by Julia Derek
As I waited for the authorities and the ambulance to arrive, I turned to Shane, demanding to know how he had gotten hold of the gun. He told me the gun safe had been unlocked when he found it on a shelf in the walk-in closet.
“But why did you go to check in the first place?” I’d asked between sobs. “You know you’re not supposed to be touching Daddy’s gun!”
Shane looked at me with glassy eyes and sincerely stated, “He needed to be taught a lesson.”
3
When help arrived, paramedics and police entering our house, I had convinced myself that I had only imagined my son smiling and telling me he’d needed to teach his dad a lesson. Of course I had. Shane would never say something like that, never do something like that on purpose. He was a good boy. It had just been an accident. Peter had forgotten to lock the gun safe after going to practice at the gun range earlier in the day, and this was what had happened.
Yes, it was horrible, but nonetheless the only explanation. It had all been a terrible, terrible accident. It had to be. I wouldn’t accept anything else. My son was not a sick person.
It was exactly what I told the police when they asked me to explain what had happened: My son had found the gun and, not understanding it was a real one, used it to play with the way he did with his toy guns, pretending to shoot his father. He hadn’t understood what he was doing. The boy was not even seven years old yet. How could he?
Much to my relief, everyone bought this explanation, even the child psychologist I had Shane see later. If the psychologist had knowledge of Shane’s brain PET scan, he might’ve felt differently. I conveniently forgot about it, though. My son was so good at manipulating people even at that young age that he had everyone fooled, including his mother. Well, almost. Somewhere deep, deep inside I knew I was lying to myself, but I refused to let the truth into my conscious mind for several years. I didn’t want to have my son committed. Not when it was his parents’ own fault that he had turned into this monster. My fault in particular. I had to cure him, reverse the effects before they became permanent inside him. There was still time.
Peter had paid for not catching on to what his brother was doing to his son with his life. I had paid for it by witnessing my son execute his father and my husband. I had to at least try to cure Shane from the evil that was growing inside him. I refused to believe the doctors who’d told me the mental condition was irreversible once triggered. For God’s sake, Shane was only a child! He was nowhere near fully developed. How could it be irreversible so early on? I didn’t buy it. There had to be something I could do. So I started taking classes in psychology, in particular ones that involved the development of psychopathy.
I would find a way to fix my son, put him back on the right path. Kill whatever tendencies the sexual abuse had awakened inside him. If the mental health professionals didn’t want to do it, I had no choice but to give it a go myself.
Of course, I didn’t actually admit out loud that this was the reason I went back to school. Instead, I kept telling myself and others that I would become a social worker. Now that I was a widow, I wanted to have a real job even though the money Peter left us together with his life insurance was enough for me and Shane to live on if we lived frugally. Still, I would take my Master’s degree in psychology as it only took two years of studies. I could make it happen even quicker if I took extra classes during the summer.
I would focus on education and research in the field of psychopathy, not actually work with clients. I could always get a job in the field later in life if I needed to.
I used everything I learned to encourage my son to become a functioning adult; instill in him the difference between right and wrong. I would turn him into a good person. Not necessarily one with much empathy for others, as, apparently, he wasn’t capable of such feelings. That wasn’t my goal, though. As long as he did the right thing and never hurt anyone or anything else ever again, I was satisfied. Hurt anyone on purpose, that is.
According to what I had learned, that was as good as it got for people with brains like Shane’s who’d been through traumatic events.
I thought I was succeeding until that night in late August at my parents’ country house in upstate New York.
That look on my son’s face, the fired-up glint in his eyes as he’d viciously stabbed our poor cat, had been enough to convince me all my efforts had been in vain. None of it had worked. It was as though he’d been dealing with a crazed lion, not a sweet house cat.
I kept driving along the dark dirt road, switching on the car lights when I was much farther ahead. The moon was almost full and shining from a charcoal sky full of stars that kept igniting as night fell over the peaceful countryside.
