Jeanne Holtzman is an aging hippie, writer and women’s health care practitioner. Her work has appeared in Night Train, The Los Angeles Review, Dogzplot, Hobart (web), Foundling Review, The Best of Every Day Fiction and flashquake. You may reach Jeanne at J.holtzman@comcast.net

I Never Told Anyone (January 20, 2010. Issue 13.)

July 16, 1988

Dear Ted,

I'm told that you get many, many letters from women. Women who believe you are innocent. Women who want to marry you. This is not one of those letters. I am not one of those women.

You are my last resort. If you were any other man I would beg and plead for your help, throw myself on your mercy, but I have seen up close the twisted thing that happens to you when a woman begs.

I knew the first time I saw you on TV. It's not my fault the police couldn't catch you, couldn't keep you when they did. Do you remember me? I must have been one of your first. Fifteen years ago. Before you perfected your craft.

Were you surprised when nothing about me appeared on the news or in the paper? Nothing about a coed found in her apartment with bruises on her neck, evidence of sexual molestation and no sign of forced entry? Nothing on the radio about a young woman with long brown hair who into the ER, telling authorities about the man who beat and strangled and raped her?

I never told anyone. How could I? I invited you in. I wanted you. You were so handsome, so smart. You hadn't started using the cast or the crutch yet, but you walked with a slight limp, just endearing enough. When you looked at me I was sure you peered right into my soul, knew the very essence of who I was, and you wanted me. I still remember my fierce desire. I couldn't wait to get you home.

I never told anyone. I had few friends to tell. A dead mother, a distant father. I hid the bruises with clothing, make-up. No one noticed me anyway. You saw that immediately: I was invisible, desperate, pathetic.

I never told anyone. Not then. Not ever. Not even your son.

Yes. Your son. Adam. The light of my life. I never considered not keeping him. He was safe inside me and I would keep him safe. I would keep him safe. My love grew ferocious. I stood guard, ready to protect him from the world, from his genes, from himself. I watched. I paced. I charted every milestone. I smothered him with love.

I told him his father was a handsome brilliant man, on his way up in the world. We were madly in love, thrilled to be having a baby, but you were killed in a tragic automobile accident. I never got over it. I never married.

Adam was happy, friendly, active, good in school, kind to pets, sociable. Nothing to make me worry. He grew into a teenager and started asking questions. Why didn't I have any pictures of you? Where were his aunts, uncles, grandparents? I was never a good liar. I think he began to suspect I had no idea who his father was. Every now and then I saw something in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. But it passed so quickly I could never be sure.

And then last year he stopped playing soccer, saying he just didn't like it anymore. He grew weak and pale. He had bruises he couldn't explain. I asked if someone was hurting him, abusing him. Was he using drugs? He denied it all. He said he was fine, I was just being overprotective, as usual. I should back off. When he was at school, I searched his room but found nothing suspicious. Then he got strange spots on his skin. I was frantic. I dragged him to his doctor. They drew his blood.

Leukemia. Adam has leukemia. I won't bore you with the details. The tests. The chemo. The radiation. The hope. The recurrence. The doctor says the only thing left to save his life is a bone marrow transplant. I am not a match. None of the donors in the bank are a match. I'd told the doctor his father was dead. "Are there any other living relatives?" he wanted to know.

You and your son are both waiting to die. You are running out of appeals. He is running out of treatments. I am useless. You might save him. A few cells from your pelvic bone could save his life. Your cells, alive after you are gone. You are his last resort.

I can tell him the truth. Or not. Your call. Your son.

I wait to hear from you.

Carolyn Bisbee