You Know What You Did

CHAPTER 1

Let me help with the funeral stuff," Tabby says, grabbing a cold kombucha from the fridge. "I could find the caterer for Grandma's wake or whatever. Like when Papa died last summer."

After Annie's father-in-law passed away quietly at the Shaw family estate in Boston, Tabby proudly assisted with telephone calls and vendor arrangements. Duncan Shaw welcomed his daughter's involvement even though the thirteen-year-old's constant questions about how and what to do ultimately created more work for him. He confided in Annie, "Any inconvenience is well worth it, if it helps Tabby to process her grief."

Now Annie flips through a stack of mail on the counter, buying time as she struggles to craft a tactful response to her daughter's offer. There will be no funeral for Mẹ. Annie, riddled with guilt, couldn't even bring herself to attend the cremation. Duncan had taken care of it for her, disappearing for several hours one morning then returning with four and a half pounds of cremains in a black plastic tub.

Fortunately, something on the kombucha label has caught Tabby's eye and distracted her from the topic of funeral plans. The girl's nose, freckled from a decade of riding lessons, crinkles. "This says 'Made in San Francisco,' but locally brewed is so much better for us and for the environment. Do better, Mom." At that, she raises the bottle to her rosebud lips and chugs the entire thing.

Six dollars gulped down in fifteen seconds. At times like this, Annie can't help but notice how much Tabby takes for granted. She'd never wanted her daughter to grow up as she herself did-and perhaps had overcompensated as a result, buying trendy brands and ignoring Duncan's penchant for lavishing expensive gifts on his little girl.

Tabby swipes her lips on the sleeve of her crisp white hoodie, then tosses the empty bottle into a stainless steel recycling bin built into the custom cabinetry. Again, she fixes a pair of expectant brown eyes on her mother. "So what can I do?"

Annie clears her throat nervously and attempts to level expectations as gently as possible.

"We're not doing a funeral. Just the cremation. I thought you knew . . . there's nobody to invite anyway. Grandma didn't have any friends left, and there aren't any other relatives that I know of."

This was completely true. Annie hadn't even met her father or her older brother, nor did she know the particular circumstances of their deaths. Mẹ had never been willing to share much, only vaguely alluding to the fact that they both died during the war.

"Um . . . well, what about the ceremony to spread the ashes or the wake?" Tabby's voice is growing precariously thin and nasal. With the fragile pride of a teenager, she's taken the rejection of her help, so rarely offered, personally. "I mean, if we don't do something, Grandma's ghost won't be able to rest."

Her daughter's presumptuousness grates on Annie. As soon as Tabby grew old enough to be embarrassed by her grandmother's missing teeth, broken English, and odd ways, she avoided the old woman as much as possible. What right did she have to dictate the terms of Mẹ's burial?

"Tabby, I appreciate the offer-I do, but Grandma wouldn't want anything fancy."

Her mother scorned American funerals, deriding them as a foolish waste of money with their shiny lacquered coffins and expensive floral arrangements. In fact, with each passing year, Mẹ eschewed more and more material comforts. By the time she reached her eighties, she even refused to sleep on a mattress, opting instead for a frayed tatami mat.

"Wow. Just wow . . . so no service at all for your own mother?" Tabby says, waving her hands around melodramatically. "Is it really what Grandma would've wanted? Or are you just too busy with your painting, your gardening, your precious dog? If Daddy or I died, would you ignore us too?"

"Of course not . . . Tabby!" The thump of her daughter's feet stomping up the stairs drowns out the rest of Annie's words. A minute later, anguished wails of pop-punk music seep down from the girl's bedroom. Lately, this is the norm. Tabby, like every teenager, has developed the uncanny ability to shift moods from zero to sixty in seconds.

Drawn out by the commotion, Duncan emerges from his study and shuffles into the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. "Hurricane Tabitha, I presume?" he says, cocking his head toward the ceiling.

Annie nods. As she fixes lunch, she fills him in on the kerfuffle. Duncan responds as he does every time their daughter acts out.

"She's exploring boundaries, testing out her emotional safety net. Tabitha needs to know we love her unconditionally. You're the adult. Try to be patient."

