The New Husband - D.J. Palmer Page 0,141

to tell our story right now,” Nina said. “It’s too soon for me. But when we’re ready.”

Nina had plans for that money. In addition to funding drug treatment in Hugh’s name, she intended to provide for Detective Wheeler’s widow, and fund an effort to track down Allison Fitch, and if necessary, try to locate her remains. There was no way to make this up to Dr. Wilcox, but fortunately she was back on her feet and eventually she’d be able to resume her practice.

Glen’s eyes misted over as he leaned in, put his mouth close to Nina’s ear, and whispered, “I’m just so grateful we’re alive to tell it together.”

They hugged.

At last, finally, after all this time, she harbored no doubts. This was her husband. The man she loved. True, he had made a terrible choice by not confiding in her, but she had made terrible choices of her own. They were flawed together—like all marriages, perfectly imperfect. With time and counseling, Nina had total confidence she could get over Glen’s deception and his lone indiscretion. The mind was funny like that. It could adapt, shift, change directions like sand in the wind.

In another week, he would be officially discharged and they’d move back in together as a family. Nina had rented a new house in Seabury. She had the money. Ginny and Susanna were helping with the move—once again, the comfort of friendship.

As Nina pulled away from Glen’s embrace, she caught sight of something, or someone, over his shoulder. Simon was in the room with them, a gaping wound in his neck, blood splatter in his hair, on his face, his clothes. She didn’t flinch, didn’t scream. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him.

Nina closed her eyes, opened them, and when she did, he was gone.

EPILOGUE

MAGGIE GARRITY, ESSAY FOR THE DARTMOUTH COLLEGE ADMISSIONS APPLICATION.

QUESTION: The lessons we take from obstacles we encounter can be fundamental to later success. Recount a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?

It is easy to judge other people. It takes no effort at all. Sit back, look at their choices, and decide what you would have done. It’s as simple as that. But when you’re safe inside your home, on your couch, petting your dog, it’s easy to overinflate your capabilities. Why not imagine you’d be a superhero. Of course, you (amazing person) would punch and kick your way to safety—whatever the danger. But here’s what I’ve learned after my ordeal, the greatest obstacle I’ve ever overcome: until you live it, you don’t know what you would actually do. What you think you’d do is nothing but a fantasy.

If you google my name, you’ll see story after story about what happened to my family and me. It wasn’t pleasant. It was the worst time in my life. I nearly died. We all did. Some people judged my father harshly for what had happened. They called him a coward for not finding a way to get a message to me, or even trying to make an escape. They thought the man who had taken him prisoner had brainwashed him into developing a psychological alliance with his captor, which is known as Stockholm syndrome.

But these people who judged him weren’t shackled inside a 512-cubic-foot room for nearly two years. My father did what he had to do to survive.

We all did.

So don’t judge.

I wasn’t always good at this myself. There was a time before that I judged kids who are different—kids who are super studious, kids who don’t look or act “cool,” kids who don’t do sports, or any of the “right stuff.” That’s a lesson I learned the hard way.

Toward the end of seventh grade and the beginning of eighth, I was the target of a bully and was cast out of my social circle. I found myself alone all the time, walking to classes alone, studying alone, eating lunch alone day after day. And you better believe I was judged. Some thought I deserved taunting and teasing. Some just wondered if there was something wrong with me. But there was one who offered his hand. One day, while sitting in the cafeteria, a boy I once judged and dismissed, a boy who was an outsider himself, asked if he could join me for lunch. I was reluctant at first, but then we started to talk and I found that this boy, a boy I never would have considered before, was smart and funny, generous and kind.

That was Benjamin Odell. He turned out to be my best friend and he’s one of the reasons my family is still alive.

We live in a fairly small community and I know that after my father’s disappearance, some people had plenty to say about my mother. They said she took up with a man too quickly. They said she put us in harm’s way by bringing a dangerous and deranged person into our lives. They judged her without understanding my mother or our situation.

Those who know my mother well know her to be a smart woman who was very protective of her family. This time she just failed to see the danger in front of her, in front of us all. And she wasn’t the only one who failed to see. My brother was also fooled. And all those who judged her … would they have been fooled, as well? Quite likely. This person tricked a lot of people.

For reasons I don’t understand, I saw what my mother and my brother could not. From that terrible time, I learned to trust my own instincts and to fight for what I know to be right. And in time, maybe just in time, my mother and brother came to the same understanding, and together we did what we had to do to save our lives.

I learned something else from my awful experience. I learned about the woman at the heart of it all, and, no, it’s not my mother, even though that’s what the stories say. Victim Zero is a woman named Allison Greene. That’s her real last name. I won’t use her married name because I know she would not want it.

Allison was a battered woman. She was trapped in a horribly abusive relationship. I’ve read her diary many times. I know her story well. I’ve also been looking for Allison for years—a lot of us have. I use the internet to try and find her and I guess you would call me an amateur sleuth. I haven’t uncovered any leads, but I’m still searching.

Allison was married for about four years and finally, she ran away from her abuser. Nobody has seen her since. At least we hope she ran away. She was pregnant when she disappeared and nobody knows if she escaped or if she had her baby, because her abuser took those secrets to his grave. And who was this abuser? He was the same man who was in our lives, the man whose surface ease and charm hid a murderous soul. Of course, we knew nothing of Allison, or of a baby, or of abuse, when our story started.

This isn’t an essay about what happened to Allison Greene. It’s about how easy it is to judge people like Allison—women who stay in abusive relationships or return to them. It can be hard to support someone who keeps returning to a dangerous situation. You might think: What are you doing? You know better!

But you’re not that person. You’re not living it. You’re not afraid for your life. You’re not without financial means. You’re not hopeful it can be different.

Judging others is easy. It makes us feel superior. But it doesn’t help women like Allison, or my father, or my mother, or me, or anyone who is “different.”

It hurts.

So what to do?

It’s simple. Don’t rush to judgment.

Have humility. Show empathy.

Ask: What can I do to help?

That’s the question my mother asked my father on his road to recovery.

How can I help?

Three years ago, my parents renewed their vows. It was a beautiful ceremony, but we took a moment to acknowledge Allison, and all the women and men like her, people trapped in abusive relationships, and we said a prayer for them. My mother made a speech and everyone cried.

I believe we all want the same things out of life. We want to be loved, accepted, to belong to something, or someone, to feel wanted and valued. Sometimes we make poor choices on this journey. Instead of sitting in judgment of those choices, let’s help each other get back on the right path.

That’s what I’ve learned from the greatest challenge I’ve ever faced. That’s how it changed me.