Because You Loved Me

by M. William Phelps

  Jeanne adored Nicole and wanted only what was best for her. It was never about Billy’s attitude, behavior or goals in life. It hadn’t mattered that he was set to graduate from high school next year with honors and continue a career at McDonald’s as a line-cook manager. What mattered more than anything to Jeanne was that Nicole had two years of high school left herself—and she was going to damn-well finish them without complication or meddling from some kid living one hundred miles away in Connecticut. It was that simple.

  Throughout the early part of that evening, while biding Billy’s time, Nicole was entirely confused and torn about what to do. She wanted to approach her mother one last time. Confront her and plead with her. Ask her why she was being so bullheaded. This last night together with Billy was perhaps reminiscent of the first time Nicole met Billy in person, after speaking to him online and over the phone for two months. It was August 2002. Nicole had somehow managed to convince Jeanne to drive her to Willimantic. Jeanne agreed, giving into pleas of “Please, Mom…I need to see him,” but demanded she chaperone the eight-hour visit. When they left Connecticut later that day, Nicole knew then what she had always believed: Billy was the one. There was no doubt. She was hopeless when they pulled out of Billy’s driveway. “Hysterical” during the two-hour ride home, she said later.

  “I couldn’t stop crying the whole way home. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  From that day on, because Billy didn’t have a license or a car then, Nicole and Billy rarely saw each other. But now he had his own vehicle. When he arrived the previous Friday, it was a surprise to Nicole. As far as Jeanne and Chris knew, Billy hadn’t told Nicole he had gotten his license or a car. Now, though, the surprise was over. Billy was leaving. There was nothing they could do about it. Rules were rules. Nicole was a minor. “I knew the cops would be at my door in two days,” Billy said later, “if I just took off with Nicole and brought her to Connecticut…. The way we saw it is, we could be married on the side of the street in a cardboard box with no clothes and no food and we’d be happy.”

  As they sat at the 7-Eleven and talked over their options, Billy said at one point, “If I have to drive back home to Connecticut without you, I will steer my car into an oncoming truck.”

  “He was saying,” Nicole speculated later, “that there’d be tears in his eyes and his vision would be blurry and he didn’t think he’d be able to see straight.”

  “You’ll be OK, Billy,” Nicole assured him. “I’m so sorry you have to leave without me.”

  “They say you’re never supposed to drive when you’re angry or upset,” answered Billy, “because you’re more likely to drive faster, recklessly. If you’re not with me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Peer pressure. Nicole seemed addicted to it lately.

  Nicole stared out the window and cried. She couldn’t “fathom the thought” of ever losing Billy like that. Billy started the car and took off, out from the parking lot. He drove down Amherst Street for about a mile, turned around and headed back to 7-Eleven. The night, like their lives, was going round in circles.

  “Vermont, Billy. What about our plan to take off to Vermont?” They had discussed running away. At one point, they even went to one of Nashua’s libraries, looked up directions to upstate Vermont and Niagara Falls, “or,” as Billy put it, “somewhere to get the hell out of there.”

  Billy looked at Nicole. “Vermont, huh?”

  “I hate that house,” said Nicole. “Hate it with a passion. Park over there,” Nicole added, pointing to a space on the side of the 7-Eleven building near Deerwood Drive. From the parking lot of 7-Eleven, they had a clear view of the back of Jeanne’s house.

  As Billy and Nicole sat and talked, a Nashua police officer pulled in. There were plenty of No Loitering signs up around the outside of the store. Nicole had grown up in the neighborhood. She knew how oppressive and protective cops were of the store because of the problems with kids in the neighborhood.

  The officer got out of his car and walked toward the 7-Eleven.

  “Shit,” said Billy. “He’s staring at us.”

  So, Billy and Nicole got out of Billy’s car and walked into the store.

  “That’s a sign,” Billy whispered to Nicole. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  Nicole continued crying. “A sign. Huh!”

  “Maybe we should leave?” said Billy.

  “Yeah.”

  As Billy pulled out of the parking lot after they left the store, the officer got into his cruiser.

  When Billy left, the officer followed him.

  Billy took a right into the parking lot of Bruster’s just down the road. As he did, either the cop got a call or just gave up on the fact that they hadn’t done anything illegal, because he drove by.

  “Let’s go back to 7-Eleven,” Billy suggested, making a U-turn in the parking lot of Bruster’s.

  “OK,” said Nicole. “Go.”

  CHAPTER 8

  As Chris McGowan pulled into Jeanne’s driveway after leaving 7-Eleven, he noticed the family Shih Tzu, Buster, out in the backyard on his leash. Jeanne probably tied Buster outside as soon as she got home from work so he could “do his thing.” Buster was cooped up for most of the day in a cage inside the house. Jeanne couldn’t really count on the kids to let him out regularly. Putting him out on his leash when she got home from work was one of those daily rituals Jeanne did robotically without thinking as soon as she walked through the door. Mail in one hand, telephone cradled on the crook of her shoulder, picking up after the kids, while opening Buster’s cage to let him out. The ultimate multitasker Jeanne Dominico. She could do ten things at once, not one of them to serve her own needs.

