by G. H. Ephron
Maria cringed and rolled her eyes. “Come on, Ma. You always do that.” She grabbed the book and flipped the pages to another picture. “That’s me at five. I was such a tomboy. And you know who that is with me?” Maria asked with such intensity that I leaned in to get a close look.
In the faded photograph, a muscular, bare-chested teenager stood flexing his muscles. A little girl with wispy blond hair stood on his shoulders, grinning boldly at the camera, her arms flexed like his. I looked at Maria. “Your uncle?”
She nodded.
“Remember that day, Maria?” Mrs. Whitson said. “You guys were down in the rumpus room horsing around.”
“The rumpus room,” Maria repeated, “horsing around.” She stared hard at the picture. “I do remember. Something happened,” she said.
Mrs. Whitson nodded. “I think that was the day you fell on the stairs and hurt your back.”
Maria gave her mother a puzzled look. “My back?”
“Right here,” Mrs. Whitson said, touching Maria at kidney level on the right side. Maria flinched. “Dad and I ran down when we heard you screaming your head off. You scared the daylights out of us. You were all crumpled up at the bottom of the stairs, yelling bloody murder. I was so angry at Nino, I could have killed him. But he was with that girlfriend of his …” She stopped and stammered, flushing with embarrassment.
Maria ran a finger lightly over the picture, pausing first on her own image and then on a figure in the background — a pretty, blond teenager wearing shorts and a white, short-sleeved shirt — who was doubled over with laughter.
“Yes,” Maria said softly. “I think I remember.”
27
THAT AFTERNOON, Maria appeared at my office. Her meeting with her parents had left her raw and agitated. She wanted to talk.
She put the photograph album on the edge of my desk and opened it to the picture of herself and her uncle. “I’ve been thinking about this picture. I’m sure it’s the day — the day when it happened.”
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said. Maria perched on the edge of a chair and stared at the picture. “Tell me what you remember.”
“This picture was taken that day, but earlier. It was later that the bad thing happened. He raped me.”
“This is the rape you told me about?”
Maria nodded, sitting back in the chair and staring off into space. The curiosity I’d sensed earlier seemed to have ripened into an openness, a willingness to inquire and poke into places she hadn’t been able to examine before.
“Let’s see if we can get at more of that memory. Start with the photograph. I want you to try to remember as much detail as you can about how things looked and felt when the picture was taken. You say that was the same day?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Let’s go back to that day, to that room. And, just for the moment, I want you to ignore what was happening. For instance, do you remember what time of day it was?”
Maria looked at the picture again and squinted. “Late afternoon. It was just before dinner.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I was hungry. I was looking for the dish of M&M’s I’d left down there.”
“Maybe dinner was cooking? Could you smell anything?”
Maria shook her head.
“Is there any special smell that you always associate with that room?”
Maria wrinkled her nose. “Mildew.”
“Good. Okay, now you’re walking down the stairs. You can smell mildew. What do you see?”
Maria closed her eyes. “Orange. The shag carpet is orange.”
“Good. What else do you see in the room? Anything on the walls?”
“Photographs. My parents’ wedding picture. A picture of Italy — Venice.”
“Are the walls painted?”
“No. There’s wood paneling on the walls. And a drop ceiling with acoustic tile.”
“Now tell me about the furniture in the room.”
“There’s a television. A brown vinyl beanbag chair. A card table with four chairs. A bar with some stools. And … and …” Maria stopped and opened her eyes.
“What else?”
Maria opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“Okay. Let’s try it this way. I’m going to draw the room and you can tell me where the furniture goes.”
I drew a rectangle. “Is that the right shape?”
Maria shook her head. “It’s L-shaped. There’s an extra piece over here.”
I added it.
“Okay. Let’s put the stairs in. Where do they go?”
Maria pointed and I drew lines for the stairs. “Like that?”
Maria nodded.
“Okay, now, show me where the TV goes.”
I handed Maria the pencil and she drew an X in one corner.
“Now, where’s the beanbag chair?” She put an X in front of the TV. “And the card table and chairs?” She drew an X in a second corner. “And the bar? Where is it?” She drew an X in a third corner.
Three sections of the room were furnished. But the section opposite the staircase was empty. “What’s over here?” I asked.
Maria shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t do this. I feel like I’m in the beanbag chair. He’s raping met …” She hugged herself and rocked, moaning softly.
“Ms. Whitson, I know it’s scary. But it’s in the past. It’s okay to look at it. You’re safe here.” I waited until her eyes opened and the whimpering stopped. “I know this is hard. Try to keep going. I want you to imagine that you’re walking into the room. You’re coming down the stairs. Okay?”
Maria nodded, her eyes glazed over.
“Where are you standing?”
“I’m at the foot of the stairs.”
“Now I want you to look across the room. What do you see?”
“Carpet. Orange carpet.”
“Is there anything on the carpet?”
There was a silence while, in Maria’s mind, she looked from the stairs toward the place where she said she’d been attacked. “Yes. There are. My M&M’s. They’re all over the rug. They’re spilled everywhere!” Maria was indignant.
