Edward sat on the floor, his back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him. Carl lay six feet away, unconscious. He had smacked his head on the floor when Richard had fallen on top of him. Richard now lay next to Edward, his head resting on Edward’s lap, his stomach bleeding from two bullet holes not more than two inches apart. Edward had taken off his shirt, rolled it, and was now pressing it against the holes, doing his best to stanch the flow of blood. It seemed to be working. Both of Richard’s hands covered Edward’s hand. Edward’s other hand caressed his friend’s head.
Edward had tried getting up to use the phone to call for help, but Richard, grabbing Edward’s arms and pleading with him to stay, had not let him. As if Richard knew that it wouldn’t matter. Edward had also tried apologizing to Richard, but Richard, speaking through a horrible gurgling sound, told him to stop doing such a thing and to simply speak the truth. Edward looked down at his friend with a puzzled look, unsure of his meaning. Richard motioned with a trembling hand to the manila envelope and the blood-stained pages that littered the floor.
After moments of looking at the blood and the papers and turning the words over and over in his mind, Edward understood. The truth. The truth will set you free. That’s what Edward’s father had always told him. Maybe it was time to be set free. One hand pressing his blood-soaked shirt against Richard’s stomach, the other hand caressing his dear friend’s head, Edward started telling Richard the most horrible, hurtful truth hidden inside him—that being the truth behind his wife’s suicide. He started with the confession that Richard was his dearest friend, the one person he could always count on. He continued with what was written on the pages on the floor, speaking out loud to his good friend and telling him…
…the truth. I owe you that much, Richard. I owe you that much.
I don’t know why—and I’m sure the mental health experts have a technical name for it—but I remember everything leading up to the moment it happened. Everything immediately after that is a blur. I know how that sounds, I know, but it’s the truth.
That day, I pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition of our Oldsmobile, and had trouble getting the key out of the ignition switch. I sat in the car for ten minutes wrestling with the key. Ten minutes. How could I have known that ten minutes could cost a number of lifetimes? Finally, I managed to wrangle it out without breaking it off in the steering column.
I got out of the car. I took a deep breath of the rain-cleansed fresh air. The afternoon September shower left the front lawn sparkling with millions of raindrops glistening on the blades of grass. The driveway was still wet, a faint mist rising from it as the puddles evaporated under the glowing sun.
I shut the front door of the car, opened the rear door, and grabbed my briefcase. I remember thinking that I should just leave it in the car, but then decided against it as I had paperwork and notes inside it that I needed to finish that night for the upcoming board meeting and next week’s sermon. When I lifted the briefcase it bumped the head rest of the front seat. One of the clasps must not have been latched closed because the briefcase popped open. My Bible and sermon notes and files spilled onto the rear seat and floor.
It took a few minutes to gather up the papers, put them into their proper order, and place them neatly into the briefcase. How many times I’ve wondered, lamented the possibility, of what may have happened, how things may have turned out, had I left the briefcase in the car, or had I not cared so much about making sure my sermon notes were in the right order at that time.
Nevertheless, I made sure I latched both locks on the briefcase.
I closed the rear door. I stood straight, briefcase in one hand, suit coat draped over my arm, and surveyed my neighborhood. A couple of children were riding their tricycles in the driveway across the street; Mr. Whitaker—the eighty-year-old who was in better shape than I was—was mowing his front lawn; a single-engine Cessna buzzed overhead, heading toward the airport on the southern edge of Albany.
It was a wonderful day to come home early.
I headed toward my house, anticipating the sight of Lynne playing with my two beautiful little girls. As I sauntered up the driveway swinging my suit coat and briefcase, and before I reached the stone walkway, an odd impulse overtook me. Odd only in the sense that I had never felt such a thing before in my life, at least not that I can remember. I felt the need—yes, I use the word ‘need’—to remove my shoes and socks and walk across the wet grass. Knowing what you know about me, you may find it strange that I complied with the impulse without hesitation. I impulsively removed my shoes and socks and placed them on the walkway next to the flower bed that Lynne had meticulously planted and cared for.
I strolled across the grass, the wet blades tickling my feet and lodging themselves between my toes. I felt my pant cuffs getting wet as they slapped against my ankles, and it did not bother me in the least. The experience was refreshing in a childlike way.
