Charlotte stared at the sticker on the plant. Her face was scrunched up like she was thinking. And pained by her thoughts.
“Would you like to know what she said? Would it help you to share this knowledge?”
Maybe. Yes. Actually, I would like to know. Everything that was said. Everything.
This was all too easy.
I told Charlotte about an act of penetration. The act I described was not the rape of Jenny, although it was not far off. Rather, it was Bob Sullivan fucking his teenage secretary in the showroom. The rear entry. The hand braced on her shoulder. Her face pressed to the ground. The hand on the top of her head, fingers intertwined with her luscious hair. The powerful thrusting, back and forth like an animal.
Charlotte sat back and folded her arms. And on her face, I could see that I was right, that Bob Sullivan had fucked her exactly the same way. And that now she was wondering where he really was that night.
Five days later, the sprouts would bloom.
But let’s not jump ahead.
We were all very concerned about Jenny and the abrupt cessation in the progress we were making. I took the chance that I had done enough to fuel my little fire—that there was now enough smoke for my son to slip quietly out of sight. I decided to return to my selfish desires to save my patient.
“How have you been?” I asked Jenny at her next session. “Still feeling like you can’t solve that stubborn math problem? That you want to give up?”
Jenny shrugged.
“You seem sad today.”
Tears came. I handed her some tissues.
“Is it the memory? The one we recovered?”
No. I feel better about that. It really is like you said. Even though I hate the images that come into my mind—I mean my skin actually crawls when I remember his hands and … everything else. But it’s like I have those moments when my skin crawls and when I want to scream and cry and curl up and die even, and then they go away. When I think about other things, or do other things, the feelings go with them.
“Yes!” I was beyond excited. “The feelings have found their home. They have attached to the memory and can stop haunting your mind in search of it. That’s exactly how trauma recovery is supposed to work. And over time, as you let those feelings come out, and let the images come out, they’ll start to recede and fade. They’ll come out and see that you are safe and that they do not need to provoke you.”
Jenny nodded. But then she sighed.
“So what is it, then?”
I don’t feel right talking about it.
Then I knew. “Sean?” I asked.
Her face gave her away.
“You can tell me. Sean knows we speak about your relationship. And he speaks about it to me as well.”
Really?
“Yes.”
Okay. I don’t know. I feel like I’m bad for him. Like I’m making him feel bad.
“In what way?”
He’s just so angry. He really thinks Mr. Sullivan raped me, and he …
“He what?”
He’s just really angry. When we meet now, I feel like I can’t talk to him about anything, because he just goes back to Mr. Sullivan and the fact that he hasn’t been arrested and that he’ll never get punished, because I was given the treatment so my remembering his voice won’t even matter.
“I see. And do you still feel that the voice you remember is from that night in the woods?”
It’s the same as before. My brain thinks so. But I don’t really feel weird around him or anything. I should, right? I saw him at my dad’s work last week, and I got nervous because of the memory but I didn’t feel anything else.
“Do you think Sean knows they’ve questioned him?”
What?
“Your mother didn’t tell you? Oh—maybe she’s afraid of your dad finding out.”
Oh my God! That explains why he walked the other way when I saw him! Jenny hung her head in her hands like she was ashamed. Oh my God!
“It’s fine. Really. He’s not being questioned because of anything that happened in here. He did something in his past. And then he lied about where he was that night. The police know nothing about our work. About your memories. I promise.”
It’s happening, isn’t it? There’s going to be a trial and everyone will see how messed up I am in my head! And Sean … Oh my God!
“What are you afraid of for Sean?”
He just … He’s just so angry. He said he …
“What did he say, Jenny?”
I shouldn’t tell you.
“It’s okay. Do you trust me?”
Yes … it’s just … he’s, like, my best friend. Sometimes I think he’s my only friend.
“Then help me help him. Tell me what he said.”
Jenny looked at me then, like a little mouse trying to not be heard even as she opened her mouth and let out the words. He said he wanted to kill him.