Pam

by Druga, Jacqueline

  Shock. The daggers of shocking pain went through me, and my body jolted.

  “Pam?” He called my name. “You remember me?”

  “You tried to poison my mind. Torture me. Make me remember. I didn’t work. Then you tried to implant things in my brain.”

  He slowly crouched down. “We spoke every single day for nearly eighteen years. I put nothing in your brain. What is there you remember on your own.”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “I treated you for over a decade. You remembered. That is why I fought so diligently to stop Freedom Project.”

  “But you were wrong.”

  He shook his head. “You did remember, Pam. Under medicated hypnosis. You remembered everything. “

  “That’s not true.”

  “I argued to keep you, but I wasn’t allowed to use the trigger word to show them. It was unethical. It upset you so to remember. And the lawyers stated it violated your eighth amendment right.”

  My hand began to cramp from squeezing the knife. I could feel the rise and fall of Sharon’s hard breathing, her fear. A part of me fed on that. “It was unethical. Because you set me up. They probably knew you put those things in my head. I was innocent. My sister knew. She contacted Freedom Project.”

  Slowly he shook his head. “You used your sister’s name after she died. You contacted them. You had the idea. In fact, I told you that you were wrong. Not to do it.”

  Flashback!

  “Pam, what is it?” Dr. Hathaway asked.

  I was staring at my fingers. “I read in that newspaper of DNA testing.”

  “It won’t help you.”

  “I was convicted because of skin under Mandy’s nails. If it’s not mine, they’ll let me out. They’ll know I didn’t kill them.”

  “And what if it is yours?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s not. It’s a little boy she hated. She told me herself she scratched him.”

  “You contacted them, they fought for you, and you got out. But, Pam, you need to go back. Please. Come with me …”

  “No!” I swatted his hand away. “I am not going back there! I didn’t do anything! Sharon did!” I reached down grabbing her shirt. “Tell him. Tell him you did it!”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t; it wasn’t me.”

  “Liar!” I reached to strike her.

  “Pam!” Dr. Hathaway barked my name. “Sharon may have been present. But you did it.”

  Why was he speaking to me like that? Hypnotic, passive, calm.

  “You’re wrong,” I told him. “She set me up. She made all of you believe her. She killed my family and she killed the others.”

  “The others. You mean …” He opened the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Marge Elms?”

  “I watched her go in the house.”

  “You did more than that. You went in. Pam …” He locked eyes with me. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “Odpoklic.”

  Upon that word, the rush of blood returned and it was as if a giant plunger hit my chest and sucked everything out of me. I swayed and rolled from Sharon and she quickly scooted back.

  I blinked hard as she huddled on the floor, close and behind Dr. Hathaway.

  Quickly, she drew out of focus.

  “Don’t fight it.” Dr. Hathaway said. “Odpoklic”

  Flashback!

  “I got this,” I giggled. “Watch.” Franticly, I knocked on Marge’s door.

  “Pammie? Is everything okay?” Marge asked when she opened the door.

  “I was worried about you,” I said, stepping in and closing the door. “I heard you were sick.”

  “I’ve been under the weather. That is so sweet of you to stop by.”

  “I didn’t mean to stop by so late.”

  “That’s fine. In fact. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s so nice to know you care.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Can you help me up the stairs? I’m still a little weak from the flu.”

  “Oh my God, absolutely.” I took hold of her arm.

  “I was just helping her to bed. Sharon must have come in,” I said. “You came in.” I looked at Sharon. “You did it.”

  “Think harder, Pam,” Dr. Hathaway encouraged.

  Flashback

  We had almost reached the stairs. I felt calm, oddly calm. “Can I make you tea, Marge, bring it up to you?”

  ‘That would be wonderful.” She tried to move. “Pam, something’s wrong. Why did you stop?”

  I stared at her.

  “Pam?”

  I let go of her arm and exchanged it for a simple shove.

