Out of the Shadow (7 page)

After greeting Janet, Julie took Becca by the arm. "I don’t mean to interrupt you two, but Becca hasn’t had a thing to eat—I would guess the entire day. I hope you’ll excuse us while I do the motherly thing, and make sure she doesn’t fade from famine."

Becca rolled her eyes at Janet, who smiled back at her. "Of course," Janet said. "But only if Becca promises to call me."

Having gladly sealed the deal, Becca trailed after Julie, with a couple of short detours to say hello to a group of neighbors and a distant relative, to the buffet table, where Julie insisted they fill up their plates. Becca didn’t have much of an appetite after meeting with the police, but halfheartedly spooned food onto her plate to appease her mother.

When she reached for a bagel smeared with lox, her hand grazed another. She looked up into the deep-set turquoise eyes of a stranger. "Excuse me."

He grinned and shrugged, shaking his full head of sable-brown hair. "No problem. Why don’t you go first."

Becca politely consented, noting his rugged good looks. Why hadn’t she met him at her parents’ house before?

Julie stepped forward. "I bet you two don’t remember one another, do you? It’s been so many years." Before either could reply, she went on. "Drew, this is my daughter Becca. Drew is Sam and Lisa’s son. He left for college when you were still fairly young."

"Drew?" Becca held out her hand, trying to remember this handsome stranger. "I can’t place the face, but your name sounds familiar."

Julie beamed at Drew. "I’m glad you were able to come tonight! I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to your folks when you moved back into town. I don’t know if Lisa could have survived Sam’s diagnosis without you around. You’re a good son."

"Only doing what any son should do for his parents."

Julie sent Becca a smirk. "Not all children are as concerned about their parents as you are."

Becca did her best not to react to Julie. She shook the hand Drew held out to her, which was as warm as his smile; but a mild feeling of revulsion passed through her. She couldn’t wait to withdraw her hand. Since the rape, every attractive man she met generated a similar reaction. She hoped she would get over it soon. "Where were you living before?"

"In Washington. I was working as a Congressional Clerk. I just moved back here a couple of months ago to start my own law practice."

"What type of practice do you have?" Becca asked.

"I specialize in environmental issues."

She should have guessed, noting his obvious counter-culture jeans and tweed jacket. "That’s a noble cause. How’s it going?"

"I’ve only been in practice here a little over a month, and I already have two cases. It looks like I’ll be busy. But enough about me. I’d love to discover more about you. Let’s finish filling our plates and see if we can locate a couple of free seats."

She turned back to the buffet and forked a slice of lox onto her plate. He handed her the salad spoon. When they were done piling it on, they excused themselves from Julie and made their way to the side of the room, where they cornered two black leather club chairs being vacated.

"Whew, that was a close one," Drew joked as a couple glided by and eyed the chairs. "Where did we leave off?"

"We were finding out about one another."

"Right. Go on."

In between bites of lox and bagel, she shared with him a retrospective of her career. She kept it light and frothy, but he seemed more interested than her description warranted, and peppered her with questions. Then he glanced down at her ring finger with the tan line and his expression changed.

"I heard about what happened from my folks. I’m sorry to hear about your trauma. It’s quite a thing to go through."

She followed his gaze to her naked finger and felt immediately overwhelmed with a powerful sense of sorrow. Remembering how she had carefully locked David’s ring away after the funeral, she swallowed the knot of misery forming in her throat. "Thanks. I appreciate your sentiment, but I’d rather not speak about it right now."

A stricken look formed in his eyes. "I shouldn’t have brought it up."

She could see his embarrassment. "I’m the one who should be sorry. You were only trying to be helpful."

"Tell you what," he said. "To make up for my blunder, how about if I take you out for coffee sometime. I’d like to get to know you better."

Before she had a chance to answer, Julie appeared at her side, with an expression Becca knew only too well. Her mother's pleasure because she had hit it off with Drew dampened her enthusiasm for him a little.

"I have someone I’d like you to see." Julie held onto the hand of Becca’s cousin Andy who, according to the set of his jaw, had been dragged over against his will. She smiled up at him, noting how much he looked as she remembered him, skinny and shy, with disheveled, mousey-brown hair and a wrinkled shirt. Andy might have graduated from college by now, but he had quite obviously never advanced much past nerd.

