All Is Not Forgotten (35 page)

I already knew the answer. I had been through Jason's account to clean it of photos with the blue sweatshirt. I do not use Instagram. But one of my son's “followers” kept appearing and appearing, “liking” his posts, trying to start conversations, and prodding my son to “like” things back. It's hard to explain why it jumped out at me. This follower's picture and posts never revealed the face of Glenn Shelby. But I just knew. The desperation oozed like a toxic chemical from the screen, page after page after page.

Shelby had taken to stalking my son.

Shelby had gone to that party to stalk my son.

Now you understand the debilitating fear that was provoked when I found out my son had been in those woods.

I did not tell Parsons.

“That is something, Detective. Really something. I have a request. You said there were writings? About the rape?”

Oh yeah. This guy kept detailed notes. They match everything we found and more. It's sick stuff, I'll tell you.

“I know this will sound strange. But I think I could use them to help Jenny with her memory. Do you think I could see them, or copy them?”

Jesus Christ. That is strange. Is that what she wants? To know everything he was thinking and feeling while he did those things to her?

“I will speak to her and her parents. But I don't want to get their hopes up if we can't get the writings.”

I can get you the writings.

“Thank you.”

Oh—and I almost forgot. That old-timer from Oregon? Remember?

I remembered.

Says he found the file. The report was from a school. A teacher saw the blood coming from the kid's shirt. Made him go to the nurse, and she reported the cut. Said it didn't look like an accident. It was too clean, like someone had cut him on purpose.

“Well, Detective. I guess that's not relevant anymore, is it? Glenn Shelby would have been a child himself back then.”

Yeah. I told him we didn't need the file anymore. Thank God. This whole thing is finally over. Think I'll take my vacation time.

“You deserve it.” I did not mean this.

So do you, Alan. You have been a godsend for the Kramers. I know they are very grateful to you.

“Well, I was more than happy to help. I just hope I can finish the job.”

 

Chapter Thirty-five

Empathy is defined
this way: “the ability to share and understand the feelings of another.”

Women talking for hours at a lunch. Men walking the golf course together every Sunday morning. Teenage girls glued to their phones. This is when we tell our stories, sometimes in meticulous detail, watch the expressions in others as they take in the words. We extract from them their sympathy, their joy, their understanding. We do this so we are not alone as we walk slowly toward our death. Empathy is at the very core of our humanity. Life is pain without it.

These are the last few strands of sugar.

Detective Parsons gave me Glenn Shelby's writings. The Kramers discussed my plan and agreed that it was worthwhile. So one evening in early summer, just over a year after the rape, Jenny Kramer came to my office to finally learn, one way or another, exactly what had happened in those woods behind Juniper Road.

She wore the clothes from that night—the duplicates we had been working with at the office. She wore the same perfume and makeup. Her hair was down except for one small braid on the right side.

Jenny had taken the events of the past two weeks extremely well. She said it was comforting to her that the man responsible was not Bob Sullivan, but instead a man with a serious mental illness. I facilitated this with a very generous description of Glenn's condition. I know if she had met him and seen how normal he presented to the world, she would have felt differently. Given his conditions, she said it felt more like an accident, like she had gotten in the way of a wild animal in the jungle, or a shark. Or that powerful wave in the ocean. It was not about whether she forgave Glenn Shelby for raping her. It was about her ability to understand, and to place what happened into a context that made life possible to live. Some things are not like that. Some things are so incomprehensible that they rip out our floor, our foundation, and we hobble through life with fear of falling through with each step taken. That was how it would have been with Bob Sullivan—the man who smiled at her when she went to her father's work, who could have any woman he wanted. To think that he could have done those things to her would have left her devoid of reason, and incapable of trusting anyone ever again.

“Where do you want to start?” I asked her.

She was nervous and, I think, a little embarrassed.

I don't know. Should I be on the ground? Or should I just sit here and close my eyes?

“Why don't you sit and close your eyes. Let's see if that's enough.”

