Twisted (26 page)

87

But there is still one truth I haven’t yet found.

I’ve lost a year. I abandoned my successful practice as a psychologist. I abandoned my wife. I’ve lost Devon. But what makes his death even more unbearable is that I carry the responsibility for it. My guilt is insurmountable, and I know it will follow me for the rest of my life. I can never forgive myself, and I don’t know if Jenna can either. How could she?

Insanity offered a temporary reprieve from the truth. But disappearing into my imaginary world meant leaving her in the real one to struggle alone through her grief. I didn’t leave her intentionally, but that doesn’t diminish the fact that my illness only added pain on top of more pain, making it all that more difficult for her. A broken mind did in fact shield me from having to mourn my son’s death, but the escape was only temporary. That heartache is still here waiting for me, and now I wonder whether I’ll have to deal with the loss of a wife as well.

The door to my room opens. Jenna stands behind it, still as beautiful as the first day I laid eyes on her. My breath whooshes out, and worry washes through me because, in her expression, I’m unsure whether it’s joy or regret I see.

Whether she has come to say hello or good-bye.

Jenna steps toward me, and the closer she gets, the more I know she’s speaking to me—not with words but through our unspoken language:
I love you. I’ve missed you so much.

She hasn’t given up on me.

Standing face-to-face, we’re both frozen by the foreignness of this moment. The only indication of Jenna’s feelings are tears that well in her eyes. Tears of joy, of happiness, or fear, or . . . I’m not sure what.

Neither of us speaks.

“Well,” she finally says, showing me that adorable smile, “we always knew you were complicated.”

I throw my arms around her. I indulge in this moment. I relish in it. The feel of my wife against me, the smell of her, the near-silent sob that shakes her body under my hold.

Jenna presses her cheek against mine. Skin to skin, as our warm tears mingle, her love holds me up, and at no other time have I needed it more. Because in this true world, I’m again with the one person who will allow me to go on, who is giving me my first taste of healing. We stay close in each other’s arms for a long time, but as much as I need this, I know that Jenna does, too.

When she at last pulls back, I look into her eyes. My wife is indeed still as beautiful as ever, but I can tell that the past year has left its mark on her. I see sadness, so much pain and grief. A woman who first lost a son, and then, for a time, her husband. A woman who’s been just as alone in her world as I was in mine, and in some ways, maybe even more. I want so badly to carve away that pain. But at a time like this, assurance seems impossible to find. I’m not even sure if any exists.

Still, I try.

“I’m so . . .” My voice fails me, and I make another attempt. “Sorry will never be enough. I don’t know how to—”

“No, baby, don’t,” Jenna says with that gentle firmness I remember well. She pulls back so our eyes meet and wipes a tear from my face. “There is nothing to be sorry about. You hear me? Nothing.”

A faint nod is all I can manage. Maybe because I don’t believe her. Maybe because I can’t. I look up, and in her tender compassion, find a glimmer of hope.

“Chris,” she says, “all you ever did from the second Devon entered this world was love him. He left it knowing that.”

“I abandoned him. I became my father.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve got that one wrong.”

“How?”

“You’re not your father,” Jenna says, “because you came back to me.”

And with her absolution, I am both heartbroken and grounded. Her words open the floodgates to a swell of emotions, so powerful, so deep, so seemingly infinite. I am overwhelmed by her forgiveness, but that only makes me ache more for Devon.

I surrender to those feelings. I allow them, because I know the time is right, that in the safety of Jenna’s arms is the best place to do it. I bury my head in her shoulder. And together at last, we suffer the loss of our son. And at last, I allow myself to fall apart.

Just as I reach the point where it feels like this pain will never end, Jenna moves her hand over my back and pulls me solidly against her.

“Chris,” she whispers.

But I don’t answer. I’m gasping for air.

“Chris,” she says again.

I swallow hard.

“Breathe with me,” she says.

I lift my head far enough to look into my wife’s eyes, her tearful smile telling me everything I need to know.

And together we breathe.

We are one.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel became a turning point in my career.

For years, I dreamed of writing the story; however, each time I stared at that blank page, apprehension always stood in my way. The reasons were many, but it was the extreme complexity of taking on a rubber world that frightened me most. Having two stories run side by side—one of which has to remain completely invisible—is a monumental task. This kind of high concept has been attempted both in movies and novels, but it seems as if just a few have managed to pull it off effectively. Naturally, this made me think, “Am I out of my freaking mind? If they couldn’t do it, what the
hell
makes me think I can?”

But life has a way of shoving us outside our comfort zones and directly toward the things we most fear. Before I knew it, there I was, standing in the eye of the storm, at last committing those first words to the screen, shaky fingers and all.

That journey, however, would be paved with heartbreaking challenges. There were health issues and two badly severed fingers (don’t ask—it’s complicated). There were also numerous wrong turns, unexpected bumps, and so many tossed chapters that I lost count of them. There was screaming, fist pounding, tears, and for the first time in my career, countless nights I went to bed doubting my ability as a writer. But with those experiences came great lessons, the most important of which is that without fear, success is unattainable. That the hardest fought battles are indeed the most worthy.

Besides my stubborn unwillingness to accept defeat, what kept me fighting was the consistent and generous support given by those who surround me. From the ones who shared their knowledge, to the ones who seemed to know I could do this (even though I didn’t), each played an integral role in helping me bring you this story. To those people, I offer my most heartfelt gratitude.

