The levitation scene (complete with The Sopranos–type fade to black) has been argued over by fans more rabid and critics more discerning than little old me, but I’ll add my two cents (well, more like three cents). Scores of film editors have weighed in on the supposed levitation, and for every editor who claims adamantly that the film hasn’t been cut or tampered with to give that briefest illusion that Marjorie is indeed floating in the air above the foyer, there’s one who swears up and down that there are clear signs of special effects and editing. Oscar-winning film editor Ian Rogers claims The Possession used a sophisticated split-screen/split-film technique to create the levitation shot, a shot that he re-created in his crowdfunded short film Every House Is Haunted with mixed (to be kind) results.
Karen’s semiprofessional take: The only part of the shot that’s doctored is the obvious shaky-cam bit when Meredith screams. Everything else, film-wise, is legit. That’s not to say that I think Marjorie is floating any more than I believe that YouTube street magicians or yoga masters can levitate. So I’m saying the film hasn’t been doctored and Marjorie ain’t floatin’. I’ll give you three simple reasons why. One: Between the lighting, the blurred/shaken camera, and Marjorie’s baggy sweatshirt, it is simply not clear on the video when Marjorie’s hands are no longer in contact with the railing. Remember, she puts her hands on the railing and pushes up and off. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment her hands leave the railing, but they are there for quite a while. It’s more than probable that when you think she’s floating, her hands are still anchored to the railing. Two: The camera angle. We simply can’t tell the precise moment when she starts to fall because we’re looking up at her. Her seemingly hanging in the air is an optical illusion of angle. She’s falling, only it doesn’t seem like she’s falling right away because she’s falling on top of us. Three: Because you never see her land, it’s easier to believe that she’s floating. It’s how you remember it. How you choose to remember it. Ultimately, you think she’s floating because you want to believe it. Admit it. You believe, despite yourself, and even if it is only for that moment, that Marjorie is possessed by some supernatural entity. You believe because it’s easier than dealing with the idea that you just willingly watched a sick, troubled teenage girl purposefully choose to jump from a ledge.
*Karen takes a deep breath*
All right, kids. Thanks for playing along. I gotta tell ya, it’s been a grueling experience. I’ve been writing and thinking about nothing else besides The Possession for a week straight. I drank all the coffee (seriously, I’m out, can someone pick me up some?), ate all the chips and salsa, and yeah, I ate all the bags of peanut M&M’s. I mean all of them. There aren’t any left in _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (geographic region redacted). I read all the books and articles and blogs. I watched and rewatched all the movies, and of course, all the episodes. I’m cooked.
Maybe I’ll add a summation essay or aftermath rumination tomorrow, or maybe I won’t. Maybe I won’t be able to stop myself and I’ll just start watching the series from the beginning. Again.
CHAPTER 24
I’VE BEEN AVOIDING Rachel and our final interview session, last-minute canceling on her twice already. It’s now early December and I finally promised to meet her at a local coffee shop in South Boston the day before she is to fly out. Rachel is due to travel to Amsterdam for another nonfiction project she just sold to her publisher. Over the phone she admitted to me that our collaboration has unexpectedly made her fall in love with writing nonfiction. The interview and research process has been fulfilling in a way that her fiction hasn’t been, at least not lately.
It’s midafternoon on a brisk and rainy Tuesday. I walk the five blocks from my apartment and I listen to the raindrops pounding on the umbrella canvas. I’m wearing a black sweater, black jeans, black boots, and my favorite jacket; a garishly red overcoat that isn’t warm enough.
The coffee shop is on the first floor of a refurbished brownstone. Rachel is already inside and sitting at a table for two. She smiles and waves, not upset that I’m late, but relieved that I actually showed up. I feel guilty for making her feel that way, but she has to know that what we’re going to talk about today is something that I don’t want to talk about and have never really talked about with anyone else. I’ve had to build up to this moment. I’ve been building up to it for fifteen years.
