I had two chances walking through my door later that day—Tom and then Jenny. I let the pill kick in; then I calmed myself with slow, steady breathing. I stared at an object, the sticker on the tulip plant. It was the first thing that came to mind. Then I made a mental assessment of everything I had to work with.
First was Tom. We had made significant progress in the three months we’d had together. You already know about the issue he had with his ego and how that affected his marriage and his job, and how it stemmed from his childhood. I have described as well my plan for his treatment. Surprisingly, he had already begun to channel some of his anger toward his parents. He had been remembering some of the things they said to him when he was just a boy. How his father would always say, “How do you feel about how you did?” and how his mother would say, “Not everyone is good at everything,” and, “We have to accept who we are and learn to love ourselves, even with our limitations.” And yet neither of them had ever accepted their own shortcomings. When his father was passed over not once, but three times, for Department Chair, they would speak harshly about the committee members, even mocking them personally—a bad hairpiece, or foul breath, or crooked teeth, or an ugly wife. And his mother had harsh words for her tennis partners—they were lazy, fat, and always stupid. Everyone was stupid compared to them. Tom had been recalling all sorts of bad behavior by his parents that contradicted their words and the highbrow philosophy they touted.
Fuck them, Tom had even said one day about three weeks ago. Seriously. Fuck them. You have kids, Alan. Would you ever tell them they were limited in their abilities? Isn’t there a better way to direct a kid toward a successful life? I always felt like whatever I achieved—grades, salaries, promotions, even my wife and children—was a mistake. Like I had somehow fooled everyone into thinking I was worthy of what they’d given me. I still feel that way.
Tom felt undeserving of his beautiful wife. He felt undeserving of his beautiful children. And he felt undeserving of his success, no matter how small it may seem to you. Tom made enough to live in Fairview and belong to a country club. He had savings for college educations and a full head of hair and a fit body. He was well liked and healthy. And he loved cars, the cars he sold and the cars he drove. He looked forward to going to work every day. At least until the rape of his daughter.
Finally, I thought he was ready to hear what needed to be said.
“Tom,” I said in our session last week. “Let me ask you a question.”
Okay …
“Do you feel you deserved Jenny’s rape?”
What kind of question is that? Tom was shocked. “Horrified” might be too strong a word, but it was close.
“You don’t deserve her, or Lucas or Charlotte. You don’t deserve your job. So maybe this is the universe getting even with you for taking all these things that you don’t deserve. Maybe you’re the reason this happened.”
My God! What a cruel thing to say! How could you say that to me?
“Tom—you know that is not what I think. But did any of that resonate with you?”
Of course it did. I was not distracted back then, what was it? Eight days ago? My skills had not yet been compromised by the vulnerability of my own family. Tom sat back in the chair and let the thought sink into his bones. His eyes grew wide and then his face crumbled the way it always did. Red splotches, then a few tears with loud sobs. Tom cried almost every time we met.
So that is where Tom and I were in his personal journey. Tom felt guilty. Some of it was normal—the guilt of not having protected his little girl. But more of it was abstract—the guilt of feeling he had caused it. It is not rational. Dismiss it if you must, if you do not believe in the subconscious mind. I don’t have the time or inclination to educate you or convince you. There is too much ground to cover now.
Guilt is powerful, and in the evil, maniacal state of mind I was in that Friday afternoon, I knew I would be able to use it somehow.
I was about to turn my thoughts to Jenny, but the time had passed too quickly. Tom was arriving for this new session, this new day, and I had in my mind everything we had discussed since his therapy began—the things I have just described to you. I heard the outer door to my office. It was time for our session. I was disheartened that I had not come up with a plan to save my son. But Tom was about to change all that.
Chapter Twenty
Tom was visibly agitated. He had not slept well. His mind was obsessed with the blue sweatshirt; his ego conflicted from his wife’s sudden sexual advances. And his heart was breaking from his daughter in her room down the hall, the memory of being violated now set free to torture all of them.
He sat down on the edge of the sofa, legs spread, hands on jumpy knees. His shoulders were up by his ears, and he took short breaths in, then huffed them out.
I was slightly sedated.
“You don’t look well today. Did something happen?” I asked.
No. Nothing. That’s the problem.