The Mistletoe Promise (7 page)

CHAPTER

Ten

The Golden Rule is a two-edged sword. If some of us treated others as we treat ourselves, we would be jailed.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

I had always looked forward to Fridays, but now even the weekdays were better. The whole office anticipated Nicholas’s daily gifts. The FedEx man delivered my Friday gift around eleven.

“What is it?” Cathy asked as I opened the box.

“It’s New York cheesecake. It’s really from New York.”

Cathy read the label. “S&S cheesecake from New York. Zagat rated number one.”

“I’ll get some plates,” I said.

“Really?” Cathy said. “You’re going to share?”

“If I ate that much cheesecake by myself, I would look like our Christmas tree.”

“Bless you, child,” Cathy said.

Mark walked out of his office. “Did someone say cheesecake?”

“Elise is sharing the cheesecake her friend sent her.”

He walked over and looked at the box. “S&S cheesecake,” he said. “I’ve heard of that. It’s the best. And pricey. They sell it by the ounce. Like gold.”

I cut the cheesecake up with a plastic knife, and work stopped while everyone ate. Mark closed his eyes as he
savored a bite. “Incredible,” he said. “If you don’t marry that guy, I will.”

“Your wife might have something to say about that,” Cathy said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Zoey said. “I’ve got first dibs.”

Nicholas and I didn’t have lunch that day because he was in court, but that evening he picked me up at my apartment at six.

“How was your day?” I asked, as we walked to his car.

“Good. We won.”

“Do you always win?”

“No. But more than I lose.” He opened the car door for me then walked around and got in. “How was your day?”

“Good,” I said. “The cheesecake was a hit.”

“It doesn’t get better than S&S.”

“How did you know about them?”

“I’m not as provincial as you might think.”

“Believe me, I’ve never thought of you as provincial. You’re the most cosmopolitan person I know.”

“Well, I’m definitely not that either. I just love cheesecake, and I discovered S&S from a client who sent me one last Christmas. That’s one of the advantages of having rich clients.”

The holiday traffic was heavy as we made our way downtown to Abravanel Hall, Salt Lake City’s main concert hall and home to the Utah Symphony. The hall was designed
by the same acoustical consultant who had designed the Avery Fisher Hall renovation in New York and the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. In the gold-leafed lobby was a thirty-foot-tall red blown-glass sculpture designed by renowned glass artist Dale Chihuly.

The event I had chosen for us was a
Messiah
sing-in with the Utah Symphony, which basically meant that we were part of a three-thousand-member choir. To make sure we sounded good, the singing organizers brought in a few ringers, peppering the audience with about a hundred voices from the University of Utah and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. We were handed paper scores as we walked into the concert hall.

“I thought we were going to hear a choir sing the
Messiah,
” Nicholas said to me as we found our seats. “I didn’t realize we
were
the choir.”

“It’s more fun this way,” I said. “I asked if you sing.”

“I just thought you were curious.”

We sounded better than I thought we would. After the concert we drove over to Ruth’s Chris Steak House. I had the petite filet while Nicholas ordered the Cowboy Ribeye. He also ordered a tomato and onion salad to share, a seared ahi tuna appetizer (something I’d never had before), and a sweet potato casserole, which I could have eaten for dessert.

“How do you eat like this and stay thin?” I asked.

“Simple,” he replied. “I don’t always eat like this.”

“I think I’ve gained a few pounds since I signed the contract. You’re spoiling me,” I said. “I’m not sure all this spoiling is a good thing.”

“Why would spoiling you not be a good thing?”

“Because in five weeks our contract is going to expire, and then where am I?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Where are you?”

I shrugged. “Certainly not eating here.”

He looked at me for a moment, then said, “Do you know what I like most about you?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“How grateful you are. In a world growing increasingly entitled, you are truly grateful. It makes me want to do more for you.”

“You already do too much,” I said.

“My point exactly,” he replied. “You’re a beautiful soul.”

“Fortunately for me, you don’t really know me.”

