“Thanks for meeting me, Ms. Connelly. Can I record our interview?”
“Record it? Is that a recorder? Why would you want to do that?”
“It’s just to help me transcribe your words exactly how they were said. I don’t want to have to rely on my notes and accidentally misquote you. I’ve recorded all of my interviews so far, and, if you agree to be part of my thesis, you’ll have full access to all transcripts and will have the final say as to how accurate I am.”
“Ummm…okay, I guess. Go ahead, turn on the fucking recorder. I don’t care”
“Thanks. So, to start…you were arrested right at the murder scene, is that correct?”
“Of course it is. You know that, why ask?”
“I…uh, I just want to have all facts double checked with you, so the information in my thesis will be a hundred per cent correct..”
“Oh, yeah, your ‘thesis’. Ha! As if I didn’t know you’re after a second New York Times Bestseller! Come on, sister, this is not really about a master degree, is it? This will be another book, won’t it? What, what are you shocked about? Oh, gee, is it about the ‘sister’ thing? Was it racist?
Well, you know what? A great thing about being in prison is that I don’t have to give a fucking damn about anyone else’s feelings. I can live free now. I’ve lived almost all my life pretending to be a good girl, a shy teacher…I’m not! I’m a fucking bad girl, with a dirty mouth and I love it. I can be myself inside here, so don’t even start trying to make me feel guilty about anything, sister. But, to be honest, I didn’t call you sister because you’re black. It’s just slang that I learned here in my new home. We call each other sisters here, sometimes. Well, maybe it’s because there are lots of black women here, but still…”
“Actually, I didn’t even notice the ‘sister’ comment, Ms. Connelly, I—”
“Cassandra. Don’t try to be so respectful with me, Camille. I won’t be with you, so we may as well be on a first name basis here. Besides, we’re too young for that.”
“Okay, as you prefer, Cassandra. The fact is I don’t mind if you call me sister, and I don’t think it’s offensive or racist at all. If I showed any shock, was more about you talking about my thesis becoming a book. It is a possibility, but no one knows it yet, so I guess I was surprised you thought of that.”
“Oh, sis, of course I thought of that. I think of everything. Don’t you know, didn’t that show up in your research about me? I’m brilliant. I’m the smartest fucking person inside this prison, one of the smartest in the whole fucking world. And yeah, I get how ironic it is that despite that, I was arrested right after shooting my ‘mom’ in the head. Oh, I see you recoiling at the thought. Ha! You should’ve seen it. The huge hole right here, between her shit eyes. Her entire face was covered in blood… Beautiful!
“You know, the only reason the stupid police caught me so fast is that I was so mesmerized by that sight that I couldn’t move. I was hypnotized by that gorgeous red flow dripping on the carpet, staining her perfectly coordinated outfit, her so expensive carpet. Splattered all across her books, her walls…ahh, I still rely on that to get to sleep every night. It was worthy. I don’t regret it a bit. Because I could not keep on living while she was alive. It was no life at all. I’m finally free and living here.
“I have friends here, real people I enjoy. Delores, for example. She gets me, I get her. I don’t really understand the concept of ‘love’, and why people do things based on that crap, but I do understand how betrayal feels. And Delores was betrayed. She’s a crazy bitch, let me tell you. She killed her boyfriend because she found out he was screwing her little sister. She cut him up, gutting him like a fish with a cooking knife. Then, still covered in his blood, she went after the whore sister—a fucking bitch she had raised since their mother died, mind you—to cut her open too. She never did get that satisfaction, though, poor Delores…her damned sister didn’t die after all. Delores got to scar her face, though. Cut her here, took her right eye out. She’s not going to fuck anyone anymore, I guess, looking like fucking Frankenstein! Ha!
“Well, that’s how we try to comfort poor Delores, at least. She dreams almost every night of killing her sister… Some wishes never come true, do they? Anyway, Delores has two sisters. One of them is a good, respectful girl. So one day we were here, and a guard came and told Delores her sister was here to visit. She thought it was the good one and went, but it was the slut one. How that whore ever got the nerve to come, I’ll never understand, but Delores didn’t miss the chance; she jumped over the table and tried to choke her to death. Was restrained by the guards and spent a month in the solitary…so unfair…”
“Why do you think it was unfair?”
