All Is Not Forgotten

by Wendy Walker

  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.

  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.

&
nbsp; 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?”