But finally, after much coaxing and promising that it would only take up one weekend (traveling included), and that we wouldn’t hound her again, she’d agreed.
The makeup artist is trying to apply more blush on Sam’s cheeks but she shoots the poor woman a look that makes her slowly step away, brush in hand.
“At this point I’m going to need a chisel to get all this makeup off,” she remarks dryly.
“I know it’s a lot but it’s needed for all the lights that will be shining on you.”
Her only reply is a cursory nod as she picks up her Blackberry.
Who the fuck still uses a Blackberry? Sam, apparently.
I gesture to it. “You still have one of those?”
“Of course.” Her fingers fly across the keyboard with a finesse that can only be learned through practice. “It’s the only way I can get work done.”
“It’s ancient.”
Finally, she lifts her head with an impatient expression, as though I’m a child who won’t stop with the ‘but why’ questions. “Time is money. And I don’t have time to learn a new fucking gadget. There’s an iPhone every other year. Something newer and greater. I’ll stick to what I know.”
This woman is so matter-of-fact that it’s hard to argue with her.
It’s hard to get a good read on Samantha Gulick in general. One minute she’s polite and kind, and the next she’s all business, making you feel like you’re slacking off on the job.
“Can we hurry this up?” she asks as she slowly lowers her phone onto her lap. “I have a conference call in forty-five minutes.”
“Yes, yes. We can get started right now.”
As we get ready to film, Sam puts away her phone and sits up straight in her seat and very deliberately puts up a wall. We may ask questions and get answers but the chances of us pulling out her emotions, gathering tears for the viewers, is incredibly low. If this woman is going to cry, it’s going to be in the privacy of her own home.
I immediately jump in. “What type of friendship do you and Selah have?”
“We’re incredibly close. We are a year and five days apart.”
“Are you the oldest?”
At that, Sam smiles. “No, I’m not. It was always funny growing up. Selah may have been the older one but I always felt like I had to be the one to protect her. She loved too hard, which made her vulnerable.”
“And when she started to date Jackson. What were your thoughts?”
Samantha shrugs. “Not much, to be honest with you. I live up in Chicago. I hadn’t met him in person yet. First impressions mean a lot to me and it bothered me that the two of them met online. I warned her that it could be dangerous, but she’s too stubborn and shrugged off my words. After awhile I came to the conclusion that if Selah was happy then I was happy.”
“You wanted that for Selah… didn’t you?”
“Of course. My sister deserved it.”
In the video editing process, we’ll have pictures flashing across the screen—the ones that Aunt Ruby gave me of Selah and Sam growing up with their mom.
I pull back from questions about Selah and direct them toward Susie. “How hard is it for you to fathom that your mom was found dead?”
Samantha takes a deep breath. Her fingers are still linked together. “Not as hard as you may imagine.”
“What does that mean?”
She looks me straight in the eye. “What I mean is that my mom may have had some traits that were difficult to deal with, but overall she was a kind and caring person. She saw the absolute best in everyone. Like Selah, she was very vulnerable.”
“A lot of people have accused your sister of bringing this addict into your mother’s life. They say she’d still be alive if it weren’t for Selah. Do you believe that?”
If it were anyone else I think they’d take offense to this line of questioning, but Samantha Gulick has balls of steel. She’s never going to show her pain. It’s all mind over matter for her. Especially when it comes to her pain.
“Absolutely not,” Samantha says with such conviction that even I believe her. “Ultimately, at the end of the day people are going to make their own decisions, and if it wasn’t one person that preyed on my mother it would’ve been another.”
“If you could go back and change one thing, what would it be?”
Sam goes quiet. She stares at the ground for a few second before she looks back up at me. “I would change how quickly I gave up. From the beginning I had a bad feeling about Jackson, but I chose to ignore it. Maybe if I hadn’t, none of this would’ve happened. That’s what I would go back and change.”
KEYS JANGLE AND I gasp as the doorknob slowly turns and the door opens.
Duke barks once and rushes to Noah’s side. His head is down as he’s rummaging through the mail, completely unaware that I’m standing in his dining room.
“Hey, how was your day?” he says absently to Duke.
“Not good, since I’ve discovered that you’re a fucking liar,” I say out loud.
Noah’s head snaps up. The mail drops from his hands and scatters all around him. He takes in the scene. The laptop in front of me. The newspaper and the dry erase board.
“How did you get in here?”
“You have a spare key underneath your doormat. You have to find a better hiding spot than that.”
Noah doesn’t reply.
He knows that I know him. The real him. I can tell by the look in his eyes. Very slowly, he approaches. He raises his hands to show he means no harm.
A few days ago, hell, even an hour ago, I would’ve believed he wouldn’t. But now I don’t. I jump up and move across the room, until we are facing each other, and the table is between us.
“Selah, let me explain.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say calmly even though my heart is pounding.
“Selah—”
I feel like I’ve been left in the dark, pulled this way and that. I’ve obviously been made to appear crazy and I can’t take it anymore. “Tell me!” I scream because it’s that or break down and sob. “Tell me why your address is Jackson’s.”
