CHAPTER 41 - Molly

CHAPTER 41MollyISTAYED IN MY ROOM AT CORRINE’S ALL DAY YESTERDAY WITH MY PHONE turned off. But today, Monday morning, I figure I’ll face the fire. Either that or never leave this apartment again. I’ve got dozens of texts, and I hit DELETE without even looking at who they’re from. As I’m clearing out my phone, it rings, and Kim’s name pops up. I take a deep breath and answer.“Hi, Kim.”“Molly! Are you all right?”“I’m fine. I’m at Corrine’s.” Silence. She doesn’t know what to say. I don’t either.“We’re all worried about you. We saw the news,” she adds quietly.“I guess everyone’s seen it by now, and I don’t want to talk about it.”“I understand.” But I can hear the hurt in her voice. We’re best friends, and I didn’t tell her who I was. I had years to do it, and I didn’t. I understand her feelings, but no one seems to understand mine. Not any of the therapists I’ve seen over the years. Not until Jay anyway. Tears fill my eyes. I guess I was wrong about him too.“Molly?”“Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.”“We’re all concerned about you.”“Please tell them I’m okay. I just don’t want to talk right now. Maybe sometime, just not now.”“I’m here if you need me.”“Thanks, Kim.” I hang up and toss the phone beside me on the bed and think back to my last days as Melinda.We stayed in New York the year after I was found. Hiding in our house, reporters camped out on the lawn. My dad’s Aunt Martha was a retired teacher, and she moved in with us to homeschool me and help keep me entertained since I rarely went anywhere. My parents eventually went back to work, walking the gauntlet of snapping cameras and microphones. Corrine insisted on going back to high school that fall, and I’ve always been in awe of her strength and resilience. The reporters began to fade away until the following spring when the trial commenced. The media attention ramped up again. I remember peering through the curtains of the living room, frightened, feeling like a prisoner. Mom had asked her hairdresser to come over and cut off my long hair. She bought me new clothes in drab, nondescript colors. I remember feeling like they were trying to make Melinda go away, as if my parents wanted another little girl in my place. They started calling me Molly then too.After Keith was convicted, the reporters started leaving, packing up their equipment and moving on to the next shiny thing. My parents huddled in the kitchen in the evenings, talking, planning. Corrine told me later, I don’t remember it myself, that Mom and Dad decided we needed to move, to start over. My dad opened the phone book in the middle and stuck his finger on a random name, and we became the Morgans. The paperwork was filed, and the name change was official. Then Dad got a job in Graybridge, and we moved to Massachusetts. I do remember the drive to the new house, Mom turning around to where Corrine and I sat in the back seat. “Remember, Molly, your last name is Morgan, and we’re from Pennsylvania. Don’t forget. If you tell people our other name and where we’re from, those reporters will come back, and you’ll never be able to go outside or to school again.” I was, of course, terrified and managed to bury our secrets deep inside myself until I no longer thought about Melinda Wright or New York unless I was very tired or upset. Then memories would flood back, and I’d retreat to my room and lie on my bed, crying until I could put Melinda in her place.And, of course, the therapy sessions continued. My parents hoped they would save me from debilitating anxiety and acting out, which our pediatrician back in New York warned them about. Mom dutifully drove me to see a therapist once a week in Providence. She didn’t want me to see anyone locally. She didn’t want to take a chance that someone would figure out who we were. I kept busy in the back seat on those long rides by reading. I lost myself in hefty chapter books while Mom listened to talk radio.I sigh and bury my face in my pillow. Then I hear the doorbell ring, female voices in the hall. Elise. Shit.“Molly?” Corrine knocks on my door.“I’m coming.” Might as well face her too.Elise is sitting in the living room, dressed in neat khakis, a blue scarf over her white blouse. The harbor lies behind her like an enormous beast. “How are you, Molly?”She stands and embraces me, but I don’t return the hug. “I’m okay. Why are you here?”Corrine shoots me a look. “I called her. I told her what was going on, including the letter. I thought she could help.”“I don’t need anyone’s help,” I snap. “The cops are handling it. So if you’re here to tell me what a great guy Jay was, Elise, you can save it, okay? I can’t think about him right now.” I pace the room in little circles. “I can’t think about my husband right now. I need to take care of myself.”“I understand.”I stand still in front of her, shake my head. This woman doesn’t understand. No one can possibly understand. “I’m sure you know all about me now, right?”“Yes.” But she doesn’t meet my eyes.“Jay told you, didn’t he? You didn’t just hear it on TV.”“No. I didn’t hear it on TV. I knew all along, Molly.”I clap my hands together. “Great. I knew it.”“Jay didn’t tell me,” she says. I tip my head, wait for her explanation. “I read your file when you were at the office for treatment. Before you and Jay were a couple.”“What? Why? That was confidential. I wasn’t your patient!”Elise raises a palm. “I’m sorry. It was an accident. I picked up a file from Candace’s desk. I thought it was one of mine. One I’d just handed her a moment earlier. I didn’t read it all, Molly. When I realized my mistake, I put it down.”“Oh, Christ, Elise. Really?” I nearly laugh. “But you didn’t put it down before you read all the good stuff, right?”“I’m being honest here. I never told a soul. I didn’t even tell Jay I knew. I wanted to respect your privacy.”“Well, that’s just great. So, now that Jay’s gone, you think you can help me?”Her eyes meet mine. “You went through hell, Molly. Most children need ongoing care after something like that.”“I’ve been in therapy off and on for years.” I think back to my first psychologist, Dr. Sommers. She was an older lady who wore long skirts and sandals, had short gray hair and bug-like glasses. She kept a basket of puppets in her office, along with crayons and paper, props to get kids to reveal the monsters that peopled their lives. She worked with the police, and they taped my testimony, I was told. I don’t remember it. But I remember feeling tricked. I don’t remember her as a nice lady, but that’s probably not fair. A child’s view.“I’d like to help if I can.” She shoots a look at Corrine.“Yeah. Well, I don’t need your help, Elise.”“Are you sure?”I squeeze the sides of my head with my hands. “Don’t you get it? No one can help me.” No one can remove the demon and the memories, snippets though they are, from my brain. I drop my hands to my sides. “Only I can.”“Can what?” Corrine asks.“Only I can fix this.”She walks to my side. “What do you mean, Molly?”“Him. He’s still there, taunting me. I need to stop him.”“Those calls couldn’t be from . . .” Corrine says, and glances at Elise. “Molly’s been getting crank calls from someone who knows who she is and what happened.”Elise shakes her head. “They monitor calls in prisons. They wouldn’t allow it.”“Whatever,” I say. “I’m exhausted. I’m going back to bed. I don’t want to talk about this.”I slam the guest room door behind me. I meant what I said. I need to fix this. That or be lost forever. Jay’s gone, and I’m utterly alone. But maybe that’s where I need to be.