“Why? Are you serious? In a fair world, everyone would have the right to fucking make things right by blood. Actually, no not the ‘right’ but the duty to do that. Kill the bastards and it will be all right… But not here, in this freaking damn world. Nope! Here, you should just swallow up any crap people throw at you and smile. Be noble, be the bigger person. Bullshit.
“You, for example. You think you’re so good, better than me because you overcame what happened to you. You’re not better though, you’re weak. You didn’t overcome your crap, you just pretend you did. No one can get over what happened to you. Of course not.”
I’m quiet; I should not say anything now. She is much bitterer than I thought, and if I’m not careful, she’ll catch me in her web. So I just keep looking at her, waiting for her to continue.
“You see, I happen to understand people. To really, truly understand people, their minds. I don’t have a psychology degree, I’m a teacher.” She sighs, and looks up at the ceiling before continuing. “I was a teacher. I know, I was. But let me tell you, sweet Camille, inside here, I’m the best shrink these girls have ever seen.
“They come to me every day. No one wants to talk to the prison mind-reader doctor, no. They choose me, fucking Cassandra. I like it. It’s a way to learn, and I love learning. I always will. It’s also a good way to earn some money in here. Or trade for stuff. Cigarettes, for example. Boy, I wish I had a smoke now…”
“You smoke? I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t. Everything you read about me is old news. I started smoking in here. You know, nothing much to do inside, plus why would I bother with my health now? I’ll never leave this place, so the sooner I die, the better.
“Ha! You’re shocked! I finally shook little Miss Self Control, eh? Truth is, I’m a waste now. I have some value, because I’m fucking brilliant, and I’m doing some service here with my girls. I help them. I make them see who they should be fucking with. I make them not to be like you, a damn fool sheep, thinking self control and calm are the answers. ‘Cause they aren’t. You’re nothing but a loser. Listen to me now, Camille, you may be free, but you’re a loser.”
She’s yelling now, and the guard gets closer.
Are you going to finish your visit sooner than necessary, Cassie?” The guard is a heavily built, dark haired woman, with a severe demeanor, but who, funny enough, doesn’t sound menacing at all. Respectable, but not menacing. I liked her, but I usually like people in uniforms. They make me feel safe; they make me feel there is control and respect in the world. Maybe Cassandra really does know me.
“No, Sheila. I’m sorry. I’ll behave like a lady.”
“You’d better. And it’s Officer Fernandez to you. You know that.”
“Of course, Officer.” Cassandra’s words are correct, but her face screams fury and despair. However, she’s smiling humbly, lowers her voice, and answers correctly, so there’s nothing Officer Fernandez can do. She asks me if I want to continue the visit. I nod, and she leaves us alone again, but keeps an eye on us.
“Okay, where was I? Oh, of course, about what a loser you are, and what a waste I am. The point is that I can’t accomplish much inside here. I feel like a waste. Maybe some of my girls will actually listen to me and kick some asses when they get out, refuse to be
doormats, and not let asshole men control their lives anymore. Maybe they’ll help make this world a fair place, I don’t know. Still, it’s not much. I wish I could do things… I miss my freedom, Camille. I miss my house, my stuff. I miss solitude.”
Cassandra turns a longing glaze to the window. There are so many bars there that I’m sure she cannot see much of the outside. Plus, even if she can, it’s just a patio, surrounded by high walls. I can relate to that feeling of missing freedom. I know how it feels to only see a small piece of the world through a barred window, walls defining my landscape. I can understand what she’s saying. And that scares me.
“Anyway…I don’t miss people. Anyone in particular, I mean. I never gave a fuck about people. But people usually love me. Go figure… Did you know that the principal of the Language Center where I worked still visits me? Yeah, she does! Brings me cigarettes and stuff. I told her several times not to come back. Hell, I probably say it every time, but to no avail. She simply comes back. She says she misses me, that she never found anyone as good as I was at my job.” Cassandra stops, sadness clouding her expression. For a moment my heart twists for this wretched woman, whose childhood was almost as miserable as mine, but decided to turn her life into a nightmare instead of becoming a survivor.
“Do you want to teach again, Cassandra?”
She sighs so loudly that Officer Fernandez starts to come to our table, but decides to stay where she is after a while. Anyone can see Cassandra Connelly is not a threat right now. She’s just a very sad, nostalgic woman, at least for now.