“He didn’t live here,” he says. “His parents were the last people to live here.” He selects his words carefully. Delicately. It’s driving me crazy.
“Do you know him?” I demand.
Noah shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out. “So where is he?”
Now it’s Noah’s turn to look speechless. He looks away, his jaw clinched before he moves toward me. Hesitantly, I glance at him, unsure of what he’s about to do. But instead of coming closer he rummages through one of the many boxes against the wall. He flips through a stack of newspapers before he pulls one out. He looks me in the eye when he holds it out. I snatch it from him and scan the front page. It’s dated from last year. The headline reads: Decatur Man’s Body Pulled From Lake Decatur
Beneath the headline is a colored photo of cops lingering along the waterline. Some are speaking to each other. Others look out into the water. There’s yellow caution tape behind them. Cop cars and ambulances are all around with flashing lights. There’s no sign of Jackson’s body but there might as well be.
It feels like someone is punching me in the gut over and over.
Laying both palms flat on the table, I hunch over the newspaper and continue to read the article: Authorities confirmed that a male body was pulled from Lake Decatur on March 22nd at 8:30 p.m. The man was identified as Jackson Davis, according to Macon County Examiner’s office.
I try to read the rest of the article but my vision goes blurry from tears. I take a deep breath.
“There’s this, too,” Noah says quietly. He slides over a small newspaper clipping. I read the obituary even though I know I shouldn’t.
Jonathan Jackson Davis, 31, tragically passed away on March 22nd, 2016.
He is survived by his parents, Jonathan and Catherine Cooper-Davis of Forsyth; sister, Claribelle (husband, Roman) San
doval of Forsyth. Services will be held at First Baptist Church, Mt. Zion, Saturday at 1p.m. Officiating is Pastor George Riney. Burial: Greenwood Cemetery. Moran and Goebel Funeral Home is in charge of arrangements.
Out of everything I’ve just read what sticks out to me is the year—2016—that I can’t comprehend. How is that possible? A man has been dead for over a year yet I saw him less than two weeks ago?
With my hands curled into fists I press them against my temples. I can feel my entire body shake. “No…” I breathe.
When I pull my gaze away from the obituary I see Noah staring at me with sadness. I brush past him and move toward the door.
He is wrong. And that newspaper? Also wrong. I’m being set up. Maybe Jackson wants me to believe he’s dead. It’s some kind of sick joke on his part.
“Selah! Just listen to me!” Noah calls out behind me. “You need to read this.”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn around and stare at him. What more can he possibly have to show me?
He holds out another newspaper clipping. This time the headline reads: Police Discover Body at Twin Oak Apartments
On Tuesday, March 22nd, 2016, police were called to apartment 2B at the Twin Oak Apartments after a landlord reported complaints of an overwhelming smell coming from the location. When the police arrived they discovered the body of Susie Kerrington, who has been missing for over two weeks. She was found in one of the bedrooms, her body dismembered and shoved into black garbage bags. Police confirmed that the apartment belonged to Jackson Davis.
Chief of Police, Anthony Cooke, said, ‘It’s always a crushing blow to be called to a scene like this one. We can confirm that the body found is Susie Kerrington, who was reported missing by her daughter. Our thoughts go out Mrs. Kerrington’s family at this time.’
In a strange twist of fate, Davis’s car was reported abandoned on East Lake Shore Drive at around four-thirty p.m. the same day the body of Susie Kerrington was found. His keys and wallet were found inside the car. Search and rescue teams were called out to the scene. Four hours later, divers found his body. His death has been determined as a suicide.
I think I’m going to be sick. Jackson didn’t kill my mom. He wouldn’t harm a fly.
And Mom isn’t dead. Can’t be.
I have to get home. I have to wait for Mom. Maybe she’ll come back. I open the door and step out onto the porch right as Noah grabs my arm. I whirl around.
“Let go!” I shout, before I violently try to extract myself. I need to go home. I need to be in my own home; it’s safe there. He puts up a small struggle before he finally lets go. I take a step back and point a finger at him. “You’re wrong,” I hiss.
Noah approaches slowly, like he’s coming close to a wild animal.
“That newspaper was wrong,” I say, my voice slightly breaking. “It’s not true.”
“Yes it is!” he says more forcefully. “Jackson killed your mother and hid the body at his apartment. He killed himself the day your mom’s body was discovered!”
“Stop it! You’re wrong!”
“No I’m not. I wish I was wrong but I’m not.”
“Jackson wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.”
“He was a drug addict, Selah! He needed money. He would’ve killed anyone for his next high!”
“But not my mom,” I say, breathing heavily. “He knew she was mentally ill.”
“Your mom was fine. Everything you thought was happening to her was happening to you.”
I shake my head in denial but that just makes him grip my arms tighter.
“Dammit, listen to me!” he says sharply. “You need to listen to this! After your mom died last year, you were the one who was crying and laughing on the sidewalk. You were the one who was put on seventy-two hour hold.