  “She was so unbelievably thoughtful, always thinking about everyone else,” said Carla Hall, one of Jeanne’s neighbors, “and what she could do for them. She made me want to be a better person.”

  Jeanne’s husky, Princess, had a doghouse in the backyard. That dog was also outside, Chris noticed as he grabbed the bottle of soda off his front seat and walked toward the foyer door. The dog was circling around, barking in a welcoming way.

  Reaching the steps, Chris told himself that Jeanne should have let Buster in the house by now. Why is he still outside?

  “Hey, Buster,” Chris said, approaching the door into the house. “How’s it goin’, boy?” Buster was antsy, yelping rather than barking, jumping around a bit. Very anxious.

  Walking up onto the steps, Chris muttered to himself, “Jesus.” Buster had done his business right there on the porch welcome mat. “What the heck! I’ll deal with you later,” Chris snapped, pointing at Buster, shaking his head.

  Where in the heck is Jeanne?

  There were no lights on in the house.

  Maybe she went for a walk?

  Jeanne wasn’t prone to taking walks around the neighborhood.

  Looking at the door, Chris noticed it was ajar. The house appeared ominous, uninviting. No one was obviously home—at least that’s what it seemed to Chris at first glance.

  “Hello…Jeannie? Jeannie?” Chris yelled in his normal tongue, pushing the door open. “Jeannie, you in there, honey?”

  Although Chris didn’t notice right away, the coffee table in the living room was smashed into bits and pieces. The kitchen was a mess. In fact, things were out of place all over. There had been some sort of struggle, a commotion.

  As he made his way into the kitchen from the doorway, Chris realized the lights in the house were off, but the refrigerator was slightly ajar, allowing the tiny light from inside to cast a straight, flat beam on the floor, like the sun peeking through the slats of a picket fence.

  “Jeannie?”

  Walking farther, Chris saw Jeanne’s legs first. She was on the floor, lying facedown.

  “Jeannie…my goodness, Jeannie?”

  Chris immediately knelt down by his fiancée’s side and called her name. “Jeannie? Answer me. Jeannie? Damn it, Jeannie?”

  Jeanne wasn’t moving, so Ch
ris began shaking her.

  “Wake up, Jeannie.”

  Chris McGowan first assumed that Jeanne had perhaps fallen and hit her head on the corner of the stove, or passed out for some reason. Over the past few days, Chris remembered, Jeanne had been complaining about “not feeling like herself.” She had even called her doctor that previous Monday, August 4, after reporting to Chris that she felt “tipsy,” “dizzy” and quite drawn down. Jeanne was always one to monitor her weight. At five feet six inches, she had put on some weight in recent years. But over the past month or more, she had dropped several pounds while closely following the popular Atkins diet. She had even told Chris a week prior how “great” she felt since losing so much weight in such a short period of time.

  Now, though, Chris wondered if perhaps the weight loss and her recent complaint of feeling light-headed and weak were symptoms of a major health issue.

  As he stared at Jeanne for a moment in disbelief, getting no response after calling out to her, Chris noticed a large pool of blood underneath Jeanne’s head and upper body. For some reason, she had bled all over the floor.

  What’s this? It was still tacky, even wet.

  What Chris didn’t realize was that there was blood spattered from one end of the kitchen to the other: on the refrigerator, cabinets, doorjamb, table, chairs, floor. Even the carpet in the living room had patches of blood, and there were droplets leading up the stairs.

  The moment Chris noticed the blood, he reached for the telephone, which was on a small ledge between the kitchen and living room, about a foot-and-a-half away from Jeanne. By now, Chris was a wreck. Shaking. Stuttering. Mumbling to himself. Trembling to the point of having difficulty dialing the three numbers.

  What the hell happened? Jeannie? Oh my God, Jeannie.

  CHAPTER 9

  No sooner had the 911 operator picked up the line did Chris McGowan explain what he found inside Jeanne’s Dumaine Avenue home. He sounded disoriented, panicky and confused.

  “My…my…girlfriend is here. She’s in a pool of blood in her kitchen.”

  The operator confirmed the address. Then, “OK, do you know what happened?”

  “No, I just walked in the door.”

  After being asked to do so, Chris placed his trembling hand on Jeanne’s back, but he couldn’t feel any movement.

  “I was just too shaken,” he recalled later. “There was no way I could have felt for a pulse.”

  “How old is she?” asked 911.

  “She’s forty-three…. There’s blood all over the place.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “I…no. I just walked in.”

  The 911 operator was composed, trying to keep Chris focused on details. Chris was crying. All sorts of scenarios were running through his mind. It was starting to sink in that something horribly violent had taken place inside Jeanne’s home and Jeanne was badly hurt. More than that, was there an intruder in the house? Something told Chris that whatever happened to Jeanne had just occurred. He wasn’t sure: Had she fallen or had someone hurt her? He couldn’t tell for certain.

  “Can you just lean down and see if she’s still conscious and breathing?” 911 asked again.