"You always give her a free pass," Annie says, dumping a bag of mesclun into a big white bowl. She plucks a fennel bulb from a basket on the counter and rinses it. "It's not good for her to always get her way."

"Well, I think she has a point this time. We should have some kind of service for your mom. For closure."

"She would've hated a service. You don't know her like I do." Her voice cracks in frustration. How can she make Duncan and Tabby understand? She and her mother aren't like them.

In search of the right tool to cut the fennel, she slides open a shallow drawer and lifts out the mandoline slicer. Mẹ would have used the dao bào. The image of the old woman's fingers wrapped around the bloodstained knife flashes into Annie's mind. The thought paralyzes her, and she freezes.

At that moment, Duncan wraps his arms around her waist from behind and kisses the top of her head. Startled, she drops the mandoline. It clatters onto the pale green enameled countertop.

"Watch out! Are you trying to make me cut myself?" Her words are drenched in accusation.

Exasperated, Duncan throws up his hands and retreats to the breakfast bar.

Annie waits until he's situated safely across the room before she picks up the mandoline again. Suddenly realizing how much the kitchen tool resembles a rat-sized guillotine, she grimaces. Her cheek twitches, and she can almost feel the gray blur scurrying past her face again. She rubs her cheek against her shoulder, brushing off the sensation.

As she positions the fennel bulb along the chef-sharp steel, Annie thinks about her life before the medication, the pale yellow pill she now takes daily. Back then, riddled with self-doubt, she couldn't trust herself to be near sharp blades.

Her hands tremble as she slides the bulb back and forth across the mandoline. Has she somehow forgotten to take her prescription today? Not likely-but possible. Her mind combs through her actions from the moment she woke up, seeking some detail that will erase the doubt. Nothing comes. After twelve years, swallowing the small oblong tablet is an action done on autopilot, as difficult to recall as taking her first breath in the morning.

Creamy white fennel shavings pile up on the cutting board. Their sweet licorice aroma fills her lungs, pushing out the tightness in her chest and pulling her from her mental quagmire. Exhaling slowly through her mouth, she scoops up a handful of the paper-thin shavings and tosses it into the salad bowl.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," she says, glancing over at Duncan with genuine remorse in her eyes. "I've been preoccupied with my mom, and there's just so much to do before the SouthernHer interview Tuesday." As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could take them back.

Annie had been thrilled when the lifestyle magazine approached her last month, but the article, which promised to feature her as a rising local artist, had become a tender subject in the Shaw household. Duncan had suggested Annie postpone the interview given her mother's recent death. She'd refused-the thought of putting off the interview hadn't even crossed her mind. For days, they'd squabbled on and off about it.

Her husband pounces on the opportunity to revisit the debate. "It's only been a couple of weeks since your mom died. It won't hurt to reschedule or even cancel if need be. You have to give yourself a chance to mourn."

"Duncan, I told you the editor has already slotted the story. Besides, a big opportunity like this might not come along again. SouthernHer has a national reach. You know how important this is to me." But she can never tell her husband-or anyone-the real reason why it matters so much. As if her success as an artist now will help justify what she did all those years ago.

Duncan slides off the barstool. He approaches her slowly, using the time to choose his words. "You've been handling her death so well-I haven't even seen you cry once. But you know you can lean on me, right? Let me take care of you, Annie." With his palm, he alternates between stroking and patting his wife's back as if she's a newborn. "I'll take a few bereavement days."

"I appreciate the thought, but that won't be necessary. I'm fine. Really."

"C'mon, Annie! It's not like there's some stiff-upper-lip award being given out. You're putting on a good show, but I heard your voice that afternoon. When you called me, you sounded hysterical. Now, suddenly you're 'fine'?"

In a cold sweat, she'd called Duncan at work that afternoon. Of course her husband would help her. He'd be able to move her mother to the front porch-this absolutely needed to be done. She couldn't risk having the police discover the truth. As expected, Duncan did rush home, but to Annie's dismay, he refused to disturb the body.

"We shouldn't. How can you ask me to do such a thing? It's not right."

She pleaded with him, panic rising with each word. "I can't have the police poking around there, they might . . . Of course, I'd be charged . . ." Too ashamed to continue and unable to communicate the full story, she let her words hang in midair. Eventually, responding to the raw fear in her eyes, he complied.