“No, you told me everything there was to know about you last week.”

“Not everything.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I probably know you better than you think.”

The statement struck me as peculiar. “What do you mean by that?”

He paused for another moment before he said, “I’m just a very good judge of character.”

“That may be,” I said. “But the thing is, you don’t know what you don’t know. No one’s perfect. Some of us aren’t even that good.”

Looking at me seriously, he said, “What I do know is that everyone makes mistakes. That’s why forgiveness is so important. Unfortunately, so many of us are bad at it.” He
let his words settle before continuing. “When I worked for the prosecutor’s office, one of my first cases was a man who had shot to death a clerk at a convenience store. We had video of the crime, and I thought it was an open-and-shut case. But because of a technicality we lost. As we were leaving the courthouse, the man slapped me on the back and said, ‘Thank you, Counselor.’ I said, ‘For what?’ And he said ‘For screwing up the case. Of course I killed him. But there’s nothing you can do now.’ ”

“He confessed?” I asked.

“Right there on the courthouse steps.”

“Why didn’t you just go back in and tell the judge?”

“It wouldn’t have done any good. It’s called double jeopardy. He can’t be tried again for the same offense. It’s in the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution. ‘Nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb.’ The concept was of such importance to the founding fathers that they actually made an amendment to the Constitution for it. But that’s in a court of law. In our hearts, there’s no such thing. People punish others over and over for the same mistake. We do it to ourselves. It’s not right, but still we do it.”

I felt like he was reading my mind. He watched me silently. “Elise, you’re not as bad as you think you are. Remember that.”

When I could speak I said, “So the man was never punished.”

“Actually, his case turned out a little differently. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He
wrote a letter to the prosecutor’s office, bragging that he’d gotten away with murder and stating very specific details of his crime. We reopened the case based on new evidence, and he was found guilty.”

“Fool,” I said.

“Yes, he was.” Nicholas changed the subject. “So the Hitesmans are very excited that you will be joining us for Thanksgiving. Do you still want to bake those pies?”

“Yes,” I said. “Except the mincemeat.”

“I’ve already ordered it. When will you bake the others?”

“Wednesday night after work.”

“Would you like some help?” he asked.

“Making pies?”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll keep you company.”

“I would love your help,” I said. “And your company.”

“Great. I’ll be there. I’ll bring dinner.”

That night as I lay in bed remembering our date, I had a frightening realization. My feelings for Nicholas were growing bigger than the contract I’d signed. I wondered if he felt the same way. Not that it mattered. In spite of everything Nicholas had said about forgiveness and redemption, I knew there was no chance we could ever be more than friends. Not if he knew the truth about me. Not if he knew what I’d done. Not if he knew my darkness.

CHAPTER

Eleven

Oftentimes, the hottest fires of hell are fueled from within.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

June 2007 was hot. The whole world was hot. Greece reported their worst heat wave in history with eleven heat-related deaths, and the entire European power grid nearly collapsed beneath unprecedented demand for air-conditioning.

It was equally hot in the western part of the United States. In Salt Lake City temperatures which normally would have been in the high eighties exceeded a hundred degrees. Our apartment’s swamp cooler struggled to keep things tolerable, and the first thing I did on waking was turn it on to full before getting ready for work.

Dan never helped in the mornings. He said it wasn’t his “thing,” whatever that meant. I resented him for that. In spite of the fact that I worked longer days than he did, I would get up at least an hour before him to get ready, make breakfast, then get our little girl, Hannah, fed and ready for the day. The one thing Dan did that was helpful was drop Hannah off at day care, since it was only three blocks from his office.

However even that had now changed. I had wearied of
Dan’s constant complaints about the cost of Hannah’s day care, so a week earlier I had found another place at nearly half the price. Since it was on my way to work, now I would have to leave even earlier to drop her off. I didn’t like the place as much as the day care where we’d been taking her, but since Dan’s commissions were always down during the summer, I decided it was at least worth giving it a try. I wasn’t used to the new routine, and one day I’d forgotten to drop her off and had had to turn around just a block from my work and take her to the new place.

