“Michael, you don’t need to go anywhere. Just wait. Wait . . .”
His legs are longer, his strides powerful; I’m jogging to keep up. “All I want is the truth. For both of us. I know this is a lot. But I’m not trying to hurt you.”
It hits me that the text I saw, Did they buy it? could refer to anything. He’s mentioned his uncle buying the house on Long Island. Though that was a while ago, it could be related. And the number — central New York. Where Colgate is located. It could be a classmate talking about something school-related.
But there are so many other things. The uncanny resemblance. The timing of Laura Bishop’s release and her proximity to our home. The phrase uttered on my phone and etched in our boathouse . . .
Suddenly, I twist my ankle on a rock in the road and stumble.
He is suddenly right beside me, his hand at my back. “You okay?”
“Just tripped.” By the time I reorient myself, he’s surging ahead once again. I call after him, “Listen, what if we tried something? I have a colleague who’s great with hypnotherapy. We could call her — she’d fit you right in. We could see . . .”
I trail off, hearing an engine approach. It’s still a ways off, but it’s there, nearing. Then, through the dense trees: headlights.
Our driveway is a quarter mile of gravel, which meets with a dirt road that runs along part of the lake. I’m several paces behind Michael, who’s nearing the driveway’s end and the road. It could be anyone out there.
“Watch out,” I say; it’s the mother in me: “Watch out for that car, Michael.”
Starzyk’s words fill my head: Don’t follow this person, especially if you think he’s meeting her. They could be dangerous.
I slow while he keeps walking apace, his cell phone light swinging with the pendulum movements of his arms. The engine is louder, the headlights brighter, and soon the vehicle is right in front of Michael. It’s a dark color, an SUV — maybe an Escalade. It brakes to a stop, halting me in my tracks.
I’m about to say something — honestly, I’m about to scream for help — when Michael opens the back door.
He gets into the vehicle, shuts the door and never looks back.
I stand there, dumbfounded. The vehicle just idles a moment. There’s just enough moonlight to reflect in its black surface.
Then it pulls forward, the white reverse lights come on, and it backs into the driveway. I retreat a few steps, still in shock. The white lights wink off, red taillights flash, and the SUV spins a little gravel as it turns back onto the dirt road and drives off into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DR EMILY LINDMAN
CASE NOTES
MAY 20
Session 3
Met with Tom, one hour, third session. Today felt like we made headway, despite an interruption from police.
Tom and I began by talking about school, where he is now, and I asked him how school in Long Island compared to school in Bronxville. He said about the same. But I could see it got him thinking about events from six months ago.
I decided to touch on his grief. To share with him that I’d lost my father, too. And it worked. It got him talking. Particularly, it got him talking about the last day his father was alive, and his memory exploded with details.
He remembered that, that day, his third-grade teacher had had a cold, and some of the kids noticed a booger lodged in the teacher’s nose. He remembered that he took the bus to his after-school baby-sitter. And from there, his mother picked him up. He recalled that, at home, his mother had gotten out the family boots and winter coats a couple of days prior, in anticipation of the first snowfall.
And he was able to describe his home in detail. I feel like I’ve been there now: the many clocks in the kitchen and stairwell — including one pig clock with eyes that shifted side to side in time with the seconds. Tom knew the oven mitts hanging from the stove dials. The color of the tile floor was burnt orange, he says, and the kitchen smelled like garlic, because his mother was cooking pasta.
But he says he can’t remember what happened after that.
This can be trauma’s lasting impact. A darkening of major events, yet a keen memory for seemingly irrelevant details. It’s all another part of that misty protection.
On the other hand, Tom may remember certain things and not return to them, or change them, to avoid pain.
In the initial police report with Tom’s first interview, Tom says he was awakened later that night by his mother crying. But a second report says he awoke prior to this, hearing his parents arguing.
Police asked Tom if his mother and father argued a lot. Tom either chose not to reply or didn’t know how to answer. I’ll assume the latter — children do pick up on their parents’ stress, but they don’t have anything with which to compare it.
But the police think this inconsistency could point to Tom misleading them. So much so that they interrupted our session. They’re worried that Tom’s mother might be leaving the area, and they need to move to press charges. After three sessions with Tom, I think they could be right about the deception, though it’s not deliberate. I believe Tom has not been able to properly process that night. He’s living in a limbo, caught between what he can remember and what he can’t — or won’t.
And I’m close to setting him free.
*
The sound of the engine is still fading as I pick up on footsteps hurrying toward me from the house.
A light is bouncing along with the approaching footfalls. It can only be one person.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Where’s Michael? What happened?”
“He left.”
“He left?”
I catch glimpses of my daughter’s face in the light from her phone. Before I can say anything else, she’s trotting toward the road.
“Jo,” I call after her. “Jo, honey . . .”
“Don’t, Mom.”
And things were just starting to mend between us . . .
When she doesn’t speak again, I can see her touching her screen. She puts the phone to her ear. A moment later: “Michael? Babe? Is everything . . .” She listens. “No, I understand. Believe me, I understand.” Another pause. “No, I don’t need anything else. I’m ready whenever.”
At this point, Paul is walking toward us from the house, another vague shape in the darkness. Paul’s light is an actual flashlight. “Everybody okay?”
“We’re fine, honey,” I say, just loud enough.
Joni is still on the phone. “Can you tell me what happened? What did she do to you?”
“Jo, come on . . .” I start for her, reaching out, and she moves away.
“What did she say?” Joni listens, then, “All right, baby. That’s fine. I’ll be waiting.”
She ends the call. Even in the semidarkness, I can see her angry face. Paul has reached us and stands beside me. “What’s going on?”
“Mom just freaked Michael the fuck out,” Joni says.
“Jo, listen, there are some things we need to talk about.”