THE TRUTH SHALL set you free. Another old saying. Not one I ever heard from my father's lips. Given what I now know about his past, I think I understand.
Six months have passed since that last bloody evening in my apartment. Six months of police questioning, storage-unit recovery, DNA results, and, yes, even a press conference. I have my own agent. She believes she can get me millions of dollars from a major Hollywood studio. And, of course, there will be a book deal.
I can't imagine myself talking to Larry King. Or profiting from my family's tragedy Then again, a girl's gotta eat, and these days, the custom-window-treatment clients are hardly knocking at my door. I haven't decided yet.
At the moment, I'm in the shower, shaving my legs. I'm nervous. A little excited. I think now, more than ever, that there is much to learn about myself.
Here are the truths as I see them, thus far:
One, my dog is strong. Bella did not die on my kitchen floor. No, my incredibly brave canine companion held up better than I did, as Bobby hustled us into the back of an arriving patrol car and raced us to an emergency vet. Charlie had sliced Bella's shoulder all the way to the bone. Damaged some tendons. Cost her a great deal of blood. But two thousand dollars of the best medical care later, Bella came home. She is partial to sleeping on my bed now. I'm partial to giving her giant hugs. No jogging for us yet. But we're building up our strength with some very brisk walks.
Two, wounds heal. I spent twenty-four hours in the hospital, mostly because I wouldn't leave Bella's side until the vet forced me to go, and by that time I'd lost plenty of blood myself. My cheek required twelve stitches. My legs, twenty. My right arm, thirty-one. I guess my cover-girl days are over. I like my scars, however. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I trace the fine, puckered lines with my fingertips. War wounds. My father would be proud.
Three, some questions will never be answered. In my father's storage unit, I found my mother's prized sofa; my baby album, complete with my original birth certificate; miscellaneous family memorabilia; and finally, a note from my father. It was dated one week after we had returned to Boston, when I imagine his anxiety had been sky-high. It didn't provide an explanation. Instead, on June 18, 1993, my father wrote: Whatever happens, know that I always loved you, and tried my best.
Did he anticipate dying in Boston? Believe that returning to the scene of so much tragedy sealed his doom? I have no idea. I suspect he knew that his brother was still alive. No doubt my father had checked the papers for news of an unknown body found in an abandoned Arlington home, and when no such story appeared, realized his efforts hadn't been as final as he had wished. Then again, why not come back and try again? Why return to my mother and me in Florida?
I don't know. I will never know. Maybe killing isn't as easy as it looks. My father tried it once and that was enough for him. So after that, we ran. Every time a child disappeared, any time an Amber Alert hit the local papers, that was it. My father bought new identities, my mother packed our suitcases, and my family hit the road.
Ironically enough, the police believe Uncle Tommy never followed us. The bullet may not have killed him, but the brain damage it caused seemed to derail most of his psychotic impulses. He took a job with UPS. He became a model, if somewhat antisocial, citizen. He got on with his life.
Only my family remained rooted in the past, always running, always searching for a sense of safety my father didn't know how to find.
Four, some truths aren't meant to be told. For example, after much investigating, the police officially ruled Ben/Tommy's death an accident. In an armed confrontation with law enforcement, the suspect was shot four times through a locked door by an identified officer. The officer was then able to force open the door, at which time the wounded suspect raced from the apartment in a desperate attempt to escape. In his pain and confusion, he accidently flipped over the fifth-story banister and fell to his death.
Needless to say, Bobby and I don't discuss this incident. Neither does D.D., who was in the downstairs lobby, and thus, according to the official report, was not in a position to see what happened before the giant splat.
Though, a few weeks ago, she gave me a T-shirt that reads: Accidents Happen.