All Is Not Forgotten(70)

Somers, the winter before Jenny’s rape, was not the last time and place I saw Glenn Shelby before he died. My parents raised me to be generous. They raised me to be charitable. And they raised me to help those in need.

I mention this now because I went to see Glenn that evening after my session with Sean. He had been on my mind since he left the prison, well over a year before. So much about him had found its way into my conscience, and it had become acute to the point of distraction. I located him quite easily through his parole officer. He was working from his studio apartment, doing data inputting for some sleazy Web marketing firm—the kind that captures your data and sends you crap you then have to delete. His aunt in Boston got him the job. She had also kept the apartment for him in Cranston for many years, paid the rent and utilities. The money came from the small estate of his dead parents. His aunt was an elderly woman, and she had little interest in him other than her duties as trustee, for which I imagine she received a token salary. I do not think she knew of his latest imprisonment, though she was aware of his other transgressions against the law. He had two priors for stalking.

Before this job, which kept him at home day and night, Glenn had been employed by a property maintenance company. As was the case in any situation that required social interaction, Glenn was let go within a few months. This had left him bitter. He liked the soil, the smell of the grass, and mostly the interaction with other people. Every new person was a chance for intimacy. Unfortunately, he had pushed too far with one of the clients, a buttoned-up suburban mother whose politeness had been misinterpreted as genuine interest in Glenn and his life philosophies.

Glenn Shelby was a pitiful creature. I have already told you two things. First, he was a master at teasing stories from his targets, personal stories that are usually revealed only to close friends and lovers. It has always bothered me that some of his stories came from our sessions, came from me. And second, that he is the one patient I could not save.

I went to his apartment that night. It was very troubling to be there with him, if I must admit it. The apartment was in a complex that is arranged like a motel, with the front door opening to the outside, the way a house does. But inside, it was just one room. The cars were all parked outside. They were mostly shitty cars, old and uncared for. There was a swimming pool in the center of a courtyard, which was plagued by the indifference of the residents and, in all honesty, reminded me of an open cesspool. It was a mere step up from a homeless shelter. Many of the residents were criminals or, like Glenn, surviving on the goodwill of relatives. They had told Glenn their stories, and Glenn had told me during our sessions at Somers. I remembered them well.

He came to the door in neat khakis and a button-down shirt, like he was about to leave for an office job. The smell from inside was quite strong, a concoction of cleaning products and curry. The company Glenn worked for employed a disproportionate number of Indians, actually in India—no surprise to anyone who has recently called a customer support line. They were frequently on training calls together, or coordinating their data entry, virtual coworkers. Their culture had rubbed off on Glenn, and he apparently had an obsession with Indian takeout.

Glenn was shaking, though he wore an indignant smile. Well, well, well. Look who’s here.

“Hello, Glenn. May I come in?”

He stepped aside and showed me to a small sofa in the corner of the room.

“How have you been?” I asked him as I sat down.

The apartment was meticulously tidy. Dishes were neatly stored in glass cabinets. Papers sat in small piles on the kitchen table, each one the same distance from the next. Each one lined up at the top and bottom. Small porcelain knickknacks adorned his dresser. Obsessive cleanliness is a stereotype of patients with this degree of psychosis. Ironically, so is filth.

Glenn shrugged. He sat down adjacent to me on a wood chair, crossing his legs before finally coming to look at me. I’m quite well, Alan.

“I hope it’s okay that I came to see you. It’s not normal for doctors to do this, but I have been worried about you for a long time.”

Glenn sat back. The indignation began to give way to his profound need to reconnect with me. It was remarkable how quickly this happened. I was wondering how long it would take for you to find me.

I smiled at him. His eyes grew wide, and I was suddenly back in time to our sessions at Somers. Sessions I had to terminate because of the boundaries he would not respect. And the boundaries I had foolishly allowed to be crossed in my efforts to help him.

“Glenn, I should have come sooner. I know that. I was informed that you stopped seeing Dr. Westcott. I ran into him at the prison last week, and he told me things didn’t go well once you got out. Do you want to tell me what happened?” All of that was true. Once boundaries have been breached, they cannot be rebuilt. They are not walls made of plaster or brick. They exist in the mind, like words that cannot be unsaid. I had asked that Glenn be reassigned to another volunteer therapist, Dr. Daniel Westcott, and upon Glenn’s release, Westcott had agreed to continue his therapy. It was more supervision than treatment, making sure he was not allowing himself to become too obsessed with someone. Making sure he didn’t lose control again.

Glenn looked at the floor and shrugged. It wasn’t the same.

“What do you mean? He’s an excellent doctor. And his practice is right here, in Cranston.”

You know the answer, Alan.

I felt a shudder travel down my spine; my hair stood on edge. In the months that followed the transfer of Glenn’s treatment from me to Dr. Westcott, I began receiving letters from Glenn at my home. I do not know how he obtained my address or knew the names of my wife and children. I informed Dr. Westcott and the prison officials. Glenn was made to stop, and I believed that perhaps I had dodged a bullet.