Cantor laced her long piano fingers in front of her and smiled reassuringly. After all the terrible stuff he’d just told her, she still seemed to think he was worth saving.
“Nothing is wrong with you. You’re experiencing a very normal human reaction. You took a life. It’s not something you intended to do and you’re coming to grips with the weight of that. Because you did it as a police officer, you’re having to come to grips with it in a very public and humiliating way.”
“The media’s making me out to be some kind of monster. I can’t defend myself against the lies. I can’t even say I’m sorry for the stuff that’s true. Not that anyone would forgive me anyway.”
“Do you forgive you?”
“I don’t know.” Vega tossed up his hands. He didn’t have an answer. “I just want to stop feeling scared all the time.”
“That’s something we can work on.” Ellen Cantor winked at him beneath her mop of silver hair. “No navel gazing necessary.”
Vega had no memory of what they talked about after that. The time flew. He discussed things he never expected to: his former marriage. His relationship with Joy and Adele. The shooting, of course. But also his mother. He hadn’t realized how intensely her murder had affected him, especially since the killer had never been caught. It was like a giant open sore that never seemed to heal.
“I feel like I let her down,” said Vega. “She’s been dead almost two years and here I am, a homicide detective, and I still have no idea who killed her. If that’s not bad enough, now I find out that she had a lover all these years she never told me about.”
“You said your mother’s best friend is still alive,” said Cantor. “Perhaps you can talk to her.”
“Martha has Alzheimer’s. She couldn’t remember talking to my mother on the phone three hours before she died. How is she going to be able to tell me anything?”
“Jimmy—” Cantor lifted her glasses to the top of her head. Her eyes were softer and warmer without them. “Sometimes it’s not about what people tell us. It’s about what being with them helps us tell ourselves. You’re hurting so badly right now over your mother. Maybe just being around her best friend could be of comfort to you.”
“Perhaps.”
Cantor turned to her computer and pulled up a file on the screen. “In the meantime, we’ll work on your PTSD in a completely scientific way.” She printed out some sheets with eye and breathing exercises designed to control his flashbacks and calm him. Vega looked at the pages and frowned.
“You don’t want to do it?” asked Cantor.
“No. I’ll give it a try,” said Vega. “I was just thinking about this teenage girl I met last night at Lake Holly Hospital. She just arrived here from Honduras. Her mother’s undocumented and the girl . . . Let’s just say it probably wasn’t the easiest of journeys.”
“That’s a brutal trip, especially for a child on her own.”
Vega nodded. “She seemed so . . . I don’t know—”
“Traumatized?”
“Yeah.” His heart ached for her. The shooting had rubbed all his nerve endings raw. He felt everything acutely now—even other people’s pain.
“I keep thinking that that girl needs therapy even more than I do,” said Vega. “She’s thirteen years old and in a strange country. She doesn’t speak the language. She hasn’t seen her mom in ten years. And God only knows what her journey across Central America and Mexico was like.”
“I’ve worked with some of those children,” said Cantor. “And you’re right. Many of them are suffering from PTSD. They’ve endured terrible traumas. It’s no wonder they have nightmares and can’t concentrate.”
“What’s the prognosis for a girl like that?” asked Vega.
“I haven’t met her so it’s difficult to say,” said Cantor. “But I’m guessing she’s having adjustment issues being away from her mother for so long. If there’s a new husband and children, that can add further burdens. There are the language barriers and the fact that she’s likely behind in school. Then of course there’s the fact that she’s undocumented so her future here is uncertain at best. It’s easy for a child like that to feel overwhelmed and fall into depression and self-destructive behavior.”
“And if she got the services she needed?”
“The prognosis would be much better, certainly. She can’t focus in school until she feels safe and she can’t feel safe until her PTSD is addressed.” Cantor studied him. “Jimmy, I’d love to say I could help every child. But without some framework in place, one or two therapy sessions would do nothing for a child like that.”
“I understand,” said Vega. “I’m just—”
“Trying to help.” She smiled. “Because that’s why you do what you do. So we’re going to concentrate on getting you well again. And then you can use that energy to help others.”
Chapter 27