Shades of Eva (67 page)

“Your husband and your daughter did not
deserve to die in the matter in which they did. For those losses,
my heart goes out to you. And neither did Eva McGinnis or her
firstborn son, Baby Elmer, deserve the fates that they suffered.
Officer Angstrom, the DA’s office has dropped conspiracy to commit
fraud charges based on the recommendation by Dr. Anna Norris at
Coastal State. Additionally, because of your cooperation with
authorities on the matter of turning over skeletal remains of Eva’s
first born son, the office has recommended no charge for illegal
exhuming or tampering with human remains.

“However, the State has asked a charge be
brought for extortion in the amount of $1.2 million from the estate
of Mr. Ulysses McGinnis, and an additional charge of arson of a
public mental health facility.

“Now, as to the matters of the shooting
deaths of Jackson Greer and Ulysses McGinnis. The DA’s office has
recommended an indictment on one count of homicide on the person of
Ulysses McGinnis, and an additional count of homicide on the person
of Jackson Greer.

“It is the DA’s opinion that the
recommendation as given us by Drs. Norris and Levantle to consider
your pleas with mitigating circumstances, thus sparing you from the
death penalty in this state, be considered should you plead guilty
to the homicide charges. The mitigating factors are the recent
murders of your husband and daughter, your service to this country,
and your recent imprisonment and torture in an Iraqi prison.

“In that light I would also agree with Dr.
Norris’s suggestion that you be remanded into her custody and
placed into the criminally ill division at her institution lockdown
facility pending trial. While in treatment you will undergo an
evaluation for Gulf War Syndrome, as well as treatment for
Post-Trauma Related Stress Disorder. I suggest you take full
advantage of this institution’s services.

“The court will grant the additional request
for your physical protection by allowing the administration of an
alias in this matter, as well as an immediate gag order, this under
the Defendant’s Protection Act of 1986, which allows for said
administration in light of heightened threat of retaliation, in
this case because of the gang affiliation of your first victim, Mr.
Greer.”

At this time, justice Feliz asked that
Abigail stand. Her attorneys stood beside her. Justice Feliz spoke.
“At this time, do you wish to offer a plea as to the arson
charge?”

Abby answered for herself. “I do, Your
Honor. Guilty.”

“At this time, do you wish to offer a plea
as to the extortion charge?”

“Guilty.”

“At this time, do you wish to offer a plea
as to the arson charge?”

“Guilty.”

“At this time, do you wish to offer a plea
as to the count of homicide on the person of Jackson Greer?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Guilty.”

Justice Feliz. “And as to the homicide on
the person of Ulysses McGinnis. Do you wish to offer a plea?”

Again, Abby said, “Yes, Your Honor.
Guilty.”

Justice Feliz cleared her throat. “Very
well. Let the record state that five pleas of guilty were entered
this day for two counts of homicide, one count of fraud and one
count each for extortion and arson by the person of retired US Army
Specialist Abigail Angstrom.”

Two armed guards approached Abigail, and
proceeded to handcuff her.

And with that, Justice Feliz offered Abigail
the opportunity to address the Court.

Abigail turned around to me and then to
those around me with a sort of apologetic expression that almost
broke my heart. She began adjusting her wrists in the handcuffs
behind her back, and cleared her throat.

“I’d like to express my deepest condolences
to Mitchell for having brought him into this. Again, this was not
his fault and I can only hope that he gets the treatment that he
needs and deserves. He has lost a mother, a brother, and an uncle.
And for that I feel a very keen sense of regret.

“I’d also like to thank Dr. Norris and Dr.
Levantle, and also Detective Ramsey for their expressions of
kindness throughout this process. I will cooperate with the Court
and I take full responsibility for what I have done. But with
respect to the alias, I would respectfully decline such protection.
I have chosen from this point forward to live my life by calling
things by their right and true name again. That begins with me. I
would not be honoring my mother, or my aunt Emily, by sacrificing
the name that was given to me for some false sense of protection.
My name is Abigail Angstrom.”

