by Unknown
That same Sunday afternoon, my mother called and again offered to come out. This time without Stuart.
“No, Mom,” I pleaded. “I wouldn’t have you do that to Stu.”
“He’s okay about it,” she insisted.
“But I’m not,” I said. “I want you both to come. At Thanksgiving. Like we had planned.”
“What about your coming out here for a few days? Did you and Dan talk about it?”
We had. Dan didn’t seem to mind, but I knew he was wondering what Patty would want me to do. Or what Nick would suggest. He was afraid to trust any gut feeling of his own. I imagine he was still blaming himself for not going with me the night I went to the mall. I also wondered if he’d had some sort of feeling before I went that night that I would be better off if he came and had shrugged off the hunch. But of course I couldn’t ask him that. “We’re still trying to decide, Mom,” I said.
“Matthew really wants to see you,” she added.
We ended up leaving it that I would let her know by the next Sunday. It was actually Thursday that I called her back and told her I was coming.
It wasn’t a horrible week, but it was one that left me feeling like a fish out of water. On Monday, after the kids left for school, Dan had left for work, and the security system was properly switched on, I began to feel a compulsion to clean. Part of me was at a loss as to what to do with myself with a Monday morning all to myself with no kids, no students, and no husband to occupy my time. The other part of me was still grappling with the enormity of the situation facing me. It wasn’t the first time in my life I had cleaned instead of pacing the floor in frustration.
I started with the bathrooms, then moved on to the linen closet. Next, I attacked a hall closet simply known to everyone in the house as my closet. In it I kept dozens of boxes of things that were either precious to me or that I had been unable to throw away. The kids’ first shoes, their baby books, and boxes of their artwork were in there, as was the top from my wedding cake, letters my dad wrote to my mom from Korea, and my set of first-edition Nancy Drew books. But there were also notes from all my college courses, past issues of cooking magazines, and several boxes of old Christmas cards.
I didn’t know why I had kept the cards, but I had—for the past eight years. Each bundle contained dozens of old cards that I hadn’t looked at since the day I had gathered them up and tied them up with used gift ribbon. Nor did I have a reason for suddenly deciding that keeping them was utter nonsense, but it just struck me what a waste of time and energy it was to hang on to them. I sat down on the floor, pulled out the boxes, and untied the ribbons. I opened each card and checked for a photo. If there was one, I set it aside to keep it. The cards, including any outdated Christmas letters, went into a garbage bag.
Dan decided to come home for lunch that day and found me fully engrossed in this task. He came up the stairs and, his surprise evident, surveyed the scene, mouth kind of open, eyes taking it all in. Finally he said, “Claire, what are you doing?”
It seemed pretty obvious to me what I was doing, and it annoyed me that he asked.
“I’m throwing these out,” I said, trying not to sound flippant.
“Why?” he said, incredulous.
“Because I don’t want them anymore,” I answered, tossing a few cards from five years before into the trash bag.
He again studied my project—assessing it, evaluating me.
“But you’ve had these for years,” he said, his voice softening a little.
“I know,” I replied, in a gentler tone as well. “But I don’t want them anymore.”
He was silent for a moment, and as I reached for the bundle of 1981 Christmas cards, he knelt beside me and touched my shoulder.
“Honey,” he said, in a different tone of voice altogether. “I really don’t think this is a good time to throw stuff out that you’ve kept for years.”
“But they’re just old Christmas cards,” I said, and then I giggled, which was a huge mistake because I saw a wave of worry rush over Dan’s face.
But I couldn’t help it. He had said that very same thing to me about a year earlier when he wanted to throw the cards out. He had even said it the same way. I thought it was funny that he and I were having the same conversation in reversed roles.
My ill-timed giggle really threw him, though. I could see in his eyes that he was replaying in his mind the information Patty had given us about how assault victims deal with the trauma afterward. She had told both of us that mood swings and irrational behaviors were common. We could also expect me to have episodes of anxiety, even rage. Patty had told Dan to let me vent my own way as long as I didn’t hurt myself or anyone else. She also said some destructive behavior was common too. She thought it would be a great idea if we got a punching bag, just in case. We hadn’t even considered it. I could see Dan was now wishing we had. He was wishing he had come home to find me gloved and busily thrashing a therapist-approved punching bag instead of throwing out my precious, outdated Christmas cards.
“Dan, it’s not what you think,” I said reassuringly. “I’m not flipping out on you. I’ve been thinking about doing this for a long time.”
That was a lie. I had just thought of it that morning. I didn’t know why I said that. I guess it was to reassure Dan that I wasn’t having one of Patty’s predicted irrational moments. And maybe I was trying to convince myself of that too.
Dan let me continue with my campaign to rid the house of old Christmas cards, but contrary to what he told me, the garbage bag I had filled was not put out with the rest of the trash later that week. He hid it in the garage. I found it several weeks later.
He thought he was protecting me from a spontaneous decision that he assumed I would later regret, but finding that bag hurt me.