It’s steamy warm inside and there are no other customers in the shop. After I hang my coat on a wobbly, skeletal rack by the bay window, we exchange a quick hug and she squeezes my hands and my heart melts. I’ve always missed Mom but I really miss her right now. I can’t help but wonder what she would’ve looked like as a graceful and middle-aged woman. Would she have grown her hair out long? Would she have tried to keep the gray out, or show it off? Would she have been supportive of my new writing gig? Would she have been worried that I might not have a sustainable career? Would she have been afraid to wade into the big city by herself, or would she have reveled in the trip? Would she have ordered the decaf because caffeine this late in the day would keep her up at night? Or would she have said “What the hell” and ordered a double shot of espresso?
We walk side by side to the glass counter. The hardwood floor creaks under our footsteps. Stilled black ceiling fans hang above our heads like sleeping bats. The barista is a man around my age. His white sleeves are rolled up, exposing the intricate tattoos he’s clearly proud of. He makes sure his hands are always moving, always doing something, even if it’s only pushing the bangs away from his sweaty forehead. He smells of clove cigarettes and something citrusy, and he disappears out back after he fills our orders.
Back at the small table, Rachel and I chitchat about how nasty it is outside but how warm it is in the coffee shop. We talk about her upcoming trip. I tell her that I’m jealous even though I’m not. I also tell her that I’ve been busy with my blog and other writing assignments for Fangoria.
“I’ve read your blog, Merry.”
I keep my coffee cup in my hands and held close to my body. “Oh yeah? What do you think?”
Rachel puts down her coffee cup, folds her hands on the table, and then on her lap. “I’ve read the series of essays on the show three times, now. It’s very well written and a compelling criticism and deconstruction, Merry.”
“Thank you.”
She stirs her coffee with a black swizzle stick, alternating clockwise and counterclockwise. “How did you find the—the distance, to write about the show as if you actually weren’t a part of it? Aren’t you afraid of that distance closing in on you?”
“The distance is easier than you think, and I’m always afraid. But I think it’s good to be afraid. It means that I’m alive.”
“Do you plan on revealing that you are Karen Brissette?”
“No, not ever. And I hope that you won’t reveal it either.”
Rachel nods, but a nod isn’t a promise. “Are you Karen Brissette? What I mean by that is, do you, Merry Barrett, believe everything written under Karen’s byline, or is Karen more like some character you’ve created?”
“Karen is just a pen name, nothing more. I have no interest in writing fiction. Yes, I believe in everything I wrote, otherwise I wouldn’t have written it.”
“How many times have you watched the The Possession?”
“More times than I care to admit.”
“Are you going to blog about what happened after the show?”
“No. I’m sure my editor and readers would prefer I stick to writing about fiction.”
We pause and both look out the bay window and watch the unrelenting rain fall. I can tell my blog has upset her in a way she’s having trouble articulating. She also doesn’t know how to ask me what she wants to ask next. I don’t blame her at all. I decide to help her because now that I’m here, I know it’s time to talk about what happened after the show.
I say, “Tell me everything you know about the weeks between the filming of the final episode and the poisoning. And I’ll do my best to fill in wh
at I can.”
Rachel says, “Oh. Well . . .” and then rummages around in her bag and pulls out a manila folder, fat with paper, and a notebook. The notebook is a cheap spiral notebook you could buy in a pharmacy for a buck. I love this small bit of utter unpretentiousness and I miss my mother all over again.
She says, “Are you sure, you just want me to tell you what I have?”
“Yes. It’ll be easier this way, I think.”
“Well, all right. I haven’t yet double-checked the exact timeline of everything here but I know that Marjorie’s fall resulted in a slew of injuries, including a concussion and a fractured right ankle.”
“Yes, but it could’ve been worse. She was in a walking boot only three weeks later. Sorry, I won’t interrupt again until you’re through.”
Rachel scribbles notes into the notebook. “No, no, please do. Okay. I also know that her jumping off the stairs was reported as a suicide attempt to the police and that she was hospitalized, kept in protective care for two weeks, and then released to your parents under the stipulation that she’d have homecare visits from a new, state-assigned psychiatrist twice a week. Does that sound right to you?”
