I haven’t eaten in days, but I’m not hungry. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I don’t return phone calls or emails. To-do lists are abandoned; appointments, activities, everything has stopped. Nothing matters but taking care of Kalvin and Grace.
*
I’m on the bed, the babies are asleep beside me. They should be in their cribs, but I can’t, cannot, let them out of my sight. Kalvin is stretched out on the pillows bolstered next to me–his perfect face, his perfect hands, wisps of his blonde hair, those perfect little lips. I reach for his wide little hand. And then I look at Grace sleeping next to him. Her nose is so delicate, her cheeks and chin more defined than Kalvin’s below big round eyes. In the middle of her forehead and above her eyelids, the small red patches I call angel kisses are starting to fade. They are the result of common capillary malformations at birth, but they remind me of the Buddha Eyes symbol I saw throughout Nepal representing the omnipresent compassion of the Bodhisattvas. In the symbol, the dot between the eyes represents the third eye, a symbol of spiritual awakening and wisdom. The squiggle between the eyes that looks like a question mark is the Sanskrit numeral one, symbolizing the unity and oneness of all things. Grace’s angel kisses perfectly represent the symbol and I’m sad they are starting to fade, even if it is into perfect soft glowing baby skin.
I have to keep looking at babies, at their light. As long as I look at them, I’m fine. But just beyond their corona of light, there is an awful darkness that wants to drag me into its abyss. I let this happen to you. She could have killed you. I trusted what’s most important to me to a monster, an absolute monster. I ignored every intuition that countered terrific credentials and resume and references, and you both paid the price. I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry she hurt you. I’m so sorry I let her hurt you. If only it were my legs broken, my face bruised. I’m so sorry. I hate her. I fucking hate her. And I hate me for letting it happen.
Wait. Where are my babies?
I dredge myself back to the present, back to the light, and back to my sleeping baby boy and girl. Their light will save me, it is the only thing that can.
*
I’m taking our dog Timber for a walk down the driveway, down the street, and back up the hill again. As I pass the circle that marks the end of our road, I hear people laughing in the distance, skiing, I suppose. The Tombstone chairlift and yurt in The Canyons ski resort are only a few hundred yards away, hidden by mountain pines. More laughter. I picture skiers sitting in orange plastic chairs outside the yurt, drinking beer, eating French fries, enjoying the sun on a winter day. Life going about itself as normal. It feels wrong somehow. A different world. I’m stuck in a dark snow globe that has been abruptly and violently shaken. I am startled to find myself there and equally startled by the normalcy of life on the other side of the glass dome. Somehow I’ll have to find my way back to that world. My babies, my precious, beautiful, new little beings are going to be fine; they are already fine. The only way they won’t be fine is if I become someone who isn’t trusting, who is over-protective, who cannot forgive myself, who lives in fear. They will learn from me. No. Somehow, I must crack the dark snow globe and return to the world. Somehow, I must free myself. For them.
*
I lie in bed, but cannot sleep. Sleep is when the monster hurt my babies. For the past three nights, I’ve taken the Lunestra my doctor prescribed for my incessant cough. But my cold is on the mend, and I took a pill last night because I wanted to sleep and was afraid I wouldn’t be able to on my own. So I lie awake feeling guilty for sleeping. But I also feel guilty for not sleeping. Kalvin and Grace need me healthy and rested to care for them when I am awake. Is Lunestra habit forming? I can’t take the chance so I lie in the dark next to Dan, not sleeping.
*
I’m awake. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m awake. The babies aren’t crying, but I had a bad dream so awful, so vivid, my heart is still racing. Aubrey stood atop a cliff, smiled at me, and threw my babies over the side. They are falling through the air into the angry cauldron of frothy water bashing against the rocky wall. I scream and jump in after them. I can save them. The white water is cold as I kick my way to the surface, frantically searching for Kalvin and Grace. I see them; they’re floating atop the white roiling water. For now. I fight the chaos, trying to reach them. I see their little hands grasping at thin air. I swim harder, I’m almost there. It’s just a few feet. But then I’m not getting any closer. I’m still swimming, but I’m not making any progress. I won’t give up. I reach for them and miss. I reach again, but oh! I have to swim underthe water. I put my head down, take three full strokes, kicking, kicking. I should come up right under them, but when I break the surface, they’re still a few feet away. They don’t seem to be crying, but I can’t get to them. And then suddenly the babies are okay, but I’ve shot Aubrey in the chest. “She hurt them once, then she tried to drown them. I wasn’t giving her a third chance,” I say, offering my hands to the detective. My hair and clothes are still wet. I feel no remorse, only relief my babies will be safe. It feels almost like peace. Then the images from the dream taper off, and I’m lying awake listening to Dan breathing next to me.