“Let’s imagine that you go over and pick up the M&M’s. Can you do that?”
Maria shook her head firmly.
“Why can’t you do that?”
“I can’t. Mustn’t see.”
“Mustn’t see what? Maria, what is there over in that part of the room that you mustn’t see?”
Maria locked her eyes shut and started to croon.
“Where’s Uncle Nino?”
Maria shook her head.
“It’s okay,” I said gently. “You’re safe, here in my office. Can you tell me what you see?”
Maria had her arms folded across her chest, her fingernails digging into her forearms. “There’s a sofa over there,” she whimpered.
“Good. That’s good. Tell me about the sofa.”
“Can’t look. Mustn’t look.”
“It’s okay to look. As long as you’re here and it’s safe, it’s okay to look. Tell me about the sofa. What color is it?”
Maria’s eyes opened a crack. “It’s blue. Pale blue velvet. And he’s on the sofa. On top of … on top of … I don’t understand.” Maria’s eyes flew open and she cried out, “It wasn’t me!”
She put her hands on top of her head and the look on her face changed from surprise to disbelief. “Jesus Christ. He was fucking her! I didn’t get it. But now, I’m sure that’s what was happening.”
I waited. And in the silence, the memory seemed to slide into place like a bullet into a well-oiled firing chamber.
“I was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching. And he was screwing her.”
“His girlfriend?”
“Jennifer — Jennifer what’s-her-name. Oh God,” Maria gasped. “And I watched.”
“You watched?”
“I couldn’t stop. I was stuck. I knew I shouldn’t. But I did.”
&
nbsp; “And then?”
Maria shook her head. “I guess my mother must have called us to dinner because he started to turn around and I started to scream.”
“How did you feel?”
“Betrayed,” Maria whispered.
“Betrayed,” I repeated, noting down the unexpected word.
“He was my uncle. And there he was. It was disgusting. And yet, I kept watching. Why did I keep watching?” Maria shuddered at the memory. “When my mother called us to dinner, I must have taken off up the stairs. I tripped and fell.” She rubbed her right side.
“Do you remember what happened after that?”
“Uh-huh. I hurt my back and had to stay in bed while it healed.”
“And your uncle?”
“They were all furious with Uncle Nino. Wouldn’t let him come up to my room to see me.” Maria’s eyes widened. She sank back into her chair and moaned. “Oh God. He wasn’t a monster. He was just a … a jerk. An oversexed, eighteen-year-old jerk.”
“And you were only five years old. How could you begin to understand what was happening?”
“But I accused him. I made everyone think … And now …”
Maria stared hollow-eyed out into space. I stood up and looked out the window. Outside, the leaves were turning. I thought about the scenes now converging in Maria’s head, details reshuffling themselves with a new image coming into focus.
“Do you remember your parents’ reaction?” I asked.
“I was angry when they wouldn’t let Nino come and see me. They wouldn’t even let him into the house for weeks. I was furious. Especially with my father.”
“Because?”
“Because I loved Uncle Nino. He was always there for me when there was no one else.”
“Was there any other reason why you were so angry with your father?”
Maria nodded. “Because he knew,” she mumbled.
“Knew what?”
“He knew what I’d seen.” I waited for her to continue. “He got down the stairs first. While Nino was still pulling up his pants. He knew exactly what had happened, and —”
“And?”
“And he knew that I’d been watching. He knew I was dirty. That I’d seen.”
“Is that how you felt? Dirty?”
“Well, wasn’t I? I’d kept on watching and watching. I was so ashamed of myself.” I didn’t say anything. “I just don’t understand,” Maria wailed.
“What don’t you understand?”
“The other memory. Where did it come from?”
“Where did it come from? That’s a good question.”
“Dr. Baldridge helped me remember.”
“How did he help you?”
“When I first saw him, he said he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I was an incest survivor.”
“And how did he know that?”
“Because I had all the signs. I was depressed. The bingeing and purging. I couldn’t sleep. He said it was typical.”
“And he helped you remember?”
Maria nodded. “He hypnotized me.”
“Had you been seeing him long?”
“A few weeks, I guess. He was amazing. He just knew. And I believed him.”
“So what do you think about that now?”
“It was so vivid. And I kept seeing it, over and over again in my head. I can make myself see it now if I wanted to. What I don’t understand is, where did it come from?”
I wondered, too. Probably from the cookbook of the good doctor. Take one young woman, add in a brain injury, a sprinkling of insomnia, an eating disorder, and a handful of designer drugs — it’s a bad mix when you start with a patient looking desperately for an answer and a doctor who has one ready and waiting.
“What do you think about that other memory?”
Maria was silent for a moment. “Now? I guess it doesn’t seem as real … as real as … But Dr. Baldridge said —”
“No one can tell you what you experienced. You’re the expert on that. So I’m sure it must be very confusing, now that you have two memories.”
“But Dr. Baidridge —” Maria hung there, her mouth open.
