Truth, by Omission Read online

  I can imagine how much all of this hurts Anna, made even worse by the prospect of having to tell her parents. “I’m sorry, Anna.”

  “Stop that!” She startles me with her shout and jumps up quickly from her stool. “Stop saying you’re sorry. Stop it!”

  In response to this I just want to apologize more. I am sorry, very sorry. It is a terrible feeling to have no way at all to adequately express regret or be able to do anything toward redemption.

  Anna begins pacing in the kitchen while I sit silently. After a few moments of calming down she says, “I’m sorry, Freddie. I’m sorry myself. Not for the situation, but for shouting at you. I’ll call Mom and tell her you’re sick—we’re sick—we can’t make it. It’ll buy us some time.”

  I simply nod in agreement while she continues to pace.

  Eventually I venture to speak. “Do you want me to call them?”

  “No. I’ll do it. I might as well do it now and get it over with.”

  She grabs her cell and leaves the kitchen. The conversation is short and when she returns, I ask her what her mom had to say.

  “She said she hopes we get well soon, that they’ll miss us, and that they’ll probably come up here the day after Christmas. She wanted to know if we were avoiding Christmas because of anything to do with Stephanie. I told her definitely not. That we’d been looking forward to being with them.”

  I checked my messages while Anna was on the phone and found more than a dozen, at least six from Mark Su at the clinic.

  “Mark left me a bunch of messages.”

  “He’s been calling me all day, too,” Anna says. “I just haven’t bothered to answer him.”

  “I guess I’ll have to call him and say something. Any ideas?”

  “Don’t say anything for now,” Anna says. “Tell him you’re home and we’ll have everything sorted out soon. They’re not expecting you back at the clinic for four weeks anyhow.”

  I’m lucky and get Mark’s voice mail, so I don’t actually have to talk to him. I try to sound as upbeat as I can, but I am pretty certain he’ll be able to read my voice.

  Anna goes to the sideboard where we keep the booze, pulls out a bottle of gin, and takes a glass from the cupboard. “Do you want one?”

  Neither of us are big drinkers. “Please,” I say. “No ice. Do you want me to make us some food?”

  “I couldn’t eat anything, Freddie.”

  I’m not really hungry either, I was just trying to do something, anything, for Anna. She leaves my drink on the counter and moves into the den where she slouches onto the sofa. By the time I take a seat in my favorite armchair she has half finished her drink, so I get up and bring back the gin and a full bottle of tonic, setting them on the coffee table. The room is fairly dark, and through the windows I can see some blowing snowflakes. The sun is just beginning to set.

  I try to distract us both from the nightmare. “Are we going to have snow for Christmas?”

  “Don’t know,” she responds. “I haven’t checked the weather today.”

  Anna picks up the remote from the coffee table, points it at the TV, and clicks to the Weather Channel. A strip across the bottom of the screen that shows the seven-day forecast tells us that we will indeed have snow, beginning tonight and lasting all day tomorrow.

  Without rising from our seats we take turns pouring drinks, a couple of them, a few more; we watch the weather for Denver, the region, the country, several times. As hard as I try to focus on the TV the gin is blurring my retentiveness, but between the two of them, the gin and the weather, I have forgotten, for a while at least, that I am an arrested murderer. Sleep comes to me, right there in my chair, in the form of a clipper that’s racing across the northeast carrying freezing rain to Washington and Baltimore.

  Waking with a kink in my neck and the Weather Channel frozen on the local seven-day forecast, I can see that Anna is likely to have a worse kink if she doesn’t get straightened out. I also see by what’s left in the gin bottle that she didn’t fall asleep as soon as I did. Reaching under her with both arms, I lift her and take her to our bedroom, carrying her like I used to carry a sleeping Stephanie. Gently, I lay her on the bed, as I often did with Steph. For a few moments I feel like a knight, doing something good for Anna, doing the right thing. But only for a few moments because, as I take off my clothes, I notice the bracelet on my ankle and am reminded of all the unknightly things I have done.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pull up my knee and fondle the bracelet. What could I have done differently to change this? Where would I have had to start? For twenty-five years now I have done everything in my power to even the ledger. I work at saving lives, giving people hope, helping them overcome illness. I go out of my way to volunteer in the community. I obey every law of this country; I don’t even speed on the roads. So what could I have done differently? I should have run away that day they took me on the riverbank. I should have run any of the many other times I could have. Why didn’t I? Because I’m not a knight, I’m a phony. I’m not a good person; I’m not a good doctor, a good husband. I’m a fraud.

