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CREEPO
Written by:
Tempest Mc Tierney
I have learned so much about harassment and stalking. Probably the most I have learned, however, is the fact that you and I cannot apply any normal sense of logic to stalkers. But as I write this, I hold onto the best advice I have been given: "to engage is to enrage." So, we do not engage. Peter and I do nothing now. We just wait for the stalker to leave us alone. Yet, I wonder who she is, where she is... and why she is. And, I may never know the answers.
Tempest
I am dreaming. It is so explicit this night, which is unusual. I am in my room at home watching some really good 80s thrillers like “Fatal Attraction” and “Jagged Edge”, The “Hand that Rocks the Cradle” and “The Morning After.” My dear college friend Liza is sitting on the floor cross-legged saying that this is not healthy. She says I have to stop my obsessing over Creepo. My sister is here, too. She is eating caramels and laughing. Sarah is crying and telling me to stop, just stop thinking about Creepo. Meghan is writing me an email because she hasn't heard from me and knows I am hiding. Liza is reading. And the list goes on -- and I can see them all above me, in the clouds.
Even though I am dreaming, I am aware enough of my psyche being rattled that these films I have mentioned are making me nuts. I think deep down I'm already nuts. That is because in reality, nothing helps. I am starting to go a little insane. I wander down by the seashore, the part close to the hospital and I look at every person there wondering if she is Alien/Creepo. My plan of forgiving is starting to wane and I want to just rename Alien (our stalker) "Creepo" again. I await the next act of invasion or violence, letter, hang up, or call. The knife I have is a bigger one now and I practice throwing it like a dart -- just in case Creepo decides to get violent with me. I am ready for her.
I stand on the shore looking for my dolphin dad. He appears in a beautiful leap and stays above the water longer than usual and spins before diving down again. I wipe the tears from my eyes. I feel the pain of missing my father.
I leave the beach to go rent a DVD. It is a thriller I have never seen before that my good friend Meghan suggested to me. We spent the day with her the day before, for her birthday, Liza and I. I wonder if she could tell I am a little nuts now. I do want to fight this fear and I need help. I need to figure out how to do that.
On the way home from her house we pass a pawnshop and I look down at my wedding ring. I wonder; could I trade my ring in for a gun? I would need to check into that. Then, like clock work I look up.
It is so strange. Standing in front of the shop was a woman who looked so familiar. And here she was... in front of the pawnshop. Where had I seen her? Oh -- that's it -- she goes to our church. I wave to her. She looks at me so strangely. She is the same height as Peter. That is tall for a woman.
I reach inside my purse and my hand closes around the knife wrapped in a paper towel at the bottom. The blade slices through the paper and into my finger; I yank it out and stick it in my mouth. The blood pours out freely. My tears begin to pour out freely. I wonder if my eye will start to bleed again one day. I want to move away. I will miss my friends who are so dear to me. Still, I think I will talk to Peter about it. This is no way to live our lives. We are innocent, yet we keep getting blamed... and hurt.
Have you ever heard noises inside your dream and it feels so real? I hear a phone ringing and I place the sound in my dream. I am so close to finding out who Creepo is. I snuggle into my cotton pillow and fight waking up into reality. I drift deeper into sleep and dreaming again.
The phone is still ringing and it is Peter. Hazily, I answer it.
"What are you doing?" He asks, concerned.
"Nothing," I lie.
"Did you see the roses I left on the table?"
"Roses? No, I haven't been home." He is silent. But I answered the phone. But, Peter, I am asleep. Beside you. How can you be calling me?
"They're two toned the way you like them. Red around the edges and light yellow all the rest."
"Oh -- like we had at our wedding. Thanks, sweetheart. I have an errand, then I am going home. I can't wait to see them."
"Are you okay, Tempest?" He sighs.
I jolt up, dreaming, and glance down and I have blood all over my jeans. I pull into the pawnshop parking lot and stop the car. I wrap the napkin around my finger and climb out the car. The same woman stares hard at me and turns to walk away, her hands deep in her pockets.
"Are you there?" Peter's voice sounds tired, but he waits patiently.
