by Meany, John
I continued to sob. “Doc, I just wish I could bring her back.”
“Well, you can’t bring her back.”
“I still hear her talking to me,” I added. “I mean, sometimes. Not always.”
I heard my psychiatrist scribble notes down in his notepad.
“Is your mother the only one who tries to communicate with you, or does the bad lady speak as well?”
“Only my mom.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because,” I answered honestly. “I think my mother went to Heaven, and that the bad lady went to that other place.”
“Other place?” my shrink inquired skeptically.
“Hell. I think the bad lady went to Hell.”
“Hmn.” As he contemplated, Dr. Sedevic let loose a long, heavy sigh. The more information I revealed, the faster his pen moved across the pages of his notebook. During this session, he must have written a thousand word essay.
“Doc, I’m not kidding. I know the bad lady got cast down into the shadowy underworld.”
“What makes you so sure about that?”
“Because sometimes I can hear her mournful cry.”
He flipped to yet another page. “Mournful cry?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Like Satan is punishing her relentlessly.”
“Why Billy, that’s a very morbid picture you’re painting.”
“It is,” I concurred. “No doubt.” More tears leaked from my distressed eyes.
“And how does this make you feel, knowing that the bad lady might be suffering such a horrific fate?”
“It hurts. Because even though she might have been crazy, I don’t think, she deserves to be in Hell. The bad lady always cared about my well-being. Everything she did, she did for me.”
“She loved you, Billy. There seems to be no doubt about that. I’m sure she loved you just as much as your mother did.”
“Right.”
“So do you forgive her?”
I did not say anything.
“Billy, do you forgive her?”
“Yes,” I finally admitted. “I forgave my mother’s alter ego a long time ago.”
***
A few minutes later I uttered, “Oh my God, she keeps shooting her.”
“Who?” Dr. Sedevic asked, while stifling a startled cough.
“The bad lady. She keeps shooting Nancy Sutcliffe in the head.”
“I’m confused, Billy. Describe the scenario.”
“She has Nancy tied up in a chair, in a small dimly-lit room. Nancy is blindfolded and there is black electrical tape over her mouth. The bad lady keeps putting bullets in Nancy’s brain, over and over again. Boom! Bang! Boom! Boom! Bang! Boom! She’s relentless. Doc, I can’t take it! It’s like a disturbing scene from a horror movie that won’t shut off.”
“Why do you think she keeps shooting Nancy Sutcliffe in the head?”
“Because,” I responded, raising my voice. “Even in death the bad lady won’t let go of her hatred.”
My shrink fell silent.
“Dr. Sedevic, will I also go crazy?”
“No.”
“How do I stop these nightmares? Is there a way? I just want to be normal like everyone else.”
“You will be normal again, Billy. Soon. You just have to give it time. These things, as they say, don’t happen over night. You’ll just have to be patient.”
PART THIRTEEN
FATHER
CHAPTER 25
Regarding my long lost father, me, now at age twenty, a second year student at Indiana State University, I had finally made the decision that I would try to track him down.
Before going to the extreme of hiring a private investigator, a month ago, on the internet, I had looked up the name Hugh Sandusky in a Chicago phone book, but could not find him.
Frustrated, I assumed that my biological father no longer resided in that city. Nevertheless, I knew he had to be out there, in the country, somewhere. I could feel it deep down in my heart that he was still alive, probably working at some nine to five job, possibly even married with children.
Strange, if he had kids, I had been thinking, technically those people would be my siblings.
Then, a week later, I got lucky.
I found him on Facebook. Hugh Sandusky lived in Missouri, in a town called Kirkland, which was situated west of the Mississippi River. I googled the town and had discovered that it was an inner-ring suburb of St. Louis. According to his Facebook profile, my biological father was in fact married.
Now you might be asking yourself how is it that I knew this was the right Hugh Sandusky. Answer, because after my mother had died, I had uncovered pictures of my biological father, of him and my mom at the crowded cigarette-smoky nightclub in Cleveland where they had met. Plus, on Facebook, there were only two Hugh Sandusky’s listed.
Staring at my keyboard in my college dormitory, late one night when my roommate Jason Reddington, a party animal, had passed out drunk in the bed beside me, I was scared. Somehow, in the face of such intense uncertainty, I had to summon the courage to send my dad a friend request.
On the cluttered night table beside me, there were a couple of cans of Keystone Light. They were Jason’s beers, of course. Anyway, needing something to relax my nerves, I popped one of the warm cans open and took a quick swig.
Then, as I was preparing to send the friend request, I suddenly yanked my hands back from the computer keys. I did not know why I was so damn nervous.
