They say words cannot describe the pain you suffer when you lose a child. I believe that words might, so I’m going to try. It’s like shards of broken glass, jagged pieces surrounding your heart, and every time you breathe, they stab viciously at you, incapacitating you and making you wish you were dead. It’s like you are constantly swallowing sea sand. Your throat is dry as the Sahara and almost swollen from the abrasiveness.
It’s like everyone is talking at once, but no sound escapes their lips. It’s like being on a carousel at the fair, and it’s spinning at one hundred miles an hour, almost out of control.
I wanted to die, curl up and just let the life ebb out of me. But I had Warren to think about.
My life became a blur and I welcomed it. I didn’t want clarity now, it was just too painful.
But unfortunately, my blur didn’t last. Once the cloak of numbness deserted me, a Niagara of tears prevailed. Even when I was asleep, tears silently cascaded down my cheeks.
I wanted my mother – but she couldn’t get a visa due to her health.
I wanted Bear, but…
****
I was a suspect in the death of my child.
I understood that, accepted it, and answered all the ridiculous questions they asked over and over again. I accepted blame for my part in Sasha’s death. What I did was stupid, careless, and fatal. I was a bad mother, an unfit one who deserved to be punished.
Hurt me, I deserve it.
Of course I consented to a polygraph – I had nothing to hide, and all I wanted was for them to rule me out as a suspect, so that they could go after the monster who stole my car, then abandoned it in a quiet side street and left my child to bake in it.
Multiple organ failure was the cause of her death. Her tiny body was too delicate to handle the oven the car had become.
On top of all of this, I worried about Tom. Was he going to take away Warren? Declare me an unfit parent and petition the courts for full custody? Then punish me by never allowing Warren to see me again? What would I do if that happened? The thought freaked me out further, and I never let Warren out of my sight.
A policewoman visited. “Your husband has arrived in Sydney. He would like to see you both. Also, he wants to discuss funeral arrangements.”
I silently chewed on my nails. The last person I wanted to see was Tom.
“We can do this at the police station if you’re not comfortable here,” she said, reading my mind.
“Okay,” I quickly said. “I don’t want him to know where I live.”
Because Sasha died in my BMW, the police had seized my car for evidence and forensics.
But the police were more than happy to drive me to the police station for my meeting with Tom. In fact, the police were wonderful in every sense of the word. Even though I was a suspect.
Tom was at the police station when Warren and I arrived. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for the finger-pointing from him. Braced myself for the barrage of accusations coming my way:
“You really fucked up, didn’t you?”
“This is what you do when I’m not around?”
“So much for independence and all that shit you wanted.”
“This would never have happened had I been in control.”
“Freedom? Really? This is the sum of it?”
“What a neglectful mother you are.”
“You killed our baby. YOU!”
“Relax,” Sargent Smith said, placing her hand on my tensing shoulder. “We’re going to be in the room, so if anything happens…”
I nodded and put a hand over my bloodshot eyes. “He’s going to be livid. Oh God!”
“We can handle him, Arena. We do this all the time. Don’t you worry about a thing. We know his type.”
“He’s pretty charismatic, be warned,” I said. “He’ll win you over.”
“Ha! We’ll see about that,” Sargent Smith said. “A woman with a baby and a toddler doesn’t walk away from a life of luxury unless her husband is a monster.”
Appreciating what she said and encouraged by Sargent Smith’s words, I made my way to Tom.
I was really surprised at the way Tom looked – red-eyed, two-day-old stubble, hair disheveled, mismatched clothes – highly unusual considering he was such a neat freak, immaculate all the time, obsessive about his appearance.
“Arena!” he cried, a look of distress on his face. “I am so sorry.” He threw his arms around me and hugged me.
I stood stiff in his embrace as all four officers looked on, their hands on their pepper sprays.
There was no reproach, no abuse, no gloating from Tom. He actually, to my astonishment, appeared distraught, broken and didn’t try to staunch his flow of tears. I’d never seen him cry before, and in spite of everything, I was moved by his tears. He too had lost a child, no matter what a monster he was. He was happy when I got pregnant with her, remember? I was the one who was dismayed at the pregnancy.
Relieved, I really appreciated the fact that he wasn’t blasting me for my error of judgment.
