Page 11 of You Can Make Me
The interview with Dee Dee had also brought Dennis Hamilton back into my orbit. I shouldn’t have been shocked to see him—wherever detectives Gene Ochoa and Walter Muse, Jr., were, Denny was rarely far away—but he’d once again taken my breath away, and from the moment I’d learned he was at the house I’d struggled to maintain my composure.
I’d ultimately done the leaving, but I always thought he’d come back. Stupid fucking ego.
After interviewing Dee Dee and walking in on a bizarre scene involving a Ouija board, something in me clicked. I knew I’d stumbled across something big.
I helped the detectives find a Caltrans facility, then I’d spent the entire drive from Laurel Canyon to Buttonwillow dictatingnotes into my phone. Tragically, my phone went missing during the attack, and when Denny set up my new one, the voice files hadn’t been saved. I’d thrown an epic tantrum when I discovered they were gone.
Once I felt strong enough to sit at the table in the small cabin, I proceeded to fill an entire steno pad with what I could remember, and made lists of where to look next, but whenever I got to working on it, my head would start pounding and I’d have to stop, almost like a psychosomatic block against ever finding out whether the carnival was a figment of Granddad’s imagination or something real. Some place that possessed healing, transformational magic.
I eventually came to believe that the answers to my current dilemma could be found at this place.
When I was able to focus, I spent a lot of time thinking about what my next act would entail, once I was myself again. I could continue researching important issues and writing powerful pieces on issues that others were afraid to talk about, and I could do that anywhere. My agent could sell my stories, and I’d never have to show my face in public again.
Because there was no way in hell anyone would ever hire me to be on TV now, not with my ruined face.
I had to actually be able to think to work, though, and I was barely making inroads. Of all people, I should have known how debilitating a traumatic brain injury could be. I’d done an extensive piece on the continued phenomena of concussions in high school sports, despite the current research and improved equipment, and how brain injuries impacted student achievement.
I had all the TBI symptoms, and it appeared many of them would linger and become chronic:
Fatigue
Balance issues
Headaches
Vision disturbances
Mood swings
Oh, that last one. It had gotten so bad a few times, I’d lashed out at Denny until his cheeks grew mottled red, and he ceased speaking until I ran out of gas. I’d made messes, thrown things—though never at him. No, as awful as I’d been, I’d never physically harmed him.
We came to a few agreements, but I resisted most of his suggestions.
I knew he’d fished my phone out of the trash, and that he spoke to my parents and Sam and Gene, but I avoided discussing it with him. I knew he was in touch with my assistant, Ginny, and my editors and agents. He handled my finances, took care of my bills, handled all the paperwork for my victim’s assistance payments and medical and disability insurance.
He was my guardian angel, my savior…and I’d treated him horribly.
I needed to get well and then let him go, only I wasn’t sure if he would leave, and I was terrified of what would happen if he stayed and ended up hating me.
I entered the living room-slash-office and sat at the dining table, listening to him putter around in the kitchen, plating out meals. The man couldcook. Mostly he made simple dishes and comfort foods, and he followed the doctor’s recommendations, as I’d struggled to eat for a while. Soft foods were important, and low-spice and low-acid dishes were important to avoid further complications with the wound on my cheek.
Tonight’s dinner was one of his specialties: chicken pot pie made with fresh vegetables and organic chicken. He even made the crust from scratch. I loved it so much I’d eaten it all without complaint, which he took to mean it was acceptable, and he made several more and froze them.
Dennis Hamilton was a true gift. One I didn’t deserve. One I’d be giving back just as soon as I could convince him it was in his best interest.
“Your parents said to tell you they love you. Sam and Gene are good, they miss you. Gene said he’s tired of being pissed at me, so that’s something.” He chuckled softly before taking a bite of his pie, which he washed down with a sip of milk.
He’d often try to bait me into talking, which I’d derail by stubbornly refusing to speak, but tonight I was feeling…restless. Quitting the drugs had lifted the fog, and I was in a mood. Denny would probably regret speaking to me.
“They shouldn’t be angry with you. I’m the one who cut off contact. They need to let it go.”
He set his fork down and stared at me, probably as shocked as I was that I’d spoken three whole sentences.
“I think that if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t let anyone keepyouaway. You practically lived at the Ochoas’ for a month after their miscarriage. Gene was snippy with you, but you held your ground, and they’re both better off for it.” He shook his head. “None of the people who love you are going to give up on you, so if that’s what you’re hoping for, forget it.”
He spoke all of this in an infuriatingly calm voice.
I kept eating with my face down so he wouldn’t see the frustration in my expression. I didn’t know why I was picking a fight with him. I couldn’t help myself.
