(from a novel by Tami
Hoag)
To Dr. Hannah Garrison, the day
had seemed to last forever and night too soon.
The contradiction, she
thought was just a reflection of
her own inner turmoil. She had been away
from the hospital longer than 2 weeks.
(Josh, her young son, had been kidnapped ~ fortunately, returned a few
days later, had been physically and emotionally abused...but would speak
nothing about his ordeal). She couldn't
even imagine leaving Josh and Lily to return to the hospital ward...and yet,
she missed her work and research
terribly...she missed the place and the people, her patients, her
co-workers, her friends, the normalcy of routine, the drudgery of paper work. Most of all...she missed who she was at
work! The strength of mind and will she
wore in that role seemed to have come off with the white lab coat and the fake
name brass tag. Just, who was she?
She would never have said that
she defined herself by her job. It
wasn't who she was...it was what she did.
But, without the frame of reference it provided, she felt at a
loss. And with the feeling of loss, came
guilt. She wasn't only a doctor...she
was a mother. Her children needed
her! Why could she not define herself in
those terms? The 'curse of the 90's woman',
she thought, struggling for a sense of humour.
A futile struggle! The day had
held little to laugh about and was only going to get worse...snowy weather in
Minnesota...changes to the hospital staff (due to her absence)...medical
appointments for her son who was mute and unable to talk. Josh and Lily ~ her
importance now!
Professor Wright ~ A
Sociopath? There was nothing to
make himself stand out in a crowd as a
suspect in Josh's kidnapping: no glaring
eyes, no sign of the devil branded into his forehead. That was what frightened and fascinated
people most ~ that monsters moved among them, unknowing, unsuspected. People stood behind them in line at the bank,
bumped carts with them at the groceteria.
Too many times, there was nothing there to see.
Costello, defending Dr. Hannah
Garrison, called her forward to testify.
Jay Butler, a writer assembling facts for a crime novel, was in
attendance. He considered this strategy.
If Wright was the 'sociopath' Ellen North (the prosecuting lawyer) was painting
him to be, then he was a consummate liar...an actor with a role he relished ~
the mild-mannered professor, well deserving of public sympathy. Jay had to admit, he'd seen it before: a mind as cold as arctic ice, capable
of charm, just as capable of murder. He'd once sat opposite just such a man in
a visitation booth in Angola Penitentiary...a man who was pleasant, articulate
on all political issues of the day. Well-read, bright with a sharp sardonic
wit. A man who had 3 truck-stop-waitresses hostage as sex slaves...tortured
them to death...then took up taxidermy
and mounted their heads and breasts for his own trophy room. D. Rodman Madsen, a sales rep for an
irrigation company...twice voted 'salesman of the year'...and treasurer of the
local Elks Lodge. He was a killer behind
the socially acceptable facade. No one
who knew him...had never suspected.
Dr. Hannah Garrison
wondered...is Professor Wright a Sociopath?
As a Mother...her
duty was to protect her children at whatever the cost!
When a Mother Dies
(written by Paul
Benedetti...Professor of Journalism at Western University)
Two weeks ago, I woke up, walked
downstairs into the kitchen and said, “It's my Mom's birthday today.” It was October 23. My mother died May 4. “What are you going to
do?” asked my wife. I had no idea. We
had always celebrated my mother's birthday.
Each year, one of the kids would step up and host a dinner...or
sometimes just cake and Prosecco and coffee. My mom loved a celebration. “I don't know,” I said. “Maybe I'll go to the cemetery. My wife gave me a look. I never go to cemeteries...never thought much
of visiting 'dead relatives'; believe I got that from my father who scoffed at
the idea. “It's better to go see them when they're alive,” he'd say. But for some reason, I had a strong urge to
go. “What do I do? Should I bring some flowers or something?” I
asked.
“Sure. Your mother liked mums. Why don't you pick up some?” suggested my
wife, who always has the answers to these things. So, I did. I bought a pot
of bright yellow mums and drove out to
Holy Sepulchre Cemetery. I walked
through the rows of headstones clutching my potted flowers. I came to the grave and looked down at the
foot stone and I read my father's name and the dates of his birth and death...and
then my mother's name and her date of birth, October 23, 1927...and then a dash
and an empty space. I thought to myself,
“We'll have to get that engraved,”...and then suddenly, I wept. I stood there,
tears running down my face...and finally I sat down on the ledge of a
gravestone nearby and wept some more. I wept not for her ~ she had lived a long
and healthy and rich life. No, I wept
for myself.
Grief is a strange emotion. After she died, people would ask me, “How are
you?” and I would answer, “I don't know...I've never really felt like this
before.” My father's death six years ago
had been hard, and though I think of him in some way every single day, I am
OK. But when my mother died, I tried to
be OK...but I was not. And the people
around me ~ my wife and my kids, knew I wasn't. I was flat and disconnected and
sad. It was as though the world had
somehow changed...all the juice of life squeezed out and only the dry pulp and
bitter rind remained.
“I'm not really OK,” I told my
wife in the summer. “I know,” she said,
a small sad smile on her face. “Your
mother filled a big place in your life. You talked to her...and saw her...and
thought about her every day. And that's
gone now.”
I reached out to my siblings and
told them how I felt. My sister,
Roseanne sent me an email that read in part, “I too have been feeling at a
loss, and yes, disconnected...I know mom would be disappointed to know I am
such a mess and would want me to focus on the good as she always did. However, I am not as positive and energetic
as she was. I actually think we are all
struggling...”
I thought of my mother and the
way she soldiered through the deaths of all her siblings and her husband...and
each time she refused to let grief overwhelm her. She would often talk about them...tear
up...and then fanning herself with her hand, she would straighten up and say,
“OK, Mary, that's enough. That's enough!”
And she would smile and go forward to knitting classes or dance classes
or home to make a pot of tomato sauce.
She would live!
I thought of all that when I
stood up and wiped my face with my hand and said 'Good Bye' and slowly made my
way to the car. It was a perfect autumn
day and the clear cobalt blue sky made the brilliant crimson, gold and russet
of the fall leaves vibrate with intensity.
I walked back through the rows of gravestones...the sunshine warm on my
face. And it felt good!
Merle
Baird-Kerr...scripted November 20, 2014
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