"Yes. I'm sorry, I am just parking," I answer, distracted by her.
"Parking? I'll let you go. Go back to sleep darling."
Sleep? But I am parking.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Where am I?
Am I awake or am I asleep?
A shot rings out clearly through the crisp spring air. One shot. "Tempest!" I hear Peter scream into the receiver as I fall to the ground. The blood pours out of my temple, near to where the blood used to flow from my retina. I put my fingers up to my eye and squint across the parking lot. The lady, wearing a raincoat, heads toward me and becomes one huge shade of charcoal gray. I am, somehow, in that instant, inside my dream, reminded of the cloud turned gray I had seen on our way to Hawaii.
She holds a gun to my face and whispers in my ear as she pulls the trigger.
"Good-bye, Dear Tempest."
AND THE DREAM ENDS.
OUR STORY,
chapter 1
By: Tempest
Today is January 2nd, 2008. It is 3:30 am and we are driving, my sons, my husband and myself. We are traveling from Galveston, to Houston; then flying west for a lay over at Los Angeles International Airport and then, - to Maui. Our daughter Sarah is meeting us at LAX with my mom and all six of us are heading to paradise. I look up at the clouds. I am struck by how they are like charcoal puffs inching along - creating dark shadows in bursts across the sky. The crescent shaped moon smiles on them, and on us. It is a subtle, gentle smile. Then suddenly, the clouds move quickly over the moon, and the white half smile, so tender, my newfound friend, is covered over by the grey of a cloud. My smile disappears as I snuggle against the passenger door and into my seat belt, staring upwards. My happiness has turned, my feeling of safety gone. All with the darkness a charcoal cloud can bring. It is as if Creepo is here beside me; she has a string, and the cloud is a kite to unravel, then grab taut, whenever and however Creepo wishes.
Clouds moving dark shadows over me, blanketing my contentment has been my life for over 4 years now. And when this gloom moves over me, there is little I can do about it. I try to ignore it, but it's so hard.
This loss of control is what is harming my husband, Peter. It is in his eyes, his step, his heart-laid wide open. Neither of us has any control over the wrath these clouds has wrought. These clouds represent the dark soul of our stalker, the person who will not leave us in peace. The person we have named Creepo.
A "stalker" is defined as "somebody who persistently and obsessively harasses somebody else with inappropriate attention." We have had Creepo disturbing our peace ever since we won a lawsuit against a prestigious board of administrators who run a local hospital. And, for the most part, I am certain the board is made of some well-meaning individuals. Yet, we knew we had to fight them when Peter got fired unjustly. And ever since our victory, we have been stalked and harassed.
So we bury ourselves in other tasks and we pretend it isn't so bad. It helps to hide my head in the sand. I have heard that, when we die, we get to look really good in heaven. So, when my stomach gets upset or when I am more scared of Creepo one day than another day, that is what I think about. I think about when I was 25 and I looked my best. My hair was thicker and was a natural chestnut color and slightly curly, barely. I had a favorite pair of light purple pants with pleats and loved the movie “Annie Hall.” I am going to go into that white space on the way to heaven and I will transform from what I look like now to the beauty I was then, wearing my lavender pants. I never knew I was so beautiful then. But Peter knew.
And because he knew, I married him.
Peter is meticulous about details and dates. I am not. I might make a mistake now and again with dates as I tell this story. What matters is how things unraveled, what it says about human nature, and what it is doing to us. And, I think the stalker is a woman.
It is my trying to understand and deal with the intention behind the stalker’s horrible acts that leave me wanting to write our story- the acts of greed and arrogance, of her mental instability, of her meanness and anger that propels me. How we ever could have made anyone so incredibly angry is beyond me --since in my way of thinking we were forced to do what we had to do. We never set out to hurt a soul. Ever. But then, even after we fought the “good fight”, there came another fight. This fight – against Creepo. That just isn't fair, is it? But, life isn't fair.
Background is important, they say. But it also isn't great to dig things up that cause a lot of pain. I do not believe in bad energy coming back around. I have heard and read that to forgive frees the "forgiver." Therefore, I write this in a forgiving way, in a hopeful, "okay, you have made your point, please leave us alone now and we will just let it all go," sort of way.