I approached the front door. I wiped my feet on the welcome mat on the front cement step, which didn’t do any good because the mat itself was still soaked from the rain. I opened the door and, as quietly as possible, slipped inside and gently eased the door closed, hoping I could surprise my girls. The door latch clicked into place.
I stood on the wood floor which had been warmed by the sun shining through the narrow, block glass windows on either side of the entryway. I listened for voices. I heard none, yet remained still. Perhaps Lynne and the girls had seen me pull into the driveway and were now playing hide-and-seek with me, as they often did. Without moving I visually searched the front hallway and living room. Evidence of the day’s activities were scattered about the room: two baby bottles, one half-full, the other empty, both on the floor next to the couch; an open Cat-in-the-Hat book face-down on the middle cushion of the couch; bibs and pacifiers on the coffee table. I pictured Lynne, sitting on the floor, feeding, reading, caring. Taking care of my baby girls.
In a word, mothering.
For the most part, Lynne enjoyed being a mother. At least, that’s how it had appeared to me. Lynne had gone through a difficult time—stress, post-partum issues, things like that—but nothing the two of us couldn’t handle together. During those times especially, Lynne enjoyed the early afternoons immediately following lunch when naptime arrived. It gave her a chance to rest. She needed a lot of that.
I moved from the warmth of the sun’s rays to place my briefcase in its usual place on the floor next to the phone table. I put my keys in the ceramic Christmas mug (one of Lynne’s favorite possessions) on the table, and crept silently up the carpeted stairway, hoping to glimpse my beloved girls in the blissful state of napping. I paused on each step, the fabric of the sun-warmed carpet massaging my feet, and I listened. I heard an occasional intake of breathe, or whimper, and attributed them to normal sleeping sounds.
I loosened my tie and continued climbing the stairs. Half-way up, I paused. I don’t know why, but I thought of the photograph Lynne had on the night stand on her side of the bed. It was of Lynne when she was ten years old, standing next to her mother who lay in a hospital bed. I thought of what it must have been like for Lynne to have grown up with the constant visits to the hospital, never knowing when her mother might come home, and when she did come home, never knowing when she would need to go back.
At that precise moment, I was startled from my thoughts by a noise that did not sound normal, that did not belong within the context of my wife napping with our baby girls. It was nothing more than a whimper, or a muffled cry, and yet I knew that that sound, like an alien invader, did not belong in my house.
That sound propelled me up the rest of the stairs. At the top, I listened for the briefest of moments before turning to the right toward our bedroom.
What I saw next filled me with untouchable terror I will never be able to purge from my soul.
Lynne was standing next to our bed, her back to me. She had a white pillow in her hand. Abigail and Ruth were lying next to each other on our bed. Abigail flailed her arms and legs as if recently awakened. Ruth lay as still and heavy as a sweltering August night. The black gun seemed to float on the white bed covers, less than a foot away from Ruth’s tiny, motionless feet.
Afraid to move, I whispered Lynne’s name.
She grabbed the gun off the bed, turned, and leveled it at my chest.
“What are you doing here?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her long red hair was matted to her cheeks and forehead. She gripped the pillow in one hand. The gun shook in her other. Her neck shone with perspiration.
“I…Lynne…what…what are you doing?” I held out my trembling hand. “Lynne, give me the gun.” I stepped toward her.
Lynne motioned with the gun for me to back up. “Don’t come closer. Swear to God, Edward, I’ll kill you.” She wiped her forehead with the white pillow.
I stopped. “OK, Lynne.” I held up my hands in surrender. “OK. I’m not moving, not another inch.” I glanced at Abigail and Ruth on the bed. “Lynne, give me the gun, then we can figure this out. OK, Lynne? Let’s…let’s just try to figure this out. Give me the gun.”
The gun shook in her hand. “Figure this out?” She gasped for a breath. “How many times have we prayed, Edward? How many shrinks have you secretly sent me to, how many visits to the mental ward does it take for you to realize we are never going to figure this out. I’m not getting any better.” Lynne backed up until her leg bumped the bed. She lowered herself next to Abigail. She kept the gun aimed at me while she switched the gun and pillow from one hand to the other. She lowered the pillow to Abigail’s tiny, peaceful face.