She rose to give Andy a hug. When she asked him a simple question, he immediately lunged into a long diatribe about his stamp collection, offering Julie the opportunity to pull Drew aside and bend his ear.

Always polite, Becca listened absent-mindedly to Andy, although what he called philately, or stamp collecting, didn’t interest her in the least. She soon found herself distracted by her cousin Freddie, who stood a few feet behind Andy and performed a card trick to the amazement of a couple of kids. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Barbara Murray piling her plate high with caviar-covered crackers.

As Andy droned on about his discovery of a rare 1860 Brown Jefferson Mint, all Becca could think about were the many parties she had attended at this house over the years. Card club parties, birthday parties, anniversary parties, graduation parties. Even her wedding had been held in a tent in the backyard.

Parties provided opportunities to come together in camaraderie and joviality - to celebrate life - but she couldn’t relate to those emotions at all. Instead, the animation of others only amplified her sense of alienation, until she was on the verge of tears.

Julie sidled up alongside her and, with an excuse to Andy, nudged her aside. "Your uncle has arrived. I want you to come with me to welcome him."

Grateful for her mother’s intrusion, she didn’t put up a fight when Julie grasped her by the arm and piloted her over to a large man with his back to her. When Julie tapped him on the shoulder, he turned toward her.

"Oh my God," he said to Julie. "It’s Becca. My little Becca. My, how you’ve grown."

He scooped her up into a comforting bear hug, until a familiar scent made Becca’s stomach lurch. She pulled back, but much to her surprise, the room had begun to spin as if she'd had too much to drink. She seized the back of a chair to steady herself. Everything around her had taken on an unreal quality, as though she’d accidentally stepped out of the present dimension into a cartoon world.

What had happened? This was her dear Uncle Paulie. Her mother’s brother, who bore a close resemblance to the photo on Julie’s mantel; except for a couple of extra pounds, the shaved head, and the wire-rimmed glasses. Why the strange reaction?

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and the room spun faster.

Although she tried to smile, her lips refused to cooperate. "It’s good to see you, Uncle Paulie."

He turned toward Julie, offering Becca a second to compose herself, but she couldn’t quite calm the shivers inside.

"She’s a beauty, sis. A real beauty."

To be social, she answered his questions about her as briefly as possible. But when she made a simple inquiry into his life in California, intending to finish off the conversation, he launched into a colorful description of Napa Valley, depicting the verdant rolling hills of vineyards, and quaint communities.

Finally, Cousin Freddie sauntered up behind him and slapped Paulie on the back. To her relief, Paulie rotated around to shake Freddie’s hand, exclaiming how it had been years, and they immediately detoured into an extended game of "catch up." She used this opportunity to excuse herself, located her jacket, and headed straight for the front door.

Drew stopped her on her way out. "Where are you going?"

"I’m sorry. I have to leave."

He turned up his hands in a gesture of exasperation. "I don’t understand. I was hoping we could get to know each other a little better."

"I can’t explain." She lowered her voice. "I have to go now."

"Is something wrong? Did I do anything to upset you?"

She shook her head. "Please don’t take this personally. It’s not you. It was wonderful meeting you—again." Before he could stop her, she slipped out the door and sped down the road away from Uncle Paulie and all the ugly feelings.

By the time her head had cleared enough for her to think things through, she knew something from her past had been unearthed at the sight of Paulie. A buried shard had poked its ugly head out of the wreckage of her childhood. Even though she had only caught a glimpse of it, she could no longer turn her eyes away from the sight.

The following evening at Evan’s condo, Becca faced his curious stare. "My reaction to Paulie was definitely one of the weirdest experiences I’ve ever had. I’ve racked my brains since leaving the party, trying to figure it out, but I can’t.” She rubbed her throbbing head. “It’s even hard to describe, but I suddenly felt as if I had stepped into another time/space continuum; had entered the Twilight Zone. I know it sounds crazy, but something about him scared the bejesus out of me."

Evan shot her a sideways glance. "Are you sure this wasn’t a trick on the part of your psyche, to give you an excuse to leave the party?"

