Pam

by Druga, Jacqueline

  “He didn’t do it,” Thomas said.

  “How do you know?’

  “He did the other crime; he didn’t kill your family. He would have been six years old at the time.”

  I tilted my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “The skin under her nails, the DNA belonged to Michael Lyons. Ring a bell at all?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, and suddenly I was barreled over with a memory, one that I had forgotten about. At the time it was insignificant and lost in all the events.

  “I hate Mike Lyons,” Mandy said to me, that day, that fateful day. “He pushes me around and calls me ugly.”

  “You’re not ugly and don’t let him push you around.”

  “I didn’t, he pushed me today, and I scratched him. I scratched him good.”

  “You should have just told a teacher,” I said to her. “Now go get ready for the party, finish your homework. I have errands to run.”

  She scratched him. Scratched him good.

  The skin under her nails.

  “Pam?” Thomas called my name. “Do you know that name? Does it ring a bell?”

  Without hesitation, I answered. “No. No, it doesn’t.” I wasn’t going to tell him the truth. Not at all. Not when I was so close to leaving. What if it would make a difference? I wasn’t taking that chance.

  “Just thought I’d ask,” Thomas said. “And there’s one more thing before we leave.”

  We were so close to walking out that door. “What is it?”

  Stephanie hesitated. “It may or may not mean anything. It is up to you what you want to do with the information. Seventeen and a half years ago, you gave birth to a child.”

  I lowered my head. “I remember. How could I forget? I never saw the child.”

  “The state took the child,” she continued. “A paternity test was run, and the child was fathered by your ex-husband. It was done at his request. He raised the boy until his death. The boy lives with an aunt right now.”

  Thomas added. “Because of the circumstances of the conviction, the baby’s father petitioned the court to seal the child’s identity and whereabouts from you.”

  As painful as that was to hear, I understood and nodded.

  “He contacted us when the news broke of your acquittal,” Thomas said.

  “Who did?” I asked.

  “Your son,” Thomas answered. “He wants to meet you.”

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “His life was better without me. I just don’t know if that’s a good idea. Maybe … who knows. One step at a time.”

  And that’s what I did. One step at a time, right out the door.

  Chapter Eight – Desmond Andrews

  A late afternoon call to my office from a state social worker named Stephanie Burrows prompted a complete change in my plans.

  I had challenged a friend to a round of golf; the weather was impressively warm for the last week of March. But Stephanie was on her way to Hartford with Pam Dewar. Pam, as she said, may need to talk. To get to know me, in case she had to call me before our first official visit.

  It was out of the ordinary, but then so were the circumstances.

  Stephanie asked for my cellular number and a prompt text message from her told me what she couldn’t convey verbally in the car in front of Pam.

  ‘She is quiet and drawn. Seems in shock.’

  Dire circumstances of her conviction aside, of course the woman would be shell shocked. She had been institutionalized for eighteen years. Cars changed, people changed, the phone that Stephanie used was a symbol from science fiction movies, the last time Pam Dewar was out in the world.

  The last that Pam was out in the world, not everyone had cable, there certainly wasn’t internet, and to add to the complications, cameras were flashing at her and reporters bombarded her like the paparazzi.

  It had to be overwhelming.

  Of course, I’d change my plans. I sent my office staff home early so Pam would have no other interaction when she arrived.

  Just me.

  In fact, I teetered on changing her appointments to later times so she didn’t deal with my staff, especially an office manager who feared her.

  My office manager was never one with the ability to hide her facial expressions.

  Just before five pm, Stephanie arrived with Pam Dewar. I asked Stephanie to wait in the outer office while I spoke to Pam alone.

  “This is just a brief ‘get to meet me’ visit,” I told Pam. “Nothing formal, nothing official. Okay?”

  Pam stayed tight near the door as I made my way to the center of the office.

  “Would you feel more comfortable in a chair? Couch? Where would you like me to sit?”

  “I’ll sit in a chair. Your desk is fine.”

  “That works.” I projected feelings of pleasant and calm. “Can I get you anything?” I asked, walking around to my desk.

  “No,” she spoke meekly.

  “My name is Desmond Andrews. You can me Dr. Andrews, Des, whatever you like. Did Ms. Burrows give you all my contact information?”

  “Yes, she did.” She answered but didn’t make eye contact. She looked beyond me.

  “Is there anything you need?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you been to your apartment yet?”

  “Not yet. I was being shown around. It is overwhelming.”

  I nodded. “I understand. They said you never watched television. Is that true?”

  “Never.”

  “So a lot of everything today is new because you have never seen it. That has to be tremendous.”

  “The last movie I saw in the theater was about a boy who went to the future. I feel like him.”

  I passed a smile to her. “That is something you should write about. I know I would find it fascinating.”

  “Why am I here?”

  Her question was sudden and it seemed abrupt. “I told you this is informal. Just to meet me. We’ll talk further on our first appointment. Is there a reason you asked?”