“Do I want to teach? Of course I do. Teaching was the only thing that made my life worthwhile. The only thing I was good at and wanted to do. Because I’m fucking brilliant, I’m a freaking genius. However, I’ve never had the chance to shine. The chance to show the world what a damn amazing person I am… I thought after I killed her that this dark stone was going to leave my chest, that I’d be finally able to live, to shine…”
“But it didn’t help, right, Cassandra?” I regret my words the moment they come out of my mouth. She was finally letting me in, and I ruined everything with that one small sentence.
Her recovery is immediate. She throws back her hair and that scary flame is again burning in her eyes. She looks at me and there’s contempt there.
“You know what, dear Camille? Maybe one of these days I’ll have the balls my brother Gregg had. You know what I’m talking about; I know you researched my life. I’m saying that I still believe what I always did—wastes should be erased. If I ever convince myself that I am really a waste of air, of space, I’ll just tie my sheet around my neck and end this whole charade.”
Cassandra slaps the table, making a noise that makes Officer Fernandez come to us again. Cassandra says that her hand slipped and, since I cannot say a word, Fernandez opts to buy it and leave us alone again. I cannot say a word because I’m remembering the eight-year-old me, locked in a basement, throwing a sheet made into a rope over the shower bar, knotting the other end to fit my neck…and then being intercepted by him before it was too…late? Too late, really?
For a while, I contemplate what Cassandra’s saying. She may have some good points. I may be weak for continuing…or is that really true? It always seemed like the only option, to survive, to continue, to keep my head up and not let him ruin my future with what he did to my past… But, was it really the only option?
I mean…I’m happy now, as happy as I can be at the moment, at least. I can sleep now; I even have a kind of boyfriend…but, every time Donald touches me, all I really feel is a sudden desire to slap his hands off me while my entire body has the goose bumps. Not good goose bumps, like I’ve heard about, like I’ve seen in movies…no. These are the kind of goose bumps you have when walking on a deserted street at night. In a tough neighborhood. The kind of feeling you have when you know something terrible is going to happen. Or that it might happen.
So I can relate to Cassandra’s words. Maybe I am doing it all wrong.
I have no idea what else I could have done. What other path I could have followed.
For sure not one that would bring me to the place Cassandra is now. I don’t have it in me to harm people. Even contradicting my mother is hard for me. I can’t stand looking at her sad face.
So no, I’m not saying I think I could have done anything…vindictive. No.
However, I can understand, and it makes me think, that perhaps the way I’ve been dealing with my feelings is not…oh, what I’m doing? I’m letting her mess with my head!
I must admit, Cassandra Connelly is good. She’s really good…at being mean.
“I left you speechless for a while, didn’t I, lil’ Camille? Ha! I knew it! You’ve got something boiling inside of you too. You just want to bury it.
“Cause you think you must be good. You think you should be good. Perhaps to compensate for something… I can see the guilt in your eyes, Camille. I read your book, and I think—” she pauses, lowers her voice to a whisper and leans a little over the table, just enough to make me hear her words, but not enough to make Fernandez react “—I think you had something to do with that Ashley girl’s kidnapping.”
She moves back to her position, a satisfied smile on her lips. She keeps staring at me with those intense, mean, green-brown eyes of hers. Suddenly I feel like I’m suffocating. I feel just like I felt, years ago, in another prison, talking to him.
How on earth can she know that? I am a coward, I really am. I wrote my book, I dedicated it to Ashley, but I never even came close to disclosing my secret. I wanted to. I swear I did.
I actually wrote it. I remember clearly; I was in my bedroom, typing. I was almost finished with my confession; chapter thirteen of my book was all about my responsibility in Ashley’s disappearance. I had written it all. How I invited her during one chat, how we had agreed to come in Unc—in his car. How she’d agreed not to tell her mother where she was going, just to please me. How I went upstairs and left my only friend with that maniac, left her alone and drugged by him. How I simply obeyed him and went to my bed, never having the courage to go back downstairs to check on her.
How I could easily have prevented it all—including Gisele’s kidnapping—but just kept silent, the usual puppet. I cried that day, but not sad tears. Those were angry, hateful tears. I loathed what he made me do, the person he made me become. So, again, I understand hate. I get Cassandra’s point.
But then, that day, as I was almost finishing the dreaded chapter named My Confession, the doorbell rang. Mom was out, grocery shopping, so I stopped and went to answer the door. And there she stood: Ashley’s mother.
