"U" is for Undertow (15 page)

“No doubt,” I said. Long-winded storytelling must have been a family trait. Michael had done the same thing, making sure the facts were arranged in date order. I could see her composing sentences in her head.

“Michael’s been depressed all his life. As a child, he was always anxious, subject to all manner of imaginary illnesses. He did poorly at Climp and barely managed to graduate. He couldn’t find a job and since he had no income, he asked Mom and Dad if he could go on living at home. My parents agreed on one condition: he had to get help. If he’d find a therapist, they’d pay for it.”

I was getting restless. Unless Michael Sutton was a spree killer, I didn’t care about his psychiatric history.

She must have caught my impatience because she said, “Bear with me.”

“It would help if you’d get to the point.”

“Are you going to listen to me or not?”

She fixed me with a stony stare and I could barely keep from rolling my eyes. I gestured for her to continue, but I felt like an attorney questioning the relevance of her testimony.

“The family doctor referred him to a licensed marriage and family counselor, a psychologist named Marty Osborne. Does her name ring a bell?”

“Nope.” I could tell she was teasing out the narrative for dramatic effect and it annoyed me no end.

“Michael seemed to like her and we were all relieved. After he’d been seeing her for a couple of months she suggested his depression was symptomatic of early childhood sexual abuse.”

“Sexual abuse?”

“She said it was just an educated guess, but she felt they should explore the possibility. He didn’t believe a word of it, but she assured him it was natural to block trauma of that magnitude. We didn’t know any of this at the time. It all came out later.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right.” Diana shook her head. “Marty continued to work with him and, little by little, the ugly ‘truth’ came out. She was using hypnosis and guided imagery to help him recover his ‘repressed’ memories, sometimes with the aid of sodium amytal.”

“Truth serum.”

“That’s correct. Next thing we knew, she’d diagnosed him with multiple personality disorder. As luck would have it—now here’s a happy coincidence—she ran an MPD support group, which Michael joined. More cash changed hands, his to hers. Meanwhile, my parents were blissfully unaware of what was happening. My brothers and I were out of the house by then so we saw much less of him than they did. After three months, Michael started seeing her twice a week and talking to her on the phone three and four times a day. He didn’t eat. He scarcely slept. We could see that, psychologically, he was disintegrating, coming apart at the seams, but we thought his getting worse was part of the process of getting better. Little did we know. She persuaded him it would be ‘healing’ if he confronted the past, which he did with a vengeance. He accused my father of molesting him from the time he was eight months old. He had these shadowy memories that he knew were real. Soon, his hazy mental movie came into focus and he ‘remembered’ my mother was also in on the abuse. Next thing you know, my younger brother Ryan was added to the list. We’re talking nasty stuff—claims of satanic ritual, bestiality, animal sacrifice, you name it.”

“Sounds preposterous.”

“Of course. What made it worse was my parents had no way to defend themselves. Any attempt they made to refute his claims only served to reinforce his conviction that they were guilty as charged. Marty told him abusers always deny what they’ve done. He moved out of the house, cutting off all contact, which was actually a relief. Then she talked him into collaborating on a book and that’s what blew the lid off.

“When Mom and Dad got wind of it, they hired an attorney and sued the crap out of her for slander and defamation. The night before they were set to go to trial, they reached a settlement. I don’t know the terms because they signed a confidentiality agreement. Whatever it was, my parents were never able to collect a cent. Marty filed for bankruptcy and that’s the last anybody ever heard from her. For all we know, she’s still in private practice only somewhere else.”

“I don’t get it. Why would she do such a thing?”

“Because she could. She saw it as part of her job. In her eyes, she did no wrong. When they took her pretrial deposition, do you know what she said? That even if his story
wasn’t
true, she was there to validate his feelings. If he was convinced he was abused as a child, then she would support him in his beliefs. In other words, if you think you were abused, you
were,
and that’s all it takes.”

“Without proof?”

“She didn’t need proof. She said if that was ‘his truth,’ he could depend on her to keep the faith.”

