Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains (37 page)

The next time we were together as a family was that Christmas. Kate was back in Colorado Springs after having completed her White House internship, and Scott was back from college.

After our first dinner together, Scott and Kate excused themselves and went downstairs to visit. They talked a long time while Barb and I cleaned up after dinner and then got ready for bed. We were in bed reading when Kate and Scott came in.

“Dad,” Scott began as they entered the room, “we need to talk to you guys.”

Before we could answer, he walked across the room and hopped up on the bed. Kate followed. I smiled, because this reminded me of the countless nights during the kids' growing-up years when we would sit on the bed like this as a family and just talk about the events of the day.

“Scott and I have been talking,” Kate said. “He has an idea that's been brewing in his mind since Thanksgiving. He finally shared it with me tonight. At first, I recoiled in horror, but the more we talked about it, the more I realized he was right.”

Barb and I looked at each other and then put our books aside.

“We're all ears,” Barb said.

Scott looked at me as he began. “We both know you're planning to write another book about Bryson City. What are you planning to say?”

“About what?” I asked.

Scott rolled his eyes in mild exasperation. “About why you and Mom left town.”

I had feared that was what he meant. “I guess I'm just going to tell the story I've told for the last eighteen years — that we left Bryson City because Uncle Rick was leaving and because the older docs never retired. There just wasn't enough room in a town so small for so many doctors, and the Lord gave us an opportunity to join Dr. John in Kissimmee. And that's all true.”

“It's true, Daddy,” Kate responded, “but it's not the
whole
truth.”

“Kate, we've
never
told the
real
story to anyone. We never wanted the story to harm you and Scott.”

“So,” Barb continued, “for all these years, we've kept this terrible secret to ourselves.” I could hear her voice begin to tremble, and I put my arm around her. “We were planning to keep this secret until our deaths. We never wanted this to come back and haunt or hurt either of you.” Barb lowered her head and began to cry. Scott reached over to rest his hand on her leg.

“Mom, we
know
that.”

Kate added, “We know you and Daddy would never do anything to hurt us.”

Barb sniffled and
smiled.

“But,” Kate continued, “when Scott and I were talking downstairs, he told me he believed with all his heart that the
real
story needed to be told. He believed, as I now do, that dealing with the truth, no matter how painful, is the first step toward ultimate healing.”

“Where'd this idea come from?” I asked Scott.

“Dad, as I've thought and prayed about it, I've just become convinced it's the right thing to do. Kate and I know we're not the only kids this has happened to. And we want them to know it's OK to talk about it.”

Barb and I sat there in stunned silence. I could only shake my head. Finally my thoughts poured out. “There's no way. No way! I would never talk about this publicly. I don't see how it could be helpful. I would never embarrass either of you by talking about it. I haven't for eighteen years, and I won't now.”

Scott looked downcast, and I could see tears forming in Kate's eyes. I reached out to give her arm a squeeze. “I love you two too much to hurt you. You are too precious to me.”

Kate's lips were quivering. “Daddy, opening up this secret box has allowed light and fresh air to come in. Scott and I are beginning to heal from this. If we hadn't talked about it and prayed about it and gotten wise counsel, it could have scarred us forever. Now we're really starting to believe that good will come from this for us. But what about all those kids who have secrets stuffed in their closets? What about them, Daddy? Scott and I believe that if you tell our story, they might be able to talk about theirs. We believe that our story could help other families heal too.”

I could only sit in startled stillness. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and conflict.

Barb looked up at me. “Walt, they may be on to something.”

I nodded. “Well, I appreciate you bringing this up to us. How 'bout we pray about it and then sleep on it. We can talk more tomorrow. OK?”

Kate and Scott smiled and nodded. And then we prayed as a family, as we had so many times before.

The next morning, we were refreshed. At breakfast, we talked more about how the story could be told in a sensitive way. We talked about what our goals would be and what our motives were. We decided we wanted to tell the truth, not to harm anyone, but rather to be helpful to many, if at all possible.

We had long talks with our publisher, with a child and adult psychologist, and a few very close friends. I discussed the matter at length with my mentor and accountability partner of nearly two decades. The decision was unanimous: tell the Bryson City secrets. Carefully, to be sure, but boldly.

So I have.

As you can imagine, this book was extraordinarily difficult and painful for me to write. To open up the old wounds and hurts of nearly two decades ago was particularly grueling. It's a path I would never have chosen had it not been for the insistence of my children and dear friends, Kate and Scott, who wanted their stories told in a way that might be of assistance to others who have walked or will walk the path of childhood sexual abuse.