***

My bond had been posted by Ben Levantle. It
was a kind gesture from a man I had grown to respect very much. In
the days to come, I would cooperate with my defense attorney’s
recommendations to plead guilty as to the extortion charge. We had
plea bargained the felony charge down to a gross misdemeanor based
on my self-confessed history of psychological and physical abuse at
Ully’s hand.

Ultimately, I was placed on house arrest for
a period of nine months and was ordered to perform one thousand
hours of community service. I chose to volunteer with a nonprofit
organization called Habitat for Humanity, a humanitarian outreach
group that specializes in building homes for underprivileged
families. It was a way I could give back to those who deserved a
nice house—by helping people understand that what was important in
the work we were doing was not in the erection of a structure, but
in the creation of a place where families could sit down together
and share a meal or a story, and spend time together. We were not
just constructing houses. We were building homes.

But before all that, before I was let loose
into the world again, I had to part ways with Ben. We would say our
goodbyes at my mother’s old house—at Ben’s old stomping grounds by
the river.

We drove to Abigail’s rental house and got
out. I wanted to go in for one last look around. Ben wanted to
catch a glimpse of his old place next door. We stood in the front
yard looking about. Ben looked to his old house. It was occupied.
There were lights on, and a little boy playing by himself could be
seen, faintly, through the row of pines separating the properties.
He was about five-years-old, and looked as if he were throwing a
Frisbee about his yard.

We watched him for a few seconds, and then
turned toward Mom’s old place.

Ben followed me in and we stepped into the
living room. “Time really does a number on a place,” Ben said,
sweeping his eyes about the decrepit interior.

I stepped over to give a look into my
grandfather’s old room, where not so long ago I had imagined his
ghost had been. The house was light now, and I saw nothing there,
no apparition; I heard no laughter or tormenting cries.

We proceeded up the stairs and into my
mother’s room. I opened the door to the closet and stepped
carefully in. I stepped onto the landing inside and pushed the
attic entrance open. I climbed up and in. I didn’t expect Ben to
follow me up there, but he did. Once in, I led him to the attic’s
far wall, to the doorway of the disappointments room, and opened
the door for him. I stepped in and scooted the chest out that held
my mother’s things, and opened its lid.

Ben looked on, his eyes coming to rest on a
beautiful old photograph lying aside some of Eva’s sketches. It was
Emily White’s picture.

“Is this her?” Ben asked, picking up the
only photo Mom had of her friend.

“Yes it is,” I replied. “Emily’s poem is
written on its reverse.”

Ben studied the photo, comparing it in his
mind to the description given him by Dr. Norris not so long ago.
“She looks like Abigail. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she was.”

“And Abigail told you there was a secret
gallery in the Institution?”

I chuckled a bit at the question. “Yes,
that’s what she said.”

“But there never was.”

“No,” I said. “There never was. The artwork
was all around me; I just didn’t recognize it.”

“That’s how beauty is,” Ben replied. “It
hides in plain sight sometimes. Abigail’s around her aunt’s things,
now.”

I handed Ben a stack of papers. “And these
are yours.” These were his letters to my mother, those confiscated
by my grandfather.

He took them and began leafing through the
stack, and then looked at me with an expression of sadness. “I
should have written more,” he said, and he put them in his back
pocket.

I removed the postcard with the coordinates
written on it from my pocket. I held it out in front of me. We each
studied it, briefly. The water tower didn’t look so monolithic any
more.

I gave it to Ben to examine. He hadn’t seen
it before, and it had the effect I knew it would when he saw his
brother’s handwriting. It was affirming. It affirmed his
recommendation for leniency on me. It affirmed his recommendation
for the same for Abigail.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’m sorry for your
loss, Ben. And your family’s. You didn’t deserve this, either.”

Ben thanked me and placed the postcard back
into its resting place.

I lifted Grandpa Virgil’s hardcopy of the
Wizard of Oz, the original from 1900 with the inscription written
inside, and handed it to Ben. He opened the front cover, and there,
again, was the inscription:

Here is that copy I promised you,
Virgil.

May it bring you and yours an ounce of the
joy

that it has brought Maud and I.

