“I know, honey. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
I expect pushback, why wouldn’t I be okay — but instead see something in the corner of my daughter’s gaze, just before she steps past me toward the door. “I’m fine, Mom.”
She’s fine, I’m fine. Everybody’s fine.
F-I-N-E = fucked-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional.
The evening contains that bluish shade, monochrome, as the sun descends and takes the colors with it. Joni stands in the doorway, gazing into the dusk.
I risk closing the gap between us and put my hands on her shoulders. Joni doesn’t resist or pull away. “I love you, you know.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
“I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“You can always come to me. If there’s anything. Anything that . . .”
Her shoulders rise and fall as she pulls a heavy breath. Then she lowers her head. Through tears, she repeats, “I know, Mom . . .”
I’m almost whispering now. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she says emphatically, betrayed by her tears.
“All right,” I say. Then, tentatively: “You used to talk to me.”
“Yeah, when I was ten.”
“You still can.”
She snuffs and wipes her tears away. “When I was little, I told you that I didn’t want to grow up.”
“I remember.”
“You said that I would still be this little girl forever. That people were like trees. That when you cut a tree you see the rings of its growth, and that’s your past, always there.”
She faces me. I’ve left the hallway dark, so we’re in the gloom, but her eyes are shining from the kitchen and dining area lights.
“I don’t feel that little girl inside,” she says. “I didn’t for a long time, Mom. And then — it sounds corny, but — Michael came along and I felt okay to let go again. To be me. To remember her.”
“That doesn’t sound corny at all.” My own tears have started.
“Yeah, well . . .”
She starts away and I grab her arm. Maybe too forcibly, because she glances down at my hand and I let go. “You were about to say something else. Just now. What? Honey, just talk to me. Okay? I can’t take it anymore.”
“Why would you say that?”
I almost blurt it out. It’s on the tip of my tongue. And so what if I told her? This is my daughter. My flesh and blood.
But I can’t. It’s not about me or Joni. If those who seek counseling can’t trust their therapists with privacy, then the whole thing goes out the window.
Joni is still staring at me.
“I don’t mean anything. But you’ve got this guy . . . you’re standing here with me, and something has got you upset—”
“I just told you why. You don’t have to fix me anymore, Mom. That’s the point. I found someone that makes me feel good. For who I am.”
“Then I’m thrilled for you.”
“No, you’re not. I know you. You think he’s just another flash in the pan. You think I’m too young. That I should wait, like you and Dad. You got your careers started . . .”
“Barely . . .”
“That I’m just rushing into things . . .”
She falls silent, looking through the door again. Michael is just a shape in the gloaming, nearer the garage than the house, his voice a faint mumble, his feet scratching against the ground.
Joni says, “You don’t trust me because of how I used to be. You think I’m unstable.”
“Joni—”
“Let me. You think I’m unstable, but that’s not even it. You’re worried. You’re worried because you think my bad choices will reflect your bad choices. All the shit from when Sean and I were kids.”
“Hey,” I say in a sharp whisper. “Now listen up.”
But she’s glaring at me, and I know I’ve just screwed up. I’ve got a hold of her arm again, for one thing, which I slowly release.
“We’ll just go,” Joni says.
She turns on her heel and walks quickly back to the dining room.
“Jo . . .” I start after her, but stop.
Suddenly, I’m incensed. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be in this position. Yes, I have children, and I accept that there will always be burdens that come with having even adult children. But this is something I never anticipated happening, and it’s making me crazy and driving a wedge between us. And there’s only one way to solve it.
I push out the screen door and march through the gathering darkness in search of Michael.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DR EMILY LINDMAN
CASE NOTES
MAY 17
Session 2
Met with Tom today for one hour, our second session. He remains quiet and subdued. It’s been over six months since his father was killed, but the boy wears it like a shroud. His eyes make him look older; he’s seen too much for someone his age. There is a weight in his shoulders and stiffness in his gait.
His demeanor presents similar clues to his burden, his repression. When the body reacts to a mechanical stress — like a back injury — the response is inflammation. The brain works similarly, only the “inflammation” from trauma is a muddying of events. A fog rolls in that leaves certain things in stark relief, while veiling others.
Tom does not elaborate when I ask about his extended family — the aunt and uncle he’s now living with. He offers only basic information, sparing detail. They’re nice, they take care of him, he has a cousin. When I gently ease toward the past, i.e., how he’s come to live with them, the answer is blunt and perfunctory. “Because I had to.”
This taciturnity, and the fact that he’s given conflicting statements to police, is normal for someone who’s endured a trauma. Tom is more than a witness; he’s a victim. The murderer took his father’s life and also robbed Tom of his childhood. His innocence. I remain, so far, unconvinced there is anything clinically wrong with Thomas Bishop other than the mist, as I call it, formed to protect him from further trauma, from further pain.
I need to help him clear that mist. To find the hidden details of October 27. But the process can’t start without him. Without his will. He needs to begin to open up to his grief, and then I can further our trust.
*
Michael sees me coming and smiles. When I’m close enough, he must read my features, because the smile drops. He holds up a finger and says into the phone, “Hey, thanks for talking and for everything. I gotta go. I’ll be back in touch soon. All right.”
It all seems louder than necessary and a bit staged for my benefit, but whatever. I reach Michael and stop. “I think I know you,” I say. “I think you were my patient fifteen years ago.”
It’s more confessional than accusatory. I watch his reaction carefully, though the dark is making it harder to discern.
I wait.
Michael seems taken aback. “I don’t know what to say . . . You think I was your patient?”
“Yes. An eight-year-old boy I treated named Tom Bishop.”
“Like, your therapy patient?”
“Yes.”