When a patient is confused, it’s best not to correct them, as it can only exacerbate their disorientation. As Carl’s delusion has manifested over these last few months, more of the story has come to light. How much of it is rooted in reality I can’t say for sure, but in case any of this means anything to you, here goes:
In the eighties, when Carl was in the final stages of editing his book, the government forced him to hand over some of the recordings he made with The Defendant at the Florida State Prison allegedly containing the Lake Sammamish confession. Officials were still hoping to bring charges against The Defendantand did not want this information publicized, as it may have jeopar dized the investigation. Obviously, this never came to fruition. I have not been able to ascertain all the details of what is allegedly on these tapes. I don’t know the right questions to ask, but you might.
I feel, as you do, that the families of the other victims should know what happened to their loved ones, and I know you are still in touch with some of them. I’d urge you to get down here quickly and speak to Carl yourself before his memory declines irrevocably. I’ve written to you because I don’t want an electronic record of this—I’m not technically violating HIPAA here, but I find myself in an ethical gray zone.
I would say I hope you are well, but I know you are because you are so good about submitting your chapter notes to the community magazine every year. You inspire me.
Your sister on purpose,
Dr. Linda Donnelly, class of ’67
RUTH
Issaquah
Summer 1974
The night before my father’s garden-naming ceremony, my mother called. “Rebecca said she had a nice time at your party. It was thoughtful of you to invite her, Ruth, and I know your brother appreciated it too.
“She’s been awfully lonely for a while now,” my mother continued, carving me up with the skilled blade of a butcher. She knew how the word lonely hacked at my heart, making me think of my father and how he must have felt right before he died.
When my father was in college, he worked a couple of shifts a week as a bartender in the Georgian Room at the Olympic Hotel. One night near closing time, a patron came in and sat down at the empty bar. My father was always exhausted by last call—working nights as a full-time student took its toll. He poured the customer a finger of rye and hoped he would down it quickly, but the guy wanted conversation, about the beers on draft and then about the Scotches on the shelf. He wanted to know which team my father was rooting for in the World Series—the Cardinals or the Browns, and if my father thought it was as wild as he did that both were from St. Louis. My father thought he was hiding it well, his weariness, his disinterest, but after a few minutes of stunted conversation, the customer lapsed into silence and focused on finishing his drink. He dropped a few bills on the bar, and as he stood to go, he said that he traveled a lot for his job, that he hadn’t been home in a while and was just hoping for a few minutes of friendly conversation.
I must have been no older than Allen when my father told me this story, which means I have thought about that man and his hurt feelings for nearly two decades. The haunted look on my father’s face as he recalled that night taught me a formative lesson. Other people’s pain mattered more than my own discomfort.
“I hate hearing that,” I said. From the kitchen table, where we had been trying to figure out what was missing from my bouillabaisse, Tina mouthed,Hearing what? I turned away from her. It wasn’t fair, but I blamed her for the regret in my mother’s voice in that moment.
“I know you’ve been angry with me,” my mother said, humbled, “and you’ve certainly given me some time to think.” Her glum laugh loosened something in me.
“Mom,” I croaked.
“No, listen, Ruth. I don’t want you to be upset. It’s good that you’ve moved out. That you’re not tied to CJ like poor Martha will be for the rest of her life. I am glad—” It sounded as if the line had gone dead, but I knew that was her just doing her best. There is supposedly some universal biological response that new mothers have to their crying infants, something that activates the primal protective regions of the brain. Rebecca probably told me about it. I was certain something similar happened in me when I heard my own parents cry.
“I’ll be heartbroken if you’re not there tomorrow,” my mother finished in a voice of pure surrender.
“What about CJ?” I couldn’t stand to pretend like we were still married, not now. Not after Tina.