Читать книгу All Is Not Forgotten: The bestselling gripping thriller you’ll never forget - Wendy Walker, Wendy Walker - Страница 9

Jenny’s parents were called just after ten thirty. They had been attending a dinner party with two couples from their country club, though the dinner was at the home of one of the couples and not at the club itself. Charlotte Kramer, Jenny’s mother, had complained about this in the car on the way through town earlier that evening, how they should be dining at the club to use up their minimum and, according to her husband, Tom, because Charlotte liked the social scene there. Cocktails were always served in the lounge, so regardless of the company you had planned to keep during the dinner, there was a chance to mingle with other club members.

Tom disliked the club other than to play golf on Sunday with his usual foursome: a friend from college and two dads he’d met through Jenny’s track team. Charlotte, on the other hand, was highly social and was aspiring to join the pool committee for the upcoming season. Any Saturday night not spent at the club felt like a lost opportunity to her. It was one of the many sources of marital discord between them, and their short car ride had ended with silence and mutual irritation at the making of the usual comments.

They both remembered this later, and how petty it had seemed after the brutal rape of their daughter.

One of the nice things about a small town is that people bend the rules when it seems appropriate. The fear of being reprimanded, or even sued, does not loom quite so precariously as it does in a larger community. So when Detective Parsons called the Kramers, he did not tell them what had happened, only that Jenny had been drinking at a party and was taken to the hospital. They had been immediately reassured that her life was not at all in danger. Tom was thankful for this, for being spared the few minutes of agony as they drove from the dinner to the hospital. Every minute after learning of the rape had been just that for Tom—unrelenting agony.

Charlotte had not been quite so appreciative, because the partial truth caused her to be enraged at her daughter’s carelessness. The whole town would surely know, and how would that reflect on their family? On the way to the hospital, they had discussed punishments, weighing the impact of grounding or having her phone taken away. Of course, when they did learn the truth, it was guilt that found its way into Charlotte, and for that she was resentful of the misinformation. It is understandable, having been presented with a reason to be angry at your child only to then find out she had been so viciously assaulted. Still, I identified more with Tom on this. Perhaps it is because I am a father and not a mother.

The hospital lobby was empty when they arrived. There had been some attention given over the past several years to fund-raising and upgrading, and the results, while more cosmetic than substantive to many minds, were noticeable. Wood paneling, new carpet. The lighting was soft and there was classical music playing from the wireless speakers that hung discreetly in the corners. Charlotte “stormed” to the front desk (Tom’s word). Tom caught up and stood beside her. He closed his eyes and let the music calm his blood. He was concerned that Charlotte would be too harsh, at least for what this moment called for, and he wanted to “balance her out.” Jenny needed to sleep, to know her parents still loved her and that everything would be all right. The consequences could wait until they were all sober and clearheaded.

The Kramers knew their roles within the family. It was Charlotte’s task to be the disciplinarian with their daughter. With their boy, Lucas, the roles were often reversed, likely because of his age (ten) and his gender. Tom described this arrangement as though describing a blue sky—it was as it should be, as it is in every family. And he was right in theory. There are always roles to be played, shifting alliances, good cops and bad cops. With the Kramers, though, the natural ebbs and flows seemed to have given way to Charlotte’s needs, with the others taking parts she did not monopolize. In other words, the normalcy Tom attempted to ascribe to their family would prove to be quite abnormal, and untenable.

The nurse smiled at them sympathetically as she released the lock on the door to the treatment rooms. They didn’t know her, but that was true of most of the support staff at the hospital. Lower-salaried professionals rarely lived in Fairview, coming in from the neighboring city of Cranston. Tom remembered her smile. It was the first hint that this was a more serious incident than what they had been led to believe. People underestimate the hidden messages in a fleeting facial expression. But think about the type of smile you would give a friend whose teenager got caught drinking. It would express a comical type of empathy. It would say, Oh man, teenagers are tough. Remember what we were like? And now think about the smile you would give if that teenager had been assaulted. That smile would surely say, Oh my God! I’m so sorry! That poor girl! It’s in the eyes, in the shrug of the shoulders, and in the shape of the mouth. When this nurse smiled, Tom’s thoughts shifted from managing his wife to seeing his daughter.

They walked through the security doors to triage, and then to another circular desk, where nurses processed paperwork and files behind computer screens. There was another woman, another worrisome smile. She picked up a phone and paged a doctor.