  There’s a bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. I got them when Steph was sick, for those times when we were so backed up on our sleep that we couldn’t function. I know what these can do. I take one, two, three. I’m going to sleep.

  * * *

  Waking is slow, very slow—very unusual for me. There are several layers of waking that I have to work through before comprehension. Sounds. Music. Christmas music. My bed, my own house. This is good. I lay there, listening to the music in the other room, enjoying my bed. Feeling beside me, I realize Anna’s not here. It’s dark. Pushing through another layer of fog, I focus my eyes. It’s not nighttime dark, but the curtains are closed tight and the door is shut. Still, there’s laser-bright light around their edges. The clock reads 11:33. Impossible. I sit up and even though I’d rather lie back down, I will myself to my feet and move toward the door. When I open it, my eyes sting from the brightness. But the Christmas music is louder and feels so good it helps me find another level of waking.

  “I thought that I drank more than you last night, but I guess not,” Anna says, by way of greeting. She is in a nightgown, and it dances lightly around her body. It’s almost sheer and there’s nothing underneath, her long blond hair is freshly washed and blown. She has no makeup on, but God, she is beautiful.

  “Do you like it?” She points into the living room.

  All our Christmas decorations are up. “You did all this this morning?” I ask. The artificial tree, which we haven’t used for years and was stuck in the back of the storage room in the basement, is fully decorated in the front window. Everything looks just the way it used to look with Stephanie. We weren’t going to decorate this year since Steph’s not here and we weren’t going to be here, either. But the reality sets in—we are here.

  “I need this, Freddie,” Anna says.

  “Me too. Thank you, Anna. Thank you.” I give her a kiss, and she wraps her arms around me, pressing her cheek to my chest. “Is it really eleven thirty?”

  She nods. “You must have needed it. How do you feel?”

  “I feel fine. A little groggy, but fine. Good actually.”

  “I’ll make breakfast—or brunch,” Anna says. “What would you like?”

  My long refreshing sleep, her kiss, her hugging me tight, her sheer gown, has aroused me and I rub in close to her. No more of an answer is required. She begins to melt, purring in my embrace. Anna places both hands on my chest, under my T-shirt, and plays with my nipples. I lift the shirt over my head and palm her breasts through the filmy gown, returning the playful pinching and touching. She slides into the living room and slips out of her gown before laying back on the sofa while I step out of my pajama pants, fumbling as I draw them over the ankle bracelet. Feeling the immediate wetness of her arousal, I skip any foreplay and I p
ush deeply, fully inside her. Anna responds by arching her hips off the couch, and we thrust wildly at each other for less than a minute, both of us climaxing with a scream at the same time. I have to lay my weight half on her to catch my breath and then withdraw, standing and pulling her up with me, leading her to the bedroom.

  Anna lays down on the bed, gorgeous in her nakedness and flushed from the frenzy of a moment ago. I want to take her again, but I want to see all of her, so I draw open the curtains letting the natural light flood in, making her even more attractive. This time we make love, spending an hour pleasuring each other in all our special and private ways. When we finally tire and lay together, side by side, Anna runs her fingers softly along the contours of my scars as has become our habit. But this time there is a new meaning to these puckered, purplish blemishes. They are linked to the ankle bracelet, which is the only thing either of us is wearing.

  “I’m glad you told me yesterday—about Africa—about these,” Anna whispers.

