All Is Not Forgotten: The bestselling gripping thriller you’ll never forget. Wendy Walker

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СКАЧАТЬ It sounded like death, like a piece of Tom Kramer had been murdered. His knees buckled and he reached for Baird, who took hold of his arms and kept him on his feet. A nurse rushed to join them, offering assistance, offering to get him a chair, but he refused. Where is she! Where is my baby! he demanded, pushing away from the doctor. He bounded toward one of the curtains, but the nurse stopped him, grabbing his forearms from behind to steer him down the hall. She’s right over here, the nurse said. She’s going to be fine … she’s asleep.

      They reached one of the triage areas and the nurse pulled back the curtain.

      My wife has told me ever since we had our own daughter, our first child—Megan is her name, now off to college—that she projects scenarios like this one onto herself. When we watched Megan pull out of the driveway for the first time behind the wheel of our car. When she left for a summer program in Africa. When we caught her climbing a tree in the yard, what feels like a hundred years ago. There are so many more examples. My wife would close her eyes and picture a pile of metal and flesh twisted together on the side of the road, or a tribal warlord with a machete, our daughter sobbing before him on her knees. Or her neck snapped and body lifeless beneath the tree. Parents live with fear, and how we deal with it, process it, depends on too many factors to recite here. My wife has to go there, to see the images, feel the pain. She then puts it in a box, loads the box on a shelf, and when the nagging worry creeps in, she can look at the box and then let the worry pass through her before it can settle in and feast on her enjoyment of life.

      She has described to me these images, sometimes crying briefly in my arms. What is at the heart of each description, and what I find so compelling for its uniformity, is the juxtaposition of purity and corruption. Good and evil. For what could be more pure and good than a child?

      Tom Kramer set his eyes upon his daughter in that room and saw what my wife has only imagined in her mind. Small braids laced with ribbon falling next to the bruises on her face. Smeared black mascara on cheeks that were still puffy like a child’s. Pink polish on broken nails. Only one of the birthstone stud earrings he’d bought her for her birthday, the other missing from a bloody earlobe. Around her were metal tables with instruments and blood-soaked swabs. The work was not yet done, so the room had not been cleaned. A woman in a white lab coat sat beside her bed, taking her blood pressure. She wore a stethoscope and offered only a fleeting glance before looking back at the dial on the black rubber pump. A female police officer stood unobtrusively in the corner, pretending to busy herself with a notepad.

      Like life “flashing before your eyes” just before death, Tom saw a newborn in a pink swaddled blanket. He felt the warm breath of a baby on his neck as she slept in his arms; a tiny hand lost inside his palm; a full-body hug around his legs. He heard a high-pitched giggle come from a chubby belly. Theirs was a relationship unspoiled by the pitfalls of misbehavior. Those were saved for Charlotte Kramer, and in this respect, I could see that she had, however unintentionally, given them both a gift.

      Rage at her attacker would come, but not then. More than anything, what Tom saw, felt, and heard in that moment was his failure to protect his little girl. His despair cannot be measured nor adequately described. He began to weep like a child himself, the nurse at his side, his daughter pale and lifeless on the bed.

      Charlotte Kramer stayed behind with the doctor. Shocking as it may sound to you, she saw her daughter’s rape as a problem that needed to be solved. A broken pipe that had flooded the basement. Or perhaps worse than that—a fire that had burned their entire house to the ground but left them standing. The key fact was the last bit—that they had survived. Her thoughts turned instantly to rebuilding the house.

      She looked at Dr. Baird, arms crossed at her chest. What kind of rape? she asked him.

      Baird paused for a moment, not sure what she was asking.

      Charlotte sensed his confusion. You know, was it some boy from the party who got carried away?

      Baird shook his head. I don’t know. Detective Parsons may know more.

      Charlotte grew frustrated. I mean, from the examination. Did you do a rape kit?

       Yes. We’re required to by law.

       So—did you see anything, you know, that might indicate one way or another?

      Mrs. Kramer, Baird said. Maybe we should let you see Jenny, and then I can discuss this with you and your husband in a more private setting.

      Charlotte was put off, but she did as she was asked. She is not a difficult person, and if my descriptions of her indicate otherwise, I assure you most vehemently that it is not by design. I have great respect for Charlotte Kramer. She has not had an easy life, and her adaptations to her own childhood trauma are surprisingly mild— and reflective of the fortitude of her constitution. I believed she truly loved her husband, even when she emasculated him. And that she loved her children, loved them equally, even though she held Jenny to higher standards. But love is a term of art and not science. We can, each and every one of us, describe it in different words, and feel it differently within our bodies. Love can make one person cry and another smile. One angry and another sad. One aroused and another sleepy with contentment.

      Charlotte experienced love through a prism. It’s hard to describe without again sounding judgmental, or causing you to dislike her. But Charlotte desperately needed to create what was taken from her as a child—a traditional (I believe she even said “boring”) American family. She loved her town because it was filled with like-minded, hardworking people with good morals. She loved her house because it was a New England colonial in a quiet neighborhood. She loved being married to Tom because he was a family man with a good job—not a great job, but great jobs pulled men away from their families. Tom ran several car dealerships, and it’s important to note that he sold BMWs, Jaguars, and other luxury cars. I was informed that this is quite distinct from “peddling” Hyundais. Whether Charlotte loved Tom beyond all of this was not known to either of them. She loved her children because they were hers, and because they were everything children should be. Smart, athletic, and (mostly) obedient, but also messy, noisy, silly, and requiring a great deal of hard work and effort, which provided her with a worthwhile occupation and something she could discuss at length with her friends at the club over luncheon. Each piece of this picture she loved and loved deeply. So when Jenny got “broken,” she became desperate to fix her. As I’ve said, she needed to repair her house.

      Jenny had been sedated after arriving to the ER. The kids who found her described her as floating in and out of consciousness, though it was more likely the effect of shock than inebriation. Her eyes remained open and she was able to sit up and then walk with minimal assistance across the lawn to a lounge chair. Their description was that she sometimes seemed to know them and where she was and what had happened, and seconds later was unresponsive to their questions. Catatonic. She asked for help. She cried. Then she went blank. The paramedics reported the same behavior, but it is their policy not to administer sedatives. It was at the hospital, when the examination began, that she became hysterical. Dr. Baird made the call to give her some relief. There was enough bleeding to warrant concern and not wait for consent to prescribe the medication so they could examine her.

      In spite of her outward appearance, Charlotte was deeply affected by the sight of her daughter. In fact, it was my impression that she came quite close in that first moment to feeling what Tom felt. Though they rarely touched outside their bedroom (and there only to perform the mechanics of intimacy), she took Tom’s arm with both her hands. She buried her face into the sleeve of his shirt and whispered the words “Oh my God.” She did not cry, but Tom felt her nails digging into his skin as she fought for her composure. When she tried to swallow, she found her mouth to be bone dry.

      Detective Parsons could see them through СКАЧАТЬ