Prologue:

Sleeping Sickness

Many people know the basics of how my world ended on July 10th, 2012, but few know the whole story of how I lost my girls way too soon… 

Where to begin. With a punch in the face? A poorly-timed positive pregnancy test? The phone call that brought me to my knees? The 100th morning when I woke up and had to remember again that I was no longer a mother? Or the moment when I knew I’d survived, whether I wanted to or not?

For the sake of my own sanity, I’ll start with me and my last moments with my girls: Amara Rose, age eleven going on seventy. Sophie Marie, an established artist after eight orbits around the sun. And baby Cecilia Lee—Cea, who’d ruled the roost since her arrival five years earlier. And then there was me, or at least who I used to be when I stood on the other side of tragedy. Jessica Lee, am—was—will always be their mother.

It was a chaotic morning like most. We all had dentist appointments early in the day. Amara and Sophie both had sealant put on their teeth that day because they had grown-up teeth worthy of extra protection, while Cea still hadn’t lost a single tooth. The girls loved visiting our dentist, while I’ve always loathed it. The combination of the uncomfortable sensation of having someone root around in your mouth and because I think teeth are creepy.

Cea didn’t think that, though. She died without ever knowing the magic of having a fairy sneak into her room to trade a tooth for a silver dollar coin. 

I still have Amara’s and Sophie’s baby teeth in a little box on my bookshelf. I never knew what to do with their teeth after I put my tooth fairy wings away. I keep a note in the box that Amara once left for the tooth fairy.

Dear tooth Fairy, 

     may I pleas have a photo. Not drawn. thank you. 

Amara 

Sophie once busted me and asked why I had a box full of teeth hidden in my room. I panicked and prioritized salvaging magic over maintaining my reputation as a sane mother. 

“Those are the trophies I keep from all the little kids who’ve snooped in my room,” I said with the most sinister face I could muster.

She quirked her eyebrow at me and smirked. “I am going to call the police and tell them you’ve been taking kids’ teeth,” she said. 

I took a long sip of coffee and gave her a look. “If the police come and investigate me,” I said, “they’ll look into your business, too.”

Sophie thought a bit too long for my comfort and said “nevermind” before scooting out of the kitchen to go bury some evidence.

Amara had band camp that morning, so she was first in the dentist’s chair. I watched her lead the hygienist back to the exam room, chatting about starting middle school and her plans for the rest of the summer. I hung out in the waiting room with the younger two girls, sending each one off as their names were called.

Our nanny Dealla picked Amara up and dropped her off at school for band camp, then came back for the other two. I don’t remember if I even hugged them good-bye. It was the normal rush of rotating bodies and signing paperwork. Why stop the rushing river of responsibilities to hold my babies and tell them I loved them when I expected decades of hugs, kisses, and opportunities to luxuriate in their presence? 

I finished my appointment, made a half-hearted promise to floss more often, and headed into work to fix the world one care conference at a time. 

While at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about what was coming. We had big plans that night. I was going to introduce the girls to Matthew, the man with whom I’d become quite smitten with over the previous few weeks. Cooking for people is my primary love language and that night I planned on making a classic pasta feast. After dinner, we were attending a concert in the park to see a local band, Caroline Smith and the Good Night Sleeps. 

The night before we’d practiced hula-hooping while listening to the band’s song “Tank Top.” Amara had become quite competitive in the hula-hooping arena and was getting a bit too close to my own crown for comfort. Later, after they were all sound asleep, Matt came over to further feed my infatuation with him. Walking past their bedroom doors, behind which they dreamed their last dreams, was the closest he’d ever get to meeting them.

The day progressed, and that afternoon while I was still at work, Blake, the girls’ father, called. I was in the middle of writing case notes about my attempts to get an elderly client to accept in-home services, and I was irritated with having to deal with him yet again. Blake hadn’t seen the girls in almost three months. We had been spending the last month trying to repair his relationships with the girls and I via Skype and stilted phone calls. He was supposed to be in North Dakota cashing in on the building boom, a reaction to the oil boom, but instead he was in town to see the girls.

“What do you mean you’re here in the cities?” I asked, my attention on data entry.

“I had to drive one of the vans down to get it fixed at headquarters and my train back doesn’t leave until late tonight,” he smoothly poured his lie into my ear. “Jess, I thought I could come over and see you and the girls.”

“We have plans tonight,” I snapped. “You can’t just pop in to town and expect us to drop everything. It’s not fair to the kids.”

“What are they doing right now?” he asked.

“They are with Dealla at the house,” I said. “I suppose you could go to the house and see them for a little bit. But I want you gone before I get home at five.”

He filled in a few logistical worries, saying he could borrow a car and that he’d be gone before my date night, even though I hadn’t mentioned Matt coming over. 