OUR BEGINNINGS,
chapter 2
By: Tempest
We started out fast and furious, Peter and I. Twenty-five years ago. We had our daughter at the end of first year of marriage, in '83. Peter was just finishing medical school and looking for work. He got it in a little obscure town in Louisiana, and off we went. Me, an L.A. native and part time college instructor, and Peter, a brilliant young doctor from Austin, Texas who had gone to UCLA Medical School.
Neither of us ever felt like Louisiana was home. But Peter learned a lot there and other than one unfortunate event, his experience and the accolades that followed him put him on a track for better positions in other places. Right before we moved to Galveston, we had our sons. Adorable little Irish lads named Kyle and Cody, who would later wear Irish racing caps and knickers to a wedding, where a guest who was a professional photographer went crazy snapping pictures of them. Our lives went into high energy then and although we had some reprieves of relaxation, overall, we just worked hard and took some blows, like everyone else.
I decided to start this memoir while we are in Maui. It is approximately five years now since Peter was fired, or as we call it, “our debacle" began at the hospital where Peter works. Four years after Creepo first got in touch with us. And "Creepo" is seeing to it that at least for us, the memory of a difficult time will never end.
The Pacific Ocean is turquoise and there is a slight mist in the air. In Hawaii no one minds mist. Here, mist is romantic. I am craving a pina colada as I write this long hand, sitting beside a pool that gives it up with a perfect water temperature. I’m ignoring the warnings about not wearing sun block since my now 21-year-old sons have taken it to the north shore on a surf journey. I close my eyes and pretend I am in that red and white flowered bikini that I wore back in '82. My memory floats me back to where and when I am eating a tuna sandwich with just the right amount of mayo and relish that my cute new boyfriend has packed for us. I remember thinking, "this guy's made me lunch and he knows exactly what I like." I can feel my face is tanning like the old days. The moon is smiling on me, too. It has followed me all the way from Los Angeles with its half smile.
I believe in the healing power of the sun. The brightness cheers me up. The warmth comforts me. I know all about the cancer thing. My ancestors were dark, their pigment resilient to the sun. I pretend they picked cotton and were small and dark and strong; therefore I will not be at risk. All because I simply don't want to move. The sun feels too perfect.
But back to'82. I can remember when I wore that bikini and my belly was flat and oh, so aulait colored tan... Peter and I would sneak away after graduate school at UCLA to Venice Beach and bring food and sit for hours looking at the water and talking. I try hard to hold on to that feeling of freedom, of feeling invincible, of romance... but we change, don't we? We begin to cling to routines, happy for peace and health, and more than anything, the safety of our children. We become seasoned with experience and with getting familiar, with lessons hard earned. Some of us sour, a bit. We get a little compulsive with dates and bedtime. We go to bed earlier, and we drift off into sleep living in a half meaningful way through characters on our favorite television shows. We like Sundays with no plans so we can take two hours before we move away from the couch after 2 cups of really excellent coffee. And now I sit beside the same, gentle man with soft blue eyes who has taken some awfully hard knocks, and I find I love him more than ever. And he still will make me a tuna sandwich the way I love it. All I have to do is ask and he is there.
Like the song.
NOT FOR THIS WORLD,
chapter 3
By: Tempest
Have you ever heard anyone say, "not for this world?" It can refer to so many things. I remember the first time I heard it. It was 15 years ago and a friend of mine who has had a very privileged life discovered her nephew had committed suicide. He had thrown himself in front of a train. He had always been very sensitive, and a bit lonely. Despite the fact that he came from a big family that loved him, he still felt alone and misunderstood. I recall her saying to me, "He was just not for this world." That stuck with me; I began to see there are parts in all of us, some more than others that are not meant for this world. When I look at the news and hear about particularly violent actions, I fall apart. Especially when it involves children. That part of me isn't strong; it is not meant for our world. I try to avoid it, but I know it’s out there. I haven't done enough for those children. Instead, I might saunter through the mall, or do yoga in a hot room, or see a movie. Selfish stuff. Stuff that the good people they feature on Good Morning America, or Sixty Minutes probably don't have time for. I vow to myself that when I do not need to be earning so much money for college tuitions and mortgages I will volunteer somewhere for children who need me, who were abused or neglected without ever asking to be born. The little children who, with love from others somewhere, somehow, might stand a chance of being happy someday even though their parents were messed up.
