All Is Not Forgotten (22 page)

No—not for the rape. But we've got the hoodie, right? And now we've got the bleach and the memories that are coming back. I'm disappointed, too. Believe me. I thought finding that Civic was the end of this.

“Yes. Tom did as well.”

Looks like it's just the beginning all over again. Gonna take a hard look at the swim team. Jesus Christ. I never thought one of our kids could have done this. The brutality. The carving. Shit. I want to find this guy, I do. I just don't want to find him here. And it's not looking like she'll remember a face, right? It's all gonna be circumstantial.

I was on the verge of having an anxiety attack. It was not the right state of mind in which to make any decisions about anything. I talked myself down from telling Parsons about Jason. Thankfully, I had the self-discipline to say nothing else except an appropriate good-bye. I hung up the phone and pulled open my desk drawer. I took out one half milligram of lorazepam, very mild, and swallowed it. I needed to be calm so I could think.

I had two chances walking through my door later that day—Tom and then Jenny. I let the pill kick in; then I calmed myself with slow, steady breathing. I stared at an object, the sticker on the tulip plant. It was the first thing that came to mind. Then I made a mental assessment of everything I had to work with.

First was Tom. We had made significant progress in the three months we'd had together. You already know about the issue he had with his ego and how that affected his marriage and his job, and how it stemmed from his childhood. I have described as well my plan for his treatment. Surprisingly, he had already begun to channel some of his anger toward his parents. He had been remembering some of the things they said to him when he was just a boy. How his father would always say, “How do
you
feel about how you did?” and how his mother would say, “Not everyone is good at everything,” and, “We have to accept who we are and learn to love ourselves, even with our limitations.” And yet neither of them had ever accepted their own shortcomings. When his father was passed over not once, but three times, for Department Chair, they would speak harshly about the committee members, even mocking them personally—a bad hairpiece, or foul breath, or crooked teeth, or an ugly wife. And his mother had harsh words for her tennis partners—they were lazy, fat, and always stupid. Everyone was stupid compared to them. Tom had been recalling all sorts of bad behavior by his parents that contradicted their words and the highbrow philosophy they touted.

Fuck them,
Tom had even said one day about three weeks ago.
Seriously. Fuck them. You have kids, Alan. Would you ever tell them they were limited in their abilities? Isn't there a better way to direct a kid toward a successful life? I always felt like whatever I achieved—grades, salaries, promotions, even my wife and children—was a mistake. Like I had somehow fooled everyone into thinking I was worthy of what they'd given me. I still feel that way.

Tom felt undeserving of his beautiful wife. He felt undeserving of his beautiful children. And he felt undeserving of his success, no matter how small it may seem to you. Tom made enough to live in Fairview and belong to a country club. He had savings for college educations and a full head of hair and a fit body. He was well liked and healthy. And he loved cars, the cars he sold and the cars he drove. He looked forward to going to work every day. At least until the rape of his daughter.

Finally, I thought he was ready to hear what needed to be said.

“Tom,” I said in our session last week. “Let me ask you a question.”

Okay …

“Do you feel you deserved Jenny's rape?”

What kind of question is that?
Tom was shocked. “Horrified” might be too strong a word, but it was close.

“You don't deserve her, or Lucas or Charlotte. You don't deserve your job. So maybe this is the universe getting even with you for taking all these things that you don't deserve. Maybe you're the reason this happened.”

My God! What a cruel thing to say! How could you say that to me?

“Tom—you know that is not what I think. But did any of that resonate with you?”

Of course it did. I was not distracted back then, what was it? Eight days ago? My skills had not yet been compromised by the vulnerability of my own family. Tom sat back in the chair and let the thought sink into his bones. His eyes grew wide and then his face crumbled the way it always did. Red splotches, then a few tears with loud sobs. Tom cried almost every time we met.

So that is where Tom and I were in his personal journey. Tom felt guilty. Some of it was normal—the guilt of not having protected his little girl. But more of it was abstract—the guilt of feeling he had caused it. It is not rational. Dismiss it if you must, if you do not believe in the subconscious mind. I don't have the time or inclination to educate you or convince you. There is too much ground to cover now.

