Chapter 44 #2
The urge to drive back to the hospital, to confront Ralph again, is powerful. But I know better. He’s expecting me to snap, to lose control and give him another chance to play the innocent victim.
He won’t get that satisfaction.
Instead, I take a deep breath and will myself to think rationally. Angie’s brother may hold the key, so I need to go to that dinner and be presentable, not a raging bull ready to charge. And beyond that, I need to be patient.
Ralph will slip up. He has to.
His entire existence is one big con, one careful lie after another. But no matter how careful he may be, he’s still human, and humans make mistakes.
Damn. I need some clarity.
Need to get my head on straight.
And that means…
Fuck.
I know who I should call. If he’ll even take my call this late in the day.
But I have to try.
I get home, walk through my door, and call Dr. Engel.
“Dr. Lansing,” he says into the phone. “How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry I missed our last appointment. Do you have time to talk now? I’ll pay extra.”
“That’s not necessary. But I appreciate the call. It tells me something.”
“Yeah?” I scoff. “And what’s that?”
“That despite what you think about psychiatry, a part of you believes I might be able to help you.”
“I don’t need help. I need the truth. I need to prove that the bastard who framed me for assault is the same one who took my wife away.”
“And in the meantime?” he asks. “What do you do with all of that anger? That grief?”
“I don’t have time for grief,” I mutter. “I need to focus.”
“Suppressing it won’t make you stronger. It won’t bring your wife back, and it won’t clear your name.”
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t call you to be analyzed.”
“Then why did you call?” he presses.
I hesitate. The words sit heavy on my tongue, but they slip out before I can stop them. “Because my life took a hard turn. Because I wake up feeling like I can’t breathe.”
“All right. You want justice. You want the truth,” he says. “But your mind is a battlefield right now, and if you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be strong enough to fight.”
I let out a dry laugh. “So what, you want me to talk about my feelings? Journal? Meditate?”
He doesn’t react to my sarcasm. “No. I want you to understand how trauma works. How the mind warps under stress and grief. I want you to see that what you’re feeling is valid, but it doesn’t have to control you.”
“I don’t buy into all this therapy talk.”
“You don’t have to,” he says simply. “You just have to admit that what you’ve been doing isn’t working.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. I hate that he’s right. I hate that for all my anger, all my need for justice, I still feel like I’m drowning.
“I’m not here to tell you to let go of what happened. I’m here to help you carry it without it breaking you.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “If I let go of the anger, what’s left?”
“The truth,” he says. “And when you find it, I want you to be strong enough to face it.”
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. For so long, I’ve convinced myself that psychiatry is nothing but empty words and useless theories. But sitting here, listening to him, I realize something.
I began this path with him so I could get the surgery I want.
I called him today to get clarity about the man who’s trying to ruin my life.
Instead, I’m starting to find answers about myself.
“All right, Doc,” I say. “Let’s talk.”
For the next hour, I talk to Dr. Engel.
I don’t question his methods. I just talk.
About the surgery.
About the accident.
Julia.
Lindsay.
The guilt. God, the guilt.
About the charges against me.
And about my suspicions about what Ralph did to Lindsay.
About Angie. My love for her that is more than I ever felt for my wife.
God…more guilt.
I spill it all, and he listens.
He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t analyze, even though that’s his job.
He just listens. And somehow, that alone makes the storm in my head a little less intense. As I speak, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders, one word at a time. By the time our conversation nears its end, I feel drained yet strangely energized, as if I’ve been given a new lease on life.
When I’ve exhausted myself of all the things I wanted to say, Dr. Engel finally speaks.
“Yes, what Ralph did is reprehensible,” he begins, “but remember that you are not him. He is filled with hatred and malice, while you’re filled with love and justice. Love for your wife and justice for her death.”
“How do I move forward?” I ask.
“Grief,” he says, “is like a river. It can pull you under, or it can carry you to new places. But you have to let it move you. Not drag you down.”
“And Angie?”
“Let go of the guilt about loving Angie,” he says. “You may indeed love her more than you loved Lindsay, and that’s okay. Lindsay wouldn’t want you to be alone, mourning her and Julia forever. You will always love them, and they will always be in your heart.”
“But Lindsay was never supposed to die. I don’t believe she killed herself.”
“And you know that if she hadn’t, you’d still be together.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Dr. Lansing,” he says, his voice grave, “you’re an intelligent man. What does all this tell you?”
A beat of silence. I swallow, feeling the weight of his tone and the question he’s laid out before me. His words ring in my ears, stirring up thoughts and feelings I’ve been attempting to bury deep down.
“That I can’t change the past,” I finally say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. “That Lindsay’s death wasn’t my fault.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You’re not responsible for Lindsay’s choices, just as you’re not responsible for Ralph’s actions. You can control only your own actions, your own reactions.”
He’s right. Ralph is a monster of his own making, but I am no puppet in his hands. The guilt and anger that have been festering inside me are mine to deal with, not Ralph’s.
