What Do We Bury- Us or The Hatchett

Yes, he broke my heart. And I did the same.

The words lived like a furnace within me as I looked down at him where his body was supposed to be, where our love would die: in the ground. Resurrection, inconceivable. Across from me, she stood, her tears pouring again for where he deserved to be. They shared a secret. I knew. Her condolence was treacherous, her presence maddening. But in life, and in death, I still protected him.

I told myself it was for him. It wasn’t. It was for me.

 

I remained grounded, shoulder to shoulder with those who believed they were witnessing my loss, offering words of wisdom as if grief could be instructed. When you lose something, your first instinct is to get it back. If you can afford it, you replace it. But if it never returns, never in its original form, there is no clear answer for moving forward. If there were, it would be found in the steps, not bottled into something you could pass along. I was going to get through this. I told myself that. This was my biggest role yet. I had rehearsed the story. I knew my part.

 

A month passed, heavy with memories I was told were supposed to be special. The universe’s answer, they said, to continuing his legacy. Twins. Boys. Due the same year she had lost her own. If life were an audition, we both played our roles well; carefully measured, tolerable. A widow and a mistress, orbiting grief without exposing its truth. I knew her secret. She might have suspected mine. Still, we made space for what remained unsaid. She pretended to be happy for me. I pretended to be sorry for her.

 

Pregnancy felt like his punishment. The journey was abhorrent. I existed only to sustain what grew inside me, two restless souls pressing outward, ready to storm free with every contraction. When they were born, it felt like releasing hell. Their cries were not poetry. They were warnings. The beginning of an eighteen-year sentence every parent signs without reading. I named them on purpose. She didn’t know that. John. Jayden. Names he once said he wanted. Names I knew she had chosen for her own, Jo and Jay. If it hurt, I wasn’t sorry.

 

Five years later, the boys went missing. The same day her twins had died. Their sixth anniversary. Our children would have been a year apart, much like the distance between us. She was a writer. She hadn’t published a novel since the affair, but I followed her work. Her essays, anthologies, fragments of grief disguised as reflection. Always about children. My children. Her last story was about a woman who conditioned dolls to call her mother. I didn’t leave when I found out about my husband. That would have been too easy. Too obvious. But the day I heard John call her mother, her instruction, I ended it. Completely. If children were heaven, they were mine. If they were hell, they were mine too. She could have my husband. Not my children. That was the line. Funny, they say love doesn’t stop just because we no longer see each other. Neither does hate.

 

In a town this small, silence doesn’t exist. I heard her everywhere. Her voice on the radio, her words in print. She knew I was listening. That was how she reached them. She spoke about Jayden, how he never liked to latch. Her Jay had been the same. She spoke about John, how he couldn’t sleep unless I sang. Her Jo, too. And then, the day they disappeared, she spoke about dolls. Dolls. Dolls that kept children awake as easily as they put them to sleep. Dolls that comforted. Dolls that told stories. She quoted, “It is an anxious, sometimes dangerous thing to be a doll. Dolls cannot choose; they can only be chosen; they cannot 'do'; they can only be done by,” That was when it clicked. “It was the dolls,” she said, “that proved they were mine.”

 

*

“The court calls Dr. Caviliari to the stand.”

“Objection.” The defense rose quickly, smoothing invisible creases from her suit. She cared about perception, how easily confidence could be mistaken for arrogance, or hesitation for incompetence. She was young, and she knew what they saw when they looked at her. She couldn’t afford to lose this. This case had the town watching. The city listening:

State versus a woman accused of Child Abduction because she believed they were reincarnated.

“Dr. Caviliari is protected by doctor-patient privilege,” the defense argued. “Compelling testimony would undermine the integrity of therapeutic confidentiality. My client has not waived confidentiality.”

“Waived the moment her mental state became the defense,” the prosecutor replied.

“Hearsay.”

“Admission,” the prosecutor was curt. “Your Honour, the mental state of the accused is central to this case. If the defense maintains their client is of sound mind, then evaluation is not just relevant, it is necessary.”

