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Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grace
My husband turns up in a hospital in a border town with no recollection of how he got there.He’s been beaten badly, nearly within an inch of his life.That’s all I know.That’s all anyone can tell me.He’s alive, and that’s what matters.
What I don’t realize is that it will be years in the future before I find out the truth, or maybe as close to the truth as I will ever get.For now, I am just glad he is alive.I am glad to get my ticket out of this place.The other thing I don’t realize is that it isn’t going to happen all at once, like I thought it would, and that even after it happens I will often feel like I left a part of me here in this facility.
I learn quickly, though, that it isn’t like the movies, where the truth comes out, or at least what everyone thinks is the truth, and then instantly you’re liberated.
I’ve told anyone who will listen about the kind of person Dr.Branson was and what he has done.Unfortunately, people don’t give either you or your word much credit when they’ve written you off as crazy.So I get nowhere fast.
There’s the saying that it’s easier to fool a person than to convince them they’ve been fooled.Well, that saying works both ways.It is my mother-in-law who visits to tell me about Charles.She sits across from me, solemnly.She brings me a sweater she knitted and a few photos of the children.We don’t speak much outside of what’s essential, and I get the sense it is difficult for her to admit that she has been wrong about me.Looking me in the eye does not appear to come naturally.Her usual take-charge demeanor has changed.She’s a shell of her usual confident self.
“It’s embarrassing, Grace.I will be the first to admit.”
“You don’t have to tell me.I’m the one in here.”
“Ronald and I feel such shame to have pointed the finger at the wrong person.We’re beside ourselves over this entire ordeal.”
I want to be angry and bitter, but I realize it will not help me.She has my children.I am in here.I want to be out there.Until Charles recovers, this woman is my advocate.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.Your doctor didn’t think it was in your best interest.He said you refused visitors.”
“I suppose there was a lot of pride involved,” I say, trying not to hold it against her.But it is clear there has been a breach.It is clear things will not go back to the way they were before.Our relationship will never be the same.
“How about Alice?Has she visited?”
“Yesterday.”
We speak briefly about my sister.The same sister Dr.Branson said didn’t exist.He hadn’t wanted her to exist.It was a key tactic of his: isolate, manipulate, and control.To my in-laws’ credit, I wasn’t the only one he lied to.I can see now that he fed them their fair share as well.
One of themore surprising truths to come to light is where Elizabeth was concerned.It turns out her family isn’t dead, not in the actual sense, anyway.
Elizabeth was the baby of the family, one of eight siblings.Her parents had shunned her on account of her “lifestyle,” as they referred to it, and I often wonder what came first, the chicken or the egg.
At her funeral, I meet them.I am awaiting my release from the asylum.I am told lots of stuff still has to be sorted out, but they take pity on me at the asylum and let me go.It may be on account of all the bad press.
The service is lovely, though Elizabeth would have hated it.It is too small and intimate for someone with such a big personality.
It takes place on a fitting and dreadful day.It is the first time I have been outside in quite some time, and it is as though the weather knows it is supposed to be a sad occasion, despite my temporary freedom.The rain pours down, drenching the graveyard and all of us in it.The crowd gathers under a canopy, strangers huddled together.We try to keep dry.
The clouds are gray and soft, like a winter day in Alaska.A smoky ceiling hides the sun.In the afternoon light, the shadows of the grass are thick and gray-gold.I feel everything and nothing.
The rain is nearly constant, so hard and heavy that it becomes impossible to see anything beyond the tent.I like to imagine that there are people out there, people hanging back, stragglers who stay just beyond the tent, the way you see in the movies.I imagine all the people Elizabeth had met during her travels.Surely, some of them loved her.
Elizabeth was a hard person to love, and a harder person not to.
As the pastor speaks, I try to find meaning in his words, to make sense of this, of a woman gone too soon, but I find his words empty and hollow.He didn't know Elizabeth, and it shows.
In the days that follow her funeral, I try to avoid thinking about what happened to her.The way she looked right before she did it.At first, when I think about it, I feel horror, and sometimes fascination.What kind of person must you be to actually pull the trigger?It's one thing to consider it; it's another thing entirely to go through with it.
I always thought Elizabeth was brave, but I realize she was just as scared as the rest of us.
Now, all I feel is sadness.I think of all the time on this earth that she will no longer get to experience.I imagine the people who love her, shocked and broken-hearted at the news.
It doesn't matter if the person you lose is friendly or an enemy, if you are on good terms or bad, I know I'll always feel the same: sadness.It's not a sentimental sadness, not even a sadness that brings tears.It's a profound unhappiness, a deep regret, as if some wonderful project that had been painstakingly worked on has suddenly been shattered forever.
That's what I feel every time I think about Elizabeth.
I spoke with her parents, just briefly, at the end of her service.I told them what a good friend their daughter was, possibly the only real friend I’ve ever had.
They nodded and looked at me like a person looks at you when they think you’re crazy, and for the first time in maybe ever, I was okay with that.
