn’t be quiet…“

“You hurt her,” I say. I feel so heavy. Something claws at my eyes, something red, something hot. “You hurt our daughter.”

“I’m sorry. I love you. I love you both. I’m so sorry.”

“How could you?” I say. “We’re a family. How could you hurt her?” I whip around, make my way to the phone, but I have to hold onto the wall, I feel so weak, so heavy.

He reaches out, tries to wrap his arms around me. “Look, we can fix this. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I love you. You don’t need to worry. We can get through this.”

I can’t see anything. I can’t see anything but Bree, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, oh god so much blood, my baby, how could you hurt her, my baby, this is my fault, I let him do this, I never stopped him and now Bree oh god Bree—

I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to. All I could see was Bree, all I could see was her face, her blood, and when he grabbed me, pulled me back into him, my hand moved on its own, sank the garage key into his neck.

He gurgled, he choked on his blood, and I watched, I watched him die. I killed him, I killed the man I love, James I loved you oh god what did I do.

She was the one who called the police, his mistress. He was supposed to meet her the next day. I was supposed to be at work. She came to the house looking for him. She must’ve had a key, he must’ve given her a copy. She let herself in and she found James. I heard her screaming, but all I could hear was Bree, all I could see was my daughter, my baby girl. I picked her up, she was so limp, my baby, so full of life, was so limp, and I put her to bed, tucked her in like I always do, sang her a song.

This is all my fault. I let him hurt me, let him abuse me, and he hurt Bree because I didn’t stop him, because I didn’t do something.

I deserve to die.

I wake up. It’s so hard to breathe and I sit on the bed for a few minutes, just breathing, holding the air in my lungs until it burns. What a horrible dream, I think.

It’s dark, but I know that it’s time. A uniformed prison guard stands at the door to my cell, waiting. He handcuffs me, leads me down the long hallway.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but will you do me a favor?”

He eyes me with suspicion.

I swallow, blink. Something dark and cold creeps at the back of my skull. “Please, will you mail this letter to my daughter? I don’t want her to worry.”

I slip the letter from the pocket of my orange uniform and, to my relief, he accepts it. “Thank you so much,” I say. “I just don’t want her to worry about me."

He doesn't look at me, but he nods. "Don't worry," he says. "She's fine."

My head clears, lightens, fills with bright and soft air. I smile. "Thank goodness."