It is so hard to imagine that we were all children once. Little, innocent, open children. We opened our eyes and saw what was laid out before us. For some of us that was love and nurturing. For others it was cruelty. I wonder about Creepo's childhood. Was it cruel? I think it must have been so.
WHEN I FIRST MET PETER
Chapter 4
By: Tempest
When I first met Peter, I took him to a party in the San Fernando Valley. That particular evening, back in the late part of summer '82, my sister, who had moved to Long Beach to major in art, was visiting friends in the area. She had invited me to a party and I said yes because her friends were full of life and exuberance and one of them was throwing a party at her parents' house.
Peter was so cute. I wanted to show him off. So we went. It was at a house down the block from someone in show business. Someone famous. If you grew up in L.A. in the seventies, you were always just around the corner, or a bus stop away from someone famous. Like the Partridge family, or Ron Howard's girlfriend who later became his wife, or Graham Nash, or someone. But, in this case, come to think of it, it was The Jackson Five. Cindy, the girl who was giving the party, had grown up in the Valley. She was a “Valley Girl.” So, the fact that a celebrity lived nearby was the buzz at the party. It was down the street from Michael Jackson before he screwed up his nose, and became White.
When we arrived we went inside, and my sister's vivacious girlfriends looked over at my Mr. Bo Jangles right away. They promptly pulled me into a big double sink bathroom and I was surrounded by them shooting questions at me about, "how had I met him?" "He's a perfect blend of James Taylor and Paul McCartney," they exclaimed." Peter had brought his guitar. He could play the guitar and write beautiful original songs. I beamed with pride that night in Encino back in 1982. He played an original one called "Crystal Heart" for my sister and her friends; but really he played it for me.
MORE,
chapter 5
By: Tempest
When our lives began to change, we were finally in a position where we were taking tropical vacations; the kids had been to places with their choirs and teams, like Italy and Switzerland. The life we had woven for them was almost everything I had aspired to achieve for and with my family. I overcompensated a bit, I know. I did so because I was a child from the 50s, growing into adolescence in the 70s, and parents then were different as a rule. I didn't get the braces I needed so badly. I didn't get rides everywhere; instead, I took the bus. I had a bong and we smoked pot and listened to Joni Mitchell's "The Circle Game" in our basement. And, my first concert, Credence Clearwater, was at the Los Angeles Forum when I was 12; it was my first time smoking a joint. See? My kids at 12 might have attended a concert, but only with Peter and me.
It was different back in the day. We wore our denim work shirts and flared bell-bottom jeans and parted our long hair right down the middle. We said things to each other like, "Keep on Truckin," and "Peace."
I am so glad that was my generation. I was a teen at the tail end of the sixties, enthralled by Woodstock, excited about Bob Dylan. Who would I be today if I had grown up with rap, I wonder? When Stephen Stills sang, "Love the one you're with," we took that literally. I wasn't sure if he was the voice we were supposed to follow or not. And neither were the other 70s kids. We were stuck between the 50s and the 70s, a little confused and baffled.
When Peter and I met, we had done most everything on our own, asking very little of others. I recall that I had been so hurt in the early years when I needed help; the kids were all small at the same time and I was so tired and working so hard and so was Peter, especially when he was an intern. I needed help and people didn't seem to "get" how much help I needed. But now I look back and of course my thinking was unreasonable -- people are immersed in their own lives, with their own needs on the weekends, with their own phases of life. I know this now because we try to find time for just the two of us, Peter and me. We need it. As friends around us get cancer and diseases and struggle in ways we cannot even imagine, I grab every evening to take a walk under the stars, or plan a trip together, or have a dinner where there are twinkling lights on the trees surrounding the outdoor patio to just "be." We don't even need to talk. We just want to "be."