It is my children's hope, and Barb's and my hope as well, that our family's experience will help parents be even more diligent to prevent, whenever possible, their children from having to walk this same path. We also hope and pray that our story will encourage others who have troubling secrets to find a wise way, within a trusting relationship, to uncover their wounds, to face them, and to find healing.

Late in the fall of 1985, a month or so after leaving Bryson City and beginning a new life and a new practice in Kissimmee, I received a call from the head football coach at Swain County High School.

“Doc, this here's Boyce Dietz. You remember me?” He laughed.

“You know I'll never forget you, Coach.”

“You been followin' the team?” he asked me.

“Of course,” I responded. “Pete Lawson mails me a copy of the paper every week.”

“Well, that's old news by the time you get it. So you may not know that John Mitchell and Buzzy Brown made the All-Western team. Tony Brown, Will O'Dell, Alvin Green, Sammy Bowers, and Greg Taylor were named to the all-conference team. And we won last Friday. We beat Saint Paul 47 to 22. So this week our eight seniors, eleven juniors, and eleven sophomores will play the North Edgecombe Warriors for the Class A state championship right here in the Swain County stadium.”

Boyce paused for a second, and I could hear him spit some snuff juice into a cup. Then he continued. “Doc, you were with us during our state playoff games in '81, '82, and last year. So me and the other coaches and the boys all wanna know if you can be on the sidelines with us again for the championship. Any chance you can make it up here?”

I'll confess to you that tears rolled down my cheeks at his incredibly kind invitation — and again as we bear-hugged on the field after Swain County High School won her first of what would be several state 1-A football championships — 32 to 0. Rick and I watched the entire game from the sidelines, our last night together as partners.

After the game, as the state champion Maroon Machine knelt in the center of the field for their traditional postgame prayer, I, along with each of them, bowed my head. In my case, I thanked the Lord for the privilege of being a part of the team and a part of this unique community.

After the game, I said my final good-byes to the team and the coaches. As I was leaving the locker room, I was met by Joe Benny Shuler along with Preston and Dean Tuttle.

“Glad you were here, Doc!” Preston exclaimed after we had greeted each other.

“Me too, Preston. I appreciated being invited.”

“Well,” Preston announced, “I don't appreciate your and Dr. Pyeritz being run out of town like you was.”

I smiled. “Preston, we were
not
run out of town. Rick decided to go teach at the residency, and Barb and I sensed that the Lord was leading us to Florida.”

“Doc,” Joe Benny complained, “
no one
would go to Florida 'less they was forced to!”

I smiled as Preston added, “How come you let them older docs run you out of town?”

“Preston,” I explained, “let me make it clear again. No one ran us out of town. We needed to be closer to specialists who could take care of Kate's cerebral palsy. Barb and I have prayed a lot about this decision. And we really believe this is what the Lord would have us do.”

“I'll tell ya,” Preston continued, “I know you're just tryin' to take the high road, Dr. Larimore, but everyone here in town knows what
really
happened. Plain and simple, you and Dr. Pyeritz were run out of town — and it ain't right.”

I knew at that moment there was nothing I could say to change Preston's assumptions — or similar opinions shared by others. As much as I wanted to share with him what had
really
happened, I knew that, at least for that point in time, it was a secret I needed to keep, primarily to protect my children.

My prayer was that one day Dean and Preston and our many other friends in the area would come to understand our motivation and the reason for our secretiveness. Now that our Bryson City secrets have been revealed, we hope our friends will both understand and forgive us.

I left Swain County that night and would not return for the rest of the century. But she and her people have never been far from my mind or heart.

Author's Notes

T
his book and its two prequels,
Bryson City Tales
and
Bryson City Seasons
, are based on the memories and mental pictures I
have of those incredible years in Bryson City. I have attempted to remain true to the spirit of exactly what occurred during those amazing years of my life. But, not wishing to reveal more about certain people than that with which they might feel comfortable, I've changed the actual names of most characters and sometimes synthesized others — primarily to protect the identity of those innocent or blameless folks on whom the story was based, and secondarily to protect me from those who are just plain grumpy, crabby, and downright cantankerous.

For most of the patients you've read about, you should know I've usually changed their names, gender, and/or ages to protect their confidentiality and privacy — as they never planned to have their stories divulged in the public square. Therefore, those readers who think they recognize a friend or acquaintance in these pages should consider it a most unlikely happenstance.

Nevertheless, overall, I feel these tales represent a true-to-life expression of my life and times in Bryson City, while freely admitting, unapologetically, to the employment of copious artistic license — for the telling of tales allows a writer to use his or her imagination to rearrange history to improve a story, as long as the chronicle is still true in its essence and in its essence is still truth.