Ben read it aloud. He appeared amazed. “This
is a gift from L. Frank Baum!” Ben affirmed. “Do you know what this
means?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly,” I said. “I
was hoping you could tell me.”

“It means your grandfather knew some pretty
influential people. Your mother’s step-sister…the one who died
shortly after Elmer was taken. What was her name?”

“Dorothy Biggs.”

Ben held firm to the book. “Dorothy. You
know you might want to look more into exactly who she was. There is
a Dorothy in this book, too, you know?” He was indicating the
novel. With that, Ben released his grip on Baum’s book and handed
it back to me.

“Mom used to read me the Oz books every
night,” I told Ben, setting the book back into the chest. She loved
them. Said they reminded her of someone, though she couldn’t
remember who. I always thought that was weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Ben said. “It’s not weird
at all.”

“And who’s this?” He asked, lifting a pencil
sketch of the Victorian lady called Emma from the chest.

“We weren’t sure,” I said. “Abby thought it
might have been Dorothy’s mother.”

“That’s what Eva used to think,” Ben
confirmed. “I remember this drawing. Your mother showed her to me
once. She said she found a photograph of her in your grandfather’s
things and asked her dad about her.”

“What did he say? Do you remember?”

“He was very angry. I think he was hurt. Not
by your mother, but what had happened to this Emma.”

“I just want to know who she was. Why she
held such power over them.”

We placed Emma’s picture back into the
chest.

Ben turned his attention to the scores of
little whittled figurines of Native Americans and European-American
women. He lifted a Native American figurine and studied it. I
looked to it, too. On this particular one, there looked to be blood
painted, oddly, beneath the figurine’s nose. At once, I remembered
the sketch I’d seen in Mom’s file at Coastal State of a similar
Native American Mom had drawn with blood dripping from his
nostril.

“Abby said my grandfather carved these,” I
told Ben.

“Virgil was a soldier in the American-Indian
wars,” Ben responded. “Maybe that’s why he carved these Native
Americans. But I’m not sure about the white women.”

“I need to figure out what he was trying say
by carving all of these,” I said.

Ben put the carving back. “Maybe you will
someday.”

The last thing Ben removed from the chest
was a picture of my mother. She was barely thirteen. She had on
what looked like a Sunday dress. She was sitting on what used to be
the front stoop of her house. The sun was in her eyes. She was
squinting. She seemed uncomfortable in the dress. She had a Mona
Lisa smile on her face. I thought it a forced smile, but Ben didn’t
agree.

“Smiles are never forced,” he told me.
“Sometimes people smile when they’re sad, but even a forced smile
means someone is thinking about happiness.”

I gave pause to consider what Ben was trying
to tell me. Mom’s expression was hopeful. Forcing a smile was her
way of making room for herself, of announcing her presence in an
oft-unaccepting and too often disappointing universe. It was her
wish to be happy. It was her wish, for me.

That girl was hopeful. I had to imagine that
she retained that hope until the last day she took a breath. After
all, she was holding on to me when she died. I needed to hold on to
her while I was living, and simultaneously, let her go.

***

Ben and I parted ways. I’d see him quite a
few times in the months to come. He had become an important person
in my life, and dare I say, a friend. Though he retired from his
work as a counselor, he still saw me in that respect. He knew
better than anyone, save Abigail, what I had been through. Because
he cared enough to search for me, he knew.

I’d get to see him quite a few times at
Coastal State, as well. I had been ordered to complete six months
of psychiatric counseling for my substance abuse and PTSD in
addition to my community service. With Ben’s and Anna’s counseling,
and in being able to see Abigail from time to time, the counseling
was more than bearable. In fact, it was …enjoyable.

Not to minimize the suffering that our
decisions had caused—for Sophia Bermicelli lost a life—in part,
because of those decisions—but my sentence was just, and it was
warranted. In my time at Coastal State, I learned to exchange my
material obsession and my addiction—to grief and to alcohol and to
money—for the more nobler aspects of healing: for charity, for
forgiveness of self and others, and for introspection. These were
the aspects of mourning, and for that exchange, I was grateful.