  “I just thought I was going to my new home. That’s all.”

  A twitch.

  I saw it but wasn’t sure that Pam realized she had done so. She twitched her head to the right. Twice and quick, like a double tap. “And you shall. Can we go over the medication they have you on before you do?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to make sure you know what it’s for and when to use it.”

  “Stephanie has the bag.”

  “Okay, no problem. Let’s get Stephanie and then you can begin your new life. Is that alright? I won’t keep you.”

  She nodded and again, didn’t make eye contact. I stood and walked to the door to get Stephanie. I passed off the tempered demeanor, lack of eye contact, and twitches to nervousness, distrust in her new surroundings, and made a mental note to look for those things on our first official visit.

  I looked once more at her as I called Stephanie into the room. Pam projected a very timid and even victimized person. It was the first time I was ever face to face with her. I was taken aback slightly by her appearance. I expected a hard-edged looking woman. Worn. But she wasn’t. She was plain, her hair flat and short. Not a wrinkle on her face. She didn’t wear makeup, and she was petite. Then again, she just left the hospital. That could explain her presentation. Upon our next visit I could very easily see a different side. I kind of hoped I would.

  Chapter Nine – Sharon

  Perhaps because I buried her, I don’t know. But I didn’t handle Pam’s release well. It was no longer a rumor; it was a reality. And with it, returned the bad.

  Years of contemplation made me realize that even before her family was killed, Pam caused people to leave my life.

  It was happening again. All over again. I was losing people. They started disappearing from my life. Not wanting to talk to me. All in a couple of days?

  Not even members of my fellowship group were returning my calls or emails. Did they suddenly find something about me
that disturbed them, that made them run? Pam had been released from her mental prison not three days earlier, and it was already eating at my soul.

  With good reason.

  Every day there was something on the news. The most disturbing was a morning program that talked to a young man who claimed to be her son.

  He said how his father raised him and said very little about his mother. He felt the need to find her, talk to her, since she was acquitted.

  “So your father didn’t tell you who she was?” The reporter asked.

  “No, he said she was dead.”

  “He never spoke of what she was accused of? Did he tell you about your brother and sisters?”

  “He said they were all killed in a fire together,” he replied.

  “How did you find out?”

  “After he died, my aunt told me. She was vague. I looked into it.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Scared and shocked. At first I thought he just wanted to protect me. Then I started to think, after they said she was going to be acquitted, that maybe he didn’t say anything because he said she did. Maybe he was protecting someone else and knew all along she was innocent.”

  I didn’t hear the rest of the interview. It enraged me so that I shut off the television. Protecting someone? Innocent? She was acquitted. Acquitted does not mean innocent. Not to me.

  And Richie raised this child? I didn’t know that. Maybe that was why Richie moved away. So I wouldn’t see the child. How do we even know it was her child and not some publicity stunt by a random stranger?

  I called off work; I couldn’t get out of my pajamas. For some reason Pam’s return into society was driving me nuts. I didn’t feel safe, not at all.

  I also grew angry and bitter. If the young man on the talk show was indeed her son, why did she deserve to have that? It was like a consolation prize.

  Her children were slaughtered and she still had him?

  She did nothing to deserve seeing him. To make matters worse, the young man’s name was Justin.

  That was my son’s name. How did she end up with a child that was alive? Why did she get her son knocking on her door and not me?

  The whole release of Pam from the criminal system felt like a huge injustice. It was wrong, dead wrong. Those of us who lived the ordeal when the kids were killed, those of us who felt as if we should have seen it coming and somehow could have stopped it, those of us who remember what Pam did will never forget.

  She caused the death of her children. She did.

  When she goes looking for the true killer and why her family was killed, she only needs to look in the mirror. She was the reason.

  Originally my plan was to stay away, stay far away. Eventually the bitterness and anger over her release would pass.

  Then I started to worry, and a fear engulfed me that she wasn’t just seeking some sort of delusional truth of her children’s killer, she was coming after me. Because I was part of it all that put her away.

  I could keep running or I could stop her. Send her back to the place she belonged. DNA or not, she wasn’t supposed to be free. I had the feeling that sending her back started with that young man on the television named Justin.

  Chapter Ten – Pam

  My first day into the world consisted of stopping to see my new doctor and getting to my apartment. It was a good starter place. At one time it must have been a motel, because it looked it. Each apartment was small. One bedroom, a bath, and the living room was connected to the kitchen.

  I received a settlement from the state of Connecticut, but in order to use it I had to get a checking account and driver’s license. That was day two.

  Getting a bank account had drastically changed since I was in the world. They denied me at two banks before the third gave me one. I felt bad for Stephanie; her whole day was spent running me around.

  The state gave me an emergency food stamp card, not much, but enough to get some food. On my third day, I bought a used car from one of those sleazy places. You know, the type your father warned you about. It would work, they helped me get insurance, and that took most of my day.