Part of me wishes the dream was real. But Aubrey is alive, living her life, going to her job at the hospital, working with kids despite having abused four infants. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t warn the parents of the sick kids; I can’t stop her; I can’t do anything. I picture her driving her shitty little blue MINI Cooper, smirking as if nothing happened, knowing she got away with it, again. And I let that monster into my home, I let that into my babies’ nursery. I did that.
The babies are my salve, so I walk to the nursery and stand over their cribs and watch them sleep. I have to be strong. And that means not turning all this in on myself. I have to tryto be gentle with myself. I have to try. Because the alternative is not good, it drives me down into one dark deep awful hole. This is big. I cannot fail you in that way too.People say we couldn’t have known. I couldn’t give a shit what other people say. It didn’t happen to their kids, it didn’t happen to them. This is a battle I must fight internally. Instead of discipline, persistence, focus, training, and all the other things I’ve used to win other battles, the weapons for this one will be resilience, forgiveness, gentleness, and compassion for myself. I know its okay to be angry at her and at evil. Anger is easy, but self-forgiveness is impossible. I start crying. Tears run down my face, drip on their cribs. Can I do it? I can’t breathe.Can I possibly ever be gentle and forgive myself for this? No, it’s too much. How can I possibly ever forgive myself for letting Aubrey into our home? For letting her hurt you whom I was born to protect and nurture? You’re only weeks old and already, I have failed you. I can’t possibly forgive myself for misinterpreting every single intuition.My breathing gets ragged. Forgiveness isn’t an option, so I’ll have to learn to live with the guilt in a way that doesn’t destroy me or hurt you any more than what she already has.
*
Later I wake up to Kalvin crying. I run to him. Did you have a bad dream? Are you having a nightmare? Do you remember? Will you remember? I sit in the dark, holding him for hours, willing away any bad energy. I want to vanquish any neural circuitry that may trigger fear. I picture the sweet soul in my arms surrounded by a ball of light and pour all the love I can into his little world.
*
I’m watching reruns of Law & Orderwhile the babies sleep. Lately, I crave this show; justice delivered in forty-seven minutes. And every time they get the bad guy in the end, I feel a small twinge of vindication. I watch, and I know that while I’m sensitive and raw, I’m also strong and intact. I have never shied away from high-pressure situations. Never. I’m ready for the fight, and every guilty verdict before the credits feels like a win. For me. For us.
Then suddenly, I can’t watch it anymore. I cannot watch what human beings do to each other. These people, they really exist. It’s not just a TV show, evil exists in the world: the man who rapes his daughter, the kids who set a classmate on fire. The nanny who hurts the babies.
Dan and I aren’t bit actors in a TV show, and this isn’t some fabricated drama based on a hypothetical scenario; it is our infant son; our infant daughter; it is broken bones and excessive radiation from x-rays and CT scans. It is men in our house with guns and Interpol warrants and the very real existence of evil. It is hair samples and blood samples and questions.
*
I’m sitting across the table from an enormous man named Roy. He is sipping something out of a Super Gulp from 7-Eleven. He is less than friendly, and I don’t particularly care. He postures as an almighty, all-powerful technician who can discern one type of guilt from another and discern one type of lie from another and discern good from evil because his little machine tells him what’s so. There is nothing in here but the polygraph equipment, two chairs, and a metal table. Across the table are eight-by-tens of the bruise on Grace’s cheek.
“May I see those?” I ask.
“No,” the answer comes, short and dismissive. I have never been good with authority, of any kind, but especially unearned authority. I take an immediate and intense disliking of Roy.
“I’m the one who took those and gave them to the police.”
