“Short and sweet,” I repeated. “Got it. I’ll get it to you by the end of the day.”
When I arrived home, I opened my laptop, then a new Word document. I sat there drumming my fingers on the coffee table while I tried to think of exactly what to say. I leaned forward and placed my fingers on the keyboard. Suddenly, the words came to me.
This past Friday, I stopped at a local bar in Richmond for a drink to relieve some stress and mourn my late husband. While at the bar, I met Paul Daniels. We talked for a couple of hours. He then invited me back to his place for a couple more drinks. Against my better judgment, I agreed to go. I left after about an hour and was home by ten-thirty. The fact that Mr. Daniels has chosen to come forward with this vicious attempt to attack my character, all because I rebuffed his advances, is suspect, at best. I loved my husband dearly and I would not dishonor his memory the way Mr. Daniels has alleged. Finally, I did not kill my husband. I did not know about his extramarital affair until after his death. Despite our difficulties, we had been together for nearly eight years and I loved him with all my heart. I am innocent of all allegations and charges against me and I look forward to my day in court and the chance to prove my innocence.
I emailed my statement to Dave and within three minutes, he responded by saying he was quite impressed and he would not make any changes.
***
The next morning, I hurried out of bed, pulled out my laptop, and Googled my name. Sure enough, there were several results, including dozens of news reports containing my statement.
Mom was on the phone within minutes, asking me what the statement was all about. She had set a Google alert with my name and had received a notification this morning regarding all of the new posts. I told her all about Paul Daniels, leaving out the bit about our heavy make-out session and apologized for not telling her sooner.
“Well, I can understand why you’d be hesitant to tell me,” she said. “But you should know by now, after everything we’ve been through together, I would never judge you or get mad at you for anything. I may offer gentle guidance and suggest a different course, but Libby, I am your mother. You can tell me anything.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said.
“Now, didn’t you tell me Dave wanted you to go see your psychiatrist sometime soon?”
I had honestly forgotten all about it until that moment. “Shit,” I said, realizing it was a Sunday. “I’ll call them tomorrow morning.”
I called Dr. Lange’s office first thing Monday morning, and they were able to get me in that very afternoon.
His office was located in Lexington in a historic Victorian-era white brick house with several white columns attached to a wraparound porch. I parked on the street as usual and walked up the concrete sidewalk with grass growing out of the cracks. The front porch groaned when I stepped on it. I was always afraid one day I’d fall right through.
On the screen door—the main office door was propped wide open—was a typed-up, laminated sign that read
‘MAIL DELIVERY IN BACK.’
Another typed sign read
‘PATIENTS: PLEASE PAY COPAY PRIOR TO VISIT.’
A bell jingled when I stepped through the screen door. I walked down the hallway to the end where the receptionist, an always-happy hippie with long dyed-red hair named Shelly, greeted me cheerily.
“There she is! Long time no see!”
My appointments were usually once per month. I was only a week behind, thanks to my stint as a jailbird, but I knew she wasn’t being condescending, so I just smiled and said, “Yep! I’m here now, though. Love your top, by the way.”
She was wearing a very colorful tie-dyed shirt and a pin that said
‘
Groovy Chick
.’
“Oh, this old thing? Thanks! Dr. Lange will be with you soon. He’s running a little behind today, like always. I just need to get your copay.”
“Twenty, right?”
She nodded.
I quickly wrote out a check from my purple checkbook, ripped it off, and handed it to her with a smile.
“Are you holding up okay, doll?”
I was hoping I could get through this appointment without having to discuss the big pink elephant doing pirouettes around the room. But Shelly was such a nice lady, I didn’t want to be rude. Not to mention the fact I knew I should be nice to anyone who would potentially testify on my behalf at trial.
“I’m doing fine, I guess. As well as can be expected.”
“Well, we’re pulling for you here. If you need anything, just call.”
She stood up and leaned across the desk, reaching out her arms. I let her envelop me in a tight embrace. I could smell the patchouli in her hair, and it was oddly comforting.
“All right,” she said when we pulled apart. “Go have a seat in the waiting room. I’ll call you when the doc is ready.”
I nodded and turned toward the waiting room. It was always a menagerie of the strangest people I’d ever seen. I always felt so…
normal
, when sitting in the waiting room for Dr. Stephen Lange. Today, there was the wiry-looking guy standing near the window, staring at his feet and mumbling movie quotes.