  I spent the evening driving around the block, getting used to driving again. So much was different that I was still processing it.

  I didn’t watch the news; I did, however, read the paper. By the fourth morning, a story about me had slipped to the back of the paper, was no longer in the front. That was good. They hadn’t figured out where I was, and no one really recognized me.

  I had gotten some clothes from the thrift store. Plain clothes and tee shirts. I colored my hair with a box of dye I got from the drug store … those had changed as well. Things got quick in eighteen years. Twenty minutes to dye my hair seemed awfully fast. The whole world got fast. In two decades society found hundreds of ways to make life easier.

  I found life easier and not such a need for all those pills. Four pills a day seemed way too much. I actually felt … okay. Weird but okay.

  I left a little early in case I got lost on my way to Dr. Andrews’ office, I didn’t want to be late. He scheduled my appointments so I came in when no one else was around. I was fine with that; I didn’t do well with people. I hadn’t had much contact in nearly two decades.

  Kept out of general population, my conversational skills lacked.

  Everything was an adjustment. I was showering without someone watching me. I walked from my home without restraints on my wrists. People spoke to me though I didn’t answer properly. I know I didn’t. Simple yes and no answers. I wasn’t being rude, I was nervous.

  Stepping into McDonald’s was an anxiety-inducing experience, so much so that I left and went through the drive thru. That was easier.

  My God how prices changed. The last time I got a Big Mac it was a little over a dollar.

  I arrived at Dr. Andrews’ office building and parked in the lot. I estimated it would take two minutes to get out of the car and into his office. So I waited.

  Slouched down in my front seat, I watched people leave. Women in uniforms, chatting as they walked. They seemed happier than the nurses at the hospital.

  At twelve minutes after five, I headed to the building. It was empty, and I felt overwhelmingly nervous about this first appointment. I don’t know why. Lord knows I have spoken to enough psychiatrists. But there was something about Dr. Andrews. He was younger than I was, not much, in his late thirties and attractive. He looked rough, like maybe he had a lot of martinis after work. But the thing that stood out most to me was that he didn’t just seem like a doctor, he seemed interested. He didn’t just nod and write things down, he paid attention and responded.

  That early in seeing him, I didn’t know whether to trust that or be suspicious.

  Time would tell.

  Chapter Eleven – Desmond Andrews

  Pam looked different when she walked in. More refreshed, but still not happy. She added a hint of light lipstick to brighten her look, and she dyed her hair. I supposed that in her new world she would continue to change until she found herself.

  I complimented her hair when I saw her, and she shied away from the comment, tucking her hair behind her ears as she made her way into the office.

  She preferred I sit behind the desk; maybe having the object between us made her feel safe.

  “Can I get you a coffee? Soda?” I asked.

  “No. This world seems obsessed with coffee.”

  I laughed. She didn’t. “We are. We build coffee houses that people are quite addicted to. You’ll have to try one.”

  “Maybe.”

  Her answers again were short and eye contact minimal. She didn’t fuss as much and I didn’t notice the twitching. “These …” I pulled two stacks of folders toward me, “are part of your records and treatment. There’s a lot here.”

  “Did you read it all?”

  “Most. But I’m going to use these only as a guide and reference. You’re here for treatment with me, based on now. Not then.”

  “Some
think it’s the same.”

  “I’ll be the judge. What do you think?” I asked.

  And they she spouted out an answer that showed me this was an intelligent woman before me. “I think they treated me back then based on what they thought I was, not what I actually was. They treated me like an criminally insane murderer. The diagnosis was based on my conviction.”

  “That makes perfect sense.”

  “I had a lot of time to think.”

  “Is there anything particular you want to talk about today?”

  “No. No, that will come. I’m sure.”

  “At anytime, if you want to talk about something specific, you do so. This is our first appointment, so let’s start from the beginning. Tell me about your childhood.”

  She scoffed a laugh.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “I had a normal childhood. My mom stayed home, my father worked long hours, and I got along with my sister. No one abused me. I was loved.”

  “Your sister … Anne Marie. She was the one that contacted Freedom Project? Did you speak to her prior to this?”

  Pam paused. She paused long, and her lack of eye contact was more predominant.

  “Pam?”

  “I wrote her a letter. I wrote several letters. When she came to see me at the hospital I was always drugged and not able to talk.”

  The letters. The charts had mentioned she wrote her sister letters. It also mentioned that her letters had to be approved before being mailed. Most of them, the doctors noted, were hard to interpret, held scattered ramblings and made no sense. A lot of the letters were never mailed; they were shown to the sister upon her visits.

  “Do you think your letters prompted her to help get you out?”

  “I don’t know.” She rubbed her eyes and seemed strained. She looked down at her hands.

  “So you had your sister, parents, any friends?”

  “Some. One close friend. Sharon.”

  Sharon was a name I recognized from her history. I grabbed the folder where my post-it marked early childhood. “Sharon, yes.” I found one of several references to her. “She came into your life quite young.”