I am writing with what may be important information or what may be the confusions of a man suffering from neurodegenerative demise.
In 2017, the journalist Carl Wallace came to me in the early stages of dementia. The disease has progressed considerably since then, and, as you may know, a common response to memory impairment is paranoia. Carl has taken to accusing me, with increasing aggression, of being you. He believes you are posing as his doctor in a plot to steal his research. He alternates between threatening to kill me and fits of terror, sure that I am the one planning on killing him. At the start of our treatment, I did share with him that I was an alumna of the sorority house that he wrote about in his book. I believe that’s how he came to conflate me with you.
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.
“Martha forbade it.”
I weighed my options now that this condition had been removed from the scales. Tina and I had talked about going, about not going, about going, every night for the last week. Tina said by not going, I was refusing to participate in my family’s cover-up of my so-called crimes. I took an important first step, not like I had any idea where I was going next.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I don’t think it’s going to work for me.”
“You don’t think it’s going to work for you,” my mother repeated tonelessly. “Well, then,” she said with what I imagined was a lethal smile. “Goodbye, Ruth.”
“Bye,” I said, though she’d already hung up on me.
I turned to find Tina stirring the cold dregs of the bouillabaisse broth with her spoon, smiling to herself with raised eyebrows, like she was expecting a thank-you from me.
“That must have felt great, huh?” She laughed in a way that assumed the answer went without saying and began clearing our plates, humming the new Fleetwood Mac song and swaying her hips.
I gave her a capitulating smile and pitched in, though a queasy awareness was building in me. If this was what great was supposed to feel like, I was doomed.
PAMELA
Tallahassee, 1979
Day 467
The morning of the deposition, I woke jittery and tearful, repentant for every wrong thing I’d ever done in my life. It must be the way people feel when going into risky surgery. This will either save me or kill me, and it can’t kill me, because I don’t know that I was a good enough person to get into heaven. I lay staring up at the popcorn ceiling, paralyzed by every violent and degrading possibility the day held, until Tina said she was going to her hotel room to shower and recommended I do the same. I pulled myself into a seated position, where I sat immobilized for a long time. Eventually, I summoned the strength to drag the phone into my lap.
“You are the kind of witness who keeps a defense attorney up at night,” Dad said from his office on Park Avenue, where, on his first day, they gave him a choice of view—the East River or the Hudson. “Let’s look at the data, okay?”
I licked away the tears on my lips. “Okay.”
“Your story has remained consistent, no matter the environment.”
I gripped the phone tighter, nodding to myself. This was true.
“Your character is unimpeachable, which means your testimony will be viewed as unimpeachable too.”
“How do you know?”