But there is this person, that charcoal cloud, the stalker who has attached herself to us who is trying so desperately to ruin those walks, to invade our lives with crazy acts and stupid antics that are not really so stupid after all.
On well-deserved holidays, she chooses to pounce. On the eve of my husband's birthday that I had planned out so carefully, she chose to attack. On the first day of the New Year, she came around to poison. On Christmas early in the morning, she stalked and left notes on all of our cars.
She's tried to hurt my reputation at work. She has called and harassed my husband on his cell phone. And she has done so, so much more. Because of this work debacle that happened to Peter so many years ago, now. I guess that is the reason. I can only guess.
But the worst part was the beginning. The first letter she tried to inflict horrible guilt on us for something we knew nothing about. It was sick, untrue, and awful. It should have been a sign to us of how demented and obsessed she was.
But we had no idea she was like glue, already stuck to us.
WHAT STARTED IT ALL, THE DEBACLE AT THE HOSPITAL
chapter 6
By: Tempest
In 2003, Peter came home one day and told me a strange story. We had just celebrated our 20-year anniversary. He had been at some function; a holiday party or a presentation at the hospital and a man sitting in a wheel chair fell over and was struggling to pull him self up. Peter rushed over to assist. He said he looked up and from across the room, Dr. Philip White, Chief of Staff at the hospital, where he was on track for a promotion and an eventual partnership, was watching him with a cold, icy stare. No exaggeration. He came home that night and mentioned this, which is sort of unusual for Peter. He isn't usually one to be paranoid, or reactive. He's a guy's guy. A woman might have mentioned it on the phone that night to her best friend. But not Peter. But he noticed it and it gave him a strange feeling. I will always remember him telling me that story because it wasn't long after that I realized a few people hated us in this town. Peter, being the more idealistic one of the two of us, refused to believe me. But I am my father's daughter -- a cynic to the bone. And I knew people were jealous of us, but especially of Peter. I have learned a hard lesson these last few years. I should have learned it long before:
People resent others who make them look bad.
Peter never does it intentionally, but he makes others look bad. He works more hours, and has a kind bedside manner. He is a gentleman. Old school in the best possible way.
Then, sometimes I wonder, was it because we were successful? We had moved to Galveston and bought a house in one of the best sections of town, the Strand view District. It had a view of the Gulf of Mexico and was an old Victorian with a huge wrap around porch and slanted ceilings in the kids' rooms.
If this stalking by Creepo all started from some sort of sick jealousy about Peter's success, it makes it easier to accept. If it involved money stuff at the hospital, that is news to me. It definitely did involve a hospital's egregious and unfair enactment of nebulous policies and accusations that ripped into us, pulled apart and divided the hospital and hurt us all in the fish bowl of this town called Galveston. Jobs are competitive here and who knows what lengths one will go to in order to make someone else go away.
Yet, when the news hit that Peter was let go from his prestigious position at the hospital for “secret” reasons, because, according to the local newspaper, the hospital board couldn’t say what those reasons were; the friendship and loyalty of new friends and old morphed into all sorts of shapes and sizes and much of the hospital's staff stood around us and fought for us. They held hands around us so tightly that even the woman who wore beautiful colored fabric from India and went on to leave her job in hospitality at the hospital to teach an Indian cooking class, wouldn't let go. Not even her pinky. And whenever I saw her, this lovely woman I didn't know except for when she came to meetings to show support for us; she reassured me she would never let go and good things would come for us. I thank her in my heart now. I see her name in the Hospital bulletin that she is still teaching Indian recipes and cooking classes. I imagine her colorful shawls and matching dresses and my nose stings with emotion. But that whole experience should have been over and done with by now. Instead, when Creepo came around right after our victory was publicized, it kept the anger and hurt alive.
It is still breathing through Creepo's refusal to let us be. Like James' giant peach, it grows and rolls and collects and discards friends and enemies, and there is no end in sight.
