3 #2
Her gaze narrows with a frustration she cannot hide.
Phillip has promised her something big. “Why not five years ago, or ten?” she asks before a faint smile tugs at her lips.
“It almost seems as if you wanted to wait until the last possible moment before someone else could tell it for you—whether real or fictionalized.”
Oh, the clever woman.
“Well, I almost did,” I admit. “The accident—back in February on that icy bridge—almost killed me. Those first weeks in the hospital were touch and go. I’m lucky to be alive, and I know it. Things look different from this perspective.”
“It was a difficult time, I’m sure,” she agrees. “A near-death experience often changes our thinking on many things.”
“Absolutely. I realized there is no more time to wait for the courage or for the right moment. If I plan to share the story, it has to be now. Or never.” I slump a little in my chair to reflect the incredible weight of this decision.
“It must be told, and I need to be the one to tell it. Perhaps,” I admit, “in some small part to nullify the ugly lies you and others have read this week, but primarily because it needs to be done. For me. For my family.”
A new silence lingers a beat too long. To build the tension for her audience, I suspect.
It’s my curse. Always reading people. Every lift of the brow, every flick of the eyes.
The subtlest shift of the corners of the mouth.
She is looking for the ulterior motive, for nuance, for the opportunity to go deeper.
“Despite your very reasonable explanation, there will be some who say the timing is more about the mayoral race and protecting your husband’s campaign,” she counters.
“I suppose it’s true that to some degree the timing was impacted by the article and its effect on our family and, by extension, the mayoral race,” I admit.
Then I give her what she wants—the big reveal Phillip promised.
“Honestly, I suspect someone has learned about my secret project and decided to try and steal my thunder.” I shake my head at the travesty of it all.
“Otherwise, why spread such vicious lies?”
“Secret project?” Her expression is full of renewed interest now. She’s practically on the edge of her seat.
“Yes.” I allow a small smile. “I’ve been approached by several publishers over the years about writing my story, but I never wanted to sensationalize that incredibly painful time, and I certainly didn’t want to capitalize on the tragedy of those who weren’t as lucky as I was.
But, as I say, things look different now. ”
“You’ve decided to publish a memoir.” Her eager words rush out on a near gasp. Full of the need to get the news out—to be the first to announce this.
“I have. It’s the only way to properly set the record straight once and for all.”
“Do you have a release date?” A vague frown mars her features. “These things generally take a considerable amount of time.”
I can’t prevent a smile then. This is the real linchpin. The answer she desperately wants to know—to reveal to her audience before anyone else breaks the news. News that will hopefully lessen the impact of the article for Phillip and will surely add to Talia’s followers.
“Optimistically”—I start to shrug, but a twinge of pain stops me—“I’ll need a couple of months, maybe three, before I’m ready to turn it over to a publisher. To clarify, I started working on it after our daughter was born. It was for her and no one else. So the words are on the page.”
This part is entirely true. When I held Olivia in my arms for the first time, I knew I had to ensure she understood the whole truth.
To protect her. To guard her opinion of me as she grew older in case I wasn’t there to do so.
I couldn’t bear the idea of her hearing someone else’s version of events and wondering why I’d lied to her.
Talia’s face reflects the surprise I hoped to prompt. She isn’t the only one who knows how to rouse a bit of shock and awe.
“Wow. That’s . . . that’s great. Very smart of you to have the forethought to get your story on paper for your daughter.”
I relax fully, knowing the interview is basically over. She has what she came for—what no one else has. Now she’s itching to escape and get the interview edited and prepared for release.
“You’ve remained hush as to the extent of your injuries and recovery after the accident.” Her gaze presses mine now with a new sense of purpose. “Did you feel that was necessary, in some way, to protect your husband’s campaign? Taking on the position of mayor in this city is a huge responsibility.”
“Not at all. It was just a very private time,” I insist. “I will share with you that Phillip offered to step aside from the race and give his full attention to me, but I felt it was far too much of a sacrifice. New York needs Phillip in this role. The people need him.” For good measure, I add, “Actually, we, and the campaign, are doing great in spite of what happened.”