The judge paused, weighing more than law: ego, optics, history.

 “Proceed.”

 

Dr. Caviliari took the stand, composed, almost comforting in presence. The kind of man juries trusted instinctively. I looked across the room. At her. I wasn’t supposed to, but I did. Her lawyer called it intimidation. I called it recognition.

“Dr. Caviliari,” the prosecutor began, “you recorded your sessions with the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“And Alana Banks is your patient?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you treated her?”

“Since she was thirteen. Over twenty years.”

“And you recorded every session?”

“Yes. At her request. She preferred to listen to them afterward.”

The prosecutor took a moment, then: “In a warranted search, these recordings were recovered. The prosecution submits them into evidence.”

“Objection. The recordings were obtained in violation of my client’s right to privacy and should be excluded.”

“Your Honour, the recordings were obtained through a duly authorised search warrant supported by probable cause. Furthermore, the patient herself requested and retained copies of these recordings, yet again, diminishing any expectation of strict confidentiality. The defendant’s own words are being introduced against her. As such, they are explicitly excluded from the hearsay rule.”

The prosecution stepped forward delivering the warrant to the judge for oversight. He pulled his glasses closer to his nose and studied the document.  “Overruled. The court finds the search lawful.”

 

The recording crackled to life.

 

Alana Banks: He showed me the letter… just the first line. I didn’t need the rest. I knew what it would say.

Dr. Caviliari: And how did that make you feel?

Alana: She was so miserable. He only married because his mother gave him no other choice. He could convince himself out of his own happiness. It was like she was taking everything again. Him. My children. They would still be here if she hadn’t, if she hadn’t made everything so difficult.

Dr. Caviliari: Your children had a medical condition. That wasn’t within your control.

Alana: I’m their mother. It was my job to protect them.

(she took a deep breath)

And when they came back… when I was given another chance… I wasn’t going to fail again.

Dr. Caviliari: What do you mean by “came back”?

Alana: People leave. But sometimes they return. Her pregnancy was his gift to me. My children. In another womb. Their father had to die for that to happen. Life is a miracle. They are my miracle.

 

The recording stopped.

 

I looked over in her direction again and caught only a single tear, and something else behind it came from her, belief. Certainty.

“Dr. Caviliari,” the prosecutor continued, “based on your clinical observation, would you describe Ms. Banks as mentally unstable?”

He hesitated. “She is intelligent. Creative. Not unstable.”

“But she writes fiction?”

“Yes.”

“There’s this saying, ‘writers don’t have secrets and if they do they hide them inside their books.’” The prosecutor planted the seed. “So these stories Ms Banks, the defendant wrote, were they grounded in her own experiences?”

“…Yes.”

“Such as her novel about an affair with her best friend’s husband?”

“Objection, your honour, this is a disgrace,” The defense shook her head. “The prosecution is introducing prior conduct and writings to suggest my client acted in conformity with a character trait, presenting fictional or therapeutic expression as evidence of criminal intent.”

The prosecution looked to the jury instead. “Your Honour, the statements go directly to the defendant’s belief system, specifically her assertion that the children were reincarnated. This belief is central to motive, intent, and state of mind. Any prejudicial effect does not outweigh its significant probative value.” The prosecutor then turned to the witness.  “This is not being introduced to show character conformity. It is being introduced to establish pattern. Alana Banks has a documented history of blending personal experiences into narrative form, which is directly relevant to her conduct in this case.”

The judge gave it some sort. A performance as if he was rippling with the truth. “I’m afraid I will have to allow the prosecution to proceed with this line of questioning.”

The courtroom held its breath.

The prosecutor

“Yes,” he said.

And silence, this time, was louder than anything that came before.

 

*

 

The Letter

 

Dear Renton,

 

I let you in and you destroyed me. Tell me, did it make you smile?  How could you cheat on me with my best friend?

 

If you wanted me to hurt, congratulations. You succeeded. It hurt. My tears bleed for me. And whatever sympathy I had left is gone. What remains, I will make you feel. Because only one of us deserves peace.

 

You should have left me first.

 

Helga