I’d never seen her that close, face to face. I remembered her from school, crying, begging for news about her missing daughter. I remembered her from the trial, crying again, sitting some rows behind me and Mom. Nevertheless, now, she was right in front of me. As if she were coming to read my confession. As if sent by Ashley herself, from heaven above or wherever her soul was.
“Hi, Camille. I don’t know if you remember me… I’m—”
“Of course I remember you, ma’am.”
“That’s nice of you. I came to…well… may I come in?”
“Of course, sorry, please, come in. Have a seat. Do you want some water or anything?”
“No, thanks. I won’t stay long, I’m sure you have better things to do, and I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering anything, ma’am. It’s…great to see you.”
“Oh, aren’t you nice?” She dries a tear from her left eye before it drops. She’s really a lady, and I almost can see her with white gloves and a hat that matches her beautiful dress. She’s just like the real ladies from the past, a refined, delicate, educated woman, from whom life had demanded too much.
I felt so sorry for that woman, I wanted to put her on my lap and sing soothing songs to her. I wished for magical powers, just to give her everything she wanted to make her happy again. That would be just Ashley, of course
. The only thing I couldn’t gave her back. The thing I had helped people steal from her.
I felt as insignificant and repelling as a cockroach crawling on sewage pipes. Actually, I was a lot lower than that.
“Sorry. One would think I’d have cried all my tears by now, wouldn’t one? But there’s always more… every time I think of her.”
“Please don’t apologize. I can’t even begin to understand your pain and—” and then she interrupts me, to say something that made me feel even smaller.
“But honey, you’re the only one who can understand my pain.”
I’m too shocked to say anything. That nice, beautiful lady, with her elegantly wrinkled face, her perfect make-up, her classy gray hair…so much pain, so many sleepless nights, so much horror, so many tears…all she had, had been taken away. All she had, the pretty baby she gave birth to, who she named, she loved, nursed, dressed, and loved, loved, loved…killed. Because of me. And she thought I could understand her pain? Anything that happened to me was nothing compared to what Mrs. Simmons and her family had suffered. I was there, alive. They had died with Ashley, I’m sure. They will never be happy again. I can be. I don’t truly deserve it, but I can, meaning I have the ability to. Because I’m alive. And Ashley isn’t.
Because of me.
“Camille, my darling. What that monster did to my baby, to you, to that other girl, Giselle… No one will ever bring my baby back, but…well, I wished to come here to ask you…I read you’re writing a book?”
She’s asking, not stating it. I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.
“So…I came to ask you to… Well, my husband, Alfred is his name; he didn’t want me to come. He said, ‘Agnes, you have no business interfering with that girl’s life. It’s her book, for God’s sake’, that’s what he said. But…I came, nevertheless. Because I had to ask you.”
That’s it. No more secrets. No more guilt consuming me. She’s going to ask, because somehow she knows. People say mothers always know. It must be true.
I’m ready to confess. Actually, I feel like a burden is about to leave my chest. I’ll be relieved after that. Even if she beats me, if she calls the police and they arrest me, and everyone in the world starts to point their fingers at me, calling me a murderer…I’ll be fine. No more secrets. It will be fine.
“I wanted to ask you not to talk about Ashley in your book.”
My jaw drops and my heart stops for a split second. What?
“I mean, I know her name is going to be there at some point, but…please don’t write chapters about her, telling how she was at school, how she was…” several tears are streaming down her face, but she doesn’t bother to dry them now. “Please, just don’t…explore her much, will you?”
I’ve been speechless, literally speechless, many times in my life. But never like now. I really have no words, I can’t say anything. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I think Mrs. Simmons mistaken my silence as offense.
“Oh, please, excuse me. It was a terrible choice of words… I didn’t mean to imply your book is exploring anything, I didn’t mean… It’s just that we can’t take it anymore. Do you understand that? Can you understand that? We want to keep our little baby just for us, we don’t want everybody talking about her anymore, as if she were a character in a movie… We want to avoid anything, any mention of her. We just want…to mourn in peace.”
Finally I find something to say, because I can’t let her feel bad for me.
“No, it’s not that. Please, Mrs. Simmons, really it’s not. Of course I understand. It’s just… Well, I had something important to say about Ashley, and I’ve just finished writing, and it took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Something important? What’s that, honey?”