He had her there. She had intended to slip out immediately after meeting her uncle, and perhaps her imagination had helped her along. "I guess it’s possible. It's no secret I'm having trouble being with those people right now. They look at me with pity. Besides, I can’t be too much fun to be around."

"I don’t know about that. The most fun I’ve had lately is with you."

"Then you can’t be having much of a life."

"Au contraire."

Their eyes met for a long, sizzling moment. Not ready to take this further, she stood and wandered over to the wall of walnut bookshelves, turning down the disc of Native American drumming he had wanted her to hear. "I’ve taken up enough of your time tonight. I should be going."

"All right," he said, looking disappointed.

"I’m sure this isn’t the last you’ll hear about Uncle Paulie. I can guarantee I’ll be trying to wrap my mind around this one for some time to come." She took his hand and helped him to his feet. "Walk me to the door."

At the door, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to him. "Why don’t you give this thing a rest for tonight and we’ll talk about it again tomorrow. Whatever it is, more will be revealed to you."

She stood close enough to feel the heat rising off his body, to inhale the subtle scent of aftershave. "Sure."

"I’ll give you a holler during the day to see how you’re doing."

He held her eyes for a moment with a look of such love and tenderness it frightened her. A part of her was tempted to kiss him, but it seemed too soon after her rape and her husband's murder for this level of intimacy. She reached for the doorknob. "I’d appreciate it. You’re a good friend, making time for me."

"Is that all I am to you—a friend?"

She hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, but it called for honesty. "For now. You know I’m still healing. I hope you understand."

"Of course I do."

He gave her a hug, but held onto her a moment longer than necessary. She couldn’t say she minded.

"You’re worth waiting for," he whispered into her hair, but before he could say or do anything more, she scurried out the door and was gone.

Chapter Six

A glance at my sleek, black Movado watch— the one Ken bought me mere days before I found out he was sleeping with the blond— told me it was time for lunch. Since I had come to a natural break in the story and the audience had begun to squirm, I announced the lunch break to a smattering of applause.

People took their time rising from their seats and, with the well-rehearsed behavior of a herd, headed out the door. Only one person remained behind: Adrian Farley. I gathered up my things and began to descend from the stage. He watched my every move with the hint of a smile.

"Aren’t you hungry?" I inquired.

The smile widened. "I’m waiting to carry your books, Dr. Abrams."

"Sarah, remember? That won’t be necessary, but you’re welcome to join me at the table."

"That’s what I was hoping,
Sarah
."

He deliberately emphasized my name, for effect. I fell into step beside him and we marched together down the corridor. I entered first into a long, narrow dining room packed with tables. A huge crystal chandelier hung perilously over a table on the near side of the room, making it clear the area had been partitioned off for our group. Adrian and I seated ourselves at a two-person table across from the entrance and made small talk until our chef salads were served.

He took a couple of bites, then lowered his fork. "Tell me more about your practice."

I haven’t had a man express curiosity in me or what I’m doing in eons and I’m flattered by his attention. "I’m not sure what you’re asking. I have a decent practice. Your typical depressives, marital conflicts, out-of-control teens. Nothing too esoteric. Must be similar to yours."

He nodded.

"The only difference between my practice and the practice of other therapists I know, is the two cases of Repressed Memory Syndrome I've seen in the past couple of years."

"Interesting. Please pass the salt." He waited until I did.

"What about you? Where do you practice and what do you specialize in?"

"I'm Chief of Psychology at a small local hospital, and have a general private practice in Pittsburgh. But a local friend, Dr. James Mayor, recommended this seminar to me. I recently picked up a tough case of Repressed Memory Syndrome and he thought I’d get something out of this weekend."

"Are you?"

He sprinkled his food and took a bite. "Becca’s an intriguing case."

I pictured Rachel. "That’s an understatement. Her case became more engrossing as the therapy progressed."

"Do you still see her in treatment?"

"Not any longer, but she keeps in contact."

With a head tilted to the side in rapt contemplation, his eyes never left my face. All I could feel, except excitement, was terror. I knew what he was looking at. I was about as average as they come. Average looks, average height, average weight. Nothing about me was exciting enough to deserve this much attention. And I was still a basket case after Ken’s deception. I swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t notice my discomfort.

"Did you place her on medication?"