On this morning, Hannah was unusually quiet as I got her out of bed. “Are you tired, sweetie?” I asked.

“Yes, Mama,” she replied.

“I’m sorry you had to get up so early. I made you Mickey Mouse pancakes.”

She smiled. I fed both of us at the same time. Dan stumbled out of bed as I was finishing up.

“Pancakes,” he said dully. Dan was taciturn by nature, at least with me, and before nine o’clock getting more from him than a string of three words was rare.

“What’s wrong with pancakes?” I asked.

“Had them yesterday.”

“No. I made crepes yesterday because you said you wanted them.”

“Same diff,” he said, sitting down at the table.

I shook my head as I carried our plates over to the sink. I filled the sink with soapy water, then looked down at my watch. “I’m going to be late. I need to grab Hannah’s bag, will you please put her in her car seat?”

“Can’t you? I’m eating.”

“Come on,” I said.

“Whatever,” he said, standing.

I quickly brushed my teeth, grabbed Hannah’s bag, and ran out to the car. “See you,” I said to Dan.

“Bye,” he said, waving behind his back.

I threw Hannah’s bag into the backseat of my Toyota. I looked back. She was asleep. “Sorry, sweetie,” I said softly.

I had just pulled out of our subdivision when my cell phone rang. I checked the number. It was work.

“Hello.”

“Elise, it’s Shirlee,” my boss said. “We’ve got a problem.”

“With who?”

“The Tremonton group. Did you book the Smithsonian for today?”

“No, they’re tomorrow.”

“No, we changed it, remember?”

I groaned. “That’s right.”

“They’re standing outside the Smithsonian. They’re telling them that our vouchers aren’t good.”

“Just call the office of direct sales. Natalie will let them in.”

“Where’s the number?”

“It’s in my Rolodex on my desk. Look under Smithsonian.”

“Just a minute.” There was a long pause. “You don’t have Smithsonian here.”

“Of course I do.”

“I looked through all the
S’
s, Elise. It’s not here.”

I was puzzled. “I don’t know where it would be. It’s got to be there.”

“Do you have it in your phone?”

“No.”

Shirlee groaned. “There’s the driver on the other line. He’s got to go. He’s got another pickup.”

“Just tell him to wait a second, I’ll be right there.”

I sped into the office. I pulled into a parking place and ran inside. I had accidentally filed the Smithsonian card under
N
for Natalie. But that’s not the only mistake I made. I left my three-year-old Hannah in the car on the hottest day of the year.

I’ve heard it said that there’s no greater pain than losing a child. But there is. It’s being responsible for your child’s death. The day it happened to me is indelibly etched into my mind. People have questioned the existence of hell, but I can tell you it’s real. I’ve been there. Seeing my beautiful little girl’s lifeless body in the backseat of my car was hell.

I don’t know how long it took for the switch to connect, but after work when I got to my car I just looked at her, the sight incomprehensible. Why was Hannah in the car? Why wasn’t she moving? Then reality poured in like a river of fire. I pulled her out, screaming at the top of my lungs. A crowd gathered around me. I tried CPR, I tried mouth-to-mouth, I prayed with everything I had for a miracle, for a heartbeat, for a single breath, but she had been gone for hours. The world swirled around me like a tide pool, spinning me out of control. The paramedics arrived. The police arrived. There
was talk of heatstroke and core temperatures and hyperthermia. I fell to the ground unable to walk, unable to do anything but scream and babble, to plead for my baby’s life.

A police officer tried to get information from me, but it was like I wasn’t there. My little girl’s body was taken. I screamed as they took her away even though she was already gone. My Hannah. My reason for living, was gone.

A woman came and put her arm around me. I don’t know who she was. I never saw her again. I wouldn’t recognize her if I did. She said little, but she was there. Like an angel. Somehow I could talk to her. “I want to die,” I said.

“I know, honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Then she was gone. Had I imagined her?

