Numbers

Krissy Wales

The York Review
The York Review
4 min readFeb 14, 2017

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[Image Description: A black and white photo of a woman lying on a white sheet. Her hands, one on top of the other and each with manicured, yet plain fingernails, are in the foreground. Part of her arms, part of her head of dark hair, and one leg (blurry) are visible.]

He was 1 of 12, and certainly not the only problem in the household.

I can’t remember the exact figures: 3 of them had schizophrenia, 2 of them were in jail, 4 had bipolar disorder and more than 1 was a killer.

His brother killed their father at the dinner table. With a shotgun I was told. Apparently grandpa was a little too friendly with the grandkids, much like my dad later was with me. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

At the age of 0 my doctor told my mother to get an abortion. He beat her too bad, I wasn’t going to make it, at least not in any state that was “worth” living. It wasn’t the only time religion saved me.

“The 9 months I was with him I went to the hospital 11 times. I almost lost you at 7 months.”

At the age of a 3 weeks, he threw me down the stairs. I never stopped wailing.

68 weeks later he lost custody. His violent behavior, both past and present, was enough for them to monitor our visits. 88 weeks after that he lost all visitation rights. The marks and my behavior added up to the right answer for them to prevent him from continuing.

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Fast forward 10 years. 3 knocks on the door and my life will change forever. Hellomynameis Mr. Private Investigator. I later found out it was Andrew.

The year 1988 followed him all the way to my doorstep in 2008. By this time, I had already experienced self-inflicted pain and it was nothing new to me, bright red against the backdrop I had no idea was black.

Months go by and Mr. Private Investigator has not returned. It isn’t until years later that I understood why.

“Your father was a control freak. But very charming and charismatic. After just 3 months of dating him, I was married.”

I haven’t seen my father since I was 3. I haven’t seen his face in a photo — graph since I was 18. And it’s only now at 21 that I understand a bigger piece of the story.

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10–08–1988
Christine Blais, age 27, gives Ray Maples a ride home after. The next day her 8-year-old daughter reports her missing.

10–27–1989
A water mechanic finds her car in a hotel parking lot.

01–07–1989
Christine’s skull is discovered in the heavily wooded backyard of a town local. Several of her bones are found after searching, as well as a wristwatch and some hairs.

01–13-
Maples is arrested for her murder, but is later released. My dad hasn’t been spotted in the picture.

04–01–2005
Maples is convicted 2 days before my 10th birthday. He served 342 months in prison before repealing his case. His argument? Wales did it.

07–25–2008
The appeal is filed. The investigations begin. One investigator wears a suit and tie. The other is trying to convince her mom she’s old enough for a nose ring.

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Here’s what I’ve read:

The night Christine Blais picked Ray Maples up in her car, there was a third party member observing who had just talked with Maples. As she drove away with Maples, my father returned home, only to be called half an hour later by Maples who needed a ride. Christine, absent from the picture, had apparently already been picked up by a friend after her car experienced some trouble.

Giving his car to Maples, my father started her car without any problem and drove it to Maples’ house.

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“There wasn’t enough of evidence to put your father in jail.”

At the age of 13 I started seeing a therapist again, 1 on the list that I had never realized would become so long. I found out I had inherited his disease.

At the age of 15 I stopped eating, determined to punish myself for glimpsing his monster inside of me.

At the age of 16 I tried to kill myself and found out the truth about what else he’d done.

At the age of 21 I’m still not at peace with it, with him.

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Sometimes I think about looking for my father. What I would say to him? Did you name me Kristina after Christine? Or after your name, Kristian? How much of my life has been shaped by you, someone who was scarcely physically present? Did you hurt her as much as you hurt me? What would have happened if you never left? 5 out of thousands.

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The York Review
The York Review

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