Guilt is powerful, and in the evil, maniacal state of mind I was in that Friday afternoon, I knew I would be able to use it somehow.

I was about to turn my thoughts to Jenny, but the time had passed too quickly. Tom was arriving for this new session, this new day, and I had in my mind everything we had discussed since his therapy began—the things I have just described to you. I heard the outer door to my office. It was time for our session. I was disheartened that I had not come up with a plan to save my son. But Tom was about to change all that.

 

Chapter Twenty

Tom was visibly
agitated. He had not slept well. His mind was obsessed with the blue sweatshirt; his ego conflicted from his wife's sudden sexual advances. And his heart was breaking from his daughter in her room down the hall, the memory of being violated now set free to torture all of them.

He sat down on the edge of the sofa, legs spread, hands on jumpy knees. His shoulders were up by his ears, and he took short breaths in, then huffed them out.

I was slightly sedated.

“You don't look well today. Did something happen?” I asked.

No. Nothing. That's the problem.

“I see.”

Do you? Do you see? I feel like I'm the only one who gives a shit about finding my daughter's rapist. I was up half the night, looking through pictures from Fairview. Searching clothing catalogs …

“For the blue sweatshirt with the red bird?”

Yes. Yes! What do you think? My God, don't you understand that this is the key to finding this monster?

“You seem very frustrated.”

Tom started to calm down. He apologized for his outburst.

“Did you find anything useful in your search?” I already knew the answer from Charlotte.

Do you have any idea how many blue sweatshirts there are? And the red bird—it could be anything. A cardinal. Air force wings. A hawk …

“But nothing in Fairview?” I stopped him when I heard that word: “hawk.” “No sports teams or clubs … nothing like that in town?”

Nothing. And no pictures of anyone wearing one. I went through all the school pictures on the Web site, looked at hundreds of articles from the
Weekly Advertiser 
… but there are hundreds more. Why aren't the police doing this? It's too much for one person, with work and the kids and Charlotte … it's too much!

The tears came early in this session, and I did what I always do. I let them come. Tom slumped back against the cushions. His knees pressed together and his hands rose to cover his face. He felt ashamed when he cried. Yes—this, too, goes back to his parents. They didn't know they were supposed to let children feel things. And cry. Those parenting books wouldn't come out until the 1980s.

“Tom … what will happen if this man is not found?”

I had been using the word “man” with everyone since I found my wife in our bed clutching Jason's sweatshirt. “Man”—not “boy” or “kid” or even “guy.” The word “man” provoked images of someone older than my son.

Tom shook his head.
That's not an option. It's just not.

“Okay.” I passed Tom a box of tissues.

I've been reading about rape recovery—not by doctors, but victims. No offense—I mean, I don't discount what you've done for us. But my daughter's voice was stolen by those damned drugs. She can't tell us what she needs to feel better, so I've been trying to understand.

“That's fine. It's good to educate yourself.”

What they go through, the feeling of being overpowered and then … I still can't say it.…

“Penetrated. Forcibly penetrated.”

Yes. That stays with them. Some of them describe it as taking their dignity. That's the one that's been in my head since you told us about the session. About the memory. How she said she felt like an animal, like he was riding her, breaking her like an animal.

Tom had stopped crying. I've said this before, but it felt as though he'd run out of tears, out of water. It is certainly not because he had stopped feeling his despair.

And this is the thing. I don't leave here and forget what we talk about. I don't listen to Charlotte and then dismiss what she says. I get that justice isn't some magic bullet to fix Jenny. I really do. But these women, almost all of them describe the healing that comes from seeing their attackers punished. Some of them talk about it being an eye for an eye—you know, knowing that this fucker is going to feel what they felt a hundred times over in prison. They don't say it like that, and I'm sorry about my language.…

“It's all right. Say what you want in here. That's the point, Tom.”