I lowered my fork. "I’m not a psychiatrist, but even if I were, I’d be wary of referring my patients for psychotropic medication for every little thing. I know therapists who do that, but I’m not one of them. I guess I’m old school, but I believe you can change both perception and emotions without having to tinker with brain chemistry."

"You don’t look ‘old school’ at all."

I ignored his awkward attempt at flirtation. "I was blessed with terrific teachers at the University of Pennsylvania and the Philadelphia Child Guidance Clinic, who thought medication wasn’t the answer for every condition. They believed, as I do, our moods and thought patterns are often symptoms of an underlying emotional problem, and to medicate them might mask the real problem rather than treat it. Psychotropics are appropriate in certain situations, but not all. How about you? Do you often place your patients on psychotropics?"

"I assume more often than you do. I find the serotonin re-uptake inhibitors particularly helpful with depressed patients like Becca. I had one man recently who attempted suicide multiple times, until I recommended him for Paxil. He hasn’t had a suicidal episode since."

"That’s good. I’m not saying I wouldn’t medicate a patient who was suicidal or vegetative, but I didn’t treat Becca with psychotropics, only hypnotherapy and behavior management, and it worked well."

"What do you do when it doesn’t?"

"I try to encourage them to take a look at their life-style choices before I send them to a psychiatrist. Many of them eat fast-food on a regular basis, never exercise, and are under a tremendous amount of internal distress. Add to this alcohol and cigarettes, and you have the perfect storm." I took a bite of my salad. "I ask them to cut out the drinking and smoking, look at their dietary choices and exercise. I also suggest they look into vitamins and minerals, as well as a couple of herbs I find useful for treating mental health problems: St. John’s Wort for depression and Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder, and Kava Kava for anxiety and insomnia. This often does the trick without any other medication. Have you tried any of these?"

"Can’t say I have. I guess I’m more traditional than you are."

"I’m not saying alternative methods always work, but when they do, it’s much easier on the patient and there’s no possibility of dependency, which is there with anti-anxiety and, to a lesser degree, anti-depressant drugs. Perhaps medication would have worked just as well for Becca as anything else we did, but she would have run the risk of common side-effects such as weight gain and suicidal ideation. And, as you know, medicated and feeling better, she might not have been motivated to do the hard work necessary to explore her underlying conflict. It’s easier to avoid dealing with trauma when you’re not in pain."

"And in her case the conflict was?"

I wagged a finger at him. "That’s why you’re being attentive to me. Well, forget it. I’m not about to give away the punch-line before its time. You’ll have to wait like everyone else."

"You’re wrong." Adrian leaned forward. "That’s not my attraction at all."

His smooth voice and sensual manner proved magnetic. I could sense myself being drawn to him.

"Then what is it?" I asked. My voice sounded husky to my ears.

"I find you fascinating."

He held my gaze until, ruffled, I looked away. I decided to change the subject. "Have you seen many Repressed Memory patients?"

"The one I mentioned is the first I’ve ever treated, but I’m glad I came today. It’s been both informative and pleasant getting to know you."

Again he caught my eye. A part of me wanted to break eye contact, but another, more powerful part, could have gone on looking into his baby blues forever.

But it wasn’t to be. The clock showed 1:45 and I had notes to go over before my lecture began again at 2. I rose. "I have to go. I’ll meet you back in the conference room."

I reached for my tray, but before I could raise it, his hand covered mine. "I’ll see you at break."

I tingled from head to toe.
How can I put him off when I want so much to turn him on?
"I’ll look for you."

A smile lit his eyes. "You won’t have to look far."

I turned away, slightly shaken. I felt something deep and dark and powerful take hold of me—something I could only compare to black magic or voodoo. It might only be lust, but my attraction to Adrian felt more mysterious and alive. My feelings tumbled over each other, trying to grab my attention. They were both wonderful and terrifying. I had avoided any man I found attractive or interesting over the past year, but this might be my opportunity to turn things around and stop behaving like a wounded animal. The time had arrived to begin moving on after my divorce, I decided. I can’t hibernate forever!

I looked forward to the next break as another opportunity to get to know Adrian better, while I still had the nerve.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back at the podium and ready to begin the afternoon’s lecture.

          
"Welcome back," I said over the din of the audience. I waited for the chatter to die down.