“Dr. Baldridge isn’t the expert on you. You are. You have to decide what’s real and what’s not.” Maria gave me a pleading look. I held up my hands. “I wasn’t there so I can’t tell you, either. But it is something you might want to talk to your parents about. Maybe they can help you sort it out. We can do it together.”
Maria stared down into her lap. She looked up and opened her mouth, as if she was going to say something. I could imagine two little creatures, one on each shoulder, arguing vehemently about whether she was going to say whatever it was that was about to come out. Then she came unstuck, but the words came out slowly, cautiously. “You know, when Uncle Nino died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It felt like I was on a trapeze, swinging back and forth. One minute I’d feel light as a feather, as if the huge weight I’d been carrying had finally lifted. I thought, now that he’s gone, everything is going to be fine. The way it should have been if he’d never —” Maria paused and held her breath for a moment before continuing. “But the next minute, I’d get these feelings of overwhelming sadness. And guilt.” Maria lowered her eyes. “I felt responsible. I’d get into bed and stay there for days. That’s when I tried to kill myself.”
“Is that when you slit your wrists?”
Maria pushed up a sleeve and held out her arm, palm up. She looked at the white lines of scar tissue. Then she lifted her wrist to her lips and stared into space.
We ended the session with Maria in what seemed like a fugue state. She moved slowly, apparently immersed in inner turmoil, unaware of the world around her. Anger had fueled her for so long. Letting go of it would be hard. And, as I knew from personal experience, forgiving herself would be even harder.
After she left, I picked up the phone and called the nurses’ station. “This is Dr. Zak. I want Maria Whitson put on a suicide watch. Let’s check her every five minutes for the next twenty-four hours.”
For the tenth time that week, I wished Gloria was around. So I called her at home.
“Hi, this is Peter,” I said, knowing it wasn’t Gloria who answered the phone. “Rachel?”
“Hey, Peter. Calling to check up on the patient?”
“Patient. Not exactly a word I’d associate with Gloria. How is she?”
“She’s a royal pain in the butt. She’s supposed to be resting and instead she’s up and down like a jumping bean.”
“Yeah, well, she’s so used to taking care of everyone else.”
“Absolutely. Doesn’t know how to be taken care of herself. Tell her she doesn’t have to rush back.” There was a pause. “Will you get back in bed?” she shouted. “All right, all right. I’ll bring you the phone already.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked when Gloria got on.
“Ducky. Just ducky. I’d be a whole lot better if I didn’t have to stay cooped up here.”
“You know they’re just being cautious. Concussions take time.”
“Doctors, what do they know? I hate being sick!”
“You got the flowers we sent?” I asked.
“Yeah, very funny.”
“What funny?”
“They arrived in a hard hat.”
“Appropriate, don’t you think. That was Kwan’s idea. And how is the — head?”
“The hard head, as you were about to say, is just fine. It only hurts when the roses make me sneeze.”
“You’re welcome. We miss you.”
Gloria laughed. “Ouch! Don’t make me laugh.”
“Maria Whitson’s been asking about you. She still thinks your fall was her fault.”
“She wasn’t anywhere near me. I ran into the room. Then I slipped. I must have caught the corner of the bed going down. It was an accident.”
There it was again — the “a” word. In the last few weeks, in fact ever since I’d gotten myself mix
ed up with the Jackson case, that word seemed to crop up every other day. But how could this accident be connected to the others?
“She met with her parents today,” I said.
“I know. I really wanted to be there. How’d it go?”
“I talked with them at some length. Then they saw Maria.”
“What are they like?”
“Bottom line? Concerned parents. Screwed up, of course.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Absolutely. Of course they’re confused and angry. But they seem to care deeply about their daughter.”
“Wish I’d been there,” Gloria said. “Did she feel safe?”
“Yes, I think she did. So much so that when her mother offered to stay, Maria agreed. Her mother had a photograph album.”
Gloria was quiet for a moment before asking, “You think Baldridge planted these memories of abuse, don’t you?”
“I’m not so sure Dr. Baldridge is as open to other possible explanations as he should be. Today, Maria remembered an entirely new scenario. Says she walked in on her uncle having sex with his girlfriend. And this memory was triggered by a photograph she says was taken on the same day her uncle raped her.”
“So why is this memory any more real than the other one?”
“Good question. Maybe a memory of abuse is less terrible for her than the real memory it’s screening, a memory she can’t deal with. Seeing her uncle having sex with his girlfriend doesn’t seem like such a big deal to an adult. But for a five-year-old, it must have been devastating. She adored her uncle. And even though it was inadvertent, he violated her trust. She didn’t understand what was happening, but she knew it was naughty and very exciting. It was even more confusing to her because she couldn’t stop watching. On one level, she blamed herself. On another level, she blamed her uncle and her parents. And it forever changed their relationship. Her parents didn’t realize how much it troubled her, so she never got it out in the open.”
“Oh God. Now what? If she’s convinced that her uncle didn’t abuse her, and she accused him, told everyone what he’d done, with him dead … You’ve got her on suicide watch?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“Gloria, please get well and get back in here.”