“No.” He pushes the photos further away.
Really? What a dick. I stare at him, but he won’t make eye contact, he’s staring at his computer as he nurses from his giant soda. I cannot believe I’m sitting in a room with this obtuse sweating man when I should be home with my babies.
Now Roy moves in to strap sensors to my chest, my arm, my fingers. Then he asks me to stand so he can place a pad on the chair. The entire process feels like an invasion of my being.
“Sit,” he says.
“What’s that? A spectrophotometer to see if I shit my pants?”
“Sit.”
I think of my babies. They’re why I’m here; I want justice for them. Though adrenaline shoots through my body, though I want to fight, I sit, because what else am I going to do. The walls of the room are painted a muted grey; no artwork, not even a poster, just grey. From one corner of the ceiling, a camera watches us. To my right is a mirror that I assume is a one-way window.
Five minutes pass in silence.
“I’m going to ask you a bunch of questions, some of these will be control questions, and some will be relevant to the incident that occurred in January. One thing I should tell you about polygraphs, the more you try to deceive the machine, the more your body will respond. Sit up straight and stare at the wall. And don’t move.” I want to say,fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! But I don’t. I do as I’m told. For Kalvin and Grace.
“From the time you were eighteen until now, have you ever hurt anyone you love? Yes or no.”
“You mean, physically?”
“If that’s how you interpret the question. It’s however you interpret the question. Just answer yes or no.”
“If it’s emotionally, of course. Physically, no.”
“Who did you hurt emotionally?” A list of everyone with whom I’ve had an argument in the past fifteen years runs through my head.
“Well, my parents for one, my brother…”
“You hurt your parents?” His tone implies he’s just discovered the key to crack this case wide open.
“Of course. Every kid hurts or disappoints their parents at some point, it’s their job.” His shoulders sag. Perhaps he thought I had my parents locked in an attic, slipping them morsels of food under the door.
“Have you done any research on how to beat a polygraph?” he asks.
Yeah, in all my spare time, with injured twin infants at home, that’s what I’ve chosen to do. “No.” I can hear the bitterness in my voice, and I swear I see him smile. I sit in silence for three minutes while he consults his screen and prints out another piece of paper. Then another three minutes pass as he examines the printout.
“When were you born?”
“April 1976.” Another pause, another printout, another six minutes away from my babies, gone.
He reaches for the photos. “Did you intentionally or non-intentionally cause injuries to Savannah Grace on or around January 17th?”
I stare him down. “No,” I say, daring him to doubt me. Roy could care less. Another three minutes of silence.
“What is your name?”
“Sarah Tueting.”
Silence.
“Have you ever hurt anyone you loved? Just answer yes or no.” I think again about all the people I’ve hurt, emotionally, momentarily in conversation, unintentionally. Of course I’ve hurt people, everyone has.But he means physically.
“No,” I finally respond. More silence.
“Did you cause the injuries to Kalvin’s legs?”
“No.” Silence.
“When were you born?”
“April 1976.” Still. I was still born in April of 1976.
I’m annoyed. Roy annoys me. This entire process annoys me. No, almost three hours since we began, I’m way past annoyance. I’m offended and furious. “Are we almost done?” I want to get home to my babies. It’s the first time I’ve been away from them for more than an hour since the incident.
“Sit up straight, look forward,” Roy says. I can smell his condescension.
“Is this the last time?” I repeat. I’m going to leave. I’ve given enough time, I’ve answered his questions, I’ll give it five more minutes. Then I’m done.
“If you cooperate.”
Really? Because I’m here. I agreed to submit to a polygraph from the moment I was asked. Dan and I haven’t hired a lawyer; we’ve done nothing but cooperate. I’m here in this grim little room with you, away from my injured babies, voluntarily subjecting myself to your questions and antics and premeditations and tactics used to raise anxiety.Anxiety we have enough of, thanks. And Aubrey, by the way, is still out there, still at liberty to work with and hurt innocent children, innocent babies.
YetI’m the one still being treated as a suspect. Despite the discovery of the case in Belgium, the detectives have run our prescription history, they’ve interrogated me, they’ve asked to talk to Dan’s adult daughters, they’ve been as polite as possible in their invasiveness, given the procedures they have to follow, but thisguy and his gadget. Really, I can’t take more of Roy. I’m done.
