Missing Sarah



	She knew it was him even before she picked up the phone.
	
	"Hello" she said.

	"You were in there again," he sighed.

	"Yes."

	"Audie, I wish you wouldn't do that."

	She knew he would say that too.  She looked around the kitchen for

the first time that day and noticed that the sink was full of dishes.

        She was surprised he had left them.

	"I know," she said finally.

	"We'll have another baby soon," he said. "That will make you happy."

	"I know," she whispered.

	"Don't go back in there," he said quietly.
	
        "I have to do the dishes now"
	
        "Good… that's good." He sounded relieved.

	"Good-bye," she said and hung up the phone.

	She carefully moved the plates and silverware from the sink to the

counter. It was important to him that the dishes be washed correctly.  

By hand.  The right way.  Work from the right sink to the left.  Glasses 

first, then plates, silverware, and finally pots.  Work to conserve water 

and detergent.  It's important to do things right. It's important to be

careful.
	
        She found one of his knives at the bottom of the dishes.  His 

special knives.  Chef's knives.  How did this get here? she wondered.

He was so careful with his precious knives.  She examined it closely. 

He swore that these knives could easily be damaged with careless handling,

but now it felt very heavy, indestructible, as she staggered back to sit 

at the kitchen table… the knife still in her hand.

	He would just never understand.  The only time she didn't hurt was
 
sitting in that room.  In Sarah's room she could still see her.  She could

smell her.  She could hear her laugh.  All she wanted was to be in that 

room. All he wanted was to get her out.

	She pulled Sarah's highchair around in front of her & leaned her 

forearm against the tray, examining the knife in her hand.  She couldn't 

see how anything could hurt this knife.  So heavy.  So sharp.  Her mother

would be calling soon and tell her that story again.  She needed to tell 

her mother that a miscarriage wasn't the same.  She needed to tell her 

every day.  But the words wouldn't come out.  She needed to scream 

"No! You don't understand!" but her mother would never believe her.

Never did, her whole life, believe that Audry could have one thought,

one feeling, that she didn't understand.  She felt her grip tighten 

around the knife.

	She knew it was her mother's fault too-- what had happened last

night.  Her mother told her every day now, "As soon as you have another

baby to love…" and then he had said it too.  She heard him say those 

same words last night as he came at her, and she knew that he had talked

to her mother.  For three months now he had been just a voice through the

fog.  Now he was a voice and a cock. Cock… that was his word.  She hated 

that word.  She didn't remember anything past the point of realizing what

he had planned.  The next thing she knew it was over, and he was putting

on his robe.  Going to wash up.  Smiling.
	
        "There, we'll take care of this… you'll be pregnant in no time."

	She knew right then that she would never let him touch her again.
	
She looked up, out the window, and followed a garbage truck down the street

with her eyes.  It turned left, around the corner, and disappeared toward

the park.  The park with the playground.  The playground where Sarah fell.

	The first few weeks she spent every day at the playground, just

sitting on a bench near where Sarah fell.  She could hear her laugh there 

too. But the people in the neighborhood knew her.  Knew who she was. 

Knew what had happened.  Soon the park was empty every day and it didn't

help to go there anymore.
	
        She looked the other way down the street toward the highway. 

After the playground and until he took her car away, she would drive down

that highway each day and sit at the cemetery.  That was very very nice. 

Sarah was so close.  He still took her every Saturday, and sometimes in 

the evenings, but he always wanted to leave.  And then they would fight

and ruin her peace.
	
        And now he was ruining the night too.  How could he believe that
        
another baby would help?  She knew that he loved Sarah.  Everyone loved

Sarah. She was perfect.  And Audry had been so careful.  He knew that. 

He didn't blame her.  No one could have known. Children are so tough… 

so resiliant. She had read that in all the books; in all the articles

on parenting. Who knew that a playground fall could end it all?

	She hugged the highchair close between her knees, and laid her 

forearm across the tray.  She ran the cold hard knife against her soft 

warm flesh and marvelled at the contrast.  He kept these knives so 

sharp.  She watched Sarah's highchair tray fill with blood.  She had 

been so careful to never call her daughter "angel."  But it hadn't worked.