“I see.”
Do you? Do you see? I feel like I’m the only one who gives a shit about finding my daughter’s rapist. I was up half the night, looking through pictures from Fairview. Searching clothing catalogs …
“For the blue sweatshirt with the red bird?”
Yes. Yes! What do you think? My God, don’t you understand that this is the key to finding this monster?
“You seem very frustrated.”
Tom started to calm down. He apologized for his outburst.
“Did you find anything useful in your search?” I already knew the answer from Charlotte.
Do you have any idea how many blue sweatshirts there are? And the red bird—it could be anything. A cardinal. Air force wings. A hawk …
“But nothing in Fairview?” I stopped him when I heard that word: “hawk.” “No sports teams or clubs … nothing like that in town?”
Nothing. And no pictures of anyone wearing one. I went through all the school pictures on the Web site, looked at hundreds of articles from the Weekly Advertiser … but there are hundreds more. Why aren’t the police doing this? It’s too much for one person, with work and the kids and Charlotte … it’s too much!
The tears came early in this session, and I did what I always do. I let them come. Tom slumped back against the cushions. His knees pressed together and his hands rose to cover his face. He felt ashamed when he cried. Yes—this, too, goes back to his parents. They didn’t know they were supposed to let children feel things. And cry. Those parenting books wouldn’t come out until the 1980s.
“Tom … what will happen if this man is not found?”
I had been using the word “man” with everyone since I found my wife in our bed clutching Jason’s sweatshirt. “Man”—not “boy” or “kid” or even “guy.” The word “man” provoked images of someone older than my son.
Tom shook his head. That’s not an option. It’s just not.
“Okay.” I passed Tom a box of tissues.
I’ve been reading about rape recovery—not by doctors, but victims. No offense—I mean, I don’t discount what you’ve done for us. But my daughter’s voice was stolen by those damned drugs. She can’t tell us what she needs to feel better, so I’ve been trying to understand.
“That’s fine. It’s good to educate yourself.”
What they go through, the feeling of being overpowered and then … I still can’t say it.…
“Penetrated. Forcibly penetrated.”
Yes. That stays with them. Some of them describe it as taking their dignity. That’s the one that’s been in my head since you told us about the session. About the memory. How she said she felt like an animal, like he was riding her, breaking her like an animal.
Tom had stopped crying. I’ve said this before, but it felt as though he’d run out of tears, out of water. It is certainly not because he had stopped feeling his despair.
And this is the thing. I don’t leave here and forget what we talk about. I don’t listen to Charlotte and then dismiss what she says. I get that justice isn’t some magic bullet to fix Jenny. I really do. But these women, almost all of them describe the healing that comes from seeing their attackers punished. Some of them talk about it being an eye for an eye—you know, knowing that this fucker is going to feel what they felt a hundred times over in prison. They don’t say it like that, and I’m sorry about my language.…
“It’s all right. Say what you want in here. That’s the point, Tom.”
I mean, they don’t actually say it makes them feel better to know their rapist is going to be raped in prison. But he will lose his rights and his freedom and his dignity. And when he comes out, he’ll forever be labeled for what he did. His life will never be the same. Their lives will never be the same. They’re in their own kind of prison. That’s what they say. That it feels like prison to be inside their own heads. I guess you hear all of that from your patients.
“I do.”
I guess I needed to hear it myself, from the victims. Others talk about being heard, about the world hearing what happened and believing them because in the moment when it’s happening, their voices are powerless. Their will is not respected. When the rapist goes to jail, they feel like they have some power back. It seems to help some more than others. But not one said it didn’t help at all. So, yes, you have the skills to help Jenny get her memory back so she can, what is it …
“Attach her emotions to the right set of facts.”
Right—so she can start to process them and put them in the right places. So she doesn’t feel like she wants to die again. Not ever again. That can never happen. Never.
“I’m hopeful about that, Tom. Doesn’t she seem better to you?”
I don’t know. Sometimes. She seems better when she comes home from the group. I was wrong about that. I was worried about her going there and being with all those other people.