Our hope now, five years after this all started? That her frustration that we haven't publicly fought her doesn't escalate into a violent act. I have read that the longer a person stalks, the higher the propensity for raw, and deadly violence. This is why, when I text messaged my son in college yesterday with a simple message, he took his phone outside his classroom to read it -- nervously. He is scared Creepo will take her creepiness one step further and hurt us. It is why I keep my phone beside me at night. It is why I have a knife in my purse and a can of mace on my keychain. I am ready. I am on the case. So are my kids. So is my private eye. So are my good friends and my siblings. And my sister-in-law who giggles. We are all on the case. This son, who can write songs naturally, is a gentle soul like his father. But Creepo has colored his life even in college across the country; he is pent up with concern and his calls are frequent. He is on the case. Has been for quite a while now.
The advisory board of the hospital and their arrogance prohibited them from doing the right thing regarding Peter. Yet we did do the right thing; so, tell me, is that what spawned Creepo into action? I think I have the answer. Does Creepo still think that Peter was guilty in that operating room and that Dr. White wasn't? Despite the fact we proved otherwise, she believes Peter lied and she resents the hell out of us for that. Or, is Creepo totally unrelated to Peter’s firing, and instead she comes from some other part of our lives? If so, what other part? Is she a sick, infatuated past patient – or student who misread Peter's kindness as love and then if he mildly let her know he is married, she was rejected to the point of this sort of sick action toward our family?
I have learned the nicer you are to demented people, the worse it is. They misread your kindness for mutual love. Then, they cannot let go.
They came after us, Dr. White, his partner and the board of advisors. They started it. What surprised them is we wouldn't let them get away with it. Peter said it only once and because we are married, I went along. I knew he wouldn't give in. "We have to fight certain things in our lives," is what he said. I moaned and asked, "Do you know what this all means? The attention we will get? The gossip that will start? The lies that will be told?" He nodded, but I do not think he really knew how bad it would truly be. That is because he grew up in a family that believed people do the right thing; therefore, if you do the right thing you will be rewarded. I grew up with a father who told me 99% of the world is full of assholes. None of this is very simple, is it?
Fourteen years before our debacle began, in 1989, we decided on a permanent move to Galveston with its cool homes, 32 miles of sun drenched Gulf beaches and tight community. We thought it was a nice mix. Not too big and not too small. And there was a trolley that traveled around the center of town for free. I thought that would be fun with the kids. It was.
Therefore, when he got offered such a good position here through a university, The University of Texas Medical Center at Galveston, we jumped at the opportunity.
Peter had grown tired of being pulled in different directions career wise; he decided, finally, that he just wanted to move up at the hospital, into a leadership position that would provide better benefits for us. And that is the main reason for our ending up here. Peter wanted stability for us. Peter was chosen for the job and eventually was promoted to Associate Chief of Staff at the hospital; he was ecstatic.
But it was different than we expected. Right away Peter started being harassed by a hospital administrator about mundane things which we sadly discovered were all excuses; it was a cover up for what was to come; something so ugly and so completely premeditated. Little by little the signs were making themselves more obvious to us. Ominous signs someone was trying to hurt Peter in a sneaky and vindictive way. A set up. Like in a movie. But, it wasn't a movie. It was our lives. Extraordinary things so happen to ordinary people.
Then, for a couple of months it stopped -- a calm sea -- before a stormy one. Peter even told me, "They're leaving me alone now."
But I didn't believe it.
The “Assistant” was the type of woman who floated as she walked. I always noticed that and wondered if anyone else did. The last time I saw her she was wearing a blue dress and she had red streaked hair. And her face. A smile plastered to her face, like a joker. Her hair was an un-natural auburn color, with too much red in it. Not a burnt pretty red like an autumn red, more like a bright nail polish red. Strange. Scary. Floater. She was the harasser. She was the one who started questioning Peter. Was someone over her instructing her to do this?
Then the big part happened, like clockwork. There was the death. The death of a prominent young man who had crashed his private jet on a ranch behind the town. Peter was assisting in the operation, but the patient was Dr. White's patient. He had a tear in his aorta and Dr. White treated him for a severe heart attack. He hadn't ordered an X-ray prior to the emergency bypass surgery. He made a human error. But then he blamed it all on Peter. He changed notes on a chart. He changed the truth to a lie. He got a whisper campaign going with so many lies, mainly about Peter’s performance during the operation. They claimed all sorts of things. That on the operating table Peter had had a momentary lapse in judgment, and the patient had consequently died. That it was Peter who had told the nurse no X-ray was necessary. The nurse conveniently moved away from Galveston in the interim and couldn't be found before the trial. Big surprise.