Who was I to deny my children the attention of their wayward father? I thought he was trying to be better. I called Dealla to tell her about the change in plans and gave her my blessing to leave as soon as he got there. 

I spoke briefly to Amara on the phone at the same time, but can’t recall the details of her words or the sound of her voice. 

Though, I remember asking her a question. “Honey, are you okay with having him popping in like this?”

She’d struggled more than the other two girls with his vanishing acts. But she reassured me in her typical pre-teen manner with a firm tone that brushed up against condescending. 

“Mom, I can handle it,” she said. “Sophie and Cea really want to see him.” 

She wasn’t wrong. I know for certain that all three were ecstatic to show Blake all their projects and the treasures they’d accumulated since the last time they saw him. I released a sigh of frustration that my big girl was being played like a yo-yo by her dad. 

“Call me if you need me, love. I am just doing paperwork.” We ended the call how we ended all calls with our simultaneous “Love you, bye.”

I finished my workday and left the building. As I was walking to my car, to a future that only seemed brighter with every step I took, my cell phone rang. It was Blake again. I answered.

“You can come home now,” he said. “I’ve killed the kids.”

My knees buckled and I grabbed the car door to stop from hitting the pavement. I curled up like I’d been punched in the gut. 

“That isn’t funny!” I screamed into the phone. “You can’t make jokes like that. Stop lying!” 

But he’d already hung up, so my pleas echoed into the dead air. 

Having the training I did as a social worker, my first full thought was, “Someone needs to get there now.” 

I scrambled into my car and called 9-1-1 as I buckled up. I desperately hoped the girls were still alive and Blake was bluffing, but I called the police as a precaution. I did not trust Blake at all. I didn’t trust him to tell me the truth, but I also didn’t trust him to lie to me about the one thing I wanted so badly to be false. I needed to believe he was just trying to terrorize me, torturing me. It was a true juxtaposition of both knowing his words were the truth and refusing to acknowledge a world where they would be. I was reduced to a motive that someone had to get to my babies immediately. After that, I was on autopilot.

I drove straight to the police station, but the following hours, days, weeks, and even months ahead are still riddled with ragged holes where recollection should be. I sat in a conference room in a tornado of numbness for an eternity until an officer broke through the howling winds of my fear. He confirmed my beautiful daughters were dead. Blake hadn’t lied. As much as I wanted it to be untrue, willed it to be a bad dream, it was the awful truth.

My story is tattered and has missing pieces, just like my heart. It is surreal and nonsensical, just like my reality. I won’t lie. It hurts deeply.

I can’t promise my story isn’t free of inaccuracies. I thought about donning an investigator’s hat and getting the full scoop by interrogating every witness to fill in those gaps, maybe scouring the online archives for media reports, or requesting the evidence in the trial. I could still, but I won’t, because it wouldn’t be my story.

My memory from those hard days come in spurts, flashes if you will. It is the only explanation I know of how things happened. Enough excuses. Here we go…

Flash: I’m in a conference room. I’ve been here before. It’s where I wrote my statement about threats Blake was making toward me months ago. Dawn, one of my oldest friends, is looking at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Why is she here? Who has her kids? The girls, oh god… Now I remember…

Flash: My babies…my sweet little girls…are dead. Dear goddess, what is that awful sound? That keening. It’s me! I’m making that noise and I can’t stop. My arms are so empty. My heart is so empty. So so empty. How can emptiness feel this heavy? Not real not real not real not real. 

Flash: I see a gun in a leather holster. It fills my entire view. I want that gun so badly I can taste it. It won’t end my suffering.

Flash: Another room, one without windows. It feels small, claustrophobic. I hear a noise on the other side of the door. It’s Blake. He is on the other side. Evil bastard. I’ll tear him apart. Rage filled my brain. A priest, there to support me, is holding me back. I’m growling, straining to get through the door. 

Flash: I’m on the phone. I hear the words echoing out of my mouth. “He killed the kids. Don’t go to the house.” Sorrow engulfs me.

Flash: I’m being asked about dismantled smoke detectors and gasoline spilled in the basement. I can see flames that were never lit.

Flash: I’m walking out of the police station. A smudge with a human shape speaks to me. “That guy you’re dating,” the smudge says. “He was here. You should give him a call.”

Flash: I’m on a gurney in the emergency room. “Here’s some Ativan,” someone said to me. “It’ll help.” 

“Can anything really help?” I ask them, or maybe I just thought it. Nothing helps. The devastation is too vast, and the pain simply will not be contained.

Flash: I’m in a hotel room. Matt is holding me. “Matt, oh Matt…why?” I’m crying. He’s crying. My parents are there. I’m drowning in sorrow.

