All Is Not Forgotten (23 page)

This is where everything stopped. My heart. My soul. My professional integrity. The only thing moving was my mind, and it was moving fast.

“So what did you do?”

I went back outside. Back to my car. I'd pulled in from the back entrance, but this time I drove around to the front and drove right in so my headlights were shining into the showroom.

“To give them time to escape.”

Exactly. I did what I should have done the first time. I jangled my keys at the door. I turned on the lights and coughed. Bob came out of the showroom, his face all flushed. I felt like punching him.

“And what, he made excuses for being there so late?”

Of course. And I pretended to buy them. Didn't even give it a thought. I lied more easily than I thought I could. He didn't question it. We talked about pricing for the client coming in, how much of a discount I could offer him. I'm sure Lila snuck out the other side door. I didn't see her leave.

“When was this?”

Tom shrugged.
Last Tuesday.

“Did you talk about it with anyone? With Charlotte?”

No. No one. And I would prefer to keep it between us. This is my job. My career. I run all the showrooms. I'm Bob's second-in-command. No way I'm going to jeopardize that.

“Not even for this young girl? Is that why you feel powerless? Why you told me this story?”

Tom considered this.
Yes, I think so. I feel—no, I am powerless. She's an adult. Young, but still an adult. She probably thinks she can get something from him. I know she needs money. Maybe she's thinking she'll get a nice bonus in her next paycheck. Her father had some rough times and she wants to go to college. What am I supposed to do? Threaten to tell his wife? It's none of my business.

“And if you didn't work for Bob Sullivan? If you had just been a customer, for example?”

I guess then … well, I don't know. Maybe I would feel the same way. Maybe I wouldn't.

“But you would have a choice. The decision would be yours to make and not dictated by your employment?”

Yes. That's it. That's exactly it.

I nodded. I was pleased with myself for saying what I would have said under normal circumstances.

Still, I was a child with a box of matches.

“Tom,” I said. “I just have to make sure. You said he was holding her shoulder with one hand and the back of her head with the other. And you saw her face.”

Yes. Well, I said his hand was in her hair, didn't I? He was touching or maybe pulling her hair, but not in a forceful way.…

“And you are certain that it was consensual?”

Yes! My God. After everything that's happened … I would have thrown him right through that window if I thought it wasn't consensual. Why are you asking that?

I took a breath then to slow my mind and think about my plan. I had not told Tom every detail about Jenny's recalled memory—about the placement of her attacker's hands, one on her shoulder and one around the back of her neck. I considered telling him now, but no—it was not the right time. This is not uncommon when people fornicate in this manner. Men like to pull hair, or run their fingers through it. And they need to brace themselves against something. It is not uncommon at all. And yet in this situation, it was so useful. So very, very useful. I was about to burst wide open.

“I'm sorry, Tom. I just wanted to make sure. This incident should not in any way integrate into our work and your emotional pain from what happened to Jenny. You are right—this woman is an adult. It sounds like she knew what she was doing, that she has her reasons, no matter how sad they are. And that Bob thought she was enjoying the experience.”

Tom seemed slightly unsure now of his impressions. I did not say anything more. We moved on to discuss Charlotte and the work I would be doing with Jenny, issues with his parents again, more stories of woe from his childhood. I let him wallow as I thought ruthlessly about my next move. My work with Tom was done. For now.

 

Chapter Twenty-one

I had one
and a half hours after Tom left before I would see Jenny. I had not seen her since we recovered that one memory, that one piece of the puzzle—the anchor piece that I believed would lead us to the other pieces until we had the whole story perfectly reassembled. Remembered.

But I was not thinking about Jenny then.

Bob Sullivan. That's who was on my mind. It did not surprise me that he was sleeping with other women. Charlotte and I had discussed their “love” affair, and Charlotte truly believed that he loved her. That she was the only one. That he was tortured by his love for her. But I did not believe it. Not for one moment. His ego was as large as the billboards out on the highway. Men like that didn't love one woman.

We have not returned to this topic since I told you about that night in the parking lot when Charlotte was still covered in her daughter's blood. There is more to tell. Three months had passed—three months of therapy and three months of weekly encounters between Bob and Charlotte. We had discussed it again that very morning, right after she told me she'd had sex with her husband.

“How are things with Bob?”

We had come to discuss her affair with the same acceptance and nonchalance as her tennis game. This was intentional on my part. Her affair was anything but normal. But she had to come to this conclusion on her own. And she did not need my opinion of her behavior to muddy the waters. I had maintained meticulous neutrality.

Oh, I don't know.
She said this with a heavy sigh.
It's been different since that afternoon—you know, when we found Jenny in the pool house. We meet at this house on the west side of Cranston. A friend of his asked him to house-sit while he's traveling in Europe. I go only when the cleaning lady comes. That's on Mondays. I don't leave Jenny alone in the house. Not for more than an hour, maybe—if I need to go to the grocery store or dry cleaners. I don't see friends. I don't play tennis. When I get in my car and pull out of the driveway, all I can think about is Jenny lying on that floor.…

Charlotte did her reset: The long breath. Closed eyes, just for a second. A slight shudder to chase away the demons.

So on Mondays when the cleaning lady comes, I drive forty minutes to see Bob for one hour. We don't really talk anymore. We say hello. He asks about Jenny. I give him an update. I ask how he is. I ask about the boys. Then we have sex.

“You say that with less of something. Enthusiasm? Interest?”

I feel less of something. In fact, last week I actually felt irritated. He was taking longer than usual. I pretended to have an orgasm so we could be done. I don't know why, but I just didn't like the feel of his hands on me that day. It's been like that more and more since that night when I met him in the parking lot. That horrible night. It feels like it's dying a slow death.

