Melanie's Journey

by Michael Cross

  We knew what the evidence was that was incriminating Lamb. There was only one explanation, and that was that he was guilty. Three weeks later a man who apparently been poaching deer discovered the skull of Malin. The police went over the area extensively and not only found Cindy’s badly decomposed body but skeletal fragments belonging to several other victims—some maybe found where Nicole and I had rested and dreamed of a wonderful summer, at least the news footage sure looked like the same area.

  These events sure made the Christmas season less than enjoyable for the community. The one thing Daniel, Nicole and I had to look forward to, however, was getting out of our high school and finishing at the community college. Gerald’s friend had met with the school district administration and, giving them the option of a class-action law suit based on mental distress or paying for myself, and of course my friends, to finish at the community college. Of course the officials were happy to comply. Several other students found out about our deal and also took advantage of the school’s vulnerable situation.

  This was not the worse of the school’s problems. The pressure had forced the principal to announce that he would take early retirement at the end of the year. The school board came close to firing the superintendent over having a serial killer on the staff of the high school for several years. It was chaos.

  Upon transferring to the community college, my friends and I maintained our relationship but the stress of waiting until everything to sort itself out took its toll. About a month into school Nicole had a falling out with Daniel and put their relationship on hold. I tried to comfort her but rather than just being friends it quickly evolved into our forming a relationship. It was not what I had expected but perhaps I was still trying to fill the emotional void left by my mistake—that of letting Mark open up my hopes for a normal life. The problem was that I found myself trying to tell her how much I loved her, over and over again. Maybe I did, I did not know really, not in the sense expected by one’s partner, but I desired companionship and for it to exist I would try to communicate the words, feelings and actions necessary. I assumed this is what she needed but then, to my surprise, she quickly became domineering and moody—but then made up for it by showering me with passion, praise, tenderness and, most importantly, connection.

  I soon found myself walking on eggshells to avoid her emotional outburst at little things, or feeling a void when she wasn’t there. Then, after nearly two months of maintaining our rollercoaster stealth relationship, she mentioned the possibility of making things permanent, but wanted to make it quite clear she was not into raising a family in an unconventional partnership. At times, even though I do not think I seriously would have gone all the way with exchanging wedding vows with another woman, I tried to contemplate what it would be like living my life with her—but making the supreme sacrifice of not having children of my own was not an option, so I decided to call it quits.

  She seemed devastated at the time and told me she could not live without me. So I decided to put it to the test and ask about family, but she only cried and tried to change the subject. When she did finally say she was open to maybe compromising I knew she was not being honest, so I said marriage was not an option, but I wanted to remain close to her. She asked if we could spend the weekend near Mt. Hood just to sort everything out—that I owed her that, and I reluctantly agreed. It was a beautiful weekend, in a small town near some fantastic trails, and the two days were very romantic, but at the end of our little vacation, we both decided we should probably maintain our closeness without the intimate aspect. Within less than a week she was back with Daniel. Part of me would question whether I made the right choice or not—especially at those times when loneliness would envelop me in its web.

  I had hoped that since Nicole and I had not ended our friendship, then everything could go back to us being close again in our original arrangement. We had promised each other that Daniel would never be told about us, but it seemed he could tell. From that point forward whenever we were all together, Nicole would be her normal self but Daniel seemed resentful towards me and increasingly possessive of Nicole, a trait he had never displayed previously.

  By the time spring break was approaching the police closed the investigation and Lamb officially gained the infamy of being a serial killer. As corny as it would sound he earned notoriety as “The Ring-Finger Killer”—“Ring-Finger” for short. Immediately the media’s attention and fascination changed—instead of local news stations reporting on events as they unfolded, other media outlets, including one of the international educational networks, took over. Suddenly Daniel and I were contacted for interviews into the lives of our deceased teachers.

  We could have taken our 15 minutes of fame, and we were offered money from some talk shows to appear, but we both declined—fearing such a format could cause one of us to slip and reveal something we should not know, and re-awaken some investigator’s interest. The irony was that some of Lamb’s favorite students did take advantage of the offers, and contributed to the demonetization of his life in ways that made even Daniel proud.

  By the time these specials aired millions of people around the world were convinced of Lamb’s deviancy. Every little idiosyncrasy, every little quirk in his personality (real and imagined) was analyzed for clues into his dark character. Of course history is written by the survivors—the agreed-upon fiction we all want to present long after an event has occurred. Perhaps as a history teacher Lamb would be able to understand the irony—then again, maybe it would have been too deep for him to comprehend.

  Chapter 23

  It was shortly before our community college term would end that our high school graduation ceremonies would take place. At first I really did not want to attend, even though I would be awarded my diploma, but my mother insisted. So for her I agreed to take part in the ritual.

  Of course the event would give students and teachers another opportunity to come to grips with what had happened, and to honor Mark and Cindy’s memory. A special ceremony would take place just before the official graduation, everyone dressed in their ceremonial gowns, with the parents filling the bleachers. I thought to myself that it was like having a pep assembly but, thankfully, without cheerleaders and football players.

  Not only was there a special musical tribute with several teachers speaking about their fond memories of Mark and Cindy—the new principal followed with an announcement that that the social science and English resource rooms would be given the names of these lost teachers to honor them. He held up dedicatory plaques which would be posted in these rooms and the audience rose in thunderous applause.

  I later found out some teacher had criticized this couple of “right wing vigilantes” and that such recognition endorsed violence. But when parents heard about his objections, it caused such an uproar that he soon requested a transfer to another school. Mark and Cindy got their plaques.