You can’t handle the truth
and
I know it was you, Fredo.
Then there was the woman sitting on the couch obsessively knitting what appeared to be a scarf, in the middle of July, as she rocked back and forth.
I took my seat on the other end of the couch, pulled out
Finders Keepers
, and flipped to page 386. I was almost done and couldn’t wait to find out what happened to Peter Saubers. The wait for my appointment was longer than usual, presumably because he’d squeezed me in at the last minute.
Finally, just when the protagonist was about to have his big showdown, Shelly called my name and told me to head on up the stairs.
I climbed the spiral staircase, which wobbled and creaked as I ascended to the second floor of the old building. Dr. Lange’s office was directly across from the staircase, and the door was propped open, so I walked straight in and sat down in the chair across from him. He was sitting in a large swivel chair facing his laptop and typing away, probably notes on his previous client. I sat there silently until he finished. He twirled around in his chair to face me and said, “Libby. How are you?”
“Pretty shitty, actually.” No use lying and saying I was doing super-duper when I really wasn’t.
“How have you been feeling lately? Physically, I mean. Are you sleeping? I know we’ve talked before about your difficulty falling and staying asleep at night.”
“It still takes me a while to fall asleep. Mostly because my mind is racing with everything that’s been going on lately. But the medicine you prescribed a couple months ago seems to be helping me sleep better.”
“Yes, Trazodone is a mild anti-depressant that can have sedative effects, which was why I wanted you to try it for sleep. I’m glad to hear it’s helping.”
The mention of sedative effects immediately made me wonder if that had anything to do with why I slept through the gunshot and couldn’t recall anything else. I asked him as much.
“No, I certainly doubt the Trazodone would make you sleep that soundly. It’s only a mild side effect of the medication. I’ve not heard of any other cases where it caused amnesia or a complete blackout effect, though I haven’t really researched it lately.”
“It was just a thought.”
“Libby, I know you’re frustrated and want to remember what happened that night. But since I learned what happened, I thoroughly reviewed your chart. None of the three medications I have prescribed you could have caused you to black out, nor would they have been likely to cause any kind of violent rage. No, I certainly think it has nothing to do with your medications.”
“Are you saying you think I did murder Ryan?”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort. I’m simply saying I can find no medical reason for what happened to you that night. It would take a very strong sedative to cause what you experienced, and none of what you’re taking fits the bill.”
“Then what the hell happened to me? I drank two of Ryan’s beers and took my medications—the Trazodone, Wellbutrin, and Abilify—and that’s it. How could I have possibly blacked out if it wasn’t my medications?”
“Well, if you drank alcohol along with those particular medications, it’s quite possible you might sleep more soundly than normal. But as for a complete blackout, I’m still not sure.”
“If you say so.” I sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.
“You seem defensive. Have I said something to upset you?”
“No. Not you. I’m just defensive in general. I’m being prosecuted for my husband’s murder. I found out my husband was having an affair with some ugly heroin addict. Then I was suspected in her murder too. I was cleared thanks to the autopsy, but still…oh, and did I mention? I went to see my father in prison.”
“I see.” He steepled his fingers and touched them to his mouth. “Tell me about that.”
I told him all about my visit with Randy. About how he begged me to forgive him and how I had only agreed to see him again. That I wasn’t quite ready to completely forgive him just yet but that there was a tiny part of me that wanted to believe he had changed, a part of me that missed my daddy.
“I think it’s quite natural for you to want to have a relationship with your father again. Even if it’s subconsciously. He may have done some evil things, but that has no bearing on how he feels about you or how much he loves you. Plus, forgiveness can be very cathartic. You have enough negativity in your life right now. Perhaps it would benefit you to give serious thought to forgiving your father.”
“I’ll think about it.” That was as much as I was willing to agree to.
“Now, your attorney has contacted me and asked that I testify on your behalf at your trial. Possibly give a deposition. Are you okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Some patients might feel it’s an intrusion into their privacy to have their psychiatrist talk about some of their innermost struggles. And I am bound by patient confidentiality unless you give your consent for me to disclose certain information.”
“I have nothing to hide. No secrets. You can say what you need to say. As long as you think it might help.”
“Well, I can certainly testify that you are not now, nor have you ever been, in my professional opinion, a violent person. I can talk about your depression and the reasons behind it. How you’ve struggled for twenty years to cope with the fact that your father is a confessed serial killer.”