I can picture them in that moment. Charlotte in her beige cocktail dress, her blond hair carefully pinned up in a twist. Arms folded at the chest, posturing for when she first saw Jenny, and for the staff who she would imagine were passing judgments. And Tom, half a foot taller as he stood beside his wife with his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, shifting his weight from foot to foot with increasing concern as his instincts fueled his runaway thoughts. Both of them agreed that those few minutes they waited for the doctor felt like hours.

Charlotte was very perceptive and quickly spotted three police officers drinking coffee from paper cups in the corner. Their backs were facing the Kramers as they spoke with a nurse. The nurse then caught Charlotte’s eye, and a whisper later, the officers turned to look at her. Tom was facing the other way, but he, too, began to notice the attention they were drawing.

Neither of them would recall the exact words the doctor used to tell them. There was apparently a brief acknowledgment by Charlotte of knowing of each other—the doctor’s daughter being one grade below Lucas at the elementary school—which then made Charlotte increasingly concerned about Jenny’s now tarnished reputation and how it might trickle down to their son. Dr. Robert Baird. Late thirties. Stout. Thin light brown hair and kind blue eyes that grew small when he said certain words that caused his cheeks to rise. Each of them remembered something about the man as he started to discuss her injuries. The external tearing of the perineum and anus … rectal and vaginal lesions … bruising to the neck and back … surgery … stitches … repairs.

The words left his mouth and floated around them like they were of a foreign language. Charlotte shook her head and repeated the word “no” several times in a nonchalant manner. She assumed he had confused them with the parents of a different patient and tried to stop him from revealing any more to spare him the embarrassment. She repeated her name, told him their daughter had been brought here for “overdoing it” at a party. Tom recalled being silent then, as though by not making a sound, he might be able to freeze time before the moment continued down the path he had started to see.

Dr. Baird stopped speaking and glanced at the officers. One of them, Detective Parsons, walked over, slowly—and with visible reluctance. They stepped to the side. Baird and Parsons spoke. Baird shook his head and looked at his black shoes. He sighed. Parsons shrugged apologetically.

Baird then stepped away and returned to stand before the Kramers. Hands folded as if in a prayer, he told them the truth plainly and concisely. Your daughter was found in the woods behind a house on Juniper Road. She was raped.

Dr. Baird recalled the sound that left Tom Kramer’s body. It was not a word or a moan or a gasp, but something he had never witnessed before. It sounded like death, like a piece of Tom Kramer had been murdered. His knees buckled and he reached for Baird, who took hold of his arms and kept him on his feet. A nurse rushed to join them, offering assistance, offering to get him a chair, but he refused. Where is she! Where is my baby! he demanded, pushing away from the doctor. He bounded toward one of the curtains, but the nurse stopped him, grabbing his forearms from behind to steer him down the hall. She’s right over here, the nurse said. She’s going to be fine … she’s asleep.

They reached one of the triage areas and the nurse pulled back the curtain.

My wife has told me ever since we had our own daughter, our first child—Megan is her name, now off to college—that she projects scenarios like this one onto herself. When we watched Megan pull out of the driveway for the first time behind the wheel of our car. When she left for a summer program in Africa. When we caught her climbing a tree in the yard, what feels like a hundred years ago. There are so many more examples. My wife would close her eyes and picture a pile of metal and flesh twisted together on the side of the road, or a tribal warlord with a machete, our daughter sobbing before him on her knees. Or her neck snapped and body lifeless beneath the tree. Parents live with fear, and how we deal with it, process it, depends on too many factors to recite here. My wife has to go there, to see the images, feel the pain. She then puts it in a box, loads the box on a shelf, and when the nagging worry creeps in, she can look at the box and then let the worry pass through her before it can settle in and feast on her enjoyment of life.

She has described to me these images, sometimes crying briefly in my arms. What is at the heart of each description, and what I find so compelling for its uniformity, is the juxtaposition of purity and corruption. Good and evil. For what could be more pure and good than a child?

Tom Kramer set his eyes upon his daughter in that room and saw what my wife has only imagined in her mind. Small braids laced with ribbon falling next to the bruises on her face. Smeared black mascara on cheeks that were still puffy like a child’s. Pink polish on broken nails. Only one of the birthstone stud earrings he’d bought her for her birthday, the other missing from a bloody earlobe. Around her were metal tables with instruments and blood-soaked swabs. The work was not yet done, so the room had not been cleaned. A woman in a white lab coat sat beside her bed, taking her blood pressure. She wore a stethoscope and offered only a fleeting glance before looking back at the dial on the black rubber pump. A female police officer stood unobtrusively in the corner, pretending to busy herself with a notepad.