  I watched her helplessly fall backwards, reaching out with a look of horror the entire time she fell.

  I screamed out a ‘No’ as that memory ended. “No. Sharon did it. What did you do to me? You put that in me.”

  “Did I put it in your mind about her?” Dr. Hathaway showed me the picture of Connie.

  Flashback

  Connie’s gut-wrenching scream was deeper than I would have expected to come from a teenaged girl.

  “Shut up!” A foot slammed into her face.

  I looked down at her, I moved with her as she was pulled by her hair.

  “No, please,” Connie cried. “No, please.”

  “Stop crying. Stop it.” A kick, another kick.

  I held firmly to the branch of a tree. It was a switch of sorts, only heavier. Better able to deliver a punishment. “You make me sick.”

  I swung the branch down hard against Connie’s face. She screamed with the strike.

  “I said …”

  A hit to her face.

  “Stop.”

  Another hit to her head.

  “Making …”

  Another hit.

  “Noise.”

  The final hit broke the branch, and Connie didn’t move. Her head was bloody, skin hung from the side of her face.

  I kicked into Connie rolling her onto her back. The second she did so, her eyes weakly opened.

  There were no words. None needed to be spoken.

  She looked pathetic. Weak. Not quite the beauty queen she made herself out to be.

  “Cheer for me, Connie.”

  She could barely cry, but she tried.

  I felt the broken branch in my hand. I saw the sheared, rigid edge of it and turned the sharp portion down toward Connie.

  I stood over her. “Give me a ‘D’. Give me an ‘E’, Give me an ‘A’ ‘D’,” I laughed. “Dead.”

  I lunged the sharp end of the point into her throat; it impaled and went straight through.

  She didn’t die. Not at first. She choked. Perhaps on the branch, maybe the blood. But after struggling to cough, a small amount of dark red fluid seeped from her lips and she went still. Lifeless.

  I didn’t panic. I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

  Leaving the branch protruding from her throat, I walked over to where they were building the new playground. It was perfect. The area had already been dug for the new fountain.

  No one was around, and I knew Sharon had my back. I left Connie there and walked to my car.

  In the trunk was the small hand held shovel I kept in case I got snowed in. My father’s brilliant idea. I thanked him in my mind and went to where they had prepared the ground for the fountain.

  It took me hours to dig that hole within the hole. I was certain that Connie’s body would be found. The grave was shallow.

  I didn’t care. I really didn’t care.

  “She was buried where they put the wishing fountain. They filled it with cement. They never found her,” I spoke, breathy. “But Sharon was there. She was there. We went to the game together.”

  “And would you say she was here for her?” Another picture, this time it was Marion Blake. The article about her, her death.

  “Yes,” I sobbed, my head bobbing. “We went to see her. We did. That was it. We just wanted to warn her about Richie. To stay away from Richie. That was all. We talked to her. We left. We argued but we left.”

  “That’s
not what happened,” Dr. Hathaway said. “You argued. And then you went in and argued some more.”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Pam. The auto body man identified you.”

  “No! He identified Sharon.”

  “Pam, you were there. You went into the apartment.”

  “Sharon went in.”

  “You went in. What did you do?”

  My head lifted.

  Flashback

  She slammed the door on me. Told me to go away. How dare her when she had an affair with my husband. How long did I stand there, stewing, boiling, and hating her with each passing second? It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few minutes. I knocked and knocked.

  She opened the door. “Leave or I call the police. I already told Richie you were here.”

  As she started to close the door, using all my strength and anger I stopped her and blasted in.

  “Get out!” she screamed and ran to the kitchen. My guess the phone. I hurried after her.

  She lifted the receiver. She was smaller than me. A petite little thing off balance by her growing pregnant state.

  Too busy trying to dial, I blasted into her, snatched the phone from her hand and wrapped the curled cord around her neck.

  I knew she was going to scream, I knew it. She struggled and fought with me, pulling at the phone cord. It wasn’t tight, not at all. Not yet.

