Free The Answer to Everything by Elyse Friedman Page B

I saw my child coming back to life.
    Eventually, I decided to let Emily be herself whenever Paul wasn’t around. It was our little secret. The secret world of me and my sweet daughter. The best moments of our lives. I bought her a Barbie doll and started making clothes for it. I taught her how to knit. We would hide everything in the bottom of a garment bag that hung in the back of my closet. For Emily’s fifth birthday, I promised I’d take her to get a dress—a real one, not one of my blouses tied at the waist with a bathrobe belt. There was a terrible snowstorm the night before, but she was so impossibly excited that I decided I would dig out the car and we would inch our way to Walmart. Of course, she picked the pinkest, frilliest dress they had. And I bought her matching pink shoes. I can tell you honestly that I’ve never seen a person happier about anything in my whole entire life.As miserable and withdrawn as Thomas was, that’s how joyful and exuberant Emily was—equal and opposite. She was practically bouncing out of her car seat on the way home. And the second we got in the house and made sure the coast was clear, she jumped into her outfit and ran to the mirror, where she stayed for the longest time, staring at herself. Her honest self. It was a big moment for her. She wasn’t playing dress-up with Mommy’s clothes. This was the way it was supposed to be. A little girl, dressed like any other little girl. And with her soft curls and dainty features, she looked just like any other girl, except even sweeter and more beautiful.
    She said, “Mommy, take a picture of me!”
    She wanted to preserve it. She wanted proof of the thing that was being denied. The real and true thing. And so I did. And then we heard the front door open. Paul’s noon inspection was cancelled because of the storm. So we stripped off the dress and shoes, and I jammed them in the closet while Emily pulled on pants and a sweater. Then we flew downstairs, where Paul was waiting with a special birthday present for Thomas—two NHL steel hockey nets for the backyard rink. And he tried not to look totally peeved when our child just scowled at the gift, and he bundled up Thomas and took him outside to help shovel the snow off the rink, even though Emily really wanted to help me bake the birthday cake—an activity that was, for her, obviously prohibited. And the rest of the afternoon was the typical tense charade, and I expect everything would have gone on as usual if I hadn’t forgotten to erase the photo of Emily from the camera. But I was flustered and I did forget. And when I carried out Thomas’s birthday cake—white andblue icing only, no flowers—Paul was waiting in the dining room with the lights dimmed and the camera in his hands. And he turned it on and saw what was there.
    “What is this?” he said, fiddling with the camera buttons, breathing hard. I stopped moving. “What the fuck is this?” he screamed. “Are you out of your mind?” He threw the camera across the room and as it sailed by my head I flinched and pulled the cake against me. It slid to the floor and Thomas started wailing.
    “It’s OK,” I said. “It’s OK.” I tried to go to him but Paul blocked me. “No, it’s not OK!” he shouted. “It’s not fucking OK!” I’d never seen him so enraged. “What are you trying to do? Are you out of your head?” Thomas was screaming for me and trying to get to me, but Paul snatched him up and carried him upstairs. I chased after them, but Paul slammed and locked the bathroom door before I could get there. I heard Thomas shrieking and Paul yelling at him to hold still. I pounded on the door and said I was calling the police. I ran to our bedroom, grabbed the cordless and ran back to the hall. I was dialling 9-1-1 when Paul came out of the bathroom and knocked the phone out of my hand. He was holding the big scissors.
    “Where is it?” he said, dragging me toward Thomas’s room. He’s a big man and I’m a