That emotional wound was nothing compared to finding a box of Katie’s and Spence’s earliest crayon drawings stashed in the back of Dan’s closet on the evening of the Christmas-card purge. That box had been in my hall closet. He had hidden it. From me.
Him thinking I was capable of tossing out Katie’s and Spencer’s masterpieces like they were old, forgotten Christmas cards was a blow took me several days to get over. Patty should have told me Dan would have some post-trauma of his own; that he also might exhibit irrational behavior. I was beginning to realize that the more I kept hidden from Dan, the less he would worry about me. He couldn’t handle knowing everything, and I couldn’t handle his worry.
Two days later I got a call from Mark Nordahl, the detective assigned to my case. He asked if Dan and I could come to the police station. There had been a new development. I was totally unprepared for this call and found myself shaking as I called the vet clinic and asked to speak to Dan. He cancelled a routine surgery, and we headed over to the police station just after lunch. We could think of nothing to say to each other on the drive over.
Detective Nordahl was a gentle and compassionate police officer. It always surprised me when he took off his coat to reveal his shoulder holster and the handle of the gun inside it. At the station the holster was always empty but it still seemed out of place for him. I couldn’t imagine him reaching for a gun, let alone aiming at or shooting someone. On the few occasions he came to the house, he left his coat on. If he reached for anything though, even a pencil on the coffee table, I would see that dark brown holster on his white-striped shirt, and I would also see that it wasn’t empty.
Detective Nordahl greeted us warmly but professionally when we got to the station and ushered us into a small conference room. After asking us if we wanted coffee, he dispensed with any more small talk, as was his custom, and got right down to business.
“Did you two happen to watch the news or read a newspaper this morning?” he asked.
Dan and I exchanged glances.
“No,” we both said.
“There was an attack the night before last not unlike yours, Mrs. Holland,” he said. “Same general location, same time of day, same M.O.”
Neit
her Dan nor I said a word. Dan reached for my hand and squeezed it.
The detective continued.
“The victim, a thirty-nine-year-old woman named Carol Wells, was on her way home from the same mall as you, was travelling alone, and was found around midnight two blocks away from where you were found, with roughly the same injuries.”
“Is she okay?” I managed to say.
“Before I tell you anything else, I want you to know we got him,” Mark said. “I know we got him.”
“What are you saying?” Dan said.
“The man that killed this woman is the same man that attacked your wife, Mr. Holland. I am sure of it. And we got him.”
Killed this woman.
I felt the room getting very warm. I asked for a glass of water. It was there in an instant.
“So, she died?” I finally asked.
Detective Nordahl nodded.
“Her husband has admitted to killing her,” he continued. “And he has admitted to assaulting a woman matching your description near the same mall on the night of September ninth. He never knew your name.”
“Why?” Dan was asking, but I was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation in the room. “Why did he do it?”
Detective Nordahl told us that Philip Wells had massive gambling debts and wanted to cash in on his wife’s million-dollar life-insurance policy. The first attack on me was meant to pave the way for the second attack and make it seem like a serial killer was on the loose. He made mistakes when he committed the second assault, however. He didn’t wipe the passenger door handle clean, and the blows to the head were made after his wife was already dead. He was very nervous when questioned about his own whereabouts at the time of his wife’s attack. The detective said he and the other officers became suspicious during questioning and asked him about his whereabouts on the night of September ninth. Wells broke down within minutes, the detective said, confessing to attacking me. He apparently also told them he was sorry for what he did to me and was relieved he had not killed me like he thought he had. So much for an apology.
“He is in custody, Mrs. Holland. We have his confession,” Detective Nordahl assured me. “Wells is not going anywhere.”
I just nodded my head. I liked it better when the attacker had no name.
Dan asked if he could take me home. The detective said if I wanted to see Wells in a lineup, it could be arranged in minutes, though he admitted he didn’t need me to identify Wells to put him away. Confessing to his wife’s murder was, thankfully, enough. I had no desire to see this man. I was content that I could not remember and had no yearning to go poking around looking for lost memories.
We were also told that Wells would likely get a life sentence.
“You will keep Claire’s name out of this?” Dan asked as we prepared to leave, and the detective said he would do his best.
Then we left.
The rest of that day was surreal. Dan, the kids, and I raked leaves when school got out, and Dan ordered pizza for supper, making the evening as relaxing as he could, but he and I barely spoke to each other. Afterward, I helped Katie with her homework. The phone rang once, about nine. It was my mother. I told Dan to go into our room and tell her what had happened at the police station. I would call her the next day.
That night as Dan and I lay in bed, I couldn’t get the image of this other woman out of my mind. I kept picturing her the way I had been told I had been found. It haunted me. What I really wanted was a way to flush it all away—the image of her, the name Philip Wells, and everything else I knew about that night. I wanted to find the secret file where my brain had hidden the rest of it, dump these new contents inside, and close the lid forever.
But that was impossible.