I didn’t know where I was heading; I just kept gripping the steering wheel like I feared I would lose it if I let go. Going back to Beth was not an option. I was dying to share what had happened with her, one of my very best friends. It was not an option, however. I couldn’t trust her not to tell others what Shane had done. The only way to keep his condition a secret was if no one ever found out about it. I needed to think, decide what to do. How to best protect both Shane and the world around him from him.
Was it possible that I was overreacting? Or wait, that I had misunderstood what had been going on in the living room? Oh, if only that was so! No, I really didn’t think I had misunderstood anything. I had barely drunk half a glass of wine and it had been very easy for me to make out what was going on inside the house. I had been only yards away, for crying out loud. Still, the fact that Shane had been stabbing a cat, not a human, had to be taken into consideration, I told myself. While the act was terrible, it wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been, was it? I mean, it could have been a human being… That would have been so much worse. Really, it would. I also needed to take into account the fact that he hadn’t done anything that could be considered psychopathic since the day he had shot Peter, more than six years ago.
Believe me, I had been watching him closely ever since.
Yes, I suddenly decided. It was possible I was overreacting just a little. The situation wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed. Thank God I hadn’t gone back to Beth and poured my heart out to her.
I stepped on the gas pedal and drove faster along the winding country road. So far, I hadn’t bumped into a single car. That would change when I reached the main road that was quickly approaching. I could drive even faster on that road as it was covered with newly laid asphalt, smooth like a baby’s butt, and the lanes much wider and straighter. The car would no longer shiver and shake as I drove over stones and potholes of varying size and shape.
Five minutes later, when a single car had met me, I reached the main road and took a right onto it. I would allow myself to relax and let my intuition guide me in terms of how to tackle this situation. My intuition was strong and good, helping me choose the best approach to life. I was confident it would lead me on the right path this time, too.
4
I declined the offer to adopt a two-year-old girl from Russia. The offer came the day before Peter’s funeral, which had been on a Friday. There was no way I’d be able to raise another child after what had happened. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to raise Shane properly, I had been so beyond myself with grief. All I wanted to do was lie down on a bed and stare into the ceiling, pretend I was dead like Peter. Forget about all the horror that was my life. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t just check out. I had another person who depended on me. Peter and I had already failed our son once; no matter what he had done, I needed to stand by him, take care of him. What had happened wasn’t really his fault. I could never allow myself to forget that.
The thought of what would happen to Shane if I didn’t pull myself together was what kept me going those days. I needed to stay stronger than ever for my son, our son. I couldn’t resort to drowning myself in an alcoholic daze, nor stuffing myself full with painkillers and anxiety-minimizing meds. It was bad enough that I had to take the meds to be ab
le to fall, not to mention stay asleep.
My head needed to be clear for Shane’s sake. I had to help him back onto the right path. He hadn’t meant to kill his father. It had been a temporary lapse, likely a belated reaction to what Tony had put him through. He had been acting out all his pent-up frustration, which was completely understandable. If Peter and I had found him the right therapist sooner, it would probably never have happened at all, and I would see to it that it never happened again.
It seemed I was correct in my assumption. Shane’s behavior the morning after he’d shot his father helped to convince me all was good. Shane was no longer silent, staring into the distance with eyes that were disturbingly flat. Instead, when he asked for Peter and I told him he was dead, he had burst out in tears and been inconsolable for hours. He had cried so hard I regretted telling him the truth; a white lie would have been better. A white lie to protect him. At the time, I had figured that, if he could handle getting hold of his father’s gun and shooting him, he could also handle the truth. Apparently, it had been harder for him to deal with it than I had anticipated, which was a relief. It showed me that I had been right. It had all just been an awful accident. I didn’t have to worry about having lied to the police, I told myself and exhaled. Shane had had no idea what he’d been doing.
I even told the police that my husband had forgotten to lock the gun storage box, as well as removing the chair from the closet. That had to be the case, I convinced myself. How else would Shane have been able to get the gun from that shelf? The idea that the boy had brought the chair himself was simply preposterous. Right?
