The Things I Saw (2015-2016)

 

My father did not cry. My grandmother screamed as her knees hit the floor. My brother sobbed. My grandfather sat with his head in his hands, but my father did not cry. When a week had come and gone without a word, he did not cry. When the police knocked on our door, explaining that they had found a female body in the woods, he did not cry. Even as they lowered the casket into the ground, her lifeless body cold and limp inside, my father did not cry. My aunt said everyone deals with grief and loss differently. My neighbor said he was still in shock. I said nothing. My mother was dead and my father did not cry because he killed her. My mother was dead and I said nothing because I saw him do it.

 

I couldn't sleep. I laid in bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. It was then I decided to go downstairs for a glass of water, a decision I would forever regret. I was on the fourth step when I saw it, when I saw him. Fearful of getting caught, I crept quietly back up the stairs and kneeled in the hallway. My eyes peered between the spindles of the wooden railing. I should have screamed–should have run for the phone, should have grabbed the nearest large object and whacked him–but I just sat there and watched. I watched him pull the rope tighter and tighter around her neck until her breathing stopped. I watched him drag her across the carpet and out the door. I heard the car engine revving as he drove down the driveway. I watched my father kill my mother, which is why my father did not cry, and which is why I said nothing.

 

Orphan. As our car pulled out of the cemetery, the word flashed through my mind like a neon sign on the Las Vegas Strip. If I told the police about my father, that's what I would be, what my brother would be: an orphan, parentless, placed into foster care, constantly moving from house to house. I had family, sure–aunts, uncles, grandparents–all of whom loved us dearly, but were in no position to raise and support two young children. I leaned my head against the car window, staring at the countless rows of trees as we zipped past. A single tear slid down my cheek. I let out a gulp, my mouth quivering ever so slightly.

 

My brother placed his hand on my knee. "It's going to be okay, Lizzie," he reassured. "I promise." I forced a smile and turned my head back towards the window, back towards the rows of treesInside, my mind was shouting, IT'S NOT GOING TO BE OKAY, JASON! NOT AT ALL! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! He didn't understand because he didn't see what I saw.

 

My father glanced up at the rear-view mirror, his eyes planted on my brother and me. "It's been a long day. Whaddya say we stop by McDonald's and grab some lunch? I'll even let you get fries and a milkshake this time."

 

"But Mom hates fast food. She'd never let us get all that stuff," my brother started. Suddenly, his face dropped as he realized what he had said.

 

My father let out a smile. "That's the good part. Mom's not here to scold us."

 

I wanted to punch him in the face. How dare he say something like that after what he did to her, to my mother. I did nothing. I said nothing. I was scared. If he was capable of doing something so horrifying to his wife, what could he do to me? To Jason? Would he harm us like he harmed her? Bury us in the woods? I thought he loved us, cared about us. But then again, I thought he loved my mother.

 

My father has yet to cry. I've yet to say anything. The detectives interviewed me, asked me question after question, asked me if I knew anything, if I saw anything. I said no. I told them when I woke up she was gone. They gave me their card, told me to call if I thought of anything. I should have picked up the phone, dialed that number, but I didn't. Instead, I placed it in my desk drawer and said nothing.

 

My father was his usual self. He came home from work whistling and happy, went out with his friends on the weekends, and even began meeting other women. He continued on with his life as if nothing had happened, but something had happened. Something had happened that I could not erase from my memory, no matter how hard I tried. Visions from that night followed me everywhere. My sobs woke me up in the middle of the night. Still, I said nothing.

 

I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to wrap my head around a math problem, when my brother sat down beside me.

 

"Lizzie. We need to talk," he whispered, leaning in close.

 

"About what?"

 

"Did you see the newspaper this morning?"

 

"No. Why?"

 

"They think he did it."

 

"Did what? Who's he?"

 

"Dad. They think he's the one who murdered Mom."

 

I turned my head, pretending to go back to my math problem.

 

"Well? What do you think?"

 

Silence.

 

"Lizzie? You in there?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"I said what do you think? Do you really think Dad did it?

 

I said nothing.

 

"Well I sure as heck don't. That's ridiculous! Don't you agree?"

 

"I-I'm sorry Jason. I'm just really trying to figure out my homework."

 

"You know something, don't you? Something you're not telling me."

 

I said nothing.

 

"Well, whatever it is you're hiding in that head of yours, I'm always here to talk. I'll be in my room." He stood up, pushed in the chair, and walked out of the kitchen.

 

They were onto him. I assumed they would figure it out sooner or later. I felt relieved. Maybe they would catch him, save me from having to confess. Boy, was I wrong. The next morning I was waiting for the school bus. The bus was late and my legs were tired, so I took a seat on the metal bench behind me. Next to me was a newspaper. On the front page, in big bold letters, the headline read, "Husband Cleared in Wife's Murder." I grabbed the paper and flipped open to the corresponding section. "Thomas Wilson, under suspicion of the murder of his wife, Grace Wilson, was cleared yesterday evening. Police say he has an airtight alibi."

 

That was it. I couldn't do this anymore. I couldn't keep silent. The bus pulled up, but I didn't get on. Instead, I ran faster than ever before. My backpack was sliding off my shoulders, my pants dragging on the concrete. I repositioned my bag, hiked up my jeans and kept running. After what seemed like an eternity later, I had arrived at my destination. The large brick building stared back at me. Butterflies emerged inside my stomach. For the past two months, I said nothing, but today, I would say something.

 

I let out a big sigh and pushed open the large double doors. At the front desk, a large-boned woman sat filling out paperwork, her gold badge shining in the afternoon light.

 

"May I help you, Miss?" She asked, glancing up from the pile of papers.

 

"Hello, Officer. My name is Elizabeth Wilson. On February 5th, my mother was murdered. I know who killed her.