“I didn’t have ulterior motives when I first moved in but then I started to watch you. You were talking to yourself and I had to find out why. So I started to digging through old newspapers and that’s when I discovered what happened. A college friend of mine, David, is an executive producer for Dateline. I knew they were taping an episode about your life and I asked to see the interviews they’ve taped so far.” Noah swallows. “Selah, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“No.” My lips quiver. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
When I try to pull away this time, he lets go. I turn back around, intent on going home but stop short when I see the neighbors outside. Some are standing on their lawns. Others on their porches. Parents are standing next to their kids, a firm hand planted on their bony shoulders. They’re all staring directly at me.
A feeling of deja vu hits me. I’d seen that look so many times. But it was always directed at Mom. My breath comes out in shallow gasps as I close my eyes. When I do, a curtain slowly pulls up. I see memories in a different light. I am now acting out the role my mom played, the crazy person of Wildwood. Walking down the street in a ratty robe and house slippers, laughing and crying at the same time. A cop slowly asking me if there was anyone that I needed to call. “I’m fine,” I told him, but the words came out in Mom’s voice.
Very slowly, the fog is beginning to lift. The images are becoming clearer. I don’t want to watch this play out in my head but it’s like someone has their hands on my head, forcing me to look forward.
I can see myself sitting across from the doctor as he told me that he was worried about me. That if I was brought in one more time, he’d be forced to find a ‘suitable place’ for me. I can distinctly see my sister, Sam, signing me out, assuring the doctor that she’d make sure I was okay.
I see myself sitting at my mom’s kitchen table, staring into depths of the murky brown coffee, wanting to drink it, but not having the stomach for it. I see myself blindly watching the TV.
I see myself going to interviews and sitting in the waiting rooms. My head bent to the left, talking in hurried whispers to the empty seat. The people around me giving me strange looks, leaving a wide berth around me.
My knees start to buckle.
I can hear Noah say my name behind me.
A small, keening noise escapes my mouth. It’s a sound I didn’t know I was even capable of making. Pain rocks through my body. Everything Noah’s told me tries to squeeze its way into my brain. It’s all a jumbled mess.
I lift my hands to my face. Feel my fingernails dig into my skin as I drag them through my hair. All outside noise has been put on pause, leaving me to face the truth. I can’t accept this. It isn’t the truth. I press my fingers deeper into the skin around the base of my skull. Harder, harder, harder until I’m certain I’ve drawn blood. I lower my head until my forehead rests on the ground.
Then I release a blood-curdling scream.
The truth is a powerful thing. When it’s suppressed for such a long time and then suddenly set free, it doesn’t come quietly; it attacks you from the inside out, forcing you to feel every last lie and deception you were holding onto.
No matter how painful it is.
ONE MONTH LATER
“HOW ARE YOU doing, Selah?” Dr. Clowds asks.
He sits behind his desk, not bothering to look up from his paperwork. He has a yellow binder (my binder) open in front of him. To his left sits a cart with about nineteen binders. The names of each patient are written on the spines.
I’ve been here at Sacred Heart Behavioral Health Facility for thirty days, and for a place where people normally stay for five to seven days, that’s a long time. My file is so large that I have two binders. The other one sits on the cart. A couple of times I’ve tried to see what’s written in them, but the doctor’s writing is so sloppy I can’t read a damn thing.
“Selah?” the doctor prods.
Rapidly, I blink and turn my gaze away from the file back to the doctor. I try to think of the last thing he said to me. “Uh… I’ve been great.”
One thing I quickly learned here is that everything you do and say is closely monitored. A male patient muttered u
nderneath his breath that a female patient was a bitch and he was removed to Ward 1 where the more severe patients are sent. Three days later he came back, looking stable but definitely subdued.
I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I had a complete breakdown. Would they put me in Ward 1, too?
“That’s good to hear,” the doctor comments. “How has your anxiety been? Is the Effexor helping?”
“I think it is,” I answer truthfully. “I can concentrate better lately and I’m not as nervous going to the cafeteria.”
He nods his head thoughtfully, his pen flying across the page.
When I arrived I was instantly put back on Seroquel to treat my depression and Remeron to help me sleep during the night. I still had horrible anxiety when it came to interacting with other people or overly-large crowds. It was almost like my brain became over stimulated by it all. So they put me on the Effexor.
My mood may be stable but that doesn’t mean I’m one hundred percent well. In fact, I’m far from it. But Sacred Heart helps to treat the mentally unstable, not the broken hearted. I know my time here is running out.
“When do you think I can go home?” I ask.
The doctor hesitates for a second. “Within the next few days.”
It’s hard to tell if he’s saying that to placate me or if he’s telling me the truth. Either way, I’ll take it. The thought of leaving this place fills me with happiness and fear. Fear because I don’t know how I’m going to survive in the outside world. Sure, I may have tricks up my sleeve for handling my anxiety and depression, but using them is a whole other thing.
“You can send in Michael now,” he says.
I nod and stand up.
When I walk out of his office I scan the rec room. One patient is doing a jigsaw puzzle. Another is leaning against the nurse’s station, trying to coax one of them into letting him have another smoke break before lunch. A few are sitting in the uncomfortable chairs, quietly watching TV.