  The ceremony had been nice, but Mark would have seen the superficiality of such a service as tiresome and meaningless. At least his ex-wife and kids were there to see him honored—I remember looking at her and wondering what she must be thinking, and how the honor was going to Mark—but without her none of this would ever had happened. I would never have the opportunity to speak to this woman, and I certainly would not be able to tell her that because of her 17 people were no longer alive, but it was fun to fantasize about it for a while. Her impact went far beyond the hurt she caused Mark, beyond anything her conventional, and probably mediocre, mind could possibly imagine.

  It is so odd how individual human actions can impact everyone in the grand scheme. Take for example in my first year at university my reading an article on egg donation and how much a woman can earn doing this. I found the idea intriguing beyond the mere financial benefits, and I contacted a clinic to inquire. They looked at my education, test scores, excellent health and even commented on my attractiveness. For six months I was a donor. I have wondered since then how many children there were out there with my DNA. I call
ed the clinic a few months after my donations ended. They were not allowed to give specifics but they did say at least four births thus far had been from my eggs. Maybe, if the number someday reached 17, once every embryo would be implanted, in some way I will have made up for all the deaths associated with my friends and I. And not only did I replace these people but aside from Mark, who was at least my equal, I had given the world better people on top of that. And some families existed that would not have if I had not for my gift. And it does seem somewhat awesome that I am the biological mother of babies—yet technically I still remain a virgin.

  What do I feel in regards to my actions in high school? Cindy was obviously an innocent victim and I will never forget her, nor will I forget Mark who, if his true actions ever had come to light would be judged as a monster. He remains the one I cannot help but use as my measurement criteria for any man seeking a relationship with me. Yes, I loved him and I can still hear him talk to me in my memories, but such is the state of my mind.

  As for Lamb some, maybe most, people would say that he was an innocent victim—but who is to say ultimately? To me, he represented everything wrong with the educational system in general. While he may never have committed any act deserving of his death, and subsequent vilification, it was a necessary act of self-preservation—and he was a first-class jerk who had hurt many people. This time it had been his misfortune to hurt the wrong people. And in a strange irony the man who seemed to seek acclaim through his athlete students instead became immortalized due to the actions of some of the intellectual students he found it so hard to relate to—and some strange maniac he never met, yet whose accomplishments he would get credit for.

  Can we put the past behind us by re-connecting to our memories? I wish I could spend more time alone in the mountains, but often such visits would bring back painful memories—so maybe that is why I scheduled myself so tight with extra classes that I had no time to be alone in my favorite element. In fact, even in the park there are times something, something small and meaningless, will stimulate my mind; and memories will flood into my consciousness—not just remembrance of events but memories so vivid I can smell and taste what I was experiencing years ago. These are often bittersweet—memories of Nicole and Mark as well as flashbacks to the summer after graduation. I had been accepted into the university but that also meant I would have to move to Seattle and not be in the same city as Nicole and Daniel any longer. However, I had no idea that my friends would have to move so far away—Daniel was accepted into the USAF and eventually was stationed in Georgia. Nicole applied to school there and was accepted. The feelings of abandonment once again enveloped my soul. One would think I would have accepted that this would always happen when I allowed myself to be vulnerable, and hoped a connection to another human being could last forever.

  At first we stayed in touch but what started out as communication every day slowed to a couple of times a week, then a few times a month and then just around the holidays. However, this last Christmas I did not receive a reply to my e-card to Nicole. I guess they were busy with their new life. Daniel had started going back to church and shortly afterward Nicole became active as well—I figured they were destined to follow a different life path than me and that I should just accept it.

  Imagine my surprise when I received an announcement that they were getting married. The news of their intentions did not surprise me that much—hearing from them did. However, I did sit back and wonder…why had I not been asked to participate in the wedding? It would have been nice to at least have been a bridesmaid. Again, maybe I was not really part of their world anymore, and I had to face that reality, but I did plan on going and seeing them take their vows.

  I was happy for them but I also envied them. In the last several years relationships had seemed to start out with my hopes being high, but then finding the man far from the ideal I was looking for. It wasn’t wealth I wanted but someone who had original thoughts, liked what I liked, and would be a great father both in respect to his personality as well as his health. The closest I came to this dream was an associate professor of theoretical psychology. We would eat lunch together many times, e-mail each other discussing every aspect of psychology, and even went on several dinner dates. I did not care that I was half his age—I did not care that he said he had two grown children either. The problem was that he did not plan on having any more—thus the end of that relationship!

  I worry that this will be the story of my life. The ultimate fear I have is winding up a bitter, man-hating cat lady, or having to have kids through artificial insemination and be a single mother, or wind up in an unhappy marriage where each of us tolerate the other to show we can endure to the end. However, my hopes are for a traditional marriage, with a house full of children. Of course, the man I marry cannot know anything about the biggest events of my life—it will be a lifetime of concealment. I guess I want someone who is not too psychic but yet an unconventional, intellectual guy who loves nature and children and of course me.

  Upon re-reading Nicole’s e-mail I noticed she wrote that some things never change—what did she mean by that? Was her conventional life merely for the benefit of her image? Was she still the confused young woman I used to know better than she knew herself? Were she and Daniel…no, I could not imagine that either. Well, then again I can imagine just about anything so perhaps…no, that couldn’t be—or could it?

  © Black Rose Writing