Like life “flashing before your eyes” just before death, Tom saw a newborn in a pink swaddled blanket. He felt the warm breath of a baby on his neck as she slept in his arms; a tiny hand lost inside his palm; a full-body hug around his legs. He heard a high-pitched giggle come from a chubby belly. Theirs was a relationship unspoiled by the pitfalls of misbehavior. Those were saved for Charlotte Kramer, and in this respect, I could see that she had, however unintentionally, given them both a gift.

Rage at her attacker would come, but not then. More than anything, what Tom saw, felt, and heard in that moment was his failure to protect his little girl. His despair cannot be measured nor adequately described. He began to weep like a child himself, the nurse at his side, his daughter pale and lifeless on the bed.

Charlotte Kramer stayed behind with the doctor. Shocking as it may sound to you, she saw her daughter’s rape as a problem that needed to be solved. A broken pipe that had flooded the basement. Or perhaps worse than that—a fire that had burned their entire house to the ground but left them standing. The key fact was the last bit—that they had survived. Her thoughts turned instantly to rebuilding the house.

She looked at Dr. Baird, arms crossed at her chest. What kind of rape? she asked him.

Baird paused for a moment, not sure what she was asking.

Charlotte sensed his confusion. You know, was it some boy from the party who got carried away?

Baird shook his head. I don’t know. Detective Parsons may know more.

Charlotte grew frustrated. I mean, from the examination. Did you do a rape kit?

Yes. We’re required to by law.

So—did you see anything, you know, that might indicate one way or another?

Mrs. Kramer, Baird said. Maybe we should let you see Jenny, and then I can discuss this with you and your husband in a more private setting.

Charlotte was put off, but she did as she was asked. She is not a difficult person, and if my descriptions of her indicate otherwise, I assure you most vehemently that it is not by design. I have great respect for Charlotte Kramer. She has not had an easy life, and her adaptations to her own childhood trauma are surprisingly mild— and reflective of the fortitude of her constitution. I believed she truly loved her husband, even when she emasculated him. And that she loved her children, loved them equally, even though she held Jenny to higher standards. But love is a term of art and not science. We can, each and every one of us, describe it in different words, and feel it differently within our bodies. Love can make one person cry and another smile. One angry and another sad. One aroused and another sleepy with contentment.

Charlotte experienced love through a prism. It’s hard to describe without again sounding judgmental, or causing you to dislike her. But Charlotte desperately needed to create what was taken from her as a child—a traditional (I believe she even said “boring”) American family. She loved her town because it was filled with like-minded, hardworking people with good morals. She loved her house because it was a New England colonial in a quiet neighborhood. She loved being married to Tom because he was a family man with a good job—not a great job, but great jobs pulled men away from their families. Tom ran several car dealerships, and it’s important to note that he sold BMWs, Jaguars, and other luxury cars. I was informed that this is quite distinct from “peddling” Hyundais. Whether Charlotte loved Tom beyond all of this was not known to either of them. She loved her children because they were hers, and because they were everything children should be. Smart, athletic, and (mostly) obedient, but also messy, noisy, silly, and requiring a great deal of hard work and effort, which provided her with a worthwhile occupation and something she could discuss at length with her friends at the club over luncheon. Each piece of this picture she loved and loved deeply. So when Jenny got “broken,” she became desperate to fix her. As I’ve said, she needed to repair her house.

Jenny had been sedated after arriving to the ER. The kids who found her described her as floating in and out of consciousness, though it was more likely the effect of shock than inebriation. Her eyes remained open and she was able to sit up and then walk with minimal assistance across the lawn to a lounge chair. Their description was that she sometimes seemed to know them and where she was and what had happened, and seconds later was unresponsive to their questions. Catatonic. She asked for help. She cried. Then she went blank. The paramedics reported the same behavior, but it is their policy not to administer sedatives. It was at the hospital, when the examination began, that she became hysterical. Dr. Baird made the call to give her some relief. There was enough bleeding to warrant concern and not wait for consent to prescribe the medication so they could examine her.

