Authors: Thomas Christopher Greene
I
stand up from my desk. Outside my window the sun is coming up over the distant water. I take the notebook and I put it into a brown envelope. I write Dr. Mitchell on the front of it. Then I leave my room and walk those hallways that echo the sound of my shoes on the linoleum. I exit the building and walk across the green lawn to the administration building where Dr. Mitchell's big office is. The campus is deserted at this hour. I don't see anyone else except for a few orderlies over near the doorway to the farm smoking. They ignore me and I enter the administration building and at Dr. Mitchell's office, I place the envelope into the plastic bin next to his heavy wooden door.
You can't even understand how much I have hated you for what you did to my husband, and to my baby girl. During the trial it took all I had to look at you, and you looked so smug to me, like you didn't have a care in the world. And yet you took two lives. They may have been imperfect, but who knows what could have come if they had continued to live?
It was very hard for me to write this letter. It took a number of years for me to draw the strength I needed. In the end, I did it for Hannah. I wanted you to know the type of person she was, the type of person she might have been. She was so much more than an object for your sickness. She was a beautiful girl, and more beautiful inside than out. She could have had an amazing life. Sometimes I think about her in her thirties, married with children, happy, living in the kind of marriage that I always wanted. She would have learned from my mistakes, I think, and avoided many of the pitfalls. She would have been a great mother.
I don't hate you anymore. I haven't forgiven you either. And I won't ever try to understand what you did. But Hannah in her short life did not like hate. There was too much difficulty in her own home. She did everything she could do to bring light to the world.
My only hope is that somehow this letter gets through to you. That perhaps you can take something from it that will allow you to fully understand what you have done.
D
r. Mitchell and I sit across from one another. Between us is his leather-topped coffee table. This is October and outside the window I can see maintenance workers raking the bright yellow leaves of the great oak into big piles. On the table in front of us is my notebook.
“I want to give this back to you,” Dr. Mitchell says.
“What did you think of it?”
He pauses. “I read it as a doctor, you have to know that. I think what I want to do Anthony, is give you some reading. Something I wrote.”
“Oh?”
He leans over toward a side table and picks a big folder off the top of it. He puts it on the table in front of me.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Your file,” he says.
“My file?”
“Everything we have learned about since you have been here. All my notes, notes from the other doctors. Test results. A summary of our findings.”
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“You're right to ask. It's unusual. There are conditions under state law where patients can petition to see parts of their file, but seldom all of it. I agonized over this, Anthony. But after reading your account I came to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. I think you will find the summary particularly useful. But you are welcome to read all of it. For all the obvious reasons, you cannot take it with you. You can stay here and read as long as you like. I will give you some privacy and will check back to see if you have any questions. Does that sound okay?”
I look down at the fat file on the table. Papers spill out of it. “All right, Dr. Mitchell,” I say.
He stands up in front of me, smooths out the creases in his suit pants.
“I'll check in, Anthony,” he says, and he leaves me alone.
I open the folder. There is a lot of paper, but of course I have been here a long time. In the back there are smaller, random pieces, handwritten, and as I flip through I also see charts and spreadsheets, no doubt the results of the dozens of tests I have taken over the years. In the front is the summary and as it turns out, it is all I need to read.
The subject, Anthony Lopes, came to Edgewood at eighteen years old after a successful insanity plea in the trial of a murder of another teen. With very little formal education, he had worked as a commercial fisherman before his arrest. Nevertheless, the subject is hyperintelligent, articulate, manipulative, and generally very lucid. He manifests all the obvious traits of narcissism. He can be very persuasive and charming. He will explain in great detail the nature of his crime though he shows very little outward emotion. There are no signs of auditory or visual hallucinations,
as one would find in schizophrenia. It is difficult to ascertain, of course, but the subject may have had olfactory and tactile hallucinations.
It is the conclusion of this committee that the subject suffers from an acute, and rare, form of delusional disorder, erotomanic subtype. The subject has always maintained the victim of his murder had been in love with him, and that in fact, the two had been engaged in a loving relationship over the course of several months. While it is unusual for the erotomanic subtype to be present in males, some forensic samples do contain a preponderance of males. Many of these patients are associated with dangerous or assaultive behavior. There is no evidence to suggest that the victim was ever in love with the subject. In fact, the overwhelming evidence presented at the trial shows that the delusional disorder may have begun after the subject encountered the victim during a larceny. Following that event, the subject became convinced that the victim was in love with him and that he was in love with her. He developed elaborate rescue fantasies, consistent with erotomania. He then proceeded to act out these fantasies, abducting the victim at her family home and keeping her hostage for several weeks. After being apprehended, he managed to escape custody and reached the victim once again, abducting her a second time. This abduction resulted in her death, in what appeared to be an attempt at a murder/suicide.