Peter and I had been on the lookout for the right child therapist ever since we learned what Tony had done to Shane. Our regular doctor had recommended that we went about life as usual not to upset Shane more than he already was. What was done could not be undone anyway, only treated.
We’d taken our son to two different psychologists so far, and the second was worse than the first. Dr. Whitehead, who’d seemed promising in the beginning, had fallen asleep during the second session. He had been sleeping so soundly that it had taken Peter several hard knocks on his office door to bring him back to reality. The second psychologist, a social worker named Rachel Gordon who specialized in traumatized children, had been far too aggressive, to the point that she had left Shane in tears that lasted long after every session was over. After the third session, neither Peter nor I had felt that we should stick with Ms. Gordon. In fact, after his short acquaintance with the second therapist, we’d mistakenly decided that Shane needed a break from therapy in general.
Unfortunately, beating myself up about this stupid decision led to nothing, so I had just sucked it up and found a third therapist once I was strong enough to hold myself together enough to face the world.
I was keeping my fingers crossed that Dr. Handelburg, a psychiatrist who’d worked with sexually abused children, would work out better for Shane.
It looked like I was in luck because the sixty-year-old German-born doctor and Shane had instantly clicked.
“I do believe your son wasn’t aware of what he was doing when he shot his father,” the white-haired man informed me after the initial two-hour session was over. “He was just playing. He had no idea he was dealing with a real gun that could kill people.” I had decided that we would do a long initial session instead of having him go for short ones once a week, something the pediatrician had thought was better as well. Given the fact that the authorities wanted a mental health professional to talk to Shane as soon as possible, I’d really had no choice but to switch approaches. As long as I could find a reputable psychiatrist, a mental health professional the police’s own people approved of, to vouch for my son’s mental state, we were good.
Relief mixed with happiness streamed through my veins as I heard Dr. Handelburg’s verdict. “Really?” I asked, feeling my eyes filling up with warm tears of gratitude. I blinked them away as I needed to remain composed. But it was too late, the kind doctor had already noticed my state of mind. He placed a veiny hand on my arm and gave a small, toothless smile.
“And when are you going to see a therapist, Ms. Hanson?” he asked soothingly. “You need to see someone as much as your son does in order to deal with the grief. This has been as trying for you as it’s been for your son. More so, I dare venture.”
I allowed a few of the tears to meander down my cheeks and returned his smile. He was so right; I, too, needed to talk to someone. I was dangerously near a nervous breakdown. If I wanted to stay strong for my son, I needed to take care of myself in every sense of that word.
“Yes, you’re right, Dr. Handelburg,” I said. “Do you recommend someone for me?”
He nodded and went behind his desk where he pulled out a drawer. When his hand returned, there was a business card in it that he gave me.
“I think Dr. Wilkins will be a good fit for you. Call him.”
“I will,” I said. “Thank you.”
5
It was almost eleven at night and pitch-black outside when I decided to return to the country house and Shane. I had spent over two hours driving mindlessly on the roads in the area, replaying what had happened in our living room. Praying that I had somehow been mistaken after all, seeing someone else other than my son repeatedly stabbing Macy. An intruder, another child. Anyone would do, even the neighbor’s teenage son, who was small for his age. He and Shane were roughly the same size and had the same coloring, wore the same type of clothes.
But I knew that was all wishful thinking. There was nothing wrong with my eyesight and I had not been under the influence. It had been Shane and no one else that I’d seen. Oh God.
When I’d finally accepted this, I briefly pondered getting a weapon so I could defend myself when I returned home. That would be the smart thing to do, right? After what I had witnessed, I couldn’t count on Shane not attacking me next with that big knife. What if he had completely snapped? Unfortunately, I thought this was very possible.
