off—and I don’t blame you one bit, tiger—but still, way too loud.
“So it seems like my only option is to just keep on beating you until you eventually shut up. But something tells me you’re a pretty stubborn guy. So why don’t I just say this, so we can put an immediate end to everything and have some peace and quiet. Here goes: if you don’t shut the fuck up, right now, and stay shut the fuck up, I will be sure that your little angels—who are due to arrive here at any moment by the way—will experience fear and pain beyond anything you can possibly imagine.”
Jim paused and licked his lips. “Do I make myself clear, stud?” He turned to Amy. “What about you, lover? Am I clear with you too?” He took a step back. “Am I clear with the both of you?”
The basement was still as dark as ever, and husband and wife were still silhouettes, but the shocked whites of their eyes managed to penetrate the gloom the instant their children were mentioned. Stone silence followed.
“Good,” Jim said. “Good mommy. Good daddy.”
41
The light shuffling of footsteps from above had been a constant the entire time Jim held the Lamberts captive in his mother’s basement. When the smell of baked cookies floated their way down the basement stairs, Jim’s heartfelt smile nearly gave way to tears.
“Bless her heart,” he said after a strong sniff of chocolate and cookie dough. “Listen to her scurrying around up there. She’s so excited.”
And then the light shuffling above became hurried shuffling. The sound of a door opening. Muffled voices, enthusiastic in pitch. More footsteps, both heavy and light.
Jim looked at the ceiling, his eyes widening with excitement, mouth hanging open before curling upward into a smile. “You hear that?” he whispered, still looking at the ceiling. “Hundred to one they’re here.” He brought his attention back to the bound couple on the floor. “My brother and your kids are here.”
42
August 2003
Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania
Penn Comprehensive Neuroscience Center
Philadelphia, PA.
Arty Fannelli, 27, and Jim Fannelli, 25, wanted to stand, not sit, when the neurologist came in to give them the diagnosis.
“Dementia?” Arty said. “You mean like Alzheimer’s?”
The doctor, a tall middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair and small rimless glasses, held up a hand and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Dementia is a rather generic definition, for lack of a better phrase. We ran a CAT scan and gave her several cognitive functioning tests. She did exhibit a few of the symptoms you had expressed concern about earlier, however I believe it’s far too early to give a diagnosis of something specific like Alzheimer’s.”
“So what does that mean?” Jim asked. “Does that mean she can get better if she takes medication?”
The doctor took a deep breath. “Well…sort of. There are medications we can try that may help her condition, however I feel obligated to be very frank and honest with you here. Your mother is only sixty-three years old. That’s a relatively young age to start showing the symptoms she’s been exhibiting.”
“Which means she’ll get worse,” Arty said.
The doctor looked at the floor for a moment before looking back up and saying, “Yes. But the point I am trying to get across is that because of the early onset—”
“It’ll come on faster and be more severe,” Arty said.
“Well, I wouldn’t have necessarily put it so succinctly, however—”
“It’s true though, right?” Arty asked. “I mean we’re all men here, doc. You don’t need to baby us.” Arty’s expression was ice.
The doctor’s face reddened. He nodded quickly. “Of course…I…it’s just that some people prefer more subtle ways of delivering this kind of information. You obviously prefer a more straightforward approach. ”
“Yes.”
The doctor nodded quickly again.
Jim and Arty exchanged looks. Jim looked on the verge of angry tears. Arty was still ice.
“I am assuming your father is no longer in the picture?” The doctor asked. His tone was like a feather.
“He passed away,” Arty said.
The doctor tried on a look of professional sympathy. “I see.”
“So what happens now?” Arty asked.
“Well, as I mentioned earlier, we should definitely try medication; but I would also consider looking into some sort of long-term-care community.”
“A rest home?” Jim blurted.
“In a manner of speaking,” the doctor replied. “A home where she can be watched and assisted as needed. At the moment she seems perfectly capable of performing most tasks, but there is a good chance her recollection of time and place will become distorted. She may also