Annie jams the fennel trimmings down the garbage disposal with unnecessary force. She wants to move ahead with her life, rather than dwell on the one that's already ended. If she tells Duncan the truth-that despite her guilt, a huge burden has been lifted off her shoulders-he'll think she's a monster. He'll know she's a monster. She shuts down instead, offering him a clipped response.

"I can't do this right now. We need to eat before the fennel turns brown."

CHAPTER 2

OMG I'm obsessed!" Millie Rae says, twirling around the foyer. The bubbly blond intern from SouthernHer magazine drinks in every detail, from the vintage milk glass chandelier down to the Virginia oak plank floor gleaming out from between cozy woolen scatter rugs. "Your home is spectacular, Mrs. Shaw. A Pinterest board come to life!"

Millie Rae pauses to admire a delicate pastoral painting. Ink-dappled cows bathed in golden sunlight; rows of field corn rippling toward a cloudless sky. She leans in and squints at the artist's signature, partially hidden in the brushstrokes that create the illusion of grain. "Ooh! One of yours?"

"Why, yes." There's a note of surprise in Annie's voice. She passes by this plainly framed canvas a dozen times a day, but she hasn't seen it in years. "A relic from college," she murmurs, momentarily transfixed by the bucolic world she fabricated decades ago, a world almost entirely divorced from her reality.

"College? You went to RISD, right? Is this a painting of a place in Rhode Island?" The chirpy journalism student takes a step back and snaps several pictures with her phone.

"Ohio. Believe it or not, I grew up in the boonies, working farm country. This field was just up the road from me." Registering the mild surprise on the young woman's face, Annie explains, "My family escaped Vietnam by boat during the war. We were fortunate enough to build a new life in America."

The line has rolled off her tongue so many times, the words barely register anymore. But it serves its purpose-to curtail questions. Most listeners automatically fill in the blanks with reassuring "pull yourselves up by the bootstraps" fairy tales. Refugee success stories that allow them to celebrate the American dream, without sharing in any of the culpability of war.

Eager to change the subject, Annie clears her throat and ushers Millie Rae into the formal sitting room. "Shall we?"

Once the two women are seated comfortably in a pristine pair of Hepplewhite wing chairs, the budding reporter takes charge.

"Like I said in my message, your profile will be part of our 'Rising SouthernHers' series. My editor wants a short Q&A and lots of photos since the piece will live on digital." Having thoroughly raked over the home's interior design, Millie Rae's bright blue eyes now appraise her interview subject.

Annie self-consciously smooths her hair and presses her lips together. The soft pink gloss she swiped on earlier has already disappeared, leaving her feeling naked. Glancing down at her simple olive sack dress and vintage combat boots, Annie reminds herself that a full face of makeup wouldn't suit the breezy artist persona she's so carefully crafted. In her younger days, she would have shriveled under the scrutiny of a pretty, popular girl like Millie Rae. But marriage, motherhood, and a burgeoning art career have bolstered her confidence.

Besides, she can't let this opportunity slip through her fingers. The article will be a launchpad, earning her broader recognition and a chance to be viewed as a serious artist, not just as hired help. No longer will her artistic choices be dictated by the color of a client's new ottoman, nor will she have to paint the screaming toddlers and uncooperative pets of the local one-percenters. Swallowing her insecurities, she flashes a broad smile and announces in a voice that's just a little too loud, "A visual spread makes perfect sense. My home, my studio, the work, me . . . snap away!"

Satisfied, Millie Rae nods and checks off a note on her pink legal pad. "And how about some exterior shots? From what I could see from the porch, your native plant gardens are stunning."

"Of course," Annie says, her voice faltering. Even though she tells herself everything will be okay, her thoughts instantly spiral. Turn back as soon as you reach the old white oak-the carriage house won't be visible yet. Nobody can know what went on there. She lowers her head, feeling her cheeks flush hot with shame. Her right palm zings as if she's received a low-voltage shock. She flips it over, exposing the mental image of Mẹ's lifeless hand enclosed in her own. The day her mother died Annie had washed her hands over and over again. Bloody water pooled at the bottom of the basin before sinking down the drain. Even after the water ran clear, her brain cast a bloody pink filter over everything.