I mean, they don't actually say it makes them feel better to know their rapist is going to be raped in prison. But he will lose his rights and his freedom and his dignity. And when he comes out, he'll forever be labeled for what he did. His life will never be the same. Their lives will never be the same. They're in their own kind of prison. That's what they say. That it feels like prison to be inside their own heads. I guess you hear all of that from your patients.

“I do.”

I guess I needed to hear it myself, from the victims. Others talk about being heard, about the world hearing what happened and believing them because in the moment when it's happening, their voices are powerless. Their will is not respected. When the rapist goes to jail, they feel like they have some power back. It seems to help some more than others. But not one said it didn't help at all. So, yes, you have the skills to help Jenny get her memory back so she can, what is it …

“Attach her emotions to the right set of facts.”

Right—so she can start to process them and put them in the right places. So she doesn't feel like she wants to die again. Not ever again. That can never happen. Never.

“I'm hopeful about that, Tom. Doesn't she seem better to you?”

I don't know. Sometimes. She seems better when she comes home from the group. I was wrong about that. I was worried about her going there and being with all those other people.

“And now?”

Now I can see that she needs to hear their stories. The same way I needed to hear them from the books. She almost seems alive again, you know? In her eyes. I can see a glimmer of life.

I hid my worry very well. The sedative helped with that. I have not had the time to tell you about that life in Jenny's eyes. About how it had everything to do with a married Navy SEAL.

That's what you can do for her. But what about me? I'm her father. I have to do something. And what I can do is help find her attacker and see him punished. Even if that gives her only a small amount of closure or peace or whatever you want to call it. At least it will be something I did.

“Have you given any thought to what we've been discussing? About your feelings of not deserving her? About your guilt?”

Of course! That's not something a person forgets. I don't know. I do feel guilty that I didn't protect her. But the rest of it, about the universe punishing me … mostly I feel powerless.

“Explain that to me.”

Tom rolled his eyes. He made a face of exasperation.
I don't know. Charlotte wanted to make love last night. I don't know why. But I felt like it had nothing to do with me. And then at work, there's this secretary at the Jag dealership. The one out on Route 26.

“I know the one.” I did not know where this was going. But I knew Tom had not slept with a young secretary. If I had been wrong about that, I would have handed in my license.

I got a call from a client. This guy has bought four cars from me in the past few years. He's not a guy you say no to. I was heading home and he called and he said he wanted to test a new F-Type convertible. I'd closed up and left for the day. It was almost dark, so it must have been after eight. My numbers were due the next day, so I was the last one out. But I turned around for this guy. I got back to the showroom in twenty minutes. The client was still ten minutes out. I went inside and I heard this sound. It was unmistakable, you know. People screwing. I should have made some loud noise, turned on the lights. Pretended I didn't hear anything and given them a chance to sneak out or get dressed. Whatever.

“But you didn't. I understand. It's human nature to want to know.”

Well, I'm not proud of it. But I did it anyway. I walked quietly into the showroom. I stood against the wall. And then I saw them. There was light coming through the window. From the streetlamps. Through the glass. Shining right on them.

Tom shuddered at the memory of what he saw. I gave him a moment to let it pass.

It was my boss—the owner. Bob Sullivan. He was with Lila—this young woman. A girl, really. She's twenty years old, for God's sake! He's fifty-three. And I don't know why, but I find this the most disturbing part—he plays golf every weekend with her father. They've been friends for decades. Raised those kids in the same town, at the same club. He had her bent over the hood of a silver XK. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist and he had his hands pinning her down. One on her shoulder and one on the back of her head. It was disturbing, really. He was doing her from behind and she was pretending to like it. Moaning and whatnot. But I could see her face. I could see how every time he thrust into her, he pushed her into the metal hood of that car, using her face and her chest to brace himself. I could see her wince every time he did that. God—you must think I watched them for a long time. Honestly, it was a few seconds. But it was long enough. I don't think I'll forget that image for a long time. He knew that girl when she was really just a child. Pigtails and Barbie dolls. But now that she has a woman's body, he can bend her over a car.