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publicly. Healing and rebuilding our lives after the trauma of knowing how
As soon as a doctor confirmed what we already knew, I made an appointment for an abortion, which had just been legalized in Washington State.
In June 1972, Ted graduated from the University of Washington with honors.
Molly went to Utah to stay with my parents later in June, and Ted took a fulltime job for the summer at Harborview Hospital’s Mental Health Center.
Ted was making good money at a job in the King County Budget Office, a job he got after working briefly for the Seattle Crime Commission on a study of white-collar crime.
In June, Ted went to work for the State Department of Emergency Services in Olympia,
Ted lunged at me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me into the river.
The clipping was another police sketch, this one from the Seattle Times. I didn’t read the Times regularly and hadn’t seen this sketch before. Underneath the picture, my friend had underlined the name “Ted.” “Doesn’t your Ted have a VW?” he said in a joking way.
I was now scared—not that Ted would hurt me or Molly, because that was inconceivable—but that he would find out what I was thinking.
“I don’t want to scare you,” she said, “but it’s happening in Utah right now.” I stared at her. I knew exactly what she meant.
“We checked him out last summer when his name was called in to the task force.” “By who?” “A university professor.”
for being at ease in social situations.
It bothered me that his front license plate was propped up inside the car. But I refused to worry. When Ted said it had fallen off, that was enough for me.
hope you know what you’re doing,” she said. Now I was irritated that nobody seemed to be happy for me.
had given Ted a choice between me and stealing. That bicycle had to be stolen.
The detective came on the phone and told me her name, Kathy McChesney.
I looked down at my desk calendar. August 16 was the day I had gone to the Bundys’ cabin. That was the night I had kept calling.
He was supposed to meet us at my church the next day because Dad was baptizing Molly, but he didn’t show up until the ceremony was over, about 3:00 P.M., two hours late. Kathy McChesney thought this was interesting, because Brenda Ball disappeared from the Flame Tavern in Seattle about 1:00 A.M. on June 1.
“We’ve talked to Susan and to one of Susan’s girlfriends. Ted and Susan were engaged around Christmas 1973.” I didn’t understand. “She spent Christmas here in 1973,” Kathy said. “They were planning to get married. She also said that she visited Ted here for a while in the summer of 1973.”
He had his arm around her. He looked very handsome.
During a conversation about abortion, he had yelled at her and frightened her.
he was retrieving a crowbar that had been under the radiator in the hall. The pockets of his coat were bulging, and on an impulse, I reached into a pocket to see what was in there. He backed away quickly, but I had pulled out a surgical glove.
I told him that I loved Ted very much and prayed and prayed that he wasn’t involved in those murders, but that I just didn’t know. That statement
turned up later in several books and articles about Ted as proof that I was a real flake.
Ted was calling me more and more often. He had been baptized into the Mormon Church, he told me.
Again, he called me back, this time frantic. I wished for a moment that I could hold him in my arms and assure him that everything was going to be okay.
“Ted Bundy was arrested today, October 2, 1975, and charged with kidnapping and attempted homicide.”
Angie was with me taking care of Molly. Molly’s dad and his wife-to-be came up from Utah to help. I talked to Ted’s mom often. She seemed to be taking it better than I was, but she hadn’t betrayed him.
In the back of my mind was the psychiatrist’s advice to stop all contact with Ted, but Ted was so full of loving words. He told me that being in jail had taught him that the most important thing in his life was his love for me. I ate it up like a ham sandwich.
“I have to do what I have to do,” I said. I was offended that she couldn’t understand what seemed crystal clear to me at that moment—that if there was the slightest chance that he was innocent, I couldn’t and wouldn’t let go.
That night, as usual, I called Angie to talk. I was stunned when she told me that she was sorry, but as long as I was going to have anything to do with Ted, she didn’t want to have anything to do with me. She said she could not support me while I made what she considered a very dangerous mistake. “Well, fine,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling abandoned.
We would drive down the street singing “I love a parade” at the top of our voices as three or four cars followed along behind us. The only things lacking were crepe paper and a tuba.
After his phone call I felt tremendously guilty. Guilty of not living up to Church standards. Guilty of what I had done to Ted. Guilty of not being a good mother. Guilty of being alive.
Sometimes I would bury my face in the yellow turtleneck sweater of Ted’s that I had retrieved from the back of the rental car in Salt Lake City. It smelled like a mixture of Tide and Right Guard, a distinctly good and Ted-like smell. I missed him more than I thought possible.
unloaded on him anyway. I discussed Ted and other women with my counselor at great length. “If it hurts,” he asked me, “why do you put up with it?”
Two steps forward and one step back. We filled a need in each other—still.
Just about the time that Ben was due back in Seattle, Ted jumped out of a courtroom window in Aspen and escaped. He was recaptured after six days during which time I worried that he would contact me and ask for help.
I was back in Seattle on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve when Detective Keppel called about one o’clock. “Ted’s gone,” he said. “He’s got an eight-hour jump. No one knows where he is.”
When I came to the part about calling me back later, they both told me I shouldn’t talk to him again. I knew they were probably right, but I just felt so bad for him.
I didn’t know what had changed. I suspected that someone, maybe Carole Boone, the woman he later married during his murder trial, was willing to stand behind him.
“The tragedy is that this warm and loving man is driven to kill.” The second-most cringeworthy thing I wrote is on the first page of the original preface. I said, “I have come to accept that a part of me will always love a part of him.”
The day Ted was executed was an emotionally blank day for me. By the time I woke up in Seattle at eight o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, January 24, 1989, Ted was already dead in Florida. The electric chair had done its grisly job of killing a gruesome man.
Much later, I learned they all thought Ted was guilty as hell and wished I would come to my senses.
And I loved that worthless dirtbag. I thought of him as bright and shining. He was so smart.
The scary thing about it was that this new guy was attempting to take charge of me, and I was afraid she just might let him.
Exhausted, I went to get back in and as my hand touched the edge of the raft, Ted made two small strokes with the oars, sending the raft backwards a couple of feet. All the while watching my eyes with his own dead, hate-filled eyes. This was the first time I ever saw those eyes. The raft slipped from my fingertips.
We repeated this scenario two more times. Floundering, I gave up and turned to swim the longer distance to the shore. Fortunately, I had had swim lessons in the summers. I made it to the shore exhausted, panting and crying. I collapsed onto the blanket where my mom was tanning herself. I told her what had happened. I knew he had done it to me on purpose.
Over the years, there were other variations on this theme of Ted “innocently” hurting me. A sudden body check sending me sprawling to the pavement, a football drilled full force into my face. Each time, I felt he had done it on purpose, but I chose to believe his explanations of why I was wrong.
You ended up feeling bad for questioning the integrity of such a marvelous person.
I started to pull the blanket off him and saw that he was completely undressed. “You’re naked!” I accused, frowning.