Talia’s eyebrows rear up. “Wow. That was incredibly selfless of you, considering, as you said yourself, you barely survived the crash.”
She has no idea. The truth is, surviving the accident was the easy part.
The recovery, on the other hand, has been pure hell.
Two surgeries. Debilitating pain. Endless physical therapy.
A broken right clavicle and multiple pelvis fractures, as well as a few cracked ribs, is no walk in the park.
Particularly in light of the grade-three concussion and resulting ten days in a coma that kept me flat on my back.
Muscles don’t like to work once they’ve grown stiff from disuse.
Add the pain of the healing fractures and plenty of soft-tissue injuries to the mix, and it was bad.
Really bad. Nearly a month in the hospital and then another in a cloud of pain, fatigue, and pharmaceutical fog.
Not to mention intense physical therapy that is still required, though less frequently.
Even three months later there are issues.
My body no longer feels thirty-seven, more like seventy.
I have the occasional moment of confusion and some difficulty with memory related to the TBI.
The good news is that all is slowly but surely improving.
As for the mayoral race, what does a rich man do when he grows bored of watching the stock market for his investors and playing pickleball with his peers?
He runs for office so he can play with other people’s lives and watch what happens.
His many philanthropic works have made him a household name, which is a large part of the reason he is so far ahead of the other candidate.
The very bad timing of my accident was sadly one of those things you cannot control no matter how hard you try.
“It was the right choice,” I say to her suggestion of altruism. Though urging Phillip to stay in the race was not selfless at all. It is a relief to have him focused on something else rather than hovering over me as I recover.
Talia nods as if she completely understands. She cannot possibly.
“I’m sure those who’ve followed your story,” she says, moving back to the more tantalizing topic, “have wondered when you would stop ignoring the book-deal offers.”
“In the beginning it was simply too hard to put on paper, much less in print for the world to see. Instead, I threw myself into my education. Maintaining that focus helped a great deal. I desperately needed to stay on track and not allow that one horrifying event to define my life.”
“Of course.” Her expression fills with new sympathy. “But that wasn’t the end of the difficulties fate had in store for you, it seems. You’d just completed your doctoral degree when your parents were tragically killed in an automobile accident.”
I give a sad nod. “They were on their way home from the hooding ceremony.” I pause for a moment to gather myself. “After that awful time I took an extended break, then I concentrated on finding a place where I could help most.”
“You chose to work with women in need rather than start a private practice as a psychologist. Again, that was quite selfless of you.”
“It felt like the right thing to do. I was blessed with a generous inheritance; I wanted to give back. To help those not so fortunate. Before I knew it, I met Phillip and we were married. We had Olivia and here we are.”
“Most people,” she points out, “are the age you are now before they begin to reflect on where they’ve been and what they’ve accomplished, much less how they can give back.”
I’ll be thirty-eight soon, which feels far older, all things considered.
“I suppose because I was so grateful to be alive at all after the abduction, I needed to do something more a little earlier than most. What happened, from my abduction to the loss of my parents, altered the entire trajectory of my life. It literally changed every single thing about who I was, what I wanted to be and do.” I pause for a moment to collect myself.
“That’s the title, in fact, of my memoir. The Woman I’ve Become.”
“Wow, that is . . . perfect.” She presses her hand to her chest. “I, for one, would love a sneak peek at an advance copy.” She tilts her head and eyes me for a long moment as if she’s working up the nerve to segue into a new topic.
“Will you be delving into the subject of the other girl, Wendy Neely, who disappeared in Westport around that same time?”
Suddenly the image of her looms larger than life in my mind’s eye.
I blink it away. This is another matter I fully expected to surface.
It has been broached so many times. So many, many times.
The Westport police, the Connecticut state police, the FBI—all wanted to find the answer back then.
Eventually the investigation slipped into that place where cases grow cold and die.