“Did the family doctor who referred him know what she was up to?”

“In his deposition he admitted he’d never met her. She’d been recommended by another doctor whose opinion he respected. In a way, it was beside the point. You don’t need a doctor’s referral to see a therapist. Just look in the yellow pages and pick anyone you like. Some of them even have little boxes advertising their specialties. Self-esteem issues, crisis counseling, anger management, stress, panic attacks. The list goes on and on. Who among us hasn’t experienced the occasional rage or anxiety?”

“How do you know which therapists are legitimate?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never been in therapy. I’m sure most of them are honest and capable. Some might even be skilled, but sexual abuse is like a siren call. There’s a ton of money to be made.”

“That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?”

“Not as cynical as you might think. Suppose you go into therapy because your relationships aren’t working out the way you’d hoped. Turns out that’s a symptom of early childhood abuse. Write me a check and come back next week. You don’t remember what was done? That’s called being ‘in denial.’ You’ve repressed the memory because it was all so traumatic and you don’t want to believe something so horrible would happen at the hands of those you love. Pay me for this session and let’s meet again next week so we can get to the root of it. In effect, my parents paid Marty Osborne six thousand dollars to drive a stake into their hearts.”

“They must have been distraught.”

“They were devastated, and I don’t think they ever really got over it. I can barely deal with it myself and I wasn’t one of the accused. After the case was settled, my parents swore they’d put it behind them. They shut the door on the whole ugly episode. They were desperate to believe Michael loved them and everything was okay. Here’s how ‘okay’ it was. A couple of years afterward, my mother died in a drowning accident, and my father dropped dead six months later of an aneurysm. He never got around to changing his will, so after what Michael put us through, he inherited an equal share of their estate.”

“That’s a tough pill to swallow.”

“What choice did I have? I’ve made my peace with it. The money was theirs and they could do with it as they pleased. Maybe that was always my father’s intent, to look after him.”

I could see where she was going. “So you think Michael’s memory of the two guys digging is just more of the same.”

“Basically,” she said. “How did he come up with this story in the first place? Doesn’t that sound suspect to you?”

“I’ll admit I was skeptical at first,” I said. “He says he read a reference to Mary Claire in the paper and it triggered his memory of the whole event.”

“That was years ago. What makes him so sure?”

“He said he saw them on his sixth birthday, July 21, and that’s how he made the association. Your mother left him at Billie Kirkendall’s while she ran errands. He was wandering around the property when he saw them.”

“It sounds bogus to me.”

“It wasn’t his imagination. There
was
something buried there.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Michael’s a drama queen. He can’t seem to help himself. Sometimes I think he’s delusional or spaced out on drugs. He’s incapable of telling the truth. It’s not in his nature. He can’t tell the difference between what’s really true and what he imagines.”

That caught my attention. In my brief relationship with him, I could cite my experience in support of her claim. He was evasive, omitting critical information from his account of himself. When I called him on it, he’d corrected himself and filled in the blanks. If I hadn’t, I would have ended up with an erroneous impression. I felt protective nonetheless. I didn’t want to sit and say nothing while his sister trashed him. “I don’t think he fabricated the story. He was six. Maybe he didn’t understand what he’d witnessed, but that doesn’t mean he lied.”

“That’s exactly my point. He takes a simple moment and he embellishes, invents, and exaggerates. Next thing you know, there’s an elaborate conspiracy afoot. He sees two men digging a hole and suddenly it’s about Mary Claire’s murder and her being buried in that grave.”

“You’re implying that he did this deliberately, which I find hard to believe.”

“I’m not telling you this stuff just to hear myself talk. This is how his mind works. You can’t believe a word he says.”

“This comes a little late from my perspective.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You haven’t seen the last of him. It’s never over with him. Have you met any of his friends?”

The shift in subject caught me off guard. “One. A girl named Madaline. He told me she was addicted to heroin . . .”

