Michael nods, silent.
“You did really well, Michael. We just covered a lot of territory. It’s normal to be feeling upset. Drained, even. All completely normal.”
He nods some more.
“You’ve got a lot of new information — well, it seems like new information — crowding your brain. And all the emotions that come with it.” I ask the question quietly, but boldly: “Do you remember?”
His head slowly rises, and his eyes connect with me. I see a depth I hadn’t seen before. A sorrow that breaks my heart.
He says, “I remember.”
“You didn’t see your mother hurt your father.”
He slowly shakes his head. Tears fill his eyes. He swallows. “No.”
“It was a confusing time. A terrible time. Things get jumbled up.”
He doesn’t respond to this.
“We’re going to have a long road ahead now. But it’s important we stay the course. Don’t you think?”
He nods.
I say, “If these memories we unearthed tonight, if you’re sure they’re the truth, then we’re going to have some people to call. A lawyer, for starters. We’ll need to figure out our next steps.”
He looks at me for a moment, unspeaking. Then: “Okay.”
Finally, I say, “And because some of these people are going to ask, let’s try and get to it right now — do you think you could identify your father’s attacker?”
Michael crosses his arms and takes a shuddering breath. It’s as if he’s drawing inward, protecting himself. The thought of his father’s attacker still out there . . . In addition to everything else, obviously including the possible false conviction of his mother, it’s got to be scary. A murderer walking free.
I rise from the bed when it’s clear he can’t — or won’t — identify anyone now. I don’t even have a picture of Doug Wiseman to show him. Maybe in an email from Frank? But that can wait.
“The important thing is,” I say, “you’ve taken this important step. You’ve—”
“Why did I say it was her?”
The question stops me cold. It’s so innocent, carrying such guilt and shame with it, I almost lose the ability to stand. But we can’t get into that right now. Going charging after the cops before we have the whole story will only make matters worse.
I tell Michael, “What you need to do now is get some rest. Don’t worry about any of that. Just let the new information take its time to soak in. Let the thoughts and feelings come up; don’t try to suppress them. You’ll be able to relax soon, I promise you. Go ahead and use Sean’s room.”
Michael shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t stay in there. It’s my fault what happened to him.”
“No, it’s not. Sailing accidents happen. Now you’re conflating two things.”
“He was out there because of me.”
“He would’ve been out there anyway. You feel responsible for your mother, and so now you feel responsible for Sean. But you’re not responsible for her. You were a child. So stop.”
He looks up and studies my face. Then he lowers his head again. His shoulders jump with a single sob.
“Michael,” I warn him softly. “I need to know if you’re going to be okay. Are you worried you might hurt yourself?”
His face tilted down, he shakes his head.
“Are you worried you might hurt someone else?”
He looks up and frowns. “What? No.”
“I have to ask. I’m not your therapist, but I have to ask. And listen, if you’re not comfortable in Sean’s room, take the couch downstairs.”
Michael sniffs and swipes at his nose with the back of his hand before glancing around the room. “I’m going to clean this up.”
I surprise him, and myself, by grabbing his shoulder. “Leave it. Just go downstairs. Lie down on the couch. Drink some more water, try to unwind. I’m going to make some calls.”
And I leave the room, afraid my own emotions are going to tear loose in front of him.
Enclosed in my bedroom, I pull out my phone. Calling Paul first isn’t right, either. I can’t be present for my family until I take care of my needs. I’m a dam about to burst.
I call the only person I can think of. The person who’s known me for over twenty years, the one who’s seen me through the roughest parts of my life.
I call my old therapist, Sarah.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It’s her machine. Not her voicemail, but the landline machine she still keeps in her home office. I start to leave a brief, if vague, message — “Hi, Sarah, it’s been so long and . . . the timing is strange, it’s late, I know . . . I’d really like to speak to you. One professional to another . . .” but the message grows until I’m pouring my heart out.
I tell Sarah about what happened from the time Michael showed up to the revelation just minutes ago. I tell her about Arnold Bleeker and Candace. About Rebecca Mooney. I even mention Maggie Lewis’s suicide.
By the end of it, I’m fully sobbing. Every other sentence is an apology. For calling her, for calling late, for not keeping up with my therapy these past few years. Through it all, I picture Sarah the way she was twenty-five years ago, her silver hair back in a braid, her large hoop earrings, the smell of jasmine in her office. A real hippie.
God, she has to be in her mid-to late seventies now. Poor Sarah, getting dragged into my mess. But therapists are great with boundaries, and she’ll know how to process it. And so I unload and talk for so long that the machine cuts me off with a shrill beep.
A bit dazed, I put my phone away. I find the Kleenex on Paul’s dresser and wipe my eyes, clear my sinuses. Paul is my next call. He talks very quietly at first, as if he’ll disturb Sean. But Sean can’t hear him, of course. There’s been no change. The doctor came back briefly about an hour before and then went off shift.
Our son’s future remains in limbo.
I ask Paul where Joni is.
“I don’t know. I assumed Michael came back and the two of them went out.”
“It’s almost eleven . . .”
“Yeah.”
I sigh and say, “Michael is actually still here with me.”
“Oh. Okay. Why?”
“We . . . I’ll talk to you about it in the morning. It’s too much right now.”
But Paul knows. “You did it again. You regressed him.”
“Let’s just wait until tomorrow.”
I hear a door close downstairs. Alarmed, I leave the bedroom and start down. “Michael?”
Paul, on the phone: “What? Did he leave? Emily, I think you need to be careful now. We don’t know how he’s going to act . . .”
I come into the kitchen first, then check the living room. No one on either couch. “Michael?” Moving to the windows, I see a figure walking across the darkened front lawn, toward the docks. Oh no.
“Paul, I’ve got to go. He’s on his way down to the water.”
“Let him. Listen to me. Maybe you need to stay away from him complete—”
But I run for the door. It doesn’t matter what Michael has gotten us into. He was an innocent child. Now he’s out there, riddled with pain and guilt. Because of me. Because of choices I’ve made.
I can’t let anything happen to him. I can’t have another Maggie Lewis.