Charlotte demonstrated how Bob had rubbed his forehead. She said she had this thought that he was trying to erase the memory of what had happened that afternoon, like trying to erase a pen mark with a pencil eraser. His skin started to get red.
It was late. Bob had stopped at one of his showrooms to change his clothes. No one had seen him come in the back door. He said he didn’t know what to do with the bloody ones, if he should throw them out or burn them or try to wash them. He said he felt paranoid that someone would find them and that they would be caught.
I was so unsettled inside. Like I said, this time was different. We were parked between two semis. It must have been close to ten thirty. It was dark out. I remember not being able to see his face very well. He kept talking about logistical things, his clothes, my clothes, what I was going to do with mine. He made suggestions about how to clean the bathroom, how I shouldn’t go in there again. “Just call a service. Tell them there was an accident and give them the keys. There are agencies that do that.…” Blah blah blah. I could feel myself unraveling. I can’t describe it any better than that. Like a thread had been pulled, and now it was working its way out of the seam, inch by inch.
I asked her what she had wanted him to say. She was staring at the small tulip plant on the table in the corner of my office. I bought it at the grocery store and had not removed the white sticker from the pot, which had the price and description. TULIPA “MONTREUX.” I had no preference. These were the only ones they had, and my wife had insisted I have a spring plant in the office. Charlotte was staring at the sticker. It was the one thing she could find that was out of place, and she was subconsciously fixated on it. Naturally, I drew my own conclusions. I made a mental note to leave the sticker.
“What did you want him to say? What did you need from him?”
Silence. Thinking.
“If you could go back in time and rewrite that scene in the car, what would Bob have done? Start from the beginning—he gets in the car and…”
And he looks at my face and then at my clothes, at the blood still all over me. And he doesn’t look around nervously to see if anyone has noticed us. He doesn’t care.
“He just sees you and he knows what you need. You don’t even have to tell him. So he does what?”
He … he takes my face in his hands and he … Charlotte closed her eyes then, placing her own hands on her face. She became emotional.
“What, Charlotte? What does he say?”
He tells me it’s all right. That my baby girl is going to get through this.
“No. That’s not what he says. Dr. Baird said that at the hospital. Think harder, Charlotte. What does he say as he looks at you, sees you, and holds your face in his hands?”
I don’t know.
“Yes, you do. You called him for a reason. Take a breath and let it out. Go back to that night. It’s just you and me here now. No one else will ever know what Bob says to you in that car. You’re safe here, Charlotte. Just let it come out. He’s holding your face, looking into your eyes. What does he say?”
He says I love you.
“No, Charlotte. He says that all the time. You’re not being honest. You know what he says to you.”
Charlotte was crying. You are probably surprised to learn this. It was not the first time she had let herself go in our sessions. Remember that I was the only person who knew about her affair with Bob. I had fought very hard for her trust, and I had become a safe place for her to hide her secrets, and her tears.
“You know what he says, don’t you?”
She nodded. Then she took a breath and opened her eyes. The tears stopped and she spoke calmly. He takes my face in his hands. He doesn’t care who can see us. He looks into my eyes, and he says, “This is not your fault.”
“Yes.” I said. “That’s right. Bob is the person who gives you what you need when the others can’t. He fills in the gaps. He doesn’t judge your past. He has no vested interest in you being one Charlotte and not the other. You’re not raising his children. You’re not his wife. Your past will never reflect poorly upon him.”
I always felt like I could tell him anything and that he would just love me more. He used to tell me that I was just a victim of my stepfather. That my mother was a desperate, selfish girl who never grew up. She did what she had to do to survive.
“And this made you feel better about yourself?”
Yes. And then he would fuck me and leave and I would wash him off me before my husband came home.
“And then you felt bad about being with him.”
Of course. Whatever he did to make me feel better about my past was always replaced with feeling bad about my present. And then I would miss him until he came back.