Then I look into her eyes. Blue, just like Ashley’s. The shape of her face reminded me of Ashley, too. If my friend had had the chance of growing up, she would probably have looked just like her mother one day. And she would probably have loved that.
And I saw what she meant. I saw that all her family wanted was to mourn in peace. No more publicity, no more scandal. They wanted to heal, but they needed their solitude to do that. And I was about to break it all. I was about to bring hell back into their lives once more.
How would she react to what I was going to confess? How would she deal with that new horrendous, gory detail about her baby’s last hours alive?
Most important of all…what good would it accomplish?
Would opening old wounds help the healing? Would inserting a sharp knife between the two scarring parts of skin and tearing them open once again apart do any good?
Dr. Wales told me many times not to share what I saw as my role in Ashley’s death. When I told her I was going to write about it, she told me she thought it was a bad idea. She told me that in the end it was my decision, but that she didn’t think it was helpful to anyone. I didn’t understand her that day, but facing Ashley’s mother, I completely comprehended Dr. Wales’ wise advice. It wouldn’t do any good to divulger that part.
“I…It’s just…I dedicate my book to her, that’s all. Because she was nice to me at school, Mrs. Simmons. She was the only one there who was nice to me. So I was dedicating my book to her, calling her my first friend.”
She smiles broadly, and puts a hand on her heart. Sighing, she cries a little more. Different tears now.
“Okay, sweetheart. Please don’t change it. I think she would like that very much. Thank you.”
And that’s why, some minutes after she left, I went to my computer and deleted the whole chapter. Chapter 13 was gone. The only things in my book about Ashley are the dedication page, a mention of how nice she was to me at school, and how when I saw the news with Mom about her and Giselle, it made me decide to finally tell my story.
I felt like a piece of garbage for not confessing, but I decided it was the right thing to do. So did Dr. Wales.
Of course, if I told this to cynical Cassandra Connelly, she would laugh and state that I didn’t confess because I was afraid. That I used the excuse of being a good person, of wanting to respect Ashley’s mother’s feelings in order to avoid the public exposure of my sins.
Would she be wrong? Had I taken an easy way out?
“Okay, Cassandra. Let’s get to the point here. Are you willing to be in my study or not?”
She studies me more. I would give anything to know what she’s thinking now. But maybe I do know. And, on second thought, I don’t want to know what she’s thinking at all.
“Sure. But if this becomes a book, I’ll want a share of the royalties. Plus, I want to write my part. My own words, no shitty transcription, no fucking revision. Just proofreading, of course, but no changes to my story. And finally, I want your agent. She or he must agree to be my agent too, if I decide to write my story.”
“Why haven’t you written it yet?”
“Never was interested. Hundreds of offers at first, but the last thing I wanted back then was talking to anyone. Ask Officer Fernandez right there, she’ll tell you everything about my first year. Boy, was I a silent motherfucker!
“Then the offers start to fade away, and eventually just stopped. I guess with so many horrors happening every day it’s hard to be on the news for long…”
I can see it hurts her, that she’s no longer big news. She wants the spotlight. I read that during her trial she was constantly caught smiling, a bit like Ted Bundy, creeping people out.
“But now, after reading your crap, I may want to tell mine to the world too. I have a big baggage to share.”
“Okay, Cassandra, I’ll have to think a while about your offer. I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, you do that poor little Camille. You think about everything we have in common. Everything that’s freaking you out right now. You think about every fucking thing I told you that was on the mark, and how it made you feel. You think about the ‘merge’ that just happened here.”
“Merge?”
“Yeah,
a merge. Our brains, with all the dark matter those creepy motherfuckers put inside them, they are alike now. Isn’t that what you’ve been looking for? Other people screwed up by horrific child abuse, just like you…and me? You found it.
“And now, since this merge happened, there’s not much you can do about it. I’m there, inside your pretty little head. I’m locked up inside this prison, but a part of me is going out today with you.
That’s the merge.”
I look at her and don’t know how to respond to that. I can’t deny the fact we do have similarities, we do share a lot. And it’s impressive how well she could read me. I wonder if she’s really as good at that with everyone as she claims, or if I’m just too easy to read.
I stop the recorder, and start grabbing my papers.
“Have a good day, Cassandra.”
“I won’t, but neither will you. Thanks for coming, lil’ Camille.”
CAMILLE