Waking up each day was so damn hard those first few weeks. First, there were the blissful seconds of forgetting the world had ended, followed quickly by the complete terror-filled disorientation of having no idea where I was. Then, it’d all come crashing in at once. 

My children are dead.

I am no one’s mother.

I have no purpose.

My home is a crime scene. 

I am homeless. 

My girls are gone, but they still need me. 

I must keep moving…

As the days bled into weeks, my bouts of being fully present lengthened with each passing day. Eventually, I was able to resist the darkness more days than not. I’d get up and do the things that needed doing. I still had a lot to do. Amara, Sophie, and Cecilia were gone, and as much as I wanted to join them desperately, I couldn’t. I could not further add to the hurt of those surrounding me. 

Most of all, I wouldn’t let that evil bastard get what he wanted. To destroy me. My survival would be a testament to my children, to spite that same darkness trying to consume me.

I was encircled by family and friends from every corner of the country. I was embraced by strangers and professionals. I was never alone. Seriously, my mother would barely let me piss in private. Somehow, despite the constant surveillance, or more likely because of it, I was able to dodge the media for a very long time. A big part of what made that possible was that I was now officially homeless.

I’d left my home early the morning of July 10th with every intention of returning. Dishes in the sink, dirty clothes in the hamper, an unmade bed. I had put on a purple and white plaid sundress that was cute but work appropriate. It was the last thing my girls ever saw me in, the last garment their hands touched. 

I still have that dress. I never wear it, but I don’t know what to do with it. As far as I can tell, its sole purpose is to randomly pop up in my closet occasionally and flood me with memories. Besides my keys and cell phone, it was all that I took from the house I never stepped foot in again.

It’s one of those logistical things you don’t ever think about. Why would you? When a triple homicide and attempted arson is perpetrated in the building that contains all of your worldly possessions, you don’t get the chance to just go back in and grab your stuff. 

The women in the victims advocates’ office did their damnedest to get me some clean undies and other clothes from my bedroom, but those arguments were defeated by police protocol. Turns out, evidence is more essential than a grieving woman’s need for essentials. 

When they couldn’t go themselves, they advocated that the police send in a female officer, but instead, the duty was given to a young man.

In my closet, I’d kept a laundry basket where I would toss stuff that the girls had outgrown or I’d grown tired of wearing. These cast-offs were meant to be donated when the pile got big enough. My guess is the male officer went into my bedroom with a bag in hand, maybe even a blindfold, and grabbed some random items before running from the horror show. So, when I opened up my loot on the hotel bed, one of the first things I spotted was some of Sophie’s old, rejected clothes. Next up was a lacey thong snagged on a pair of wool work pants. Few items in the bag were useful.

At that time, having less was easier. I was moved around a lot at first, a different hotel in a different town almost every day. I remember one hotel more than the others. It was where we spent the most time, where my extended family entrenched themselves for meetings and organizing memorials. The hotel was where all the professionals would come to meet with the bereaved and those supporting us. For me, it wasn’t just an easy place for the authorities and such to get as many of us in one spot at a time. This hotel was familiar and haunted. 

The last time I’d visited that particular hotel was for Cea’s fifth and final birthday party. Iris, one of my oldest and dearest friends, and her kids had come up for Mother’s Day weekend, so I’d rented out the pool area to celebrate my baby’s special day. Dawn and her children had also joined in for a wild time of cannon balls and diving contests. It was a day filled with laughter, and as usual, a little jealousy from siblings. No gift is quite as sweet as your sister’s envy. 

When I stayed there this time, it was much different. Whenever I had to travel down the hallway for another announcement from the medical examiner, or the police, or lawyers, or the mortician, the chlorine wafting down was a constant slap in the face of my new reality.

One afternoon, I wandered out the hotel’s front door headed to who knows where, and for a horrid moment my protective fog abandoned me. There it was, the last place I saw my children alive. The hotel just so happened to be right next door to our dentist’s office.

I crumpled.

Iris came running out to find me clawing my face, wailing in open-mouthed hiccupping sobs. She wrapped her arms around me as she shed her own tears, willing me not to fall apart. Her arms were replaced by a numbness, and eventually, I was able to sink back into a pit of quiet despair. 

We walked back into the hotel, past that chlorine stench into my hotel room. 

When I was an intolerable child, I’d go to the pool at the local high school where my sister, Olivia, was a lifeguard. I’d jump into the deep end and quickly sink to the bottom. I’d sit and stare at the forms moving above me on the surface. Top-side now and then, another lifeguard would sidle up to my sis. 

“She’s been down there a long time,” they’d say. 

Olivia would shrug. “She’ll come up eventually. She always does.”