Tom and Charlotte met with me the next day. In the eleven weeks I’d been treating the Kramer family, I had conducted just one session with both parents, and that had been to discuss Jenny’s treatment. Seeing them separately had proved immensely useful to their family, and to each of them individually, and I fully intended to stay this course. I have already told you how I feel about couples therapy. However, I made an exception, given the extraordinary progress Jenny and I had made in recovering this memory of the rape.
Tom’s primary concern was with the search for the rapist and how we could use this new information in the investigation. He also wanted to know why I had not asked Jenny about the blue sweatshirt with the red bird. Charlotte was more concerned with what this memory was doing to Jenny. After her breakthrough about her meeting with Bob and her acceptance of the guilt she was carrying for not seeing Jenny’s death march during the months after the rape, she was keeping her eye on that ball.
I explained to Tom, to both of them, that I was not about to introduce the blue sweatshirt into the memory-recovery process with Jenny after what had happened. I had come to believe three things after her sudden recall of the moment the rapist penetrated her. First, was that the memories had not all been erased. Of the different scenarios for “forgetting” that I have explained, it was clear that Jenny’s “forgetting” had to do with the inability to recall the memories from that night. The treatment she was given, the combination of drugs, had caused the memories to be filed in a place that was disconnected from any emotion, and from the other memories of the party. Without having these trails of crumbs to lead her back, the memories of the rape were lost inside her brain. The missing car keys.
The second thing I believed was the deduction that if the memory of this one moment had not been erased, none of them had. The events from that one hour were so close in terms of spatial proximity and emotional significance that there was no reason to believe that only some would have been spared the treatment. My own thoughts were spinning that day, thinking about what this meant for Jenny, but also for Sean. I wanted to tell them both to clear their schedules, to work with me day and night, until we found every last detail of what had happened to them. But I am a patient man, and I respect the process of therapy. Too much too soon could cause more harm than good. It’s like inputting data into a computer. I didn’t want the hard drive to crash.
The third thing, and the most important to convey to Tom, was that Jenny was like a patient having surgery. She was, metaphorically, on the table, cut open, exposed. Given the reconsolidation research and the uncertainty about memory recovery, we had to keep the operating room perfectly sterile so our patient did not become infected with harmful germs. Her brain was starting to find the missing files and put them back into the right place—the place with the story about that night, the songs and the clothes and drinks and Doug with that other girl. How easy it would be to allow a false fact to be added to that story while it was being reconsolidated. Like the subjects who were made to “remember” being lost in the mall.
“Do you understand, Tom? If I ask her or even suggest that a man in a blue sweatshirt might be a suspect, she could put that with other memories of that night and believe it to be true even if it’s not—and then we’ll never know. If we can just be patient—”
Charlotte understood. She might remember it on her own, and then we’d know for sure. My God. It’s been almost a year. Unless she remembers his face, I don’t see how any of this is going to help.
“Well, even then, please don’t lose sight of the fact that the treatment has compromised her ability to serve as a witness. And all the work I’m doing here, well … it’s very unconventional.”
Tom rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. I don’t care about all of that. I just want to know who it is.
“Even if the way you find him means he can’t be punished?”
Oh, he’ll be punished. Don’t doubt that. Don’t ever doubt that.
Charlotte looked at him, and then at me. We both had the same thought, I imagine. Tom seemed to be indicating that he would take matters into his own hands if a conviction were not possible. But we were so far away from that point, I didn’t give it much pause. Nor did Charlotte. That did not prevent her from using Tom’s false bravado to lash out.
Seriously, Tom. Can we just stop this charade? You have put all our lives on hold while you—do what? Look for pictures of boys in sweatshirts? Why can’t you get past this? Why, for God’s sake, can’t you be man enough to let it go!
“Charlotte…” I said, trying to stop this runaway train.
On hold? What the hell has been on hold? Huh? I coached Lucas’s lacrosse team. I had record-breaking commissions. I’m home every goddamned night and every weekend playing with our son and studying with our daughter so she can get back on track. What should I be doing? Playing golf? Would that make me more of a man, if I played more golf and spent less time searching for this monster?
This is why I don’t believe in couples therapy.