#52: "What Else Did She Tell You?"

What Are the Odds? #5. ("Melissa" Continued.)

Recap: I had often thought of going to see the house in central Massachusetts that Melissa said she was inheriting—I’d told her I would—but it seemed strange to make a special trip. (I’m a concerned friend not a private detective.)
In early October, however, I had an appointment down that way and decided to swing by. I parked at the end of the driveway, walked up, and saw a woman in the backyard. She looked at me a little warily and asked who I was. I told her I was a friend of Melissa’s. “Why are you here?” she asked.
“I’m just trying to make sense of some things Melissa told me.”
”Like?” the woman asked.
”Like that she was inheriting this house.”
“I’m her mother,” the woman said, shaking her head. “What else did she tell you?”

Well, Melissa had told me lots of things. For starters, she said her grandfather had left her some money along with this house but, that you (her mother) were the executor and making things difficult.

Her mother looked at me with a combination of sadness, resignation, and a mere hint of frustration—as if that emotion had been painfully wrung out of her over the years.

She explained that actually she and her brother inherited the house, and that she had recently bought him out.¹

I told her I’d offered to give Melissa a ride to an expensive rehab place, but she either didn’t show when we agreed to meet or she’d come but told me the place wanted her to come a few days later. I added that she’d told me an aunt was paying for it.

Her mother sighed. Ten years ago, she said, the family might have helped…when Melissa first became an addict. But, since then, she had begged, “borrowed,” and stolen from everyone in the family—that she’d told story after story to get money. She hoped that Melissa hadn’t taken me for much. But she didn’t look all that hopeful. It wasn’t her problem.

She seemed to be torn between wanting to talk with me more and wanting me to just go away. And, curious as I was, it felt it would be a bit unkind to go down my list of questions—as if each lie would be another blow to an already broken heart. So, I still don’t know 100%—and probably never will—whether Melissa is really a skilled machinist, or has done three years of college, or hang-glided in 47 of the 50 states with a cousin, or has an incredibly rare blood type, as well as almost 100% indigenous blood. I didn’t even ask if Sonny Bolger, of Hells Angels fame, was really her grandfather.

As far as the cancer, I didn’t know anything for sure and her mom probably knew even less.

I thanked her and started walking back to my car. She joined me, but I couldn’t tell whether she was being polite to a visitor or making sure I left—as if nothing and nobody that had anything to do with Melissa could be trusted. As we got to the car, she did begin talking about Melissa’s kids; how old they were, who the fathers were, where they were now; how she had hoped to adopt them herself, but it hadn’t worked out. Yes, Melissa had a brother. But no. He hadn’t just died. And he, as much as anyone, was open to helping her if she was ever really ready to get help.

I gave her my card (yeah I have a card) and said if she ever needed to find Melissa for some reason to feel free to give me a call. I doubt she ever will.

But the oddest thing happened an hour later. I was in a meeting when my phone rang. Seeing it was from California, I figured it was spam and ignored it, but after the meeting I saw there was a voicemail: “Hello, this message is for David. I’d like a return phone call in regards to a brief meeting you had with my sister.”

My sister? That would be Melissa’s aunt. I called the number. The woman who answered explained that her sister had been upset by my visit and slowly began asking me questions about how I knew Melissa and why I’d gone to the house. She clearly thought I had a relationship with Melissa and was coming to hustle money in some way. I tried to disabuse her of that notion, explaining my interest was avuncular if anything (apologies to my nephew and niece). She was firm—Melissa was an addict and a compulsive liar and I shouldn’t ever try to help her. That you can’t trust anything she says. She said that other people, working on some scam with her, had indeed gone to the house to try to hustle money—that they even had security in place. But where Melissa’s mom had just seemed to want me to go away and not come back, her aunt seemed determined to make sure I backed off—as if Melissa were radioactive. I asked about talking with Melissa about my visit and she told me not to. “Don’t try. Just step away.” She was convinced it would only make things worse.

Brattleboro, Vermont. Looking Towards the Co-Op.

Five days later, I glimpsed Melissa in a parking lot and began walking toward her. She saw me too and started walking in the other direction. After a little back and forth she walked right up to me and, before I could say anything, looked me in the eye and said, “I'm just getting over Covid. Really, you can hear it.” She patted her chest like I was supposed listen. (Not exactly what you do when someone has Covid). It was her on-the-spot explanation about why she hadn’t met me to go to the rehab center. I looked at her sadly, but didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away.

The next day, I ran into her again, rolling a suitcase. She sat down next to me on a bench and explained that she was still getting over Covid. I didn’t ask about the suitcase…I assumed she’d had to leave one tent site and was going somewhere else to set up or she had a place she could crash. She still insisted after three more days of Covid quarantine she was going to the rehab. I asked her where she was getting the money and she said from her aunt. I said, you mean, the one in California? Instead of asking me how I knew about her aunt in California, she just said no, that woman would never give her money. A different aunt.

There are all kinds of theories about lying and liars. And I’ve suggested Melissa is a “pathological” liar. But I don’t like labels. I’m no expert, but sometimes it seems that, in part, she’s telling me her dream of her life—how she’d like it to be—maybe to some extent the dream is equally real for her. She wishes she inherited the house. She wishes she’d received the loving letter from her grandfather that I now assumed she’d had someone forge. She wishes that she’d go to rehab. And, to some extent, she’s created a world where that’s all true. While I suspect she’s had some serious trauma in her life…and certainly on the street…I’m not trying to “forgive” anything she’s done—just telling you my impression.

About a week after that, Melissa walked by at her usual clip.² While I struggled to keep up, she told me that she wasn't going to rehab because she’d managed to deal with the dope thing herself and what she really needed was mental health treatment—which I was in no position to deny. She continued walking really fast but with no apparent destination as I told her about my visit to her mom at the house she’d told me about. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised or concerned I’d gone there. Rather, she pointed out that I had named the wrong town…it was actually the next one over and there was a lot of friendly competition between the two. It seemed important to her that I understood my mistake. When I got back to the main topic, saying “So, I guess you’re not getting an inheritance,” she shrugged. It was like that story was over, why was I still talking about it?

I asked how she’d pay for the mental health treatment. Was Medicaid covering it? She said she had Blue Cross. I said how? She said her grandmother had stipulated in her will that her health insurance be paid for. She was trying to get a primary care provider so she could get a referral.

I said as kindly as I could that that there was simply no reason I should believe anything she said, and she seemed to take that as something we’d already agreed on. Although when I suggested ruefully that, by giving her money, I had indirectly bought a lot of dope, she said maybe a little, but insisted it wasn’t very much.

I didn’t see Melissa for another week. I was walking toward my car in the parking garage and she came up to me crying and begging for help. The cry was too familiar.

“No,” I said. “Sorry, babe. No. No more.”

Of course, I’d still drive her to rehab.

1. I had wondered when I looked up the house on Zillow why it appeared to have sold for just half of what it was worth. I thought maybe it had been bought by someone else at a foreclosure sale or something. But this explained the half price.

2. I call it, rightly or wrongly, the “dope” walk. They’re going to get drugs or do what they need to do to get drugs. Or else they’re doing crack or some kind of amphetamine. Or else they’re just in a hurry. Whatever it is, it’s urgent.