*
I’m looking at Kalvin as I feed him his bottle, and I’m wondering what kind of terror he went through in the middle of the night, night after night. If he doesn’t make as much eye contact as Grace, is it because he’s scared of people? If he’s afraid of the dark, is it because she was here at night? If he doesn’t want to be snuggled the same way as Grace, is it because he’s scarred for life? But then Grace was abused too. These are useless questions, I shouldn’t ask them, but I can’t quell them anymore than I can stop the voice within that keeps asking, How could you not have known?
Because I’m swimming, too, through a current of judgment. Our case is yet a media-event, but we live in a state that is predominantly populated by Mormons. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints prescribes that good mothers stay at home and raise their children. I work from home, but I hired help, and that fact makes my commitment to motherhood suspect.
I see it on the faces of the detectives whose wives don’t have nannies. I see it on the face of the prosecutor, a graduate of Brigham Young University, a bishop in the LDS church, a good Mormon with a wife at home taking care of his four boys. I see it on the faces of the doctors. I even see it on the faces of friends, some of whom questioned our decisions, Dan’s and mine, from the beginning. Children are lifestyle change, Sarah. Why don’t you just stay up all night? We did. It’s supposed to hard.I sense the judgments everywhere. But that, at least, gives me something to fight against by strangely externalizing my own saboteur and voice of judgment.
The truth is, we hired a night nurse because we could; because every single twin book and blog advised hiring as much help as we could afford; because every single person I know who has twins had told us, at one point or another, “Get help”; because at least three people confessed to me that their marriages had broken or were breaking up because of twins; because I had read over and over that the extent to which you enjoy your twins is the extent of help you receive.
We hired a night nurse because our families live thousands of miles away. We hired a night nurse because we wanted to avoid the situation of those parents I’d read about online, who just wanted their kids to go to sleep so they could get stuff done. When I am with my children, I want to be with them, not talking on the phone or texting or doing dishes. I wanted to present and engaged. I wanted to be grateful for every moment I was with Grace and Kalvin, and Dan and I believed that meant having a few hours away for ourselves regularly, being well rested and healthy.
And I still believed that, we believed that, even in the face of this horror we now faced; we believed our decisions were, had been, remained best for us; all of us.
We had hired a night nurse to help keep our relationship and our marriage, strong and vital, because that’s what was best for everyone, especially the babies. We hired a night nurse four nights a week, not so that we could stay out late or not change diapers, but so that I had an extra set of hands when Dan traveled on business. We hired a night nurse so that we could go to sleep together and sleep more than three hours a night. We hired a night nurse so these precious moments and days and weeks of our twins’ first few months would not be lost in a sleep-deprived haze.
We’d hired night nurse because I wanted to contribute to society beyond being a mother. I wanted to develop and grow and evolve and serve outside my home, because I knew it would make me a bettermother. I knew I’d be teaching my babies to think bigger, wider than our little family. I wanted to continue to write, to life-coach, to serve on boards, to learn, because I wanted my babies to be proud of me, not only as their mom. I wanted them to know a mother and a woman, happy and fulfilled, independent and focused, not exhausted, preoccupied or resentful.
Sometimes the judgments we heard were overt, blunt as a two-by-four to the head: “Well, now you know why I never let anyone besides family watch my kids,”
I can be scrappy, especially when cornered, but I do my best to remain civil: That must be wonderful to have your family nearby to support you.
Because behind these judgments, I hear fear; fear that however diligent we are as parents, however devoted, however wary and watchful, however strong our faith and our family values, the worst can, and does happen. It happens in real life, not only on a TV crime drama and not only to someone else. I understand the fear others around us feel, but I will not make it mine.
Because Kalvin and Grace are all that matter. And they chose me as their Momma. They chose me. The rest is just noise.
*
My phone is ringing. I’m still hoarse, but at least I can make sounds.
“Hello?” It’s been a little over a week since the incident.
“Hi Sarah, it’s Detective Jack Towline. Sounds like you’re getting your voice back.”