  I roll my head to the side and throw an arm over my face, burying myself in the sand of a nonresponse.

  She props herself on an elbow beside me and, ever so gently, pries the arm away. But I keep my eyes shut tight. “You were a child, Alfred. There are reasons we don’t prosecute children. Yours is a perfect case why we don’t. You weren’t responsible for those things.”

  That’s the wrong thing to say, and I throw my arm off my face and turn to look her in the eye. “No, Anna! I was responsible. I killed innocent people. Maybe that fucking priest deserved it, but don’t you see? There were others, and I killed them. I knew what I was doing when I pulled the trigger. Whatever is coming … I deserve it.”

  Anna hangs her head and runs her fingers through her hair, pausing, diffusing, giving me time to calm down before I admit to her my real fear. “They’re going to take me away, Anna.” My voice cracks. “They’re going to lock me in a cage, away from you. Far away.”

  “No, Freddie. They’re not. You were a child when you did those things. They can’t.”

  “But these charges of killing those four men … I don’t even know those people.”

  The intimacy of just a few moments ago has slipped away, and reality is flooding in, quickly replacing it. Anna sits up fully and looks down at me. “That’s why we have to wait and see. Maybe there’s a mistake. Even if they extradite, they have to give you a fair and full trial in Belgium. They can’t convict you for crimes committed as a child. Belgium doesn’t do that.”

  “They’re going to separate us, Anna.” The thought of this makes me tear up.

  “No, they won’t. I’ll go with you. Don’t worry, Freddie. I’m not going to leave you alone.”

  The rest of the day passes slowly but pleasurably enough under the circumstances. Anna and I try to avoid any more talk of my plight, but it’s difficult. Anna means well, and several times mentions that whatever happens, she will be by my side. She is insistent that she is coming with me, and there is no sense in trying to dissuade her. In truth, I want her with me for as long as possible. I don’t know if I could bear to lose another angel. To banish these thoughts I go to bed early, alone, and an hour later I make a trip to the medicine cabinet.

  I awake the next morning to heavy wet snowflakes, which continue to fall all day, ensuring that Boulder will have a white Christmas tomorrow. Several calls come in. Steve checks on us, all three partners from my work call, trying to get more information, but also sounding genuinely concerned. Anna’s brother, Rob, calls to see how we are feeling and to say how they’ll miss us at Christmas, but maybe we can all get together before we leave for Saint Martin. Anna’s mom also calls to see how we are feeling, hopeful that we might be well enough to make the drive down after all. She tells us that she and Eldon are going to spend Christmas Day with their grandchildren in the Springs, but they are coming right after that to see us, even if they catch whatever it is we have. As has been the custom of family Christmas Eves at her parents’ over the years, we sip on rum all day long, just enough to keep us in a bit of good cheer. It’s a forced and false mirth, and we both know it, yet each of us does our best to play along with the charade. But it’s too draining to last.

  After the sun sets and the inside of the house is lit by the dimmed lights and the sparkling colors from the Christmas tree, the double yoke of the warrant and the absence of our precious little Stephanie has us both drinking heavily; all good cheer is lost. We spend the evening in morose conversation and attempt to extinguish it by retiring early. Aided by the rum, Anna falls right to sleep but my mind jumps from one negative thought to another until I end it by making yet another trip to the medicine cabinet.

  I can’t imagine awakening to a more bleak situation on Christmas morning. Still, we set about making it as normal as possible. Anna prepares a full breakfast and fills the house with smells of cooking and baking. But, once again, we can only play the game so long and by dinnertime the stark truth confronts us when the two of us sit down to eat alone. We drink more than we eat.

  Several calls had come over the day, all the expected ones, and some from friends wishing us well knowing we would be missing Steph, but totally oblivious to the new problem in our lives.