“Lynne.” I stepped closer. “What are you…I won’t let you—”
Lynne dropped the pillow onto the bed, next to Abigail’s head. Then she caressed Abigail’s hair, as if admiring it for the first time. More tears fell from her cheeks.
“Lynne, this is not the way to solve this.” I wanted to do something, desperately wanted to do something, anything. Lunge for the gun, make a move to grab Abigail and Ruth, something, anything, but I didn’t dare risk it.
She turned to me, her hand stroking Abigail’s hair, the gun aimed at me. “We are way beyond trying to solve this. This isn’t solved by one of your tidy little sermons where you can put all the Bible verses together and make a pretty picture and everything turns out roses. My god, haven’t you figured that out yet?”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth and throat were a desert. I slowly raised my hand and wiped the sweat from my eyes. “Lynne, let me hold your hand.” I reached out my hand toward hers. “Give it to me. Not the gun, your other hand. You can have the gun, but I need to hold your hand.”
“See? You think I’m crazy. You think I’m so out of my mind that I’ll just give you my hand, totally oblivious to your scheming to make a grab for the gun.” Lynne grinned. “I may, indeed, be crazy, Edward, but I’m not stupid.” She shook her head, her eyes staying on me. “I am not stupid.”
“It’s not the gun I want. It’s you. Just you.” I glanced again at Abigail and Ruth, trying to think of a way to get between them and Lynne.
“What about them?” Lynne nodded at the girls. “Don’t you want them?”
“I still have them. I’ll always have them. Right now, I don’t have you.”
“What do you have, exactly, Edward?” Lynne waved one arm above her head, indicating her surroundings. “All this? Us?” Lynne lowered her arm and shook her head. Her eyes searched mine, looking for something to grasp. “What you have is a lunatic wife who inherited the crazies from her mother and who, in all likelihood, passed them on to her own beautiful daughters. That’s what you have.” Lynne rubbed her forehead, not taking her eyes or the gun off me. “Oh, yeah.” She stopped rubbing her forehead. “There’s one other thing you have.” A laugh escaped from between her lips. “How could I have forgotten that?”
I didn’t know what she meant, and it didn’t matter to me at all right then. “You are not crazy, and you did not pass anything like that to our daughters. Look at them.” I stepped toward Lynne and pointed at Abigail and Ruth, two precious little girls created out of our love for each other. “Go ahead. Look at them. See for yourself.” Lynne shifted her eyes to the girls then quickly back to me. “Do you have problems? Yes, of course you do. Just like the rest of us. We all—”
“Don’t you dare do that, Edward. Don’t lump me with the rest of you. You have no idea what goes on inside my head. The voices, the jumbled thoughts. You have no idea.” Lynne’s voice took on a darker tone with that last statement, determination replacing panic.
“Lynne.” I stepped closer. “We can—”
“No more talking.” She tightened her grip on the gun as she reached for the bed. It was a white envelope that I hadn’t noticed, resting on the pillow on the opposite side of the bed. She took it and held it out to me.
“What is this?” I took it from her hand. She snatched her hand away without answering. The envelope was addressed to Lynne, no return address. There was no stamp on it, which meant it had been dropped off at our house by whoever wrote it. It had been opened already. I looked at Lynne as I pulled out a single piece of lined paper. Before I unfolded it my stomach twisted into a knot.
I knew what it was.
I looked at Lynne. She looked at me.
I unfolded the paper. Written in blue ink in a flowing script of smooth-rounded letters was a letter that could come only from a woman’s hand.
I skipped to the bottom of the single page and read the signature. My heart started racing, both hands started trembling uncontrollably.
“Lynne, I can explain this. Nothing happened, I swear. She and I…nothing happened between us, I swear it. If you just listen, we can…we can work through this. We can—”
“We can what? Figure it out?” Lynne shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She picked up the pillow from the bed, keeping the gun and her eyes on me. “I’m tired, Edward. I’m done with it. I will not allow my daughters to go through what I and my mother have gone through. And I won’t allow myself to go through the humiliation of what you’ve done to me. I won’t.”