And they’re mine to let go.
“You’ve survived something unspeakable,” Dr. Engel says.
“And somehow, you found love again, which tells me you’re stronger than you think.
But strength isn’t just endurance. Sometimes, it’s having the courage to feel everything you’ve been running from—grief, rage, guilt—and still choosing to move forward, not with your fists, but with your heart open. ”
“And what about Ralph?” I ask. “What if I can’t prove that I’m not the one who assaulted him? What if I can never prove that he killed Lindsay?”
“I believe you will triumph over your own charges. In fact, I believe so strongly in your innocence that, if it comes to trial, I will testify as a character witness on your behalf.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That will help.”
“Also, your attorney may be able to plead the case out so you don’t have to do any prison time.”
“But I’m not guilty!”
“I know that, but you must consider all your options, Dr. Lansing.”
He’s right, of course.
And I say so. “I understand. I have the best attorney, and I’ll be smart about this.”
“I know you will be.”
“What if I can’t prove that Ralph killed Lindsay?”
“Whatever happens with Ralph, remember one thing. You always have control over your own actions and reactions. If you can’t prove his guilt legally, then prove it through your own resilience and recovery. Live well, Dr. Lansing. That’s the best kind of revenge.”
“You’re talking like I should just give up on finding justice for Lindsay.”
“No,” Dr. Engel says firmly. “Don’t mistake my caution for discouragement. What I’m saying is that while you pursue justice, don’t allow the pursuit to consume you. Don’t let it control your actions, your emotions, your life.”
I consider his words, and something flashes into my mind.
“Oh my God, I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“Why Dr. Steel said I needed more therapy before I should have the experimental surgery.”
“And why is that?” he asks.
“Because I was letting it consume me. The surgery. But not just that. The grief. The loss. And now the revenge against Ralph. I was letting it all consume me, instead of healing from the inside out. I was seeking fixes for my physical issues while ignoring the emotional wounds.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Engel says. “And that realization, Dr. Lansing, is the first step toward true healing. It takes courage to admit that you need help and even more to accept it.”
It’s like a veil has lifted from my eyes, and I can see clearly for the first time in a long while. I’ve been fighting so hard against my own emotional turmoil that I had forgotten what it feels like to just breathe. To be free of the weight of guilt and anger.
“Thank you,” I say after a moment, feeling strangely raw and exposed.
“You’re welcome,” Dr. Engel replies. “And Dr. Lansing?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’ll continue therapy with me, I’ll tell the board that they should allow the surgery.”
“You mean…now?”
“Yes. As soon as it can be arranged.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it. I was leaning toward that recommendation anyway, and I was ready to make it in the next month or so. But after today’s conversation, I’m confident that you have the support you need, and that you’re finally dealing with your trauma of loss, even though your wife may not have left you of her own accord. ”
“Yes,” I say. “Lindsay deserved better, for sure.”
“She did,” he says. “Life can be foul sometimes, but we must remember to cherish the moments of beauty and love it gives us. That’s what Lindsay would have wanted for you.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice choked with emotion. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll continue therapy, and I’ll fight to clear my name.”
“Good,” Dr. Engel says. “And remember, you don’t have to do this alone.”
After we end the call, I sit still in my car, my eyes closed, taking several deep breaths.
And I feel better—about everything—than I have in a long time.
The fog of all of this has lifted. I’m no longer drowning in a sea of chaos, of unanswered questions.
And I realize… Ralph did slip up. Just now.
As I left, he couldn’t resist getting one last taunt in.
You can’t prove anything, Lansing. Not about me, not about this Burgundy guy. It doesn’t matter how many of his friends you call.
I never told Ralph about calling his old friends.
He knew I was snooping around.
And… Oh my God.
How fucking convenient that his old friend Steve, the person who knew him best, died an hour before I tried to call him to ply him for information.
And then when I got information out of his brother, he ends up dead too.
Ralph must have hired someone to keep an eye on them. On me, too. And when I started looking into his past, he must have had Steve killed.
But Tom said that his brother’s death wasn’t unexpected. That Steve had been suffering from neurological issues ever since the car accident.
And then Tom himself—he had a preexisting heart issue.
Ralph chose targets whose deaths could be explained by something else easily. There wouldn’t be any suspicion, no investigation.
And an anvil sinks in my gut.
The same was true of Lindsay.
She had just suffered a devastating loss. The kind that no parent should ever experience.
It was easy enough to explain her death away as a suicide.
Just as Steve’s and Tom’s deaths were easily explained away.
That’s Ralph’s fucking MO.
But he got sloppy. Two deaths in the Chapman family separated by twenty-four hours? That can’t be explained away.
Then that last barb he threw at me as I left his hospital.
A security cam must have picked up what he said. If I can prove that he said that… If I can connect him to the Chapman deaths.
I can connect him to Lindsay’s death.
And then he’s fucking toast.