Soon after the operation Peter was terminated. We weren't really all that shocked, to be honest. Ever since the man fell out of his wheel chair and Peter had felt Dr. White's eyes on him, I knew. I knew something was coming our way. It seemed surreal and impossible they could fire someone who was doing a great job, and had impeccable evaluations, someone they had chosen and hired. But looking back, it wasn’t impossible at all. Then Dr. White and his floating assistant made a mistake. A big mistake: He mistook Peter Mc Tierney's gentle nature for "weakness."
DR. WHITE,
chapter 7
By: Tempest
I thought that the color white is supposed to symbolize goodness. In this case, this man's name isn't representative of him. He is evil. He lied about Peter, and then he tried to cover up the lie. He used his power to do horrible things. Somehow, he got away with it, but many of those who surrounded him when he was the Chief of Staff know the truth. We have gotten calls and anonymous letters confirming things we had only suspected. Like his spending hospital money on exorbitant furniture for his office. His use of the private jet shared among exclusive hospitals around the south. They affirm, he probably lied about the operation as well. Other things, too. But, like I said already, I am not writing this story to blame or to get back at anyone. I am writing this to share our story. Our story of being blamed when we were blameless. Our story of being stalked and our story of how this hit us in every vessel, every artery, and every fiber of our beings.
Dr. White was granted an early retirement with an incredible severance package because he was able to convince the board things weren't his fault. He claimed depression; he claimed posttraumatic stress disorder because his mother had recently died. They felt sorry for him and they were generous. He is very astute. And very dishonest. Did I mention that Dr. White is the same height as Peter is? He is slimmer, however.
First Contribution, chapter 8
By: Peter Mc Tierney
I feel now I did the wrong thing. I selfishly dragged my family through this nightmare fighting the hospital. I just had to show this board they are not always right. They exploited me, lied about me, and hurt my entire family. I still don't get the connection between the operation and the extortion; the lies and the blame and the true guilt. I had such huge dreams of being head of the hospital. I wanted to make it a more charitable and giving place. That was when I decided to put in all of my energy at the hospital. Things were going so well until I was framed for that accidental death. A death that was Dr. White's fault. A death that has tarnished my reputation forever.
I remember when I first met Tempest's father. I do not know how this got brought up, but he said to me the following: "You know, Peter, you can tell the truth your entire life, but even if people think you tell one lie, that is what you get remembered for. That is human nature." I will never forget that.
Then there is Tempest. She is so independent that at times I forget her needs. She stood by me through the arbitration and now she is here, trusting and supportive through this crazy Creepo stalking development. I keep thinking of who it can be.... which doctor, student or patient in the past might have had some sort of sick obsession with me. But then, I think, what if it isn't with me? What if the obsession by Creepo is with Tempest? I would die if she ever laid a hand on her.
And the fact Tempest and I call her a "she." Tempest started that and I think she's right. Creepo is a woman.
I do know that had I never taken this job, never been so stubborn about what I wanted career wise, this damn Creepo never would have latched onto us. I wouldn't have been set up, I wouldn't have been fired, and I wouldn't have been in the news. Being in the news opens up the possibilities of who Creepo is to almost anyone. Once you are in the public eye, anyone can latch onto you. All the crazies can tell themselves whatever they want about you.
Then there are my secrets I am keeping. I haven't told Tempest yet, but Creepo has been in my office. My high school yearbook is missing. A photo of Tempest and the kids and I in Ixtapa, from about six years ago, is gone. It is one of my favorite photos. We were parasailing that day and in the picture Kyle and I are high up in the sky. And the other picture, the one of Tempest holding the red and yellow roses on our wedding day. I miss that photo. I miss "us."
There is something I should mention here. I keep seeing this woman who looks familiar to me. Yet, I cannot place where I know her from. I have seen her in the market, at the hospital, in the courthouse on the day of our hearing… who the hell is she?
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