What separates this case from others in the literature is the length of time of the delusion, and the fact that the delusion has survived the death of the object of the erotomania. There has been no transference to other victims. The subject has been repeatedly exposed to other patients of the opposite sex and has demonstrated no interest. Other than a brief trial of somatic treatmentâthe subject was given atypical antipsychotics for a six-
month period with no sign of benefitâthe treatment has been confined to individual psychotherapy. The subject's reticence to acknowledge a disorder and to view the events in question in any other light but the delusion has made treatment largely ineffective. The subject's intelligence and manipulative behavior have also impeded the therapy.
While the feeling of the committee is that the subject no longer presents a threat to himself or others, without progress in addressing the underlying delusion, there is nothing to recommend release.
I close the folder and stop reading. I lean back against the couch and I watch the men gathering leaves outside. It is a beautiful October day, and in the bright sunshine, they stand under the magnificent oak, now stripped bare and with stark limbs, and fill a cart attached to a tractor with all that yellow.
The door opens and Dr. Mitchell walks in. He comes over and takes his seat across from me.
“Do you need more time?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“You understand the nature of our problem, then, Anthony.”
I nod. “I think I do, Doctor.”
S
ometimes it is easier not to fight anymore. I decide to give them what they want, though I know enough to know that I will have to do it slowly, piece by piece. Any quicker and they will suspect that I am just trying to satisfy them and that they have given me the blueprint for doing so.
I do ask for one thing in return and on a beautiful autumn day that feels like summer, Dr. Mitchell grants my wish.
Two orderlies and a golf cart take me down to the southernmost edge of the campus. A guard is waiting at that gate and he opens it and we get out of the cart and walk through. We follow a bike path and when we reach the dunes, we walk along wooden boards and out to the beach.
It is wide-open Atlantic here, no islands or land visible when you look straight out. The orderlies wait for me while I walk across the empty beach to the water. My shoes sink into the sand but then I reach where the tide rolls in and the sand is hard here. I bend down and kick off my shoes. I go to the edge of the small whitecaps and then walk into them. The water is cold on my feet but I don't care. The waves lap against my legs and soak my pants. I look to the limitless horizon, to where the sky and the ocean become one.
It is so big and incomprehensible that it humbles me. I want nothing more than to dive into it, and swim for all I am worth. But I know the orderlies will be on me in a flash and I will accomplish nothing. No, I have to be patient, and work through this. I look down at the tide. I take the folded sheets of yellow legal paper out of my pocket. I lean down and place them on the water. They roll away from me on a small wave. The next small wave brings them back to me again. I watch them moving back and forth in the easy tide. The change is imperceptible but the tide is moving out. In an hour the folded paper will be thirty yards out. And maybe later it will get caught in the undertow. It will be swept out to sea.
With gratitude, I would like to thank the following:
Â
My talented editor, Jennifer Pooley. Also at Morrow: Lisa Gallagher, Kevin Callahan, and Ben Bruton. I truly appreciate everything you do in publishing my work.
My agent and friend, Nick Ellison, and his terrific colleagues, Sarah Dickman and Marissa Matteo.
My early readers: Maura Greene, Daniel Greene, David Greene, Susan McCarthy, Jennifer O'Connor, Margaret Gendron, Judith Austin, Alex Lehmann, and Big Al Donovan.
Dr. Susan O'Doherty, who provided professional advice about psychology and the mental health system.
My parents, for their remarkable support. And my wife, Tia, my first editor, my best friend, the reader whose opinions matter to me above all others'.
And finally, to my daughter, Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. At six months old she cannot yet read my words. But her smile when she sees me would not only make the moon envious, it makes me want to write down every story I know, so that when she is old enough to read them, they will always be there.
T
HOMAS
C
HRISTOPHER
G
REENE
was born and raised in Worcester, Massachusetts. Educated at Hobart College and the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College, he is the author of
Mirror Lake
and
I'll Never Be Long Gone.
He currently lives outside Montpelier, Vermont, with his wife, Tia, their infant daughter, and their three dogs.
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Jacket design by Abby Weintraub
Jacket photograph of moon by Chris Pinchbeck/Getty Images;
photograph of couple by Ryan McVay/Getty Images
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ENVIOUS MOON
. Copyright © 2007 by Thomas Christopher Greene. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061977671
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