I let her smell the bleach disk. I played the music. I had a Baggie with some debris from the woods, and I opened that as well. Jenny took a long breath and exhaled slowly. Then she closed her eyes. I pulled out the writings that Detective Parsons had given me. I began to read the words of Glenn Shelby.

I parked several blocks away and walked to Juniper Road. From the woods, I could see everything. The house was lit up in every room. Kids were drinking and laughing. Some of them went to be alone in bedrooms. They met the drug dealer by the back door. I saw the boy inside. I knew it was only a matter of time. I could see his car parked in the driveway. It was near the edge of the woods. I knew I would take him from there.

I looked from the pages to Jenny. She was concentrating. There was no emotion yet.

The boy left, but he did not go to his car. He kept walking down the driveway and out to Juniper Road. I lost sight of him, and this made me angry. The girl came then. I heard the ground crackle as she ran. I heard her tears. I was easily distracted by her. She was so sad.

I could hear Jenny's breathing quicken. I wanted to know what was happening, but I didn't want to interrupt it, whatever it was. I knew these words were leading her back. I could sense it.

I walked up to her. She was startled. I realized then that I was wearing the mask. People usually smile when I walk toward them. People like me. I reached to take it off, but then I remembered I couldn't. “Don't be scared. I didn't come here to hurt you. I was waiting for someone else.” She started to walk backwards, her eyes were wide like she was looking at some monster. “I told you not to be scared! Why are you looking at me like that, girl? Can't you see I'm trying to be nice to you? Girl! Don't you walk away from me! I'm not a monster. Girl! Girl!”

I heard a mumble then, a very quiet mumble. I looked at Jenny. Tears rolled down her face. Her mouth was dry as she whispered the word.
Girl. Girl.

Through the woods I could see the boy again. He went back inside the party. My chance was gone. I couldn't stay here with this girl knowing. And I was not going to leave without doing what I'd come here to do. She would have told someone, and then there would be no more parties, no more chances. It was not easy to do, but I have had the benefit of seeing a brilliant doctor, and I know how to stop myself from obsessing. I know how to be flexible. And this girl was making me angry. I was trying to be nice to her. I was trying to help her. She was being cruel to me. I know what that feels like. She had no right to make me like her and then push me away. Someone else did that to me, and I would not stand for it again. I slapped her hard across the face and watched her fall to the ground. I climbed on top of her and started to do what I had planned to do to that boy. I did not need to use any drugs. She was so weak and I was so strong. I did not have to put her down to finish my work. I ran my hand under her shirt. Her skin was so soft. I had not felt skin for a long time.

Girl … girl … Stop yelling.… Girl … I like your skin. I really like your skin.

Jenny was saying the words now—the words that were on the page, words I had not yet read. My heart was exploding! She was back there, that night. She had found her way back!

I took off her clothes. I put on the condom. It was so easy. She was so small, I could hold her with one hand. I made love to her then. She was crying, but I was being very gentle. But then I remembered it was not the plan to be gentle. I came here to follow a story. And that story would not be right if I was gentle.
“
I'm sorry, girl.”
I stopped making love to her and started fucking her, hard. I tried to picture the boy, and that made it easier. I took the stick from my bag. I did not forget one word of the story. I started to scratch her. I remembered where to do it.

I stopped reading. I knew what was on those pages.

It was my story. I closed my eyes and remembered. There is so much pain as he rips into me.

It is the story I had told to Glenn Shelby, the boundary I had crossed. The bright Oregon sun is on my face. I can see my house so close. He laughs when he hears my cries.

It is the story he had remembered and savored and then inflicted on this beautiful young woman. He laughs at me and calls me a bitch.

I wiped tears from my face. I opened my eyes and read on from Glenn's writings.

I took some of the skin from the stick and rubbed it in my fingers. It was slippery, and it began to break into little balls of flesh and then fall to the ground. I scraped some more.

Jenny opened her mouth, and the memories came out on the wings of her words.

