“So who is the whore this time?”
“Drop it,” he said.
“Are you leaving me for her?”
“Enough.”
‘Sharon said …”
“Stop it.”
I continued. “She said you’d do this again. Sharon …”
“Stop!” He screamed his loudest, grabbing onto his head.
“Was that necessary?”
“Yes, because you wouldn’t stop.” He calmed down some. “You never stop. You wanna know why I stray on you, Pammy? Huh? Maybe because I need someone that isn’t crazy.”
“You son of a bitch. You did it again. Sharon said ….”
“Will you stop with Sharon? I am sick and tired of hearing her name. I am sick and tired of her showing up. I tried, Pam, I did. I tried to be the one who understood her. How she controlled you and you let it. But this …” He shook his head.
“What is going on?”
He bit his lip. “You really wanna know. Answer me this. Was Sharon with you when you went to Hartford?”
“Yes.”
“Was it her idea to go see Marion Blake?”
I couldn’t hide my expression, I felt it drag. I tried to cover. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Quit lying. The lies are done. Did you know she and I were having an affair?”
I didn’t answer.
“Did you know she was pregnant with my kid?”
I only pouted my lips.
“Did you know she called me when you were pounding on her door like a crazy woman? I told her …” Richie paused, oddly overrun with emotion. “I told her to tell you to leave and call the police if you came back. That was the last I heard from her. I figured she was done with me.”
“Richie. I am your wife.”
“And I …” He held up his hand. “Am not finished. Let me tell you about my day, Pam. I was having a good one. A really good one until I got a call from the police saying they found Marion’s body and they traced the phone calls; I was the last person she called.”
“What are you saying?” I asked. My insides trembled. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Bullshit. You killed her. No, wait. You didn’t just kill her, you tortured her, and you mutilated the baby.”
“No, Richie. I did not. If something happened to her it was Sharon.”
“I am sick of you blaming everything on Sharon. Our life is a lie. The whole marriage was based on a lie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Answer me this. Is Mandy my daughter?”
Thump. My heart fell to my stomach.
“I found that out today when I was talking to someone about you. About this little dilemma.” He headed toward the bedroom door.
“Richie. No. Listen.”
“No, you listen. It’s over, Pam. It’s done. Over. There is something wrong with you. I ignored it, I hoped I was wrong. But I’m not. For the sake of my kids, I have to get them away from you.”
“You aren’t taking my kids!” I shouted.
“You won’t have a choice. Because tomorrow morning, you’re gonna tell Mandy when her friends leave that we’re going to the store, and you and I are going to the cops.”
He opened the door and I lunged for him. “No. I swear to you. I haven’t lied. I didn’t kill …”
His voice growled in a low whisper when he placed his face close to mine. “For Mandy. Drop this now. It’s her birthday. I’m going to get beer.”
After he left, I stayed in the bedroom, trying to calm down. I wasn’t crying. I was angry. Beyond angry. How could he accuse me of such things?
He wasn’t taking my children. He would never get my children. How could he just take me to the police for something I didn’t do?
I left the bedroom and Mandy was perched in front of her vanity mirror. I walked downstairs and to the kitchen.
My mother was holding Lizzy; the water was running in the sink for her bath.
“Give me the baby,” I said.
“Pam.” She gave this stupid look to me. Like she pitied me. “Pam, I’ll do it.”
“I can bathe my own baby.” I tested the water and placed Lizzy in.
“Pam. We’ll get through this. We will. I’m sure you just need help. This is not something you can blame on Sharon.”
“Why not.”
Her eyes closed. “Please.”
“So you know about this?” My hands worked the water. “Daddy knows?”
Her eyes opened and widened. “Pam, stop.” She reached for Lizzy.
“How.” I groaned with anger. “How can he accuse me?” My voice grew raspier with my emotions.
“Pam!”
I swung out, pushing her hands away; I could bathe my own child. Damn her. Damn him. Fuck them all to hell. “No one is taking my kids from me. No one!”
“Pam!” She shrieked loud and shrill, reaching into the sink. “You’re drowning the baby!”
I wouldn’t let her take her. I looked down, and Lizzy was submerged.
I released my grip and my mother grabbed the baby.
“Oh, God. Oh, God.” She shook her gently. “I have to call for help.”
I stared out the window above the sink. I could hear her faintly crying to the baby. “Shut up,” I murmured. “Just …” I reached to the dish strainer, grabbed a knife, lifted it up, and as I shouted, “Shut up!” I sliced the knife through the air, hitting into my mother’s throat. Blood poured out, but she didn’t fall, she backed up.
“Pam! Stop!”
“Why? So you can take my kids!” I plunged down at her with the knife. Once, twice, I don’t know how many times. She held her arms over the baby, but I think I hit her, I’m not real sure. Not that it mattered; the baby was dead.