“Do you think it's because of you or him?”

She shook her head from side to side.
I really don't know. I mean, he says the same things to me. And he does the same things to me. He still sends me text messages.

“The suggestive ones?”

They're more than suggestive. Some of them I delete immediately. They're pornographic. Pictures of his erection. Descriptions of things he wants to do.

Charlotte seemed disgusted as she spoke about it. In the past, she had been embarrassed. And aroused.

He always says he loves me. But it's not the same.

“That must be very difficult. Bob has been an important piece of your framework.”

He made me feel whole. Like we talked about. He knows about my past and he still loves me. He still wants me.

“So what's changed? Why isn't that working its magic anymore?”

Charlotte shrugged. She didn't know. I looked at her and sighed myself. She asked if I was upset with her, and I assured her I was not. I said I was just very tired. I never share my personal feelings with my clients, but I was growing impatient—remember, I had not yet taken the lorazepam. I had been hobbling myself together for the better part of our session.

I left Charlotte to consider why things with Bob had changed. Of course, I knew the answer. Bob had not muttered those four little words that night by the Dumpsters at the Home Depot. He did not say, “It's not your fault.” The supply of acceptance and forgiveness had been interrupted, and she now had an inkling of the truth—that all this time, as Bob held her and told her that he loved her, even though she had slept with her mother's husband, even though she had been sent away to live with her aunt, he was lying. Bob was a liar who wanted to fuck her. He was masterful. Cunning. I have to admit that a small part of me was impressed by him. He knew somehow what would appeal to her, that bad Charlotte would feed on his acceptance like the starving child she was and that she would open her legs and not care about her own satisfaction as long as he brought the food. But now his words were empty. The food he was serving her was rancid, and she was having trouble swallowing it down.

I wondered what he was feeding Lila at the Jag showroom. What did she need so desperately that she would bend over a silver XK and let him shove her face into its hood while he rode her like an animal? Money, perhaps, as Tom said. Or maybe she needed her daddy's love. It could have been a million things. And Bob, that sly dog, had figured it out. Yes. I was impressed.

By the time Tom left my office later that day, my thoughts were in a frenzy. I kept thinking over and over—
This is too good to be true.
It was. It was too perfect.

You probably cannot picture this, but I actually got up and paced the room, back and forth like some primal beast. I had seen Charlotte. Then I had seen two other patients. Then I'd seen Tom and learned about Bob and that little slut at the Jag showroom. I hope you're following along. This day, this Friday, was absolutely pivotal. I had become monomaniacal in my mission to save my son from accusation. My wife was right. The accusation alone would change his life forever. Social media would leave its nasty indelible footprint. I also have to admit—to you and not my wife, because it would continue to upset her—that the consequence of not being able to treat Jenny also weighed heavily upon me. No parents in their right mind would allow that to continue under such a cloud of suspicion. And I needed to finish my work with her. I am a selfish bastard, aren't I? God, how I was coming undone that day!

But I was not too undone to continue with my fledgling plan.

Jenny arrived just after four in the afternoon. Three Kramers in one day. I was immersed in their stories, and it was helping me immensely to piece together the details. I heard them arrive in the waiting room. Charlotte always brought Jenny. Lucas was with them as well. It didn't matter. They would leave as soon as I opened the door, and I would be alone with Jenny for an hour. More, if I needed it.

I finished the work I had been doing on my computer. Then I opened the door.

I'm starting to feel like I live here,
Charlotte joked. She seemed sad. I imagine she had started to figure out why Bob had lost his magic.

I smiled but said nothing. Jenny walked past me and sat down on the sofa.

“I'll be right back, Jenny. I just want to talk to your mom for a moment.”

Jenny said,
Fine.
She pulled out her phone like every teenager. It's not possible for them to sit in the silence. Of course, the room was not silent today.

I closed the door, leaving Jenny inside. Alone. I spoke to Charlotte about the schedule and pretended to need an update on Jenny since that morning. She didn't think twice about it. She pulled out her phone and checked some dates and times. I reminded her that I go to Somers on Tuesdays.

“Hello, Lucas,” I said. I shook his hand and met his eyes. I had not been seeing him as a patient, and he still looked at me the way children look at doctors. They are right to be apprehensive. Doctors mean something is wrong with you, or might be wrong with you. Doctors do things to you that sometimes hurt or make you uncomfortable. I did not take offense.

All of this took not more than three minutes. But that was all I needed. I said good-bye and then entered my office.

My computer was on, playing a looped commercial from Bob Sullivan's dealerships. It was all Bob, his voice, over and over. Jenny wasn't bothered by it one way or another. She smiled at me when I passed by and walked to my desk.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize I'd left this on.”

It's fine,
she said.

I turned off the commercial, then walked to the chair across from the sofa and took my seat. “I like to watch the news sometimes. But I hate those commercials. I know your dad works there. I think I just hate commercials, period.”

She smiled and I settled into my chair. I was pleased with myself for completing this part of the plan, the mission. But then I saw her face. Her eyes. I lost my breath.

I have described my impressions of Jenny before, how I had been confused by the girl I saw the months between the rape and suicide attempt. How she did not present as a trauma victim. Certainly not a rape victim. And then, when the truth came out about her receiving the treatment, it all made sense to me. I think I even said that I felt relieved to know I wasn't losing my professional mind. After I began my work with her, and if I'm being honest, after she met Sean Logan, she changed again. As her father said, the life was back in her eyes. The last time I'd seen her, that Wednesday, we had the breakthrough, a light piercing the blackout. The memory. I had seen the panic rip through her as she relived that one moment. I had seen a glimmer of pain and shock and horror. But then it all collapsed into exhaustion. When she left, it was hard to detect anything. Two days had passed. Two days of living with the memory.