“Some, yeah, some.” I’m still a bit wary of Detective Towline, still a bit raw around his request that the babies remain in the hospital.
“I just wanted to let you and Dan know that we executed a search warrant on Aubrey last night.”
I feel a flutter of anticipation. “Did you find anything?”
“We won’t know until we go through what we have. We took her phone, her computer, and some papers. We’ll run some tests and see what we have.”
It takes me a few moments to process the information. I wonder what could be sitting in the boxes of evidence: prescription history, documents pertaining to other families, emails, Google searches? Hope floats. “How did she react?” I finally ask.
Jack hesitates, “Well…she took a shower.”
He can’t see my eyebrows raise or my head shake in confused disbelief. “While you were there? She took a shower?”
“Yeah.” Police combing through drawers and cabinets, boxing up evidence,
while Aubrey showered.
“Did you check the bathroom?” The question slips out. Too many episodes of Law & Order
“Yes, we checked it before she went in. She just…she took a shower. It was the weirdest thing. Then she came out in her towel.”
“Her towel! Well, that’s just bizarre.”
“Yes. It was strange. Weirdest experience I’ve had during a search warrant. So anyway, we’re going to send the computer out, and it may take a while, but I just wanted to keep you updated.”
“Ok, thanks for calling. Bizarre, but thanks.” I said and hung up.
*
I’m burning palo santo to clear any bad energy Aubrey brought into our home. I click on the butane torch and watch the tip of the wood catch fire. I blow out the flame and let the incense smoke as I work my way through the house, smudging and purifying each room. I spend ten minutes in the nursery, careful to cleanse corners and under the cribs, then I leave what’s left of the palo santo burning in a dish in the bathroom. I won’t use the nursery bathroom again for years.
Next is the sound machine Aubrey brought for the nursery. The cream and white box plays white noise meant to help babies sleep, a thoughtful gift from the dutiful night nurse. I take it to the garage, place it on the cement floor, pick up an aluminum baseball bat and swing. Then I hit it again. I feel release, almost joy, as the plastic cracks then shatters and scatters. I gather what is left, take it outside to the driveway, and smash the pile again.
I can almost laugh at myself, some crazed woman pulverizing a sound machine in the driveway in the middle of winter. I swing away until there is nothing left but plastic shards and wires. They go in the trash, and I only wish it was Tuesday so I could take the bin to the curb, watch the garbage truck with its mechanical arms life and empty the bin, and haul the remnants away.
Last are the swaddle blankets Aubrey brought for the babies. Those need to be burned. I carry the aluminum garbage can we use for fireplace ashes through the snow, away from the house. Then I return for the red plastic can of gasoline that refuels the snowblowers. I put the blankets in the can and ignite them. I want them gone. Anything that she touched, anything that has been tainted by her darkness, I just want it gone.
*
Dan returns home from his videotaped interrogation by the police. They wanted him to go yesterday, on the way home from the airport; he politely told them he was going home to be with his family. My face crumbled with relief when I saw Dan, the father of my babies, the only other person who truly understood. In response, Dan’s face contracted in pain, he pursed his lips as his eyes went wet. I set Grace down in the green boppy pillow and stood to hug him. We were in hell, but at least we were there together.
“Kalvin asleep too?” he asks, wrapping his arms around me.
“Yep, they both went down about an hour ago.” In the dim light of the kitchen, I rest my head on his shoulder.
“You hungry? Sarah made chicken and rice, it’s good.”
“I’ll have some in a bit.” I’m still resting my head on his shoulder, reluctant to leave this sense of home after having worshipped the shrine of independence for so long. But I need Dan, I need his consistency, rational thought, and validation. And I also need his light sense of humor, companionship, and warmth. Finally, he lifts his head from mine, kisses me, and steps back.
“So, how was it?” I ask, reaching for my tea on the counter.
Dan’s eyebrows lift as he shakes his head. Uh oh, this ought to be good.
“They said they had to ask me some tough questions.”
“Okay?”
“And then led with, I’m really sorry I have to ask this, but have you ever had an affair with Aubrey, the night nurse, or Mary, the nanny?”
“No way! Seriously?” That’s the direction they’re going? Some ridiculous made-for-TV plot? “Jesus, what did you say?” Dan shook his head again.
