Getting It Through My Thick Skull (23 page)

On Christmas 1991, I was perfectly content. I had no idea the
sociopath I lived with was finding life just a little bit too dull.

May 17, 1992, two days before I was shot and two days
after my 37
^th
birthday. We were going to a friend’s daughter’s
communion party on the North Shore of Long Island.
It was a perfect day that I thought was going
to be the start of a perfect summer.

Around noon on Tuesday, May 19, 1992. This is the bench I was
painting when I was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

These are the gloves I was wearing and holding in my hand when Amy shot me.
The dark spots are blood.

The jacket I was wearing.

What’s left of the T-shirt I had on—
paramedics had to cut it off of me.

In the hospital—the bullet hole had to be cleaned out and
packed four times a day. It was agony.

Surrounded by flowers, balloons, and Jessica’s favorite
stuffed animal pig, I still couldn’t believe what was happening.

A view from my bedroom window. The media was a constant,
intrusive presence in our once quiet neighborhood.

The Board at the Biltmore Beach Club voted to put a gate
in our backyard so we didn’t have to go out the front door.
The beach club and our friends and family were the
only respite we had that summer of 1992.

A home-made get well card from my daughter, Jessica.

September 1992. My first TV interview from my home.
Raphael Abromowitz, a reporter for the news magazine
Hard Copy, and crew in my living room.

Thanksgiving 1992. Thanksgiving had a very special meaning
to our families that year and Joey’s and
my family celebrated it together.