“It does, but I have to be honest. What I remember of the weeks between the filming of the final episode and, you know, the day of the poisoning, is kind of foggy, and um, loose.”
“Loose?”
“Loose. It’s all there, I believe, but difficult to gather and keep together. Like trying to scoop up and hold a thousand pennies in my hands at once.” I pause, and laugh at myself. “Yuck. I don’t think my attempted metaphor is making sense.”
“No, it does, Merry. It does.”
“Yay, me,” I say, and give myself polite applause.
Rachel scans her notebook. She asks, “Do you remember if Ken or Barry returned to your home after the exorcism? According to my sources they did not perform any follow-up or post-exorcism interviews, as they’d originally planned. Barry claims they stayed away not because of the public backlash and controversy surrounding the aired finale, but because your father had apparently threatened to sue the show and the archdiocese for medical damages and emotional trauma.”
“Dad didn’t really discuss his legal plans with me back then, but I wasn’t surprised to learn later that he threatened to sue. Anyway, no, no one from the show ever came back to the house. At least not when I was there. I’m sure they were freaked out by what happened, and I think they anticipated that Dad would be pissed, would blame them for how it all ended in the foyer, so they packed up all their cameras and stuff and got the hell out as quickly as possible. That same night, I think. They made sure Marjorie’s room was spotless, too. After they were gone I remember searching for the leg and wrist restraints and whatever it was she pulled out of the desk drawer, but I never found anything.
“I do remember news vans and trucks, and reporters and cameras replacing the protesters out front, but my parents never let any of them get near the house.”
“Have you heard from, talked to, or seen Ken since the show?”
“No. I haven’t. Those early days after the show I wrote him some letters, but I never ended up mailing them. They were silly, little kid stuff. I’d draw some pictures of soccer balls, the backyard full of leaves, then I’d ask him what he was doing, if he was writing for a new show and if he was, would he name someone after me. I asked him if he wanted to know what I was doing, if he was wondering if I was okay, you know, totally passive-aggressive, angry, sad, confused-kid stuff. I missed him terribly when the show ended. I missed having all those other people around, even the ones I didn’t like all that much. It felt like we were alone all over again. And it didn’t feel . . . safe.”
Rachel launches right into her next bit of info. “Two days after the final episode aired the Department of Children and Families filed a ‘Care and Protection case’ or 51A, as they call it, on behalf of Marjorie. The report was ‘screened out,’ meaning her case was dropped because the claims against your parents were not considered abuse or neglect under the law. The filing of the 51A was later leaked to the public after Marjorie’s and your parents’ deaths.” Rachel stops and looks at me.
I say, “It’s okay. Keep going.”
“I know that you were pulled out of school and that your parents hired a private tutor.”
“Yeah, Stephen Graham Jones. Funny that I remember his full name like that, but that’s how he was introduced to me. He wouldn’t let me call him mister like my regular teachers, and I liked saying his whole name out loud, whenever I could. It became a little OCD tic of mine. I’d say, ‘Good-bye, Stephen Graham Jones,’ or, ‘I don’t know what an obtuse triangle is, Stephen Graham Jones.’”
Rachel laughs. “His name does roll off the tongue, doesn’t it?”
“It does! He was this short, skinny grad student with huge eyes and terribly crooked teeth. Wow, I haven’t thought about him in a long time. I only remember meeting with him a handful of times. I remember that for a tutor, he wasn’t very good at math. I have no idea where my parents found him.” We both smile and drink amiable sips of our coffee. “What else do you have?”
Rachel turns some pages in her notebook. “I have the Neilsen ratings for each episode. The final episode pulled a stunning twenty share.”
“Maybe I’ll go back and mention that in my blog.”
She says, “I have a printout of the antipsychotics prescribed to Marjorie, which include Clozaril and Fanapt. When I had a friend who knows what she’s looking for dig through the police report, however, those drugs didn’t come up in the toxicology screening.”