Abigail started crying. Lynne turned her head. I took another step closer, but Lynne noticed it. She whipped her head around. “Back up.” I didn’t move. Her grip on the gun steadied. “Now.” I saw her finger on the trigger tense. I stepped back. Her finger relaxed. Abigail cried louder. Lynne didn’t turn toward Abigail. She kept her attention on me.
I prayed for an opportunity.
It came when Abigail stopped crying. Lynne turned toward her, the gun lowered slightly, and I lunged for it.
I almost got the gun out of her hand before she squeezed the trigger.
The bullet shattered my left hip. I collapsed to my knees. Blood seeped through my clothes and spilled onto the white carpet. I fell to the floor. I remembered a Scripture about our sins, red like scarlet, becoming as white as snow. I saw the scarlet stain on the white carpet. My sins, all I’d done to deserve this, God’s punishment, Abigail and Ruth and Lynne about to pay for my sins.
Lynne lowered the pillow and covered Abigail’s face. I struggled to get up, but collapsed again to the floor. I knew I was close to blacking out…or worse. I looked up at Lynne. She was staring at Ruth, still smothering Abigail with the pillow, and it was then that I saw the full terrible truth.
Ruth wasn’t moving.
Her arms hadn’t moved at all since I’d entered the bedroom, and neither had her legs, or her tiny feet. I watched her chest. It did not rise, it did not fall.
I tried to speak, but no words came out.
Lynne, weeping, her entire body trembling, lifted the pillow from Abigail’s face.
“Lynne…” I tried again to move, but was unable to support my weight. I pressed both hands to my hip, trying to stop the bleeding. I tried again to speak, again nothing came out. My breath was slipping away, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision.
Lynne dropped the pillow. It fell to the carpet. Lynne sat on the bed, between the girls, the gun in her hand held between her legs, her head lowered.
I closed my eyes. I wanted to be thankful, to thank God for saving us, to thank Him for the miracle of life and His coming to our rescue…
…but…Ruth…
Was Abigail still alive? Had Lynne held the pillow on her face long enough? It hadn’t seemed like it, maybe there was still hope for Abigail…maybe….
I looked at Lynne, and she looked down at me. Tears fell from her cheeks, onto the white carpet, inches from my blood. I focused on Lynne’s face, and I saw pain and sorrow and regret. Her mouth moved, and I think she said something, and it looked like she said, “I’m sorry.” I looked into her eyes, and in that eternal moment, in that black hole of time, all I felt for her was love, a different love I’d never felt for anyone in my life.
Then my focus widened, my vision grew sharper, and another brutal truth unveiled itself to me. Lynne had the barrel of the gun resting against her temple. Her finger started to squeeze the trigger. I struggled with everything I had in me to get to my knees. I reached out for her. Her lips moved again. “I’m sorry, Edward. I’m so sorry.”
Her finger squeezed more. Against my will my eyes closed. I fought to open them. The room exploded.
I reached out for my wife one last time before everything went black…
…and that was the last recollection Edward had of that day. Done with the truth, Edward looked down at Richard. His eyes were closed. His throat worked. Edward’s hands were wet and sticky. He looked at them. Blood was seeping out from between Edward’s fingers.
Tears ran down Edward’s cheeks and dripped onto his hands and mixed with his friend’s blood. He could feel Richard’s chest heave once, stop moving, and heave again. Richard coughed up blood.
Edward closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Richard. God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”
A slight squeeze of Richard’s hand. Edward opened his eyes. Richard looked up at him. His eyes were empty. The color was gone, the life was gone. Richard’s chest was no longer moving.
Edward hung his head and cried and thought back to the day he watched his wife die and he cried out to God and asked how much a man was supposed to endure, how much misery and pain could one man be expected to carry in one lifetime.
Edward thought of Abby and asked God to tell him where his daughter was and reassure him that she was safe and that everything was going to be all right, that everything would be all right.
Edward lowered his head and kissed Richard’s forehead. Then he closed his eyes, slumped to the floor, and cried himself to sleep, cradling Richard’s head.
<><><>
After sleeping and dreaming for more than twenty-four hours, two men on snowmobiles who had been looking for people stranded in the storm spotted Edward’s car in the parking lot and decided to see if there was anyone inside the church. They found Edward with Richard’s head resting on his lap.
They did not find Carl Sanderson.