In spite of her outward appearance, Charlotte was deeply affected by the sight of her daughter. In fact, it was my impression that she came quite close in that first moment to feeling what Tom felt. Though they rarely touched outside their bedroom (and there only to perform the mechanics of intimacy), she took Tom’s arm with both her hands. She buried her face into the sleeve of his shirt and whispered the words “Oh my God.” She did not cry, but Tom felt her nails digging into his skin as she fought for her composure. When she tried to swallow, she found her mouth to be bone dry.

Detective Parsons could see them through the curtain. He remembered their faces as they looked down at their child. Tom’s was contorted and sloppy with tears, his agony painted upon his flesh. Charlotte’s, after the brief loss of composure, was determined. Parsons called it a stiff upper lip. He said he felt uncomfortable observing them in this intimate moment, though he did not look away. He said he was taken aback by Tom’s weakness and Charlotte’s strength, though anyone with a less simplistic understanding of human emotion would understand that it was actually quite the opposite. It requires far more strength to experience emotion than to suppress it.

Dr. Baird stood behind them, checking a chart that hung on a metal clip at the end of Jenny’s bed.

Why don’t we speak in the family lounge? he suggested.

Tom nodded, wiped his tears. He leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter’s head, and this brought on a series of deep sobs. Charlotte brushed a stray hair from Jenny’s face, then stroked her cheek with the back of her hand. Sweet angel … sweet, sweet angel, she whispered.

They followed Baird and Detective Parsons down the hall to a set of locked doors. Through the doors was another hallway and then a small lounge with some furniture and a TV. Baird offered to arrange for coffee or food, but the Kramers declined. Baird closed the door. Parsons sat down next to the doctor and across from the Kramers.

This is Charlotte’s account of what happened next:

They beat around the bush, asking us about Jenny’s friends, did we know about the party, did she have any troubles with any boys, did she mention anyone bothering her at school or in town or on her social media? Tom was answering them like he was in some sort of fog, like he couldn’t see we were all just avoiding what needed to be discussed. I’m not saying that those weren’t legitimate questions or that we shouldn’t have answered them at some point. But I had had it, you know? I wanted someone to tell me something. I try really hard to let Tom “be the man” because I know I can be controlling. No one complains when the house is in perfect order and the fridge has everything they all need and their clothes are washed and ironed and put away where they belong. Anyway … I do try because I know it’s important in a marriage for the man to be the man. But I couldn’t take it. I just couldn’t!

So I interrupted all of them, all of the men, and I said, “One of you needs to tell us what happened to our daughter.” Dr. Baird and the detective looked at each other like neither of them wanted to go first. The doctor drew the short end of the stick. And then he told us. He told us how she had been raped. It was not what I had hoped—that it was some boy she liked and he got carried away. Oh God I know how bad that sounds. The feminists would have my head, wouldn’t they? I’m not saying that that kind of rape isn’t really rape or shouldn’t be punished. Believe me—when Lucas is older, I’m going to make damn sure he knows the kind of trouble he could be in if he isn’t absolutely sure he has consent. I do believe that men have a responsibility, that they need to realize that when it comes to sex, we are not on equal footing. And not just because of the physiology. It’s the psychology as well—the fact that girls still feel pressure to do things they don’t want and boys, men, have very little understanding about what girls go through. Anyway, it was not what I had hoped. And actually, it was what I had feared most. Detective Parsons filled in this part. He wore a mask. He forced her to the ground on her face. He … I’m sorry. This is hard to say out loud. I can hear the words in my mind, but saying them is another thing altogether.

Charlotte stopped to gather herself. She had a particular method, which she used without deviation. It was a long inhale, eyes closed, quick shake of the head, then a slow exhale. She looked down first after opening her eyes, then nodded in confirmation of the control she had wrangled.

I’ll just say it, all of it, quickly and then be done. She was raped from behind, vaginally, anally, back and forth apparently, for an hour. Okay. I said it. It’s done. They did the rape kit. They found traces of spermicide and latex. This … this creature wore a condom. They didn’t find one hair either, and the forensic people who were brought in from Cranston later that night said he probably shaved himself. Can you imagine? He prepared for this rape like an Olympic swimmer. Well, he didn’t get his gold medal, did he? Every physical wound healed beautifully. She won’t ever feel any different from any other woman. And emotionally, well …

She paused again, this time more to take stock than regain her composure. Then she continued in a voice that was irreverent.

I remember thinking, thank God for the treatment. Everything he did to my little girl, we undid. So, I’m sorry for the bad language, but I thought—fuck him. He doesn’t exist anymore.