Chapters (57)
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Hear More from Gregg
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- A Letter from Gregg
- Acknowledgements
I remember thinking about that exchange. I was unsure of Karen Albright back then. I still am.
I continue listening. I told her about the trip to the drugstore to buy hair dye and scissors. Gum for Hayden; how, all the while, I remember thinking we needed a place to stay.
Dr. A: Tell me more about your family, the rules you mentioned earlier.
Me: It sounds silly. We weren’t in some cult. I mean, don’t you have to have other members besides just us? We were isolated. If I hadn’t attended a public school, I wouldn’t have had any idea of what the world was like.
Dr. A: That must have been very hard for you.
Me: When you don’t know anything different, whatever weirdness your parents put into your life seems normal. Your normal. You know what I mean?
Dr. A: I do. Did, for example, it seem normal to your parents? The rules?
Me: When I think about it, it’s hard to say. Even now. I can almost see the look on Dad’s face when it was time to leave whenever we were on the run. His anxiety. The way his eyes narrowed and sweat collected at his temples and he’d withdraw a little. He was worried that we’d be found.
Dr. A: How did you decide where to go?
Me: It seems so stupid now. But also, in its own way, smart. We called the nights before we moved to another place “the switch.” We had a glass bowl with a bunch of names of towns that were written by Mom on small, fortune-cookie-sized pieces of paper. I once asked my mom why it was that we did all of that. She told me, and I’ll never forget it, that there was security in randomness.
* * *
I press STOP on the recorder. It’s getting late. I’m tired. My mind needs a break. And yet I can’t stop thinking of my mother. How she made me believe in so many things.
If we are thinking of a place, making plans for a place, then it can be found out, she said. If we are random, no one can know where we’re going, honey. You know, because even we don’t know until we make the switch.
I remember thinking how it all made sense, in the way that parents sometimes can make the most ridiculous things seem normal. Like the Easter Bunny. Like the fact that only old people die. Or that all dogs go to heaven.
Speaking with convincing authority was my mother’s forte.