  “OK, hold on one second.”

  As the 911 operator waited, she could hear Chris yelling as he walked away from the telephone line. “Hold on. Jeannie…oh, Jeannie…she’s not moving.”

  “Is she breathing?” 911 asked when Chris picked up the line again. “Did you put your ear next to her mouth and see if she’s breathing?”

  “All right. Hold on. Oh. My. God. Hold on.”

  There was a few seconds of silence.

  “No!” said Chris. “I don’t believe. No, I don’t hear anything.”

  Chris told the operator his full name and who he was in relation to Jeanne. He gave the operator a few details about Jeanne: age and full name.

  “OK, we’re going to get you some help, Chris.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chris asked if he could turn off the television set in Jeanne’s living room. It was too loud. He couldn’t concentrate.

  “I don’t know what she hit her head on,” Chris continued after returning, “I don’t know what she hit her head on, but there’s, there’s stuff all over.”

  The operator said, “Hold on, Chris,” then dialed a police officer in the immediate area of the house.

  “911, agent 161, requesting an ambulance in Nashua at Dumaine Avenue…. That’s going to be for a Bravo 1, forty-three-year-old female, she’s not conscious, not breathing. It looks like a nonrecent death.”

  “OK, we’re on our way,” the officer responded.

  “Chris? You still there?”

  The operator asked Chris if he could pick up another “portable phone” in the house so he could walk out of the house, but still stay on the line.

  Chris switched phones.

  “I wanted you to just back away from the room and try not to touch anything.”

  “OK. She’s not moving. She’s in a pool of blood.”

  “You don’t know how long she’s been there?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “And you think she hit her head?”

  “I…I don’t know, I really…”

  For about one minute, Chris and the operator discussed the last time Chris saw Jeanne: what time it was and where.

  “Would you rather wait outside, Chris, or would you rather wait on the phone with me?”

  “Wait until now,” Chris said. He made no sense. He was having trouble registering what the woman was asking.

  “Why don’t you stay on the phone with me.”

  “Are they on their way?” wondered Chris.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Putting the telephone down for a moment, Chris went back to Jeanne, knelt beside her, placed his right hand behind her back and picked her neck and head up off the ground.

  She’s so cold, he thought.

  “I love you, honey…,” Chris whispered in Jeanne’s ear. It was at that moment, he remembered later, as he told Jeanne, “I love you,” that he heard sirens…but what he didn’t see then, and wouldn’t find out until much later, was that Jeanne’s shoulder and head, neck, chest and back of her head were riddled with stab wounds. On her hands, Jeanne had defensive wounds. Several. She had fought tirelessly with her assailant.

  “Wait until you hear the sirens, OK, Chris?” the operator said as Chris picked up the telephone again. “Was she around any tables or counters that she could have struck her head on?”

  “Well, the kitchen…”

  “OK, as soon as the police and ambulance arrive, they will—”

  “I can’t see, but I hear them outside. Should I go?”

  “Yes.”

  While kneeling there beside Jeanne, just looking at her one last time, Chris noticed something else—an image he knew would be with him for the remainder of his life: bending down to kiss Jeanne on the cheek one final time, brushing her hair away from her face, Chris realized she was staring at him, her eyes open, glossy and “blank.”

  “That’s when I knew she was gone.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Jeanne Dominico and Chris McGowan had never set a wedding date. Jeanne never wore an engagement ring. They decided they wanted to wait until Nicole and Drew were graduated from high school, Chris said, “and well-established in the direction of their lives.” To Jeanne and Chris, the kids came first. It was important to Jeanne: that the kids set goals for themselves, dream and focus on realizing their full potential. Forming a legal bond with Chris could wait. Drew and Nicole were what mattered most to Jeanne, and abiding by her wishes was one more way for Chris to show his love and support. He had waited decades for the love of his life. What was another four or five years for a wife?

  “We were in no hurry at all.”

  The night Chris proposed to Jeanne wasn’t the Bogie and Bacall moment either had perhaps anticipated. It was more of a casual gesture than anything else,
and that’s the way Jeanne and Chris’s relationship progressed. Nothing was ever complicated. The way they saw it, they were two people who had found true love later rather than sooner. Nothing else mattered. They were in love.

  A few months into their relationship, Chris and Jeanne discussed marriage. “I’ll wait to ask, though, Jeannie,” Chris said one night, “until I have the ring.”

  Jeanne agreed.

  “We had discussed the size and shape of the ring that she wanted,” remembered Chris.

  “Wait until we can set a date,” insisted Jeanne, “before buying it.”

  Jeanne was not someone who drew attention to herself; she was much more concerned with the happiness and security of others than what her own life could provide. The strength she amassed from helping people, many said, gave Jeanne a tremendous amount of comfort. Still, as time passed, Jeanne accepted the simple gestures of love Chris made. At first, she didn’t know how to react to someone showing her so much affection. Getting flowers delivered to her at work, for example. Chris had sent roses during that week in August to celebrate their approaching anniversary. Jeanne had “tears in her eyes” when she walked over to Chris’s desk to thank him.