Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [2]
“Hey, you got a letter,” he says with an odd look, sliding it across my legs.
I pick it up and flip it over. It’s an actual snail-mail letter—a relic!
“Who writes letters anymore?” I ask as my eyes scan the postmark.
Las Vegas. Funny, I know no one in Vegas. My eyes slide left to the return address, and the air is literally sucked out of my lungs. I struggle to catch just one cleansing breath, but it won’t come. There on the return address sticker, so neatly positioned in the upper left corner, is his name: William Beebe.
The faintly feminine handwriting reads “Elizabeth Seccuro.” How does he know my married name, and what’s with “Elizabeth”? No one addresses me by my full name, except strangers and receptionists at doctors’ offices.
My heart skips several beats, and when it starts up again, tears slide down my face.
William Beebe. My rapist.
“Honey? Honey? What is it? Who is this person? What’s wrong? Talk, please talk to me. Talk, honey. Say something. What’s happening?”
Mike is all over the place, looking wild-eyed and afraid. I must look as white as a sheet. I am subtly aware of rivulets of sweat escaping from under the silly cowboy hat. I start to hyperventilate and rummage in my handbag for a Xanax. Ava is in a tailspin; she can sense her mama is wrecked. I can distantly hear Mike try to calm her down. After what seems like an eternity, I flip the letter over. Out wafts the sickly scent of vanilla as I unfold a burgundy-bordered sheet of ivory paper. I blink, and then I read.
Sept. 4, 2005
Dear Elizabeth:
In October 1984 I harmed you. I can scarcely begin to understand the degree to which, in your eyes, my behavior has affected you in its wake. Still, I stand prepared to hear from you about just how, and in what ways you’ve been affected; and to begin to set right the wrong I’ve done, in any way you see fit.
He invites me to contact him at any time. He signs it, “Most Sincerely Yours, Will Beebe.”
Out slides a shiny white business card with a red and blue rendering of the Statue of Liberty. It reads “Liberty Realty” and “William N. Beebe, Realtor,” with his address, phone, cell, and e-mail address below. It flutters to my feet. Perhaps I am imagining this whole thing and it’s some sick prank. Silently I hand the letter to my husband, who has calmed down for Ava’s sake and mine. He reads it with no expression. He knows. He begins to nod slowly. I can hear the hum of the car engine again, and the sounds of Nemo drifting from the backseat. Normal sounds; everyday sounds. Slowly, I exhale as the Xanax starts to take effect, but within a minute or two, the sobbing takes over, silently wracking my body. “Let’s go,” I say. Mike puts the car in gear, while looking at me intently as if to ask whether or not we should leave. I read his look and nod a silent “yes.”
Pulling off down the circular driveway toward town and I-95 South, I cease crying and go completely silent. Ava falls asleep after thirty minutes and we turn off Nemo. I just sit and stare ahead at the road. I’m numb. It isn’t until we reach Exit 72 in Manorville, Long Island, some three hours later that I come to life again. “Can you imagine this?” I ask Mike again and again.
“I know, sweetie, I know. It’s terrible,” he responds repeatedly.
“I mean, have you read this thing?” I continue to ask, incredulously.
We stop at a Starbucks. I pace back and forth outside on the patio, Ava on my hip. She’s eating a cookie and I’m chugging a black iced tea and clutching the letter in a sweaty palm.
Mike encourages me to climb back into our car and we drive on to our rental in the Northwest Woods of East Hampton. I’m tired and dazed, but still very relieved to be away. “Away” for me now means something