DEADLY LITTLE LESSONS
I slice myself a thick hunk of clay and wedge it out against my board, focusing on Sasha—on the photos I saw, the articles I read, and a couple of YouTube videos that she was in (a Lady Macbeth monologue and a clip from the musical Grease). After several minutes, once again, a t pops into my head, but this time in more detail. I close my eyes to concentrate, and I see that it’s black, with sharp edges, and about six inches long.
I start to sculpt it, at first thinking that I’m wasting my time by replicating a piece I’ve already made, but then I hear the girl’s crying again: the soft whimper I heard at Knead. As I continue to sculpt, the crying gets louder and more distinct, and it almost sounds like she has the hiccups. I keep working, running my fingers over the t, perfecting the borders, and making the corners more defined. But soon the crying is too much to bear. And suddenly I find that I’m crying, too.
After a couple of deep breaths and a few final touches, I decide that the piece looks pretty finished. But now a new image surfaces in my mind, and I feel like I have to sculpt it, too.
I smooth out a slab of clay, and then I grab a scalpel to cut petals out of it—eight of them—as well as a disk. I put them all together, forming a stemless daisy.
My tears drip onto the sculpture. The crying in my head is so loud that I can’t hear anything else. I drop the scalpel, but it makes no noise. I bump my work board, but there’s no sound as it hits the table.
“Please,” I whisper, but I can’t hear my own voice. The crying sound is too loud, too big, too overpowering. I take a step back and pull my hands from my work.
After several moments, the crying seems to dissipate, becoming a slight whimper inside my head. I wipe my hands on a rag and cover the clues with a tarp.
Then I hear something else. A whisper. A word. I can’t tell for sure, but I think she just called out, “Mom.” The possibility of that—that she might be trying to communicate through me—compels me to go upstairs. I hurry into my room, check the computer screen for Mrs. Beckerman’s contact info, and grab my phone. With trembling fingers, I block my number and dial hers.
Mrs. Beckerman picks up right away; I recognize her voice from TV and from her video. “Hello?” she repeats. “Is someone there?”
My mind is racing; I have no idea what to say, or if I should simply hang up. “Is this Tracey Beckerman?” I ask, playing for time, all out of breath.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I can’t really tell you who I am, but I have reason to believe that your daughter Sasha is still alive.” At least, I think she is. At least I think it’s her voice I heard crying, and that I still hear crying now.
“Who is this?” she demands again.
“Is there a plus sign?” I ask. “Or a t shape, or something with the letter t that might be a clue to her disappearance?”
“Excuse me?”
“Does Sasha like daisies?” I ask, aware of how little sense I’m making.
But it must make sense, because the other end of the lines goes church silent.
“Hello?” I ask, still able to hear the distant crying inside my head. I close my eyes and cover my free ear, trying to block it out.