  As luck would have it, a dishtowel was on the counter. I grabbed for it, reached around, and shoved it in her mouth.

  She tried to spit it out, I could tell. Holding the receiver, I wrapped it once more around her neck, and then the phone started doing that annoying beeping. The warning sound the phone was off the hook.

  I ripped the other end of the cord from the base of the phone, pulled it tighter, and she barely moved.

  I let her go and she fell to the kitchen floor.

  Her face was purple. She was strangling.

  Good.

  “Is it his baby?”

  She didn’t answer. She fought to breathe.

  “Damn it.” I knelt down, pulled on the cord to loosen it, and asked again. “Is this baby Richie’s?”

  She coughed and cried. “Don’t hurt my baby.”

  “Is it?”

  Another burst of tears and she nodded.

  “Fuck you. He is my husband!” I released the cord, allowing it to snap back against her neck. It was tight. And while she struggled, just to make sure she didn’t get away, I secured the other end of the phone wire to the handle of the fridge.

  She was like a lassoed calf, only worse. Her legs kicked and fought, her hands grabbed onto the cord in a vain attempt to get air, and I watched her.

  It was amazing how purple the face gets as it struggles for air. Her eyes bulged.

  Poor thing.

  She was suffering.

  I stood and looked around the kitchen. Opening drawers, I knew I’d find what I needed.

  It wasn’t a big knife, but it was sharp. I was actually kind of jealous, because I didn’t have a knife like that at my house.

  It would go home with me, I was certain.

  But first …

  Without hesitation, I knelt down next to her. “Want to be freed?” I asked.

  Her lips moved. I knew what she was mouthing. Her baby. Her baby. Whine. Whine. Whine.

  She made me sick. I freed her. A simple, fast slice against the cord did nothing to release the tension of the wire, but it did, however, slice her throat.

  Just to be certain she was dead, I plunged the knife into her chest. As I pulled it out I looked at her pregnant belly. Touched it, felt it, hoped to feel a kick. I always liked that feeling.

  Marion was dead.

  The baby didn’t stand a chance.

  I had a brief thought. The simple twisted idea of taking the baby. Perhaps say I found it. Maybe set it up that it was in a dumpster.

  But I had to get it first.

  I placed the point of the knife to her belly. I had no intention of killing the baby. But I guess I cut too deep. Not the first slice, that was fine, but when I tried to get past her intestines and through the uterus.

  It was an amazing sight, when I saw the uterus. It moved and throbbed like a heartbeat. I had to get the baby out of there, and when I sliced through, I knew I made a mistake.

  It angered me, absolutely angered me that the knife cut into the fetus. And that’s what it was. No bigger than a child’s shoe, the little thing flopped lifeless in my hand and bled.

  I growled out in anger, furious, absolutely furious, and without thinking, like a note tacked to a corkboard, I stuck the baby to the kitchen cabinet.

  Damn it. I wanted that knife.

  I felt bad about the baby, but I quickly put it out of my mind. I had to clean up fingerprints and see if she had another kitchen knife just like the one I used on her.

  She did.

  That was it. Every thought, every feeling, the cold, callous emotions that I felt back then were fresh in my mind. The knife dropped from my hands and, on my knees, I leaned forward and sobbed.

  “But Sharon was there. I know she was there.”

  “She was.”

  “But it was my hand that did it. My hand.” I lifted my head. “Why did you let me out?”

  “Because you buried it again. Blamed it on Sharon. I thought Sharon was gone. I thought you wouldn’t bring her up,” he explained. “We brought the memories out with the trigger word. It was never strong enough for you to hold on to the memories. The pain is great, you bury it, and like I said we weren’t allowed to use the trigger in court.”

  My eyes widened. “Wait. No.”

  “What?”

  “Sharon may have been with me. She was a part of this. But … I didn’t kill my family.”