Putting our differences aside, we cried together over the loss of our precious baby.
Releasing me, he scooped Warren into his arms, sank into a chair, and wept some more.
To me, who knew him so well, he looked like a man in mourning, and as I watched him, confusion mushroomed inside of me – was I wrong about him?
Even more confusing – my instinct, which I had come to rely on, was telling me that I was not wrong.
“Daddy loves you so much,” he whispered to Warren.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the officers exchange surprised looks, then looks of sympathy at Tom.
We discussed funeral arrangements without a single accusation. I wept throughout our conversation. Talking about flowers and coffins for your baby would break any parent’s heart, and God knows mine was in pieces already.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he whispered, taking my hand in his. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
I nodded, grateful that he still hadn’t fired a single bullet of blame my way.
“You don’t have a car anymore,” he pointed out. “I’ll arrange the Merc for you to use.”
I couldn’t believe that he was so helpful.
“Th…thanks.”
He released my hand and walked over to talk to the police officers standing around.
Through my grief, I watched as he talked to every one of the officers, mentioning them by name, and when they nodded and smiled at him, prickles of alarm shot through me. I knew Tom’s MO – win them over, one by one.
Charm, then disarm. Slowly but surely. That’s Tom; his charm was a vital part of his arsenal.
Most alarming was Sargent Smith – she appeared to be hanging on to his every word.
“My wife is a great mother,” I heard Tom say, loud enough for me to hear. A small chuckle escaped him. “Excuse me if I still say ‘my wife.’ I’ve never dated another woman, so in my mind, she’s still my wife, and they’re still my family. Silly, I know.”
“Oh, no, no, we understand,” Sargent Smith said in a sympathetic voice.
“Sorry again.”
“No, don’t be sorry, Mr. Botha,” Sargent Smith said. “We totally understand.”
I was pretty sure that after the policemen and policewomen met Tom, they thought differently of me – that I bullshitted them about Tom. Probably thought that I left him because I wanted to play the field, fuck around. How quickly did I get a boyfriend?
What they saw was a man broken over the loss of his child, yet he treated me, his errant and neglectful wife, with the utmost love and respect. Who wouldn’t gravitate towards him?
I heard a detective ask him to take a lie detector test. Would he? Excitement ran through me, and I held my breath as I waited for his answer.
“Sure. Absolutely!”
I was stunned at his answer. I just couldn’t believe how readily he agreed to take the test. Had I been so wrong about Tom’s involvement in Sasha’s death?
The police, after exchanging knowing looks, then shooting a confused glance in my direction, thanked Tom and arranged for the polygraph that very afternoon. The polygraph would show deception if he was involved in Sasha’s death, so I was hopeful. Deep down, I knew that he was. I was convinced of it.
Then, to my utter astonishment, he passed the test. I was floored. How was that possible? I no longer knew which side was up.
Even more confusing, Tom went on TV and offered a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer of our baby!
Were these the actions of a guilty person?
If I was wrong, then I was committing a terrible sin – accusing an innocent father of the most heinous crime ever: murdering his child. Calling him a monster.
Imagine if I was accused of killing Sasha? I was a suspect, true, but imagine if I was wrongfully charged with Sasha’s death? How would I feel?
So, if Tom wasn’t responsible for the death of our baby, then who was? If it was someone else, then I had one more person in my life to hate, but my gut told me otherwise – nagged me like a persistent gastric ulcer; It. Was. Tom.
But that was only my suspicion. Everyone else’s eyes were now on this boyfriend of mine who couldn’t be found, and the questions darted at me, fast and furious.
“This Shane Shaw you talk about, have you and him been fighting recently?”
“Has he ever been abusive towards you?”
“Has he ever been abusive towards your children?”
“Did you know him while you lived with Tom?”
“Bear is still married?”
“Did he resent your children, feel that they are in the way?”
“Did he ever threaten to hurt them?”
“He’s not like that,” I explained. “He loves my children and he loves me. He’s a wonderful man.”
They exchanged yeah-right looks.
“He’s even given me his credit card to use. Look!” I start to search for the card, then I remember that my purse was in the car the day it was stolen. My purse was never retrieved.
The officer shot me a funny look and shrugged at my explanation.