“I’m sorry, Jenny. That must be very hard to know it’s not gone forever when he drives away with it.”
But the thing is, I know that in a week or ten days or whatever it is, I can give him the bag and for that small amount of time, I’ll be free of it. So when it comes, I just imagine I’m putting it in the bag. And then more comes, and I put that in the bag. I just fill that bag up and then put it on my bike and carry it to him.
I cannot hold the bag for Jenny. Nor can her parents or her friends or the other members of the group. Only Sean. Can you imagine having that power?
Sean does not give his garbage bag to Jenny. I have not asked him about this, or about Jenny at all, because this decent man does not need one more ounce of guilt. But I know. Sean would not take any pleasure in passing along his burdens. His pleasure, his joy, lies within the power he has to hold hers. He takes her garbage bag and she gives him purpose, a reason to get up every day. A reason to keep fighting. A reason to live.
Yes, Sean loved his son. I did not know yet whether he loved his wife or just felt obligated to her. They had never shared one peaceful day. Regardless, he loved Philip, and his love was set free by what he had with Jenny. She had found a wormhole through his guilt and around the ghosts. They could not touch the power she gave him. And that power was like an invisible force field around his love, protecting it, making it feel safe to come out of hiding.
I feel frustrated. I am mixing so many metaphors. How I struggle to explain things to you.
Can we at least agree that they shared something very special?
The trouble is this: He is a man and she is a woman—young, yes, but still a woman. And when there is a connection this strong, it wants to go to the ends of the earth. And the ends of the earth for a man and woman involves sex. Not sometimes. Not maybe. Always.
I sat down at the table between myself and Sean. I was moving slowly because the phone call came five minutes later than I had requested earlier that morning.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sean. I have to take this. Do you mind waiting?”
It’s all good, Doc, he said.
I took my cell phone in the small chamber between my office and the bathroom. I closed the door, not all the way.
“Detective Parsons. Thank you for calling back,” I said. I stood very close to the opening in the door. I did not lower my voice.
No problem. You said you had something for me to look into? Has something happened with Jenny? Another memory?
“Something like that. Listen, though. This cannot go further than you and me, do you understand? When I tell you, you will for sure.”
You definitely have my attention, Alan. What is it?
My heart was pounding wildly. I felt corrupted. I had been so filled with goodness that morning with Sean. Hearing about his moment with Philip. Sharing his tears. It felt pure and sacred. And now I was about to continue down my evil path.
Sean was light. I was the darkness. He was good. I was evil. He was clean. And I was filthy.
I swallowed down my bitter pill and carried on. The child with the box of matches. A match now lit.
Alan—you there? Who’s the person you want me to look into?
Then I said it. I just said it. And I said it loud enough for Sean to hear me.
“Bob Sullivan.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The next day was Tuesday, and I went up to Somers as I always do. I felt relief to be with the criminals, to be yelled at, disrespected, and deceived. My relief concerned me. Were my own crimes so despicable, I now felt deserving of this mistreatment? Was I now destined for a life of martyrdom to pay the debts of my transgressions? I would sooner join poor Glenn Shelby in the grave than live that way.
It was an easy day for Somers. Or maybe it was just easy in comparison to the week I’d had back in Fairview. My usual drug seekers came to abuse my patience. The truly deserving inmates were neither healed nor appreciative of the small comfort my prescriptions afforded them. The staff reminded me how miserable life can be when you aren’t careful to pave the right path for your life—to build yourself a good house. Still, there was nothing about the day that upset me.
I have said very little about my own family, my parents and my sister. It does not seem relevant to the story, and yet much of what I have explained to you involves childhood mishaps and dysfunction. Perhaps to understand why I did the things I did, you should have some more pieces to my own puzzle.