Stabbing my mother wasn’t like pounding meat. It wasn’t easy; the knife didn’t go through like butter. I hit bone; I felt the pain of that ricochet up my wrist. How she took so many strikes; I don’t know how many. But she wouldn’t go down. She was saturated in blood, still holding the baby.
When her knees finally buckled, I heard a scream.
Doyle screamed.
He saw me, turned, and ran.
“Oh no you don’t.”
All I felt was desperation mixed with anger and a sense of being so far out of control, I just wanted my life done.
Done.
It was over. Everything was over. Richie wasn’t going to enjoy the kids, my kids, when I was locked away.
I caught Doyle as he ran for the stairs.
He was an easy catch.
My hand went to his head; I pushed him down and took his life on those stairs.
He didn’t move, he didn’t fight.
As I stood, I saw Mandy at the stop of the steps. Her hair was done for the party; she was wearing her new dress and was even wearing my lipstick.
She watched it all, and then she flew back into her room.
How dare she? How ungrateful. I did everything for her. All of this was her fault.
Her door didn’t have a lock, but she tried to hold it closed.
She cried from the other side, “Mommy, don’t. Mommy, please.”
But I was victorious and shoved open the door. She ran about her room, trying to get away, and when she climbed for the window, I caught her.
I got her.
She cried and begged for me to stop. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I failed to think. To reason. To care. I was focused on only ending it all.
“Mommy, please,” she cried. “Mommy, no. Mommy, stop. Mommy!”
Over.
The events of that final tragic day had finally come forward in my mind. They were so horrendous, so inhumane, that I refused to believe that I had committed them. I placed them so far in the back of my mind that I buried them with the grief over my family. What I did, how I felt that day, pummeled me, all of it. I begged in my mind that the trigger would not let me bury the memories again. I didn’t deserve the freedom of not remembering. I deserv
ed the pain and the guilt over what I had done.
I wanted to die, but I didn’t deserve to die. I deserved to spend the rest of my life remembering what I did.
The police and paramedics finally arrived. I wanted to speak to Justin, tell him I was sorry. He looked so forgiving, yet lost. I just stared at him.
Dr. Hathaway helped me to my feet. “It’s time, Pam.”
I nodded. “What about Sharon?”
He looked at me oddly. “You don’t get it?”
“No. I mean she was there. Right?”
“Yes. But ...” He opened a folder and pulled out one more sheet of paper. “Dr. Andrews took this picture.”
I felt disgust when I looked upon her face.
“Who is this?” Dr. Hathaway asked.
“It’s Sharon.” I answered.
“No, Pam. It’s you. Look again. It’s always been you.”
My head filled with a bloody rush; I swore I was going to pass out.
The air felt shallow.
“There is no physical Sharon,” he explained.
Oh, God. I saw it. Me on the floor as a child with that broken doll house.
“Who did this?” my mother asked.
“Sharon.”
“You created her, Pam, when you were very young. She was what you weren’t. She was everything you wanted to be.”
‘Lou, she’s been dressing like her. Acting like her. She doesn’t know. I swear.” My mother said to my father.
“Then we’ll take her to doctors. We’ll make it right.”
“Sharon became such a part of your life,” Dr. Hathaway explained. “When the best doctors couldn’t get her to go away, everyone accepted her.”
I didn’t believe it. It couldn’t be. “She’s real,” I said. “Sharon is real.”
“Yes, she is. Because you made her real. Her father, your father. The same man. You, Pam, are Sharon.”
I ached out a moan that day. That fateful day, as they escorted me out of my home, I saw my father in his police uniform, holding my mother’s body, holding my infant daughter. He wept. I broke him. He was never the same after that.
As hard as it was for me to believe, I faced the reality that I alone was responsible for destroying too many lives.
It was easier to pass it off on Sharon than it was to accept it. I wasn’t quite sure I did one hundred percent accept it, but I didn’t have a choice.
Too much proof was presented to me. Proof in the form of memories.
All I ever wanted was to know who killed my children.
I got my answer.
It was me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven – Desmond Andrews
I was fortunate that my injuries were not severe, no organ damage, and my recovery time was less than two weeks.
My physical recovery.
Mentally, I believed I was off and needed a break. I agreed to a short leave of absence, intense treatment and drug therapy with James; in exchange, he would not turn me over to the Board.
I don’t know if that was a good idea. My obsession and own illness progressed a situation to the point of explosion.
I was lucky; so was Justin. Both of us could have been killed.
Like Pam, I justified Sharon because I saw her as a separate entity. A different person, even though I knew she wasn’t.
She was the flamboyant, sexy, daring woman that Pam wasn’t.
I justified it, just like Richie’s father did.
Pam’s medical records indicated that she had created Sharon when she was three. It went from the typical imaginary friend to more. By the time Pam was ten, she was acting out as Sharon. At thirteen, she was having blackouts. She had been through treatment, was institutionalized, but nothing kept Sharon away. Pam always brought her back.