I think he's tickling me at first. He's holding me down so hard with his forearm on my neck. And I think maybe he'll stop and just do that for a while, the tickling. Maybe it's over. But then the tickle starts to burn and then burn more and I realize he's carving out my skin.

Yes, Jenny. Yes! And the blood starts to trickle down my back. I can feel it, warm and sticky. He tells me he's making his mark. He tells me he's going to eat my body, this small piece of my body like a cannibal.

Jenny continued as if she could hear my thoughts, as if we were one. And in that moment, we were one, sharing the same story. My remorse was profound. But I did not let it in.

Jenny continued telling our story.

I feel the nerve, he's reached a nerve and I cry out again. He stops and then …

I picked up our story then, reading on.

“I'm sorry, girl.” I have to follow the story. I stopped carving her and I fucked her more. She yelled again. I wasn't enjoying this. This was not an easy story to follow. It was not the boy, and I didn't like how long I had to do this. I started to wonder if the story had been remembered wrong. An hour is a long time. My arms were getting tired. And there was so much yelling! “Girl! Stop yelling!” I had to stop many times so she would calm down and be quiet.

Jenny joins in. We are like an orchestra, two instruments playing the same song.

Girl … stop yelling. Girl … Oh God!

I think quietly to myself. I know, Jenny. The pain is unbearable as he thrusts into me. I am only twelve years old. My body is small. He is seventeen. He is a man. He brought me here to look for snakes. He told me I would catch a snake.
See,
he says.
You caught a snake.
I cried then. I just cried. It wasn't an hour. Glenn had asked me how long it went on, and I told him it felt like an hour. I did not say it was, actually, an hour before we saw my mother's car pulling into the driveway. He pulled himself out of me and left me there to bleed.

I read another passage.

I took a long break, checked my watch. I let her catch her breath.

Jenny spoke more words, more memories. They came out quietly, almost in a whisper.

It's almost over. Only seventeen minutes and eight seconds left.

Jenny opened her eyes and met mine, just inches away. We were both crying, our memories now fully before us.

I remember it.
Jenny said,
I remember him.

“I know. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it!”

And I could. I could see everything. I could see myself. I was no longer alone.

 

Chapter Thirty-six

My parents did not
want to report the rape. They did not take me to a doctor until the school nurse made them, and then it was just to stitch up the carving. They were afraid the state would remove their foster children, including the one who had taken me into the woods behind our house. My mother said this was something that we could work through. That this boy had a very sad story and needed our help. His behavior—that's what she called it—was a result of his difficult life, and we should not judge him too harshly. The school nurse saw blood from my shirt, and I told her it was from a fall. There was a report, but that was it. The pain of this secret, of having shared it with no one, was brutal.

I remember the day I shared my story with Glenn Shelby. We were having a session at the prison in Somers. He was telling me about a boy he had stalked. How he'd stood outside his house, watching him from the woods. How he had thought about touching him. I started to tell him that these urges were bad. That they could hurt people. He asked me how this could be when it felt so good to imagine it. He recounted examples from the inmates. He recounted things that they did to each other and to him. He had been with hundreds of people, men, women, teenage boys. They were mostly prostitutes. Some were just heavily intoxicated. A few had been drawn in by his charm and so desperate for love that they failed to see the psychosis in his attachment to them.

I had been trying to explain to him that boys should be off-limits, even the ones working as prostitutes. I did not want him to develop a taste for youth, so I started to tell him the story. About the boy lured into the woods. About the fear and the pain. He asked me for details. He asked me why it hurt this boy. I shared my story in great detail. I had not told anyone this story. Not one person. Not in my entire life. Before me was a wide-eyed consumer of my tale of horror. I could not resist the urge to finally say the words out loud. He was so very skilled at luring secrets from their vaults. And I had been so pathetically weak. I told him about the physical pain. I told him how it stole this boy's will. And I told him about the carving. I told him that I was that boy.