The press arrived with cameras and video cameras. Dan arrived after them. “What have you done?” he shouted at me.
“What have you done?”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even speak. I was catatonic.

There were discussions on whether I should be tried for murder or manslaughter. There would be an investigation. It had already begun. People were talking to Dan. To Shirlee. To my co-workers. To people who didn’t know me well enough to speak about me.
What kind of person was I? What kind of mother was I?
No one asked me. I could have answered the latter. I was the worst kind. The kind who killed her own child.

They put me in a police car and drove me downtown to the station. I waited alone in a room for more than an hour. It seemed like no one knew what to do with me. A few police officers came in and asked me questions. Inane
questions.
Did I know she was in the car? Had I left her in the car on purpose? When did I realize she was in the car?
“Probably when I started screaming hysterically and collapsed,” I wanted to say.

Then a man about my age came and talked to me. He wasn’t with the police. He wore a suit. His voice was calm. Sympathetic. He asked me questions, and I mostly just blinked at him. He told me that he was from the prosecutor’s office or someplace official. He finished with his questions and spoke with the police. There was a discussion on whether or not I should be arrested and fingerprinted, but the man intervened. The talk of court and jail scared me, but nothing they could do could match the pain I already felt. Someone asked if I wanted a sedative. I turned it down. I deserved to feel the pain. I deserved to feel every barb, every hurt, then, God willing, to die.

And the barbs came. My Hannah’s death set off a firestorm of media. The television covered it, reducing my tragedy to four minutes of entertainment followed by a commercial for tires. Both newspapers, the
Deseret News
and
The Salt Lake Tribune,
weighed in. There were columns of letters to the editor about me. Some said I deserved life in prison for what I’d done. Some said I should be locked in a car with the windows rolled up. I agreed with the latter. The cruelest thing said was that I had killed my Hannah on purpose.

Most confusing to me was how deeply people I didn’t know hated me. The attacks lasted for months. I don’t know why strangers went so far out of their way to hate
me. Maybe it made them feel like better people. Or better parents. Maybe it convinced them that they would never do such a thing. Maybe it masked their fears that they were flawed like me.

I noticed stories like mine everywhere. One British lawyer called it forgotten baby syndrome.
It’s not a syndrome,
I thought
. It’s an accident. A horrible, exquisite accident. A failure of humanity.

Once a psychiatrist on TV spoke out for me. He said, “Our conscious mind prioritizes things by importance, but our memory does not. If you’ve ever left your cell phone in your car, you are capable of forgetting your child.” He pointed out that this was an epidemic and there were scores of stories like mine. In one state three children died in one day. He said that this was a new phenomenon, that ten years ago it rarely happened because parents kept their babies near them in the front seat. Then airbags came, and our babies were put out of the way, where we couldn’t see them.

He explained that there were two main reasons that people left babies in cars: change of routine and distraction. I’d had both. He said, rightly, that no punishment society could give could match what I was already feeling. I don’t know how he knew. I guess it’s his job to know.

Through it all, Dan’s moods were as volatile as the Utah weather. He was supportive and sympathetic, then, sometimes in the same hour, angry and brooding. He was always moody. He was gone a lot. I didn’t know where he went. I didn’t really care. It was easier being alone. I was fired from my job, not that I could have worked. I stayed in bed most
of the time, hiding from the world, wishing that I could hide from myself.

Then, one night, I got sick with appendicitis. If I had known that my appendix had already burst, I might not have gone to the hospital. If I had stayed home for just another hour or two, I could have ended it all. I had been given a way out. I don’t know why I didn’t take it. Perhaps, in spite of my self-loathing and pain, some part of me still longed to live.

As I lay in bed wracked with fever, I thought about my life. It was then that I had an epiphany. It came to me that one day I might see my sweet little girl again.
What if she asked me what I had done with my life?
I was not honoring her by retreating from the world—from life. At that moment I resolved that things might be different. That
I
might be different. That I might be
better
.

Then my husband divorced me.