Page 58 of Gone Tonight
Even fake Alzheimer’s disease.
What I did is abhorrent. Unforgivable. There is nothing anyone could say that could make me feel worse than I already do.
But I swear on my life, I did it to save Catherine. If Catherine believes I am sick, I can keep her close. I can keep working to preventJames from learning about her existence, and from coming after her—or at least be there to protect her if he does.
Telling Catherine the truth about my past is not an option. If she learns who her father is, her core sense of self will shatter. She will never be the same.
I’ve thought about this for more hours than I can count. And the conclusion I’ve come to is that this way will be brutal in the short term, but it will serve her best in the long run.
Alzheimer’s is the perfect disguise for me. Unlike cancer or other illnesses I considered, it’s challenging to diagnose.
I hope I won’t need to keep up this charade for long.
I’m counting on the fact that James won’t be able to reintegrate into society. He will either kill again or be killed. Violence is too seductive for him. He can’t stay away from it.
When James is dead or back in prison, I will conjure a story about learning my Alzheimer’s diagnosis was incorrect and say a serious hormone imbalance was to blame for my memory fog. I’ll blame it on a mix-up at the lab, and Catherine and I will celebrate our new lease on life together. If she wants me to get tested to be absolutely certain I don’t carry the familial gene for Alzheimer’s, I will. Of course, the news will be good. I’ll do whatever I can to restore her peace of mind.
I’ll help Catherine reassemble her plans to move to Baltimore or wherever else she wants as quickly as possible, and even though I will miss her as deeply as if a piece of me has been torn away, I will celebrate the fact that she is on the right path.
But I also know, deep in my gut, our future will not be so simple. James is going to look for me as soon as he is released.
When he finds me, he will also find Catherine.
All he will need to do is look into her eyes to know she is his daughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONECATHERINE
It’s time to see if I can catch my mother in another lie.
There’s something about her that has never quite added up, a loose thread I snagged a long time ago and kept tucked in my pocket. She claims to have been raised by strict Catholic parents. It’s why she has a Biblical name—Ruth, with the middle name Mary—and also why her parents threw her out when she got pregnant. Her sin was too great for them to forgive.
But one night when I was about fifteen, my mother and I were flopped on the couch, watchingJeopardy!and shouting out answers. It was storming outside, a bad one. Rain rushed down from the sky and thunder shook our apartment.
I wasn’t scared. I’ve always liked storms. The way the air turns thick and menacing, the static zag of lightning cracking across the sky—Mother Nature sure knows how to throw a tantrum.
When Alex Trebek asked for the source of the quote “Deliver us from evil,” my mouth was too full of warm, buttery popcorn for me to speak. But my mother shouted, “Who is Shakespeare?”
A contestant buzzed in and gave the correct answer a second later. “What is the Lord’s Prayer?”
Shakespeare didn’t write those words, of course. They’re in the Bible.
Not only that, but most Catholics repeat the Lord’s Prayer during weekly mass. EvenIknew how important a prayer it was. I’d learned it while watching aBeverly Hills, 90210rerun, during a scene in which Jennie Garth’s character was trapped in a fire and began reciting it.
I’d said as much to my mother and she’d snapped at me.
“Give me a break, I’m tired.”
I’d twirled a lock of hair around my finger, an unsettling feeling welling up inside me. “But it doesn’t make sense. Just because you’re tired—”
“Catherine, this conversation is ending now.”
Her tone meant she was an inch away from losing her temper. So I let it go.
All these years later, I’m thinking about that conversation again.
I no longer trust it was a simple memory lapse.
In an ideal world, I’d find a way to get my mother to a Catholic mass and I’d watch her carefully. I’d see if she understood when to sit and stand and kneel. I’d gauge her familiarity with the ritual of Communion, and with the hymns. If she made a mistake, I’d be there to catch it.