  The day after Christmas both Anna and I are experiencing the dread of having her parents visit, but there is no way to put them off. Her mother calls to say that they will leave by midmorning; her dad wants to go into his store to make sure everything is fine before they drive up to Boulder. We’ve always enjoyed having them around, but we don’t want to give them the news about the extradition. If we can put off telling them, perhaps it will somehow miraculously clear itself up. We’d like to spare them any unnecessary grief so we agree to be very careful about not letting anything spill. I take the bracelet around my ankle and pull it up on my calf as high as I can, wrapping it in place with a tensor bandage to keep it out of sight should my pants leg slip up when I sit.

  Ruth and Eldon arrive in the early afternoon, carrying their overnight bags and Christmas presents. They make another trip to the car to carry in the leftovers from yesterday’s Christmas feast. Surprisingly, it turns out to be a big comfort to have them here. I can’t imagine a more wholesome, nicer family than Anna’s. They’ve supported Anna and me from the time we arrived back in the US from Paris. They sent care packages for both of us during our years at school in Pittsburgh and flew out there a few times each year to visit us. They paid for both Anna and me to fly to Colorado to be with them and Rob during holidays. And they lent us money several times when we were tight during my residency. They were both extremely proud of us for putting ourselves through school and ending up as respected, working professionals.

  Eldon graduated high school but never had a chance to go to college, so he was especially proud to introduce me as his “son-in-law, the doctor,” oblivious to the unspoken thoughts and raised eyebrows at the fact that an onyx-black man from Africa with a glaring scar cutting across his face was married to his wholesome, white, mid-American daughter. I had desperately needed someone like Eldon: someone I could look up to, someone who would show such pride in me. Without Vincent around, as he had been for six formative years of my life in Tanzania and then when I first went to France, Eldon filled that void. He wasn’t just a father figure, he was my father.

  At the first chance to be alone Eldon asked me, “Alfred, are you two all right?”

  “We’re okay, Eldon. Thanks.”

  “You weren’t sick the last few days, were you?”

  I don’t want to lie, but I don’t feel like speaking either, so I give a small shake of my head.

  “I didn’t think so. You thought it better to be alone? That’s fine, if that’s what you wanted. We totally understand. But if there is anything we can do to help …”

  “Thanks, Eldon, we know.”

  “Alfred, I don’t want to say that we can pretend to know what you and Anna are going through, because no
ne of us has ever lost a child; I can’t even really imagine it.” He embraces me in a big, generous hug. Loosening his grip and leaning back, he looks softly all around my eyes. I imagine this must be the warm affection that every good father enjoys imparting on his dearly loved son. And surely every appreciative son must relish these moments with his father. I do. I bask in these moments that I missed during my own childhood. Drawing me in tight again, Eldon speaks softly into my ear. “I love you, son. You’ll get through this; we all will. We’ll always be here for each other.” Suddenly, I am embarrassed as I cling to him, not wanting to let go of him. I’m not embarrassed of the hug; I’m embarrassed at not being able to fess up to him about my predicament.

  The afternoon is spent with Ruth and Eldon in family conversation, nursing rum and eggnog, and sampling from the mountain of squares and cookies that Ruth has brought. Time passes pleasantly and fairly quickly, allowing me to forget my situation, even if only for a while. As the sun starts to go down, Anna and I head to the kitchen to prepare dinner, leaving Ruth and Eldon in the den to kill a bit of time flicking through the college football games. At one point the background noise of the television goes silent and the two of them appear in the kitchen, looking serious and perplexed.

  “Anna, Alfred.” Eldon has his eyes narrowed and forehead tensed in puzzlement. “We’ve just been watching the six o’clock news …” He leaves the sentence dangling, waiting for a reaction from us.

  Looking to Anna I see guilt painted across her face and expect mine must look the same.

  “What did it say?” she asks.

  Eldon responds in a slow cadence of words. “It said that Alfred was arrested on Thursday.”

  He knows right away it’s true by the way we hang our heads, unable to address the accusation.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Daddy, it’s a huge mistake.” Anna is pleading for that to be true and for her father to believe it. “For some reason—we don’t know why—they arrested Alfred. But it’s a mistake.”