Special thanks to the folks at Thomas & Mercer, specifically Kjersti Egerdahl, and especially Alan Turkus, who waited (and waited) with great patience and anticipation while I obsessively hammered away at this novel. The deadlines kept passing, and he kept extending them. Still, all the while, his excitement and enthusiasm over this story never wavered.

I’m grateful to have Scott Miller at Trident Media Group as my agent. Through every concern, he was not only receptive but also expeditious in taking care of business.

My developmental editor, Caitlin Alexander, was meticulous and thorough in her assessment of this book, weeding out the illogical, inconsistent, and nonsensical. Her insight was invaluable in helping to create added depth and believability to my story.

To say this book was a technical challenge would be a radical understatement. I walked into it knowing very little about forensic psychology but walked out with what I hope was the knowledge and credibility to make this story fly. For that, I owe my greatest thanks and complete admiration to neuropsychologist Cynthia Boyd, who talked me through the many complexities of psychopathology, disassociation, childhood sexual trauma, brain injuries, and a host of other topics far too numerous to list here. With my every phone call (also far too numerous), she responded with genuine enthusiasm and a most determined desire to be as helpful as possible. I can say without a second’s hesitation that this book would not have been the same without her help, and I feel so very fortunate to know her.

Special thanks to clinical psychologist Franz Kubak at Oregon State Hospital, who helped me fill in the gaps so that I could portray Christopher’s working environment and circumstances accurately and better understand the treatment of patients.

On that note, I’ve been trying for years to sneak into a psychiatric hospital, but unfortunately, it appears the only way they’ll allow me entrance is as a patient. While this book drove me dangerously close to having that wish fulfilled, it wasn’t close enough. I instead had to rely on the eyes and ears of the wonderful people who have dedicated their lives to helping the mentally ill.

Lori Wilson, also at Oregon State Hospital, has been my go-to gal since
The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted
, and she is truly a gem. I pester her rather frequently with tedious questions, and amazingly, she never seems to tire of me. My only hope is that she can someday help fulfill my research dream, if only for the sole purpose of getting me off her back.

To lighten Lori’s load, I now have a new victim, Kathleen Lee, at Arkansas State Hospital. She, too, was so very helpful in answering my every question, further illustrating the remarkable kindness, dedication, and patience these fine professionals exhibit every day in their work.

I have new understanding and compassion, not only for those who suffer from schizophrenia but also for their family members. I’m grateful to Terri Strong for being kind and generous in sharing her personal experiences with me so that I could portray Christopher’s emotional struggles both as the child of a schizophrenic parent, and then as a victim himself. It is my hope that we can someday fully understand this horrible illness and find new ways to relieve the agony.

Attorney Richard Gates was kind enough to offer his expertise and knowledge about the insanity defense. He’s an extremely busy man who, in spite of that, gave his time, further proving there are generous people everywhere.

To my beta readers, I offer enormous appreciation for helping me make this book the best that it could be.

And to my regular readers: you are the reason I write. Not a day goes by when I lose sight of that, and each day my respect and admiration for you only deepens. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell my stories. Thank you for your unfailing support and encouragement. It truly means the world to me.

And lastly, but by no means leastly (I know . . . not a word. I often make them up), to the people I affectionately refer to as my tribe. The ones who, without fail, hold me up, dust me off, and give me the strength to go on when life gets wobbly.

Kelley Eskridge (whom I promoted to tribal chief after she expertly talked me off the ledge several months back): You are my friend, my personal editor, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, and I am so damned thankful to have met you. I could go on and on, but please know how truly awesome I think you are.

Barbara Richards and I met eons ago during my first television gig at the CBS station in San Diego. She’s still there and thriving—I’m long gone. Enough said. Some things are just meant to be. And while our professional paths took different directions, our friendship has only grown stronger through the years, partly because she’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, and partly because she’s one of the most honest and sincere.

Linda Boulanger and I texted back and forth for years before ever speaking a word to each other—and while my fingers often became numb and stiff (because, well, I’m a chatty one), I know her to be one of the kindest, most generous, and authentic people I’ve ever met. We did finally meet in real life last May at the OWFI conference, and she was every bit the awesome person I knew she would be.

The Rickrodes—Paul, Kay, and Deanna—you are my second family in every sense, and I am the son/brother you never asked for. I’m not really sure who inserted whom in whose life, but there you have it: we’re stuck with each other, and I couldn’t be more thankful.

To my dad: I love you and am so grateful for our closeness and mutual respect, which only gets stronger with each passing day.

To my mom: I miss you terribly but find strength in knowing you’re still with me in spirit and that your love will always endure.

To Jessica Park, my best friend, my clarity, my kindred spirit. I love you in ways that no words could ever come close to describing. The day you walked into my life was the exact day I found new ways to experience so many joys that I never knew existed. You are truly a most precious gift.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2012 Thomas Photography

Andrew E. Kaufman lives in Southern California with his two Labrador retrievers and a very bossy Jack Russell terrier who thinks she owns the place. An Emmy-nominated broadcast journalist, he eventually realized that writing about reality wasn’t nearly as fun as making it up, and so began his career as a #1 international bestselling author of psychological thrillers.

Andrew became one of the highest-grossing independent authors in the country with combined sales reaching into the six-figure mark.
The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted
was on Amazon’s Top 100 bestsellers list for more than one hundred days, where it became the seventh bestselling title out of more than one million e-books available nationwide and number one in its genre.

He is also a contributor to
Chicken Soup for the Soul
, where he has chronicled his battle against cancer and the subsequent struggle to redefine his life, at last pursuing his dream of becoming an author.

For more information about Andrew’s books, please visit
www.andrewekaufman.com
or follow him on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001249143819.