It got to the point that the family just went with it, not wanting to shock Pam or cause her more harm.
They treated Sharon like a different person.
Neither personality knew what the other was doing when they were apart. It was a remarkable case.
When Pam was being Sharon and doing her own thing, such as being with me, Pam’s mind created a mental alibi.
I never got to witness them together. Never got to visually witness her personality split. But they did, I heard, argue with each other, carried on conversations, and even changed voices.
For as much as Pam’s alter personality of Sharon was a staunch contrast to her own, their lives were remarkably similar.
Both of them had a sister. Pam’s father was the actual Chief of Police, but she bestowed that honor unto Sharon, imagining her own father as a patrolman.
Both were pregnant with a son.
Both had their sons taken away.
Ironically, both of the boys had the same father. And it wasn’t Richie.
An affair was had with Richie’s father, but it was Pam who slept with him. Rich Senior told Richie of the affair and that Mandy was his child, not Richie’s.
The information Richie gave to Pam sent her over that final edge.
It was all a twisted situation that many took advantage of. Pam’s father-in-law. Her husband sought out Sharon for the daring sexual side, and I even I aided in that abuse.
I was curious and worried about Pam. I asked about her often. She consumed my life before she was a patient and even more so afterwards.
Following four months of therapy and a break from patients, James Hathaway felt I was in a good enough place—mentally—to visit Pam at the State Hospital.
I was anxious and a little excited about it.
He room was far from the others, an isolation room. Again, she was kept from the general population.
“You just missed Justin,” James said. “This is his visiting day. He comes faithfully, once a week.”
“How is he doing with all this?”
“Fine. Great. A little denial. He believes his mother will be healed. But he hasn’t given up on her, and that is good for Pam.”
I peered through the observation window at her. “She looks well.”
Pam sat in a chair by the barred window. Her feet were on the window sill as she stared out.
“She does.” James replied.
“Does she talk much?” I asked.
“Quite a lot. Not like she was when she was here the first time.”
“Outbursts?” I asked.
“Nothing violent … yet.” James answered. “She … the trigger didn’t stay.”
I inwardly cringed. “No. I’m sorry.”
“We thought it would. It stayed for a while, and then she buried it. She buried it good.”
I sighed out.
“We even tried the word again, but it didn’t work.”
“You’ll get it again.”
“I’m confident.”
“What about the other personality?” I questioned. “Any sign?”
“Buried as well. We haven’t seen or heard of a second personality in a while.”
“That’s good,” I said brightly.
“Well ... that remains to be seen.” He reached for the door, unlocked it, and opened it. “Go say hello. See for yourself.”
James was sending me in that room as a form of therapy. I knew it. He didn’t say. I had to face my demons. My crimes. I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked toward her.
How would Pam react? Would she even remember that she was angry with me the last time we spoke?
A part of me hoped she did, because I wanted to apologize.
“Hi,” I called out softly. “Can we talk?”
She turned around from the chair, and then a huge smile brightened her face. “Desmond, please, join me for the view.” She held out her hand and faced the window again.
I didn’t take her hand, but I stood next to the chair. “How are you?”
“I’m good. They have me here and say I committed these horrible crimes. I didn’t. One day I’ll find out who did.”
“You will,” I told her. “Do you remember what happened the last tim
e we spoke?”
Her head hung. “I do. And I’m sorry for the way I acted. Forgive me?”
“I do. Do you forgive me?” I asked.
She crossed her leg over the one that rested on the window sill, exposing her thigh and calf. “Absolutely.”
“Well, I can’t stay. I just wanted to stop in, say hello, and see how you are.”
“It was good seeing you,” she said. “Will you be by again?”
“I think I might have to make this a regular stop when I’m here at the hospital.”
“I’d like that.”
“Me too.” I nodded, backed up, touched her shoulder, and turned. I left the room, meeting James in the hallway.
“Well?” James asked.
“How long has Sharon been back?”
“For about three months. We haven’t seen Pam since. How was it for you?” James questioned. “Anything? Waves?”
I shook my head. “Nope. All good. Nothing.”
He sighed out and rest a hand on my back. “Glad to hear.”
It wasn’t all true. I did feel a slight wave when I saw her leg. But it could have been a passing thing because I wasn’t feeling it anymore as I walked away. I would need to visit her again to find out, to test again.
I would.
I peered over my shoulder to Pam’s room. Or rather Sharon’s room. Pam was gone. Probably the reality of everything was too much for her to handle. How long she would be buried was unknown. Time would tell.
The quest for closure was granted to Pam. She found her truth; that’s all she wanted. In a sense, in her own way she was dealing with that truth. Locked away somewhere, facing her own demons, handling it in her own way.
But it wasn’t over for Pam or any of us. It would never be over. Not as long as Sharon was still around and kept her vigilant watch over Pam.
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