This man who I wanted to send the friend request to was my own flesh and blood.
There should be no reason for me to be nervous.
Or should there?
What if my biological father, who nowadays, would be in his early forties, wanted nothing to do with me?
What if metaphorically speaking, he slammed the door in my face, to the idea of wanting to meet?
Or what if he denied knowing my mother, denied that he had ever even been to Ohio, let alone to Cleveland, twenty years before?
If that were to happen, I would be distraught. No doubt.
While taking a deep, deep breath, I tried to convince myself, that if my dad Hugh Sandusky wanted nothing to do with me, at least I would finally have closure on that part of my life.
With that reassuring thought in mind, and another small sip of beer in my belly, I maneuvered the computer mouse and then bravely clicked the ‘friend request’ button.
To my surprise, the next day he accepted the Facebook request. We exchanged numbers and spoke on the phone, for about an hour.
As you could well imagine, my long lost father was completely shocked, after twenty years, to connect, with a son that he never knew he had. Hugh Sandusky informed me, as I suspected would be the case, that he barely remembered my mother from their one night stand in Cleveland back in the late 1980‘s.
He had also said that he was profoundly saddened (I could hear the emotion in his voice) that my mom had elected not to notify him that he had gotten her pregnant. I could tell that he meant that too. He said that if she had told him about the baby, he would have been there for her. If not in a loving relationship sense, he would have at least offered financial support.
I believed him.
***
For me talking to my dad was mind-blowing. The fact that he seemed to be very kind, open, and honest, made me both happy and relieved.
Out of curiosity, I questioned him as to what he did for a living, since I wanted to try to get more of a clear, visual impression of what he might be like as a person. In a humble way, he expressed that he was no one important, no one famous; he was just your friendly neighborhood electrician.
That was okay. I had no dreams of grandeur, thinking that he might turn out to be some disgustingly rich oil tycoon from Texas, or whatever. I would never become anyone important or famous either. I was majoring in business administration, and would likely one day end up becoming just another sui
t. Another uptight, stuffed shirt in an office somewhere.
My dad Hugh let me know that he had a daughter, named Cindy, who had been born, there in St. Louis, a few years after I had been conceived. I asked if I could meet her, he said, sure, that my half-sister Cindy would probably like that very much, and that, when I had some time off from college, he would make the arrangements.
“What about spring break?” I asked.
“Sounds like that would be the ideal time,” my biological father said cheerfully.
“So you think your daughter Cindy will be surprised to find out that she has a brother from Indiana?”
“Yes Bill. However, as I said, I don’t think she’ll have much of a problem accepting you into the family.”
“I can’t wait to meet you guys.”
“I feel the same way. I bet you’re a chip off the old block. And based on your Facebook photos you look exactly like me.”
“That‘s true,” I agreed. “I do. We have the same eyes, nose and brown hair.”
He chuckled. “That we do. You have the Sandusky Polish nose.”
I laughed along with him.
We resolved that, on spring break, I would be the one to drive down to Kirkland, Missouri. Hugh had to work so there was no way he could commute to Indiana. That worked out fine though, because I wanted to meet him and his daughter Cindy first before I introduced them to my grandparents.
I did not want to rush things.
PART FOURTEEN
SET ME FREE
CHAPTER 26
Now, before I conclude this story, you might be wondering how I planned to go about telling my biological father that my mom was dead. To be honest with you, I did not know.
All I knew was that spring break was only a week away and I decided that I would rather tell him about the way she had died and why, on my vacation, than to get into the issue over the phone.
It has been many years since I had discussed, with anyone, what had happened to me, inside that Good Humor truck, back in Hampton, Ohio. As a matter of fact, other than my grandparents, the last person I had spoken to about it would have been Dr. Sedevic.
Beginning in my first year of high school, I had dated a bunch of different girls, both cheerleaders and bookworms, and, including my present day girlfriend Scarlett, had not told any of them that I had once been the victim of a pedophile.
The reason why I had not revealed to any of my girlfriends that I had been sexually abused was because I did not think they would understand.
Or that they might, when they learned of this, start to feel rather uncomfortable being in a relationship with me, and would ultimately want to break up.
Nevertheless, I intend to exorcise the ghost of Nancy.
In fact, tonight I plan to spill my heart to Scarlett, who I think I might be in love with, and let her know everything. I hope she sticks around.
It has taken me a long time to realize that until I’m honest about what had happened to me, until I let the people close to me, especially my love interests, know about Nancy, my mom, and also the bad lady, I will always remain a victim.
I do not want that anymore.
I am tired.
I want to be set free.
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