  His head lowered. “Pam …”

  “No. No,” I argued. “Why would I do such a horrible thing?”

  “Why did you kill the others?” he asked. “Selfish. Jealous. Rage. All to keep Richie. All to hang on. You were cornered, you were desperate, it was over, and you snapped.”

  Again, I shook my head frantically. “I would never hurt my children. I loved them. I would never hurt a child of mine.”

  “Pam, you did, and you almost did it again.”

  What was he talking about? Did what again?

  He shifted slightly to his right, exposing Sharon behind him.

  At that instant, everything went blurry, it swirled as if I were on some sort of drug. A hallucinogen. Because a bloody, tired, and scared-looking Sharon suddenly became my son, Justin.

  I blinked and shucked my head like a cat. I looked again.

  Justin sat there. He looked at me. He had a rag to his shoulder and his eyes stared intently at me.

  “Justin.”

  Justin looked at Dr. Hathaway.

  “Tell him, Justin. I didn’t stab you.”

  “Mom,” his voice cracked. “You did.”

  When he said that suddenly, I realized it wasn’t Sharon in my house, going through my things, searching my drawers. It was my son. And when I thought I leapt on her back, thought I stabbed her, I had actually stabbed my own son.

  When that revelation hit me, a screamed gurgled in my stomach and rolled from my chest.

  Had Dr. Hathaway not walked into my home when he did, I would have killed him.

  Killed my child.

  Flashback

  Richie hung his jacket by the front door, kissed Doyle, and peeked in the living room saying, “Hey, Sara,” to my mom. Then he headed toward the steps.

  He looked beyond me. No hello to me. I should have seen that as my first sign.

  Mandy, in her enthusiasm, came barreling down the steps. “It’s my birthday, Daddy.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “Everyone is coming over for dinner,” she said perky. “Should I wear my new outfit?”

  Richie smiled. “Whatever you want. It’s your special day.”

  “What do you think, Mommy?” She looked at
me.

  “I think the dress will be great. You’ll be wearing pajamas at the slumber party.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait. I’m gonna go do my hair.” She flew up the stairs.

  “Daddy.” Doyle tugged on Richie’s pant legs. “Truck?”

  “Not right now. Later, buddy, okay?” Richie finally looked at me and walked up the stairs.

  Had I done something? My heart sunk; it was that look. That ‘I am done with you, I found someone else’ look. I have seen it a million times. But why this day, our daughter’s birthday?

  My mother was holding Lizzy in the living room. “Mom, I’m gonna go talk to Richie. Can you get the baby ready so I can give her a bath?”

  “Pam.” My mom stood. “Maybe just let this go.”

  “What? Let what go?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll get the baby ready.”

  What in the world was she talking about? Did she know something? Doyle played by the stairs with his trucks. He was such a sweet little thing, quiet and independent. Always good. After stepping over him, I walked up the stairs.

  The bedroom door was shut and I reached for the knob, but stopped when I heard Richie’s voice. He was on the phone.

  “Lou, I know.”

  Lou. My father? He was talking to my father.

  “Sara is here. It’s fine. Tomorrow, I promise. No, I don’t need you here, I’ll tell her.”

  I opened the door. “Tell me what?”

  “Got to go.” He hung up the phone. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Nothing.” I shut the bedroom door. “What’s going on, Richie?”

  “Pam.” He stood and looked at me. “Please, it’s been a bad day. A really, really bad day. I am trying to stay calm for Mandy’s birthday. Don’t ask. I won’t tell. Not now. I don’t want Mandy to associate her birthday with anything bad.”

  “So that’s it.”

  “What?” He removed his shirt and reached into the closet.

  “You’re leaving me again.”

  “Pam, let it go.”

  “No. I will not let it go.” I moved toward him. “Is there another one, Richie? Another whore out there you want more than me?”

  He laughed.

  “Oh, so this is funny.”

  “No, not at all.”