“But won’t that help the prosecutor? They’re going to say I was already depressed and then when I found out about his affair, which I didn’t, I snapped and killed him.”
“Not necessarily. Just because a patient is depressed does not make her homicidal.”
“But is it genetic?”
“Is what genetic?”
“Killer instincts. My father was a killer. What if it’s genetic and I did kill Ryan?”
“Do you believe you killed your husband?”
“No. Not at all. I can’t remember anything from the time I fell asleep until I woke up at five a.m. But I just know in my heart I didn’t…couldn’t…kill him. And I swear, I had no idea about his affair. Things were sort of, well, dull, in our relationship lately. But I didn’t know it was because he was in love with someone else.”
“You know yourself better than anyone. If you truly know in your heart of hearts you didn’t kill him, then the whole genetics questions is a moot point. Tell me how you’re processing the information about his affair.”
“Not well,” I admitted, shifting my weight in my seat. “I almost slept with some random guy last weekend, but I didn’t. Before that, I kind of confronted Lindsey. She said some really horrible things. Told me Ryan loved her. So I sort of…punched her.”
“That’s not what I would call a healthy reaction, but I’d say it’s probably a natural one. Most women in your position would at least consider doing the same thing. How did you feel when you found out she had been murdered?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, please.” He sat back in his chair and dropped his hands to the handles of his chair.
“I felt relief. I was glad she was dead. Does that make me a horrible person?”
“No. It makes you human. This woman had an affair with your husband whom you loved dearly, despite what you describe as a ‘dull’ time in your relationship. She ruined the perception you had of Ryan, and no one would blame you for being relieved that she is gone. Now, a healthy person might consider forgiving her, though.”
“Forgive her? But she screwed my husband! Not to mention the fact that she’s dead.”
“Yes. Forgiveness is not a two-way street. It’s completely up to the person who was wronged to dole out forgiveness. She doesn’t have to ask for it. May not even want it. But holding on to anger and spite is like taking drugs. It may feel good at first, righteous even, but eventually it will poison you and make you do stupid things. If you keep hanging on to that anger, you will corrode from the inside out. So, yes, I think you should consider forgiving her too.”
“Why am I the one who always has to forgive? First Randy, then Ryan, and now Lindsey? It’s so unfair.”
“Life is unfair, Libby. It’s the choices you make that will shape you. You can decide to wallow in self-pity and hatred for those who’ve wronged you, or you can forgive and begin the healing process. I really think you’d feel much better if you forgave those who’ve wronged you.”
“Maybe you’re right. But it’s so hard to do.”
“Mahatma Gandhi said, ‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.’ I think there’s a lot of truth in that quote.”
What he said made sense. It just seemed impossible to forgive, at least Lindsey. My father? Maybe. Ryan? I could see where I could forgive him. But Lindsey? Nope. No way. It would take a lot of prayer and many more sessions with Dr. Lange before I could forgive her.
“Change of subject: have you talked to your mother-in-law since Ryan’s death?”
This made me uncomfortable. I hadn’t spoken with Marie since I told her about Ryan. I had no idea what she thought of me. I assumed she probably believed I did kill him.
“Marie and I always got along,” I answered. “But Ryan was a true-blue mama’s boy. He could do no wrong in her eyes. I always felt like an outsider in that family, like the woman who stole Ryan from his mother’s bosom and took him away from her. I’m sure she thinks I’m guilty, or else she would have contacted me.”
“Perhaps you’re overthinking this. Perhaps she’s nervous to reach out to you and is trying to give you space. You won’t know unless you try. Libby, you need as many people in your corner as you can get. Family support can make all the difference in how you make it through this ordeal. And having your husband’s mother in your corner definitely couldn’t hurt your chances at trial.”
“Okay. I’ll call her.”
“You never know until you try. What about friends?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you have people you can depend on? People who believe in you?”
“I do have one friend, my best friend Dani. But she lives in Cincinnati. I got to see her the other day, but that was the first time in months.”
“No one closer to home?”
“No,” I admitted. “Everyone pretty much turned their backs on me when they found out I was charged with Ryan’s murder. Most of my local friends were friends of Ryan’s first. And my so-called friends at work are the same way. They’ve all turned their backs on me. So besides Dani and my mother, I’m pretty much alone.”