“I have no idea if Marjorie was taking her meds. I think Mom was taking her own stuff. Scratch that. I know Mom was taking her own stuff. So, she really wasn’t all there. And Dad, he still wanted to cure Marjorie with prayers, of course. He’d started spending a lot of time down in the basement by himself.
“Maybe on the days the visiting psychiatrist was there Marjorie took her meds, but the other days, who knows. Those days when it was just us, everyone just sort of floated around the house, and only occasionally would we bump into each other. I spent a lot of time outside by myself. Dinner was takeout or delivery most nights.”
Rachel nods. “Included in the police report is a printout of emails that your father and the pastor of that Baptist church from Kansas exchanged for a period of one month.”
“He was the same protester Dad punched out, right?”
“That’s correct, and that same guy was arrested three years ago on—”
I interrupt her. “Do you have those emails with you? Can I see them?”
Rachel looks at me. She’s been looking at me the whole time, yes, but now she’s looking at me like I’m an object to be carefully observed, or maybe she’s worried that if she takes her eyes off of me I’ll disappear.
She doesn’t think I should read the emails. I won’t push her if she resists. But she doesn’t. She slides the folder with the printouts across the table to me.
The first emails from the church leader feature the same hate-filled slogans that graced their protest signs. Dad’s initial responses are typed in all caps, full of profanity and physical threats. But as the emails continue there’s a subtle and slow shift toward a dialogue. Dad tries arguing theology and scripture with the other man, which becomes Dad blaming Father Wanderly (who had “forsaken” him) and the Catholic church for failing and abandoning him and his family, which becomes Dad also blaming the television show producers who duped him into believing what he was doing was for the best, which became Dad lashing out at his former employers, politicians, the economy, modern society, and American culture, which eventually became Dad asking for help and for advice from this other frothing lunatic of a man who never once offered a single word of love or comfort or support and only said that God was unhappy with Dad, unhappy with the whole family. Sent three days before the poisoning, the pastor’s last email ended with: “John, you know what you have to do.”
; I say, “My God.”
I give her back the printouts and my hands are shaking. Rachel reaches across the table to hold my hands, but I pull away and hide them under the table.
She says, “Sorry. Should we stop? Do you need a break? Should we go somewhere else to talk?”
“No, it’s okay. Thank you. Nothing personal, but I just want to get this part of it over with.”
The barista makes a brief reappearance behind the counter as if he can sense some emotional storm that calls for a soothing seven-dollar scone and equally overpriced latte. He asks if we would like anything else. We tell him no thank you, but then I ask him if he can turn down the heat. He shrugs, and while backing away from us he says, “I can’t control the heat in this crazy place. I wish I could, believe me.”
After he leaves I say, “So, they never found where Dad got the potassium cyanide from, right? They thought it was from some jeweler who was a member of that Baptist church or something?”
Rachel says, “Jewelers use potassium cyanide for gilding and buffing. I did talk to a detective who worked on this case, and she said they first tried every jewelry shop and jewelers’ supply house in New England, and when those inquiries turned up empty, they tried chemical suppliers and sales reps from all across the country. Nothing. There were tons of online places he could’ve ordered it from, but they didn’t find anything relating to cyanide on the family PC’s hard drive. They never found any suspicious charges to his credit cards or PayPal account. All they found were the emails to the church leader. One of the higher-ranking members of the church was Paul Quentin, who ran a jewelry store in Penobscot, Kansas. But they couldn’t find any evidence that Quentin supplied your father, or anyone else, with potassium cyanide. The detective told me it was surprisingly easy to get that stuff back then, so it could’ve come from anywhere. But to this day she thinks the pastor in Kansas had it sent to your father somehow.”
My head starts to fill with fuzz, like my brain was a radio and the dial was just spun to a dead station. I ask, “Can you tell me what the report says about fingerprints?”
A Head Full of Ghosts Page 23