Meredith
Those words mellow her, even when they shouldn’t.
They’ve made it easier to survive the cold cruelty he flings at her between bouts of affection, easier to believe that one day the gentle boy inside him might finally eclipse the monster.
She has clung to the hope, waiting for him to become the good son she still pretends he might be.
Tonight, that hope is splintering.
She’s glad he can’t see her face, because she is certain it would give away her thoughts. He’d see that she’s having doubts about keeping his secrets. He’d see that she despises him. Her own son.
She has always feared him. Since he was little. That fear has curdled into loathing. The boy she raised, the boy into whom she repeatedly attempted to instill kindness, love, good is gone.
If Meredith does what the world would call right, if she betrays her own blood, what will they call her? Will they brand her an accomplice, whisper she must have known in grocery store aisles, post her name on social media alongside his, as if she too should be locked away?
Or will she be seen as a victim? A well-intentioned woman who never wanted anything more than a normal child. A woman who has been smothered for years by the devious spirit of a man who will never change.
Then there’s the indescribable worry that her son would never forgive her.
He may do monstrous things, but he is her baby.
Her only baby. He once physically relied on her to eat, latching greedily to her breast. She showed him infinite love, never letting him carry on crying in his crib, even when Michael screamed at her to let him be, to “let the boy toughen up.” She coddled him, nursed him, loved him.
She can’t understand how it went so wrong.
How she seemingly failed at the only important job she’s ever had.
Was it Michael? Or was it nature? She’ll never know.
Lost in her dilemma, Meredith suddenly notices the darkness. Night has fallen. She decides to get up and make Parker something to eat. He should be getting up any time now from his rest, and he’ll be hungry. He’ll be demanding a hot, homecooked meal.
She tips back the last inch of her green cocktail, wincing at its thick viscosity, like she’s throwing back a shot of cough syrup. Her shoulders shiver, but there’s a fresh tipsy confidence in her stride as she steps to the kitchen sink.
The house is too quiet. Too quiet for three girls, held captive, to be under the roof.
A heaviness settles in when she thinks of Imogen.
When she recalls the day of the… episode.
Of Imogen’s tiny hands passing her a pie, her sweet smile welcoming her to the neighborhood.
She thinks of Alice Bly looking at her now.
How terribly scared she must be for her daughter.
Her daughter who reeks of innocence, who never did a damn thing wrong.
Meredith begins to cry. The tears come out slowly, not violent enough to cause audible retching, but enough to bring quiet spasms in her chest. She grips the sweater over her décolletage, aching at her reality.
She’s becoming torturously aware that she’s the only person enabling her son’s ways.
And the only one who can save the girls from him.
She’s at the ultimate crossroad.