A woman in the front row raised her hand. "Sarah, before we move on, would you remind us of where we left off this morning?"

"Of course. I was planning on it. As you may recall, I stopped the story right after Becca met her Uncle Paulie for the first time in seventeen years, and had what she described as a dreadful reaction. That night she had another of her recurrent nightmares, in which an unidentified man had her trapped in her parents’ bedroom, and she couldn’t break away. She awoke in sheer terror, knowing he would be back for her.

 
"Becca arrived for her session a couple of days later, ready to do the work. She told me about a couple of disturbing dreams she had the previous week, and a memory that had resurfaced. But when she shared her curious reaction to her uncle, she seemed at a loss. To help her with this, I asked her permission to use hypnotherapy. She agreed—not yet fully aware of what she was getting herself into."

The next fifty minutes with Becca turned out to be a critical juncture in our treatment; and the beginning of our real work together.

Becca unfolded herself onto the sofa as instructed. At my suggestion, she closed her eyes and used the deep breathing and progressive relaxation technique of muscle contraction I had taught her in our earlier therapy sessions to release tension. The moment she appeared more relaxed, I encouraged her to picture herself right before her encounter with her Uncle Paulie, to envision herself walking up to him, and to observe her response when he turned toward her.

It took only a minute before she shook her head. "I feel dizzy. Slightly nauseous. But everything has gone blank. I don’t know if I can do this."

"Try to stay with it," I gently persuaded her, knowing I needed to be persistent in my approach. "Please describe to me what you’re experiencing."

Becca clutched at the side of the sofa as though it were a life preserver, her knuckles white. "All I feel is fear. Pure unadulterated fear."

"Can you tell me more?"

"I feel...I don’t know...strangely disoriented. As if Paulie has a sort of power over me...like I am at his mercy."

"Stay with the feeling and see if you can tell me what might be causing it."

She sniffed at the air, making a face. "An odor. A bittersweet scent. A sexy scent. A repugnant scent. I don’t know what it is, but it’s making me nervous. May I open my eyes now?’

"Try to stick with it a little longer and tell me what it is about the smell that’s bothering you."

"There’s a reason I’m reacting to it this way, but I can’t
 put my finger on it...it’s too uncomfortable."

"Does the odor awaken any memory in you?" I asked.

"I can’t tell...I just lost it..."

"Can you take this any further?"

"No...I can’t..." she said, a single tear making its way down her cheek.

"All right," I said, sensing her intense agitation. "That’s enough for today. What I want you to do—"

Before I could continue, Becca flung open her eyes and levered herself upright on the sofa. She thrust her legs over the side. "Damn! Whatever the smell was, it’s hard to believe Paulie wasn’t in the room with us." She shivered and rubbed her arms for comfort.

"Don’t worry. You’re safe here," I reassured her. "Do you think you can identify the odor?"

Becca stared out the window, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere but here. "I don’t know...it seems like some type of aftershave or cologne. I adore men’s cologne. I can’t imagine why it's affecting me this way."

"Neither can I just yet," I said, "but at least you’re beginning to pinpoint what triggered your reaction the other night. The next step will be to figure out what caused you to react the way you did."

"I’m not sure I like this at all," she countered. "It feels ominous, like I’m stirring up something I shouldn’t."

"I can sympathize with what you’re going through," I assured her. "Whatever happened to you all those many years ago must have been objectionable enough for you to lock it away, deep inside. You’re bound to feel a tremendous amount of dread when it resurfaces."

"And if I’ve been able to hide a truth this big from myself, what else am I denying?"

Becca rose abruptly as though to leave, but before she could, I stepped in front of her. "Before you go, I have a little something for you."

"What is it?"

"You know I had about as much success with the police as you did, and I’m not certain they’ll do anything more to protect you than they’ve already been doing—"

"Which is nothing."

I drew a deep breath, knowing I was about to step outside my comfort zone as a therapist. "I’ve decided to take the matter into my own hands." I pressed a key into her palm.

She stared down at it. "What is this?"

"It’s the key to my friend’s apartment. She only lives in Philadelphia part-time and I care-take her apartment when she’s out of town. She’s given me permission to let you use it as a sanctuary anytime you feel threatened. I know you won’t abuse this privilege."