I opened my eyes, and my neck snapped forward. Purple-green spirals swirled all around me. I was inside a whirlpool, a vortex of ugliness; it was turning me and pulling me down. I struggled from the chair and stumbled into the bathroom. I vomited into the toilet.
Oh, God—it was true. It had all really happened. And Isabel had done it! The whole thing was her fault.
Fury boiled within me. Fury, as I had never felt fury, not in all of my anger at Joel or my mother or even at Clay. It was huge and it was red and it was growing with every second. I slammed my fist into the floor. “Ee-ow!” I shrieked to the ceiling. “I-s-a-bel!” I pounded my fists into the hard tiles and banged my head on the wall. Over and over again I hammered out my hatred and anger. But no pain was great enough. Nothing was big enough or strong enough to cover my fury.
The strength of my punches diminished and finally I lay, head and knuckles bleeding, spread-eagle and still on the floor. Oh, God, what would happen next? Would Isabel kill me too? I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek to the cool tiles. I wished she would. But even as I wished it, I knew she would not.
They thought I had killed Richard! Edgar had said so. They’d arrest me and try me and put me in prison. It was all part of Isabel’s horrible plan! I pulled myself up and staggered back into the room; I threw myself on the bed.
Richard. Richard crying in the car at Mount Auburn Cemetery. Richard skiing with his body bent too far forward. Richard kissing the inside of my elbow. Richard running his tongue where my breast meets my stomach. Richard in his awful black glasses. Richard crumpled in a silent heap at the foot of the stairs. He was dead, and they thought I had killed him.
I looked frantically around the room. The locked door. The sealed window. I was trapped. Trapped by the room, by the police, and by Isabel. I was trapped by my grief. There was no escape. There was nowhere to go. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I threw my arm over the suitcase Hank had left on the bed. Just a few hours ago—a lifetime ago—Richard had zipped it with one hand, protecting me, keeping me tucked under his wing. I hadn’t been able to protect him.
I sat up and unzipped the suitcase. I don’t know why, or what I hoped I would find. Some part of Richard? Something he had touched? Something that would make me feel closer to him?
I pulled the flap open and gasped. For there, lying on top of my underwear and socks and old valentines, was Isabel’s dark journal. I sat frozen for a second, unable to move, then I grabbed it and threw it as hard as I could.
It hit the wall above the television, seemed almost to stick for a second, then slid slowly behind the bureau. I jumped up and wedged it as far down as I could; I shoved it so far down that it would never come back. Then I threw myself on the other bed.
The night passed. A night of swirling and shifting and altering states of nightmare and reality—a reality more terrifying than any of my dreams.
When the light began to filter through the drapes, I opened my eyes. For one blessed second I was confused; I didn’t understand where I was. Then it all came flooding back, at far too great a speed; I roared from the pain. It was worse than before, all the numbness gone. It was raw and real. I hugged the pillow to me, the sounds coming from my throat beastly and frightening. I don’t know how long I lay there.
Finally I pushed myself up and stumbled toward the bathroom. I caught sight of the bureau and dropped back onto the bed. The tiny violet flowers seemed to pulse toward me.
I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, it was there again. The dark journal. It lay upon the bureau next to the television.
The air became dense and humid and full of lavender. I knew she was pure evil. I knew she had killed Richard. And now I knew she would never leave me alone.
As if in a trance, I got up and walked to the open book. I gripped the edge of the bureau and leaned over the pages. Over the familiar tiny letters with their long tails. Over today’s date.
Such a silly fuss you are making, dear Lindsey. All over the demise of a man of neither substance nor importance.
I fancy it matters little that I did indeed give your gentleman a most tiny push. A tiny push, a tiny break, to punish those who have taken so much. A tiny thing to get what one wishes. Indeed, you and I are so very much the same.
For, dear Lindsey, how was it your previous gentleman came to be dead? Who was it broke his two medicine ampules? Who was it waited patiently six long months for the sting of a little bee? That time it was not I. That time it was you.
The journal fell from my hands, and I was caught in the swirling purple-green vortex as Isabel pulled me down, down toward images and memories and knowledge I had never been able to reach before. Suddenly I felt the pain, the loss; I remembered all the secrets my mind had worked so hard to conceal.
I screamed in agony as I saw myself lying crumpled on the floor, Clay towering above me, his fists still clenched, the blood of my child running down my legs. I screamed again as I saw myself crushing the ampules, the slivers of glass cutting into my hand. I knew I would never stop screaming, as I knew I would never stop seeing Clay’s life’s blood draining through my fingers.
The Boston Globe
March 31, 1991
BOSTON WOMAN FOUND GUILTY
OF KILLING BOYFRIEND
BOSTON. A Back Bay woman was convicted yesterday of second-degree murder in the 1990 death of her boyfriend, Richard Stoddard, also of Back Bay.
Lindsey Kern, 34, broke into tears when the verdict was read after the jury deliberated nine hours over two days. Jurors rejected the lesser count of manslaughter and her attorney’s contention that Stoddard’s death was an accident.
“The state is very gratified,” said Elizabeth Crowley, Suffolk County assistant prosecutor. “We deserved the verdict.”
Kern was found guilty of killing Stoddard by pushing him down the staircase of her apartment building at 240 Beacon Street, on the afternoon of May 10, 1990.
Kern’s attorney, Michael Dannow, left the courthouse without comment. Sentencing is scheduled for next week.
Acknowledgments
To all of you without whom this book would not have been possible: thank you. Special thanks to my editor, Ellen Edwards, my agent, Nancy Yost, and to my writers’ group: Diane Bonavist, Jan Brogan, Floyd Kemske and Rachel Plummer. And to my copyeditor supreme, who spent many a Saturday morning diligently editing my week’s work, my husband, Dan Fleishman: thanks, sweetie.
To my children, Robin and Scott Fleishman: thanks for understanding all the times I had to say, “I can’t right now—I’m working.” And a big “thank you” to Robin for her great title.
This novel would not be what it is—for better or for worse—were it not for those who read it in its various forms and shared their thoughts with me: Margie Bogdanow, Paul Carlson, Jane Coppa, Bernie Fleishman, Ruth Fleishman, Bill Fleming, Vicki Konover, Michael Konover, Jeffrey Shapiro, Sandra Shapiro, Susan Shapiro, Sheryl Starr and Beatrice Tauber.
For assistance with my psychological research, I wish to thank Drs. Amy Veroff, Phyllis Kaplan-Silverman, Lisa Shaw, Gail Grodzinsky and David Dinklidge. Michael Bogdanow answered all my legal questions, Karen Coppa my teenager questions and Ray and Sharon Barera my MRI questions.
Finally, I want to thank my parents for their years of support, and to express my gratitude to my mother, who, at the time I needed it most, had the wisdom to ask the right question.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by B.A. Shapiro
978-1-
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Shattered Echoes Page 31