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We stare somewhat awkwardly at each other for a minute. It feels like Marino has much more information than he is offering up.
I force myself to stand and accept that the meeting is over. “Well thank you. Keep me updated, will you?”
“Of course.”
Marino opens the door, gestures me into the hall just as Detective Stroud is walking by. I almost walk face-first into the doorframe. The detective is wearing a blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suggesting a tough day, and khakis. I’ve seen the detective around town a few times, but not this close since the day of my mother’s murder, twenty years ago. I do a quick estimate in my head: Stroud was only in his mid-twenties when he worked my mother’s case, which would make him mid-forties now. He has aged beyond what would be expected, sunspots, crow’s feet, and frown lines marring his face. His sandy blonde hair is cut short, a severe buzz that shows a scar running along the side of his head. He’s grown a beard since I last saw him and I spy a few specks of gray. Despite all this, he is still handsome—was extremely handsome in his younger days, in a bashed up kind of way. He has new tattoos, I also notice. A large Celtic cross on his left forearm.
Detective Stroud nods at Officer Marino and glances at me. I can’t tell if he recognizes me or not.
“Call me if you need anything,” Marino says, though he has already turned his back to me. He hollers at Stroud.
I make my way down the hallway slowly, listening to the conversation behind me.
“Is Rhett Cohen out of jail yet?” Marino asks Stroud.
“No, not that I’m aware. I don’t think so.”
“We need to confirm that. I’ll have Darla call the warden. We need to see who he’s been communicating with, who has visited him, mail, emails, phone calls. I want to know it all…”
Stroud is asking an inaudible question as I push through the thick steel door.
Janet Taylor, Jesse’s mother, is no longer in the waiting room. She is outside in the parking lot, sobbing, her head buried in the arms of her handsome husband, Dr. Harris Taylor.
His eyes meet mine as I pause to glance out the window.
A small smile crosses his lips.
7
Marjorie
My therapist said I should keep a journal. So here it is. She said I should write down what I’m thinking about, at least once a day. She told me not to overthink it, just write.
Today, like every day, I am thinking about Anna. I am thinking about her little blonde curls and how they always smelled of strawberries from the shampoo she loved so much. (and tried to eat once!) I’m thinking about the tip of her nose, how I would lightly tap it with my finger when I reminded her how much I loved her.
I’m thinking of her laugh, her giggle, the way her cheeks would blush when she was tickled. I’m thinking of all the times we were snuggled under the blankets watching a replay of a Disney movie we’d seen a hundred times, and how she would mindlessly rub her little feet against each other under the blankets.
I’m thinking of my love for her…
I caught myself thinking of my parents today. Thinking of that day, so long ago. One day in particular. One day out of so many.
It was winter, incredibly cold. I was thirteen years old.
My mom was passed out on the couch. She was drunk, a terrible, terrible drunk. Mean and hateful. But she was nothing compared to my father. Gerald Stone, I know now, was a very ill man. I’m sure he would have been diagnosed with a slew of mental disorders if he had gone to the doctor. I’m sure he would have been prescribed a handful of drugs to cope.
I’m sure my life would have been different if he had sought help, as I am doing now.
My mother would slap me across the face. My father would use a belt.
Yes, I was abused as a child. I can finally admit that. For most of my life, I wasn’t able to admit it. I didn’t consider myself an “abused person.” Then I met my therapist and she opened my eyes.
I don’t even remember what I did wrong that day. Probably left something out or forgot to put something back in its rightful place. My mother and father were neat freaks, everything was organized, and not a single spec of dirt anywhere. Anyway, I only remember Gerald’s voice. The hair-raising tone of his scream. He and my mother were fighting, I’m not sure what about. Her being drunk? Or one of them having an affair? I don’t know. I’ll never know.
I hid in my closet where I eventually wet myself. I needed to go when I went in, and then was too scared to come out. Even all these years later, I use the restroom incessantly to ensure I never find myself in a situation like that again.
Gerald found me and dragged me out by my hair. I remember feeling like someone had poured piping hot acid on my head as he drug me across the room, ripping the tiny strands from my skull. I remember the way he looked at me when he realized I had wet myself. I remember the unbelievable shame I felt. I remember he had a cigarette between his lips. The smell turned my stomach.
I begged him to let go, which he eventually did, but instead, he grabbed my arm. I couldn’t keep up as he pulled me through the house, out the back door, to the shed. I lost a shoe somewhere along the way.
