I had done my best for Glenn. My very best. He refused to accept medication. He did not think he was ill. What he sought was therapy—a chance to have a safe connection with another human being, which can be a dangerous endeavor in prison. I was eager to provide this to him. He was the subject of abuse by other inmates because of his odd disposition and how he sought emotional intimacy in an environment where such a thing is perceived as deceptive. I imagine some of the inmates had succumbed to his talents, confiding more than they should about their crimes to this strange man. He was frequently accused of being a “rat.” I believe it was his physical size and strength that kept him from being killed.
Glenn Shelby was the one patient I was not able to save. His life ended with suicide. This is certainly why I have dwelled on him here. Why I dwell on him, period. The several months I treated him was not enough time for me, in my ineptitude, to understand the depths of his conditions.
I was thinking about the patient I had just seen on the drive home that day, and trying to get myself around the profound disappointment it triggered. Disappointment in myself. How easy it was for me now to see through this sociopath. He was beyond help. But Glenn, I do not believe that about him. If he walked through my door on that same day, I would have been able to help him. Save him. The world is not a fair place.
You may wonder why I choose to immerse myself in such filth every week. My wife believes it has to do with my upbringing. My parents used to take in foster children. I think it was because they had only two children themselves, and for ten years only me. My sister was a miracle, they said. The doctors had believed that my mother’s uterus was damaged by my difficult delivery and could no longer hold a fetus. She suffered many miscarriages. We were given a great deal of information about this so we would understand why they opened our home to strangers. I do not even remember all of their names or even their faces. I did not enjoy sharing my home with these strangers. I resented them for taking resources that should have been mine—the love of my parents, money, food, space. But I was just a child, and children are selfish that way. And yet my wife tells me, as do my parents when we see them for our annual visit, that it is their generous spirit that lives within me. I think about that every time I drive up north to Somers.
The radio was on. A Knicks game had just ended, and a newscast was airing. I heard the name, but it did not mean anything. Then I heard the description of the car and the reference to the rape in Fairview last spring. They did not mention the Kramers, as that is the policy of the media with regard to rape victims. But everyone knew. There had been only one rape. There was only one blue Civic. And now they had the driver.
My distress over Glenn Shelby and the injustices of the world were instantly gone from my mind, and I was listening to every word. I called in to my voice mail. I had several messages waiting, which is very common, and I usually wait until the evening to listen to them, as I am sometimes required to take notes. Changes in appointments and the like. Today they were all about the arrest—Tom Kramer, Charlotte Kramer, Detective Parsons—they all called to tell me what had happened. The Kramers said that they were anxious to see me to discuss what this could mean for Jenny, whether we could use Demarco’s face or clothing to try to recover her memories. The thought of that was horrifying, and I listened impatiently because I wanted to call them back and urge them to keep Jenny away from any images of this man. The power of suggestion was anathema to our work. It would undermine everything. But then I got the last message, and my thoughts shifted one last time. It was from my wife.
Chapter Thirteen
My wife’s name is Julie Marin Forrester. I love my wife. It feels disingenuous to use this phrase after I have proselytized to such a degree about how nebulous love is. How it means nothing except in the context of the person who is “feeling” it. How it means something different to each of us and is therefore meaningless in some respects. How else can I describe it? I do not admire her. She is not particularly skilled at any one thing, though she is highly competent at running our family. She attended college (I won’t say which one, so as not to offend any of you who may be alumni), but I don’t think she learned much. She was very social. Lived in a sorority. Majored in English, which basically means she read a lot of novels. It was mostly a passive exercise for her.