“It was so ridiculous. I said, ‘That’s what you are going to ask me! Not did I hurt my babies? First of all, the answer is no, but second, have you met Sarah?’To which Detective Towline replied, ‘You mean, she’d kill you?’” I laughed out loud in incredulity.
“He said that?!” I guess he had seen me somewhat angry in the hospital, especially at the suggestion I leave Kalvin and Grace overnight. “What did you say?”
“I said no, what I meant was, why would I have an affair with anyonewhen I hit the jackpot with Sarah?”
“My baby,” I reached out to hug him again, exhaled into his chest, and smiled for the first time in days.
Dan and I met six years earlier while working at Medtronic. Over time, our working relationship morphed into tennis sparring partners, then into friendship until one day it occurred to me I might have a crush on Dan. The thought prompted emergency calls to girlfriends to discuss this new realization, especially in light of the fact Dan is twenty-two year older than I am, with two grown daughters and a bitter, soon to be ex-wife.
“Duh,” was one response. “Finally,” was another. “As if we didn’t see that coming.” Apparently I was late to the party, but once I arrived, I was all in; because it wasn’t just a crush, it was more than that, much more. It was the feeling that had been slowly growing that I’d known Dan before, that we shared an understanding of each other that was uniquely ours.
One night not long after my strange realization, our tennis court got cancelled. We decided to go to dinner instead, but the restaurant we tried had a thirty-minute wait so he offered to cook. I sat on the counter of his small apartment, legs hanging down, drinking a bottle of Stella, watching him move from refrigerator to stove as he cooked us pasta, chicken, and made a salad. The moment was this: Dan reached for the olive oil behind me, placing his hand on my leg. I felt my abdomen drop, as if we were on a plane that had suddenly hit rough air and dropped ten feet; then a wave of electricity, like nerve endings coming alive, fireflies moving out through my limbs. I stared at Dan’s back, wondering if he could sense the internal disruption he had just caused. He must have sensed me staring because he turned and grinned at me, as if to say, “Yep, felt it too. Now what are you going to do about it?”
I looked down and laughed.
“What?” He knew full well what.
“Nothing. Looks good,” was all I said out loud. But after that evening, there was never a second thought. We were together. We were a team. And we would be, no matter what.
A few months later, when we started dating publicly, the wife of an older co-worker of Dan turned me to during a dinner and said, “You eat like a child,” referring to my bland order. I glanced at Dan, saw his eyebrows rise, and felt his hand squeeze my knee under the table, before the conversation continued. A few hours later, Dan was happily brushing his teeth when I said,
“What I should have responded with was, you don’t judge me on my age, and I won’t judge you on yours. Or, I may eat like a child but honestly, I’ve never been around someone as rude as you are. Or, slow down, cover up, your insecurities are showing.” I was, in fact, feeling childish, but it made me feel good.
“Whatare you talkingabout?” Dan said, after spitting out his toothpaste. I have a tendency to do that, to verbalize only portions of entire internal conversations.
“What Ria said, that I eat like a child.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Yes, actually, she did.”
“Well, I never heard it.” It could annoy me, this game of I-doubt-it.
A friend of ours married us just after Christmas in 2008 at our home in Park City in front of a dozen family members. I wore a navy blue floor length dress and grey satin heels. Dan wore a black suit with a navy tie. Dan’s eldest daughter read a Native American blessing. My brother, Jon, read a poem by Hafiz, which made everyone cry. Dan and his second daughter sang “I Will” by The Beatles; Dan sang “This Old Guitar.” There were vows and letters, prayers and promises, tears and hugs, and a wedding cake made by a friend in the shape of a ski hill with two gingerbread skiers. “I’m the one in front,” we said, simultaneously when we first saw the cake.
We had sent invitations for a holiday party, to celebrate the love and joy of the season. Friends arrived in jeans and après ski clothes, some late, some bringing wine, all surprised that the party was really our wedding celebration reception. We loved that there were no gifts, no RSVP, no registry, no pressure. I loved the participation of our families. And I love we can show the babies where we got married. The mistletoe under which we kissed on our wedding night is still hanging in the archway by which we pass everyday.