All Is Not Forgotten(82)

Charlotte said those were the longest two weeks of her life, even longer than the weeks after Jenny’s rape.

It was because there was nothing left for me to do. No action to take. No calls, no errands, no nothing. I just had to sit and let my husband know me, all of me, and decide whether he still loved me. It was very hard because after I told him, I knew I loved him more than I ever had before. Or maybe I should just say that I knew I really loved him, period.

Tom came to Charlotte on a Thursday night. They were alone in their bedroom; the house was quiet.

I walked in, and she was standing at her dresser, looking in the mirror. I could see her reflection from where I was standing. And I saw her for the first time. I mean I really saw her. She was not the woman I thought I had married. But God, she was beautiful! I’m sorry … I’ve been crying a lot lately. She was just so beautiful, that vulnerable girl, and that strong woman—they were all there in her face. And I just wanted to hold her.

Charlotte remembers that night well. I doubt either of them will forget it.

I didn’t notice him in the room until he was almost standing behind me. He reached his arms around my waist and rested his head on my shoulder. He told me he loved me. He told me he thought I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, more beautiful now than ever, now that he could see all of me. I fell into him. I felt this wall crumble to the ground. There was nothing standing between us anymore. We made love and then I slept all night in his arms.

Sean also found a reconnection with his wife after the death of Bob Sullivan. He came to see me the very next day, the day after he almost killed the man himself. The day after he had the recall.

I drove home like a wild man. I couldn’t get there fast enough. I wanted to tell my wife that I had not killed Bob Sullivan. That I had not killed Valancia. That I had tried to save him. It’s not just that I remember it. I could easily have remembered it only to learn that I had been the one running for that door, driven by arrogance that no amount of reason could ever contain. That’s how I felt about most of life. Living with the anxiety—it made me do so many crazy things. I could have been the one, maybe even wanting to die, finally, after so much suffering. Don’t you see, Doc? I know now that I’m not completely f*cked up. That I’m not so f*cked up that I led a man to his death.

“No, Sean. You are not so f*cked up. In fact, you ran after him. You tried to stop him. And you were willing to die for him. You are a hero.”

I wanted to be a hero. I thought if I killed Sullivan, I would be saving Jenny. Can you imagine if I had not remembered that night? If I had killed an innocent man? I came so close.

“I don’t think you would have shot Bob Sullivan. It’s not who you are.”

Maybe. Sean sat staring at the ground. He nodded slowly. Maybe, Doc. Guess we’ll never know.

Sean continued to see me for his anxiety, and to finish our work putting the ghosts to bed. Having found those few memories from that day in Iraq, it was a seamless task and deeply satisfying. The trauma from the blast, from the injury, found its home and stopped roaming. Sean went back to college that year. His wife had a daughter, and they named her Sara. And he remained a close friend to Jenny, the man who could hold her black bag full of garbage.

Those are the happy endings. I cannot take all the credit for what these extraordinary people did to change their lives. I will simply say that I am grateful for the small part I was able to play.

And now I must tell you the ending for Glenn Shelby.

It was seven days after the death of Bob Sullivan that the body of Glenn Shelby was found swinging from that metal bar in his apartment. The weather had turned quite warm, and he had started to smell.

When the Cranston police sorted through his things, they found the black ski mask, the black gloves, and a notebook describing in detail the rape of Jenny Kramer.

Glenn had been in property maintenance before his coworkers grew uncomfortable around him. I told you that earlier. Maybe you had forgotten. The last job he did for them was caring for two homes in Fairview. He did everything for them, weeding, lawn maintenance, tree pruning. And cleaning their pools.

Detective Parsons called me with the news.

It’s crazy, isn’t it? He’s a real sicko, this one. Two stalking convictions. Numerous complaints from coworkers. In and out of prison. Crazy bastard. Looks like he was planning to rape someone at that party. He was following several teenage boys on Instagram. Used a fake profile. Fucking idiot kids. They’re so caught up in their “likes” and “followers.” I bet they don’t know half the people they let into their world. We found the chat about the party in one of the hashtags. They started talking about it a week before. Gave him plenty of time to prepare. Looks like he was targeting a boy. We’re still trying to identify where it started, which kid let him into the circle first. That might tell us something.

I already knew the answer. I had been through Jason’s account to clean it of photos with the blue sweatshirt. I do not use Instagram. But one of my son’s “followers” kept appearing and appearing, “liking” his posts, trying to start conversations, and prodding my son to “like” things back. It’s hard to explain why it jumped out at me. This follower’s picture and posts never revealed the face of Glenn Shelby. But I just knew. The desperation oozed like a toxic chemical from the screen, page after page after page.

Shelby had taken to stalking my son.