Instead, I found myself feeling oddly grateful that Wells wasn’t some maniacal, sadistic beast; he was just completely overcome with greed. Avarice—nasty as it is—was a motive I could handle. There were so many others I could not.
Especially when I considered the life that was growing within me and who had helped create it.
I made the mistake of trying to share this with Dan as we lay there together in the darkness of our bedroom. But he was repulsed by any notion that Wells wasn’t a brutal murderer. What I said made no sense to him at all.
“How could you think he is anything but a monster?” he said, clearly disappointed in me.
It was evident to me then that though Dan and I had fallen headlong into a swirling blackness that neither one of us knew how to navigate, we weren’t struggling arm in arm in the abyss. The episode with the Christmas cards and the isolated relief I felt about Wells not being a psychopath convinced me I was in one abyss and Dan was in another one entirely.
9
Katie and I left for Ann Arbor the third week in October, on a chilly Thursday. Spencer had at first been downhearted about our going, but I managed to convince him that having four days alone with his dad was going to be wonderful. Thursday and Friday might be a little boring for him, but he would be able to go with Dan to the clinic on Saturday, which Spence loved to do. He coddled and cared for the dogs and cats in the kennels like they were his own, or like he was the kind doctor making them well. I promised him that Katie and I would be home early Sunday evening.
Dan drove us to the airport an hour before our six-thirty flight, and since Spence was asleep in the back seat, he dropped us off curbside in the predawn darkness. Katie wasn’t going to miss any school since her teachers were off that Thursday and Friday for a state convention. Nevertheless, she was unable to contain her excitement about our four-day excursion. It was the first time she and I had done anything special together for longer than a couple of hours.
I was prepared to field questions from her on the relatively short flight, but I was hoping they would be easy ones with concrete answers. I had a suspicion that being seated next to me on the plane with no other real distractions for either one of us would prompt her to take care of any lingering questions about the last seven weeks. She only asked me two questions actually. The first was if I was afraid to be alone or go anywhere by myself. I guess she thought I had brought her with me to keep me company or to ward off a potential threat. I assured her I was not afraid. Then she asked if I thought the police would ever catch the man who had hurt me.
Dan and I hadn’t really discussed what to tell the kids about Philip Wells. I decided to tell her what the police told me, hoping it would allay any fears that my life was still in danger.
Her eyes widened as I explained as vaguely but truthfully as I could about Philip Wells and his unfortunate wife.
“How could he have done such a thing?” Katie said, shaking her head. “He didn’t even know you.”
I told her not to dwell on it, that I was not dwelling on it. I told her to be glad he confessed. And that he would never be able to hurt anyone again.
Seeing that she was troubled, I wondered if I should have said nothing except that the police did catch him and then left it at that. But I wanted Katie to know Philip Wells had been relieved I had not died. It softened my attacker’s wickedness. I desperately needed this less sinister image in my head if I was going to carry the child in my body and not go crazy. And I knew if I didn’t miscarry, Katie would eventually have to be told I was pregnant. I would want her to know this about the man who had hurt me if it came to that.
Seeing my mom at the airport waiting expectantly for us and smiling from ear to ear triggered something inside me—some latent, post crisis response—and I began to cry even before I reached her arms. I was stupid not to have let her come when she wanted to.
She just hugged me tight and didn’t let up until I began to pull away first, many moments later. Katie and Stu had long since ended their embrace and were standing there watching the tearful exchange between wounded daughter and compassionate mother.
“Hey, Stu...” I finally said to my stepdad, in a weepy voice that I hated to be displaying in front of him.
As he folded
me into his arms, I again found myself in an embrace that I did not wish to end. I began to cry again. I couldn’t believe it. In fact, I was crying harder wrapped up in Stu’s big arms and wide chest than I had been with my mother. Stuart was stroking my hair and patting my back and saying all the things fathers say to their little girls when they’re hurt, like “It’s all right, honey,” and “It’s over now,” and “You’re my brave girl,” and “I am so proud of you.”
I finally pulled away and began apologizing profusely, which neither one of them was interested in hearing. I had upset Katie, something I had not wanted to do, and as we started to walk away, I saw tears in her eyes. When my mom put her arm around her, she laid her head on her grandmother’s shoulder for a brief moment; I couldn’t hold in a shudder. Stu noticed this too and squeezed my shoulder.
By the time we reached their home, I had recovered and thankfully so, because Matt was waiting at the house for us.
“I heard Mom had made a great lunch, and I didn’t want to miss out on a free meal,” he said as he and I hugged on the front porch. It was really good to see him again. I was reminded of simpler times when we were young and the world seemed big and inviting, not bizarre and dangerous.
After lunch, Matt headed back to the university with a promise to be back for supper. We decided to have some ice cream in Stuart’s study among his scores of books and magazines, every classical music recording ever made—so it seemed, and Stu’s trinkets from the ancient past.
I sat in the chair my mom usually occupied, noticing that four books with bookmarks were arranged on the table next to it. Off to the side was her current Bible, open to the book of Amos.