It was best if I was armed with at least a knife, I decided. The problem was that no stores were open at this late hour where I could buy one. Not up here in the woods. The closest one, a Walmart, was too far away. Well, I thought. I could drive back to Beth’s house and get one from her. While waiting for a traffic light to turn green a couple of hours ago, I had texted Beth to tell her that Shane was sick and that I really had to stay with him. I’d make it up to her tomorrow. She’d texted back and offered to come over and help out, but I had assured her it was best she stayed home. She hadn’t insisted, thank God.
No, before I confessed the truth to her, I needed to make sure it was really necessary to bring a knife. I didn’t want to include her in this otherwise. To establish that, I had to speak to Shane first, feel him out.
I pulled over to the road’s shoulder and stopped, then found my phone again. Taking a few deep breaths to steel myself, I called Shane’s cell phone.
He picked up after two rings the way he usually did.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?” His voice was nowhere near as cheery as usual, though. He sounded scared and as though he was on guard. I could hear him breathe shallowly, albeit faintly. I was momentarily thrown. What was going on?
Quietly, I cleared my throat and forced myself to smile. “Hi, honey. I’ll be coming home soon. I just wanted to see if you were up still. What are you doing? Everything okay?”
“I’m playing video games.”
“Oh. I—”
“Mom.”
“Yes, honey?”
“Macy attacked me. Like attacked me really bad. Something’s wrong with Macy…”
“What? Macy attacked you? Attacked you how? Are you okay?” I struggled to sound concerned. All I could picture was Shane stabbing the poor cat over and over.
“I don’t know! All of a sudden, she went all crazy and started to bite and scratch me like she had turned into a wild tiger. I had to take her out. I’m sorry, I know you love her so much, but it was the only way to get her t
o stop hurting me. I think she had rabies or something. She must have. It’s the only explanation.”
Closing my eyes for a moment, I pictured Shane stabbing Macy in my mind yet again. Was it possible that he was telling the truth? Had he only been defending himself all along? Defending himself and gotten carried away, he’d been so terrified by Macy’s out of character behavior? I honestly couldn’t be sure. I had been too disturbed by what I had witnessed to have bothered looking for scratches or bite marks anywhere on my son. All I could remember now was that he’d worn something light and short-sleeved—probably the same T-shirt he’d worn when I’d left the house—and baggy jeans that hung low on his bony hips. I decided that it was possible, maybe even likely. I’d know if Shane was telling the truth when I saw him, if he was full of marks. There had to be several all over him that I had missed in that case. A sense of gratitude filled me. Yes, I would know the truth when I saw Shane next. Already I felt certain it was like he’d claimed. He would hardly lie to me about something he couldn’t fake, right? He knew very well that I’d take a close look at his skin as soon as I saw him. So he had to be telling me the truth then. I opened my eyes and exhaled with relief.
“Mom? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, honey. I’m still in shock to hear that Macy attacked you,” I said quickly. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I managed to take her out before she could do any serious damage. It was horrible. It was like she refused to die, so I had to really come at her.”
“Take… her out? What do you mean?”
“I had to kill her. With a knife that I got from the kitchen. I had no choice. I had to defend myself. I honestly thought she was going to kill me, Mom!” He sounded suddenly several years younger, his voice small and pleading. I felt better, even more convinced that this was what had really happened. Shane hadn’t instigated anything, only defended himself. Macy had done something completely out of character due to rabies, viciously attacked him. I nodded to myself; it made sense. She’d always been a lively cat that liked to explore and play with other animals. She loved to be outside whenever we went upstate and, lately, she’d been out a lot. In fact, I hadn’t seen much of her in the last few days. Some rabies-infested bat or raccoon could easily have bitten her. I distinctly remembered having read somewhere recently that the rabies-virus had returned to this part of the United States after over a hundred years of it being considered rabies-free. Several bats up in the Catskills where we were had been infected, which meant that other animals could’ve been infected as well. Yes, this was what had happened—Macy had developed rabies and turned into a monster. Why hadn’t I thought of that until now?