“And now she’s clean, but not sober,” Diana interjected, derisively. “Did he mention she’s a lush? Twenty-two years old and she’s on probation for public drunkenness. Of course, he’s the one who ferries her to AA meetings. He collects losers like her, anyone in worse shape than he is, if you can imagine such a thing. Sutton’s wounded birds. He gets into rescue mode so he can feel good about himself. There’s usually two or three of them hanging around at any given time. They move in. They borrow money. They take his car without permission and wind up in fender-benders that he ends up paying for out of pocket. Some land in jail, while loudly protesting their innocence. He bails them out and brings them home again because they have nowhere else to go. That’s when they steal his credit cards and go on a spending jag.”

“Poor judgment.”

“Very poor. I can’t tell you the money he’s gone through. What scares me is thinking about what’ll happen when he’s emptied all his bank accounts. He’s never really worked. He’s held jobs, but none for long. The money he inherited is the only thing keeping him afloat. Once that’s gone, he’ll end up on my doorstep, begging for help. What’s my choice then? I take him in or he ends up living on the street.”

“You’re not obligated.”

“That’s what my brothers tell me.”

“Why do it then?”

“I guess I feel guilty because he’s such a mess and the rest of us are okay . . .”

As she went on, I could hear my own story echoed in hers. My grievances, my determination to hang on to everything that seemed unfeeling or unfair. Her complaints were legitimate, but so what? The recital of her woes only made matters worse, keeping the pain alive when it should have been laid to rest.

Diana must have realized I’d clocked out. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“I have family issues of my own and they sound just like yours. Different scenario, but the angst is the same. Personally, I’m getting tired of hearing myself whine. And if I’m tired, what about the people around me who have to put up with my shit?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Sure it is. What’s the point in going over and over it? I’ll bet you’ve told the same story a hundred times. Why don’t you give it a rest?”

“If I give it up, Michael wins. Bad behavior triumphs over good yet again. Well, I’m sick of it. After the havoc he’s wreaked, why should I let him off the hook?”

I could feel myself getting irritated. I understood where she was coming from, but the events she’d described were years in the past. Waltzing into my office to unload it all on me was out of line. She’d turned venom into a lifestyle and it wasn’t attractive. On first meeting, I’d been put off by her aggressiveness. Now I was put off by her attempt to rope me into Sutton bashing.

“What hook, Diana? He’s not on the hook except in your mind. He’s living his own life and if he’s screwing up right and left, what’s it to you?”

Her smile was tight. “You say that now, but you’re not done with him. Trust me. You gave him credence which has been in short supply of late. He’ll come back. Some new crisis will emerge, some disturbing turn of events . . .”

“That’s my lookout, don’t you think?”

“You really don’t believe me, do you?”

“I’ve heard every word. I understand why you’re pissed off at him, but I take offense at the wholesale condemnation. Give the kid a break. You came here to warn me. You’ve done that and I thank you. I’m on red alert.”

That shut her down. She withdrew as though I’d slapped her.

She snatched up her shoulder bag and took out a business card. “Here’s my number if you should ever need to get in touch. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

As she reached the door, she paused. “You want to hear the best part?”

I was going to fire off a smart remark, but I held my tongue.

“Six days after Daddy died, Michael saw the light. He became a retractor. He disavowed his claims about the sexual abuse. He said he realized Marty Osborne had planted all those memories. Oops. Big mistake. He took it all back. So that’s who you’re dealing with. Have a nice day.”

She left the office, banging the door shut behind her.

 

 

I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, the tavern located half a block from my apartment. It’s the perfect setting for the neighborhood drinking crowd and serves as a ready substitute for my nonexistent social life. In the summer months the softball rowdies dominate the bar, celebrating victories so minor they scarcely warrant column space in the local sports pages. From time to time they put together touch-football teams, the losers paying off the winners with a pony keg. Prior to the Super Bowl, there are endless noisy debates, arguments, and wagers, which are finally settled by pitching in ten bucks each and drawing names from an oversized beer stein Rosie keeps behind the bar.