All Is Not Forgotten(31)

This is not about whining or not taking responsibility. I know what many people say about talk therapy. They are wrong. Tom had to train himself to recognize when he was creating a chasm, acknowledge why he was doing it, then step in and be decisive, confront his wife if he felt she was wrong. He needed to own his strength and his intelligence. He needed to be a man again, for himself and his wife, who no longer wanted to touch him. It would not be easy. We call this type of “retraining” cognitive behavioral therapy. I had a patient once who asked me to explain what we were doing. She complained that it felt dishonest, that she did not want to stop herself from telling her husband how much she disliked his sister. When I told her our ultimate goal, she said, Oh, you mean fake it ’til you feel it. That’s CBT in a nutshell. Unlike the memory-recovery process, which is highly controversial, CBT is the white bread of psychotherapy.

Charlotte was more complicated. I knew immediately why she had married Tom. I think I’ve already elucidated these facts. Tom was part of her perfect house, the one she longed for as a child. Bob was the beam she used to keep the house from caving in. Now you will see why I bothered you with the details of her sexual experiences with him and the conclusion that Bob was her drug. All of these things are like strands of sugar in a cotton candy machine, spinning fast for now so they don’t get stuck to each other, until it’s time to wind them onto one stick—one perfectly formed stick of sugar threads.

Bob was Charlotte’s drug. Sean was Tammy’s drug. And Jenny would be Sean’s. There is a reason people are drawn to others in this way, in a way that makes them feel like they are addicts. It is not healthy. In fact, it is by definition unhealthy from an emotional standpoint. I’m sorry to disappoint, but a healthy relationship is usually quite dull. I had started to make great progress with Charlotte on this issue until the arrest of Cruz Demarco.

Charlotte did not go home when she left the hospital the second time. After speaking with Detective Parsons, her clothes soaked in blood, the blood now smeared on her forehead as Parsons described, she drove two blocks and called Bob. He agreed to meet her.

I don’t know why I didn’t go home. Lucas was with our neighbor, so I couldn’t curl up in his room. But that’s not it. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that I didn’t go home, because I couldn’t bear it—and the part I don’t know is why I couldn’t bear it. When Jenny was raped, I went home. I wanted to hold my son and crawl into the bed in his room and watch him sleep until the pill kicked in. As upsetting as that was, I felt I could handle it, that I was handling it. They were giving her the treatment. They were fixing her. And she wasn’t suffering. She was asleep, and she would sleep through it all and wake up as if it never happened. Have you ever been in a near accident, where you slip on ice or don’t see a car in the blind spot? There’s that moment of panic and then relief, and then you think, Okay, I dodged a bullet today. Next time I’ll be more careful. That’s how I felt. Scared but relieved. In control of the future. But this time, it was different.

Charlotte talked for the entire hour that day about her meeting with Bob. She was disturbed by her decision to call him rather than go home to be with her son. She was disturbed by her behavior when she was with him. And she was disturbed by how she felt when she left him.

We met in a parking lot between Fairview and Cranston. It’s the one with Home Depot and Costco on Route 7. You know that one? It’s enormous. He got in my car and we drove to the back, where the deliveries are made. We were just going to talk. He had changed his clothes, and I think he was a little shocked that I hadn’t been home yet—that my clothes were still so dirty. He asked how Jenny was and I told him. He hung his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead so hard.…

Charlotte demonstrated how Bob had rubbed his forehead. She said she had this thought that he was trying to erase the memory of what had happened that afternoon, like trying to erase a pen mark with a pencil eraser. His skin started to get red.

It was late. Bob had stopped at one of his showrooms to change his clothes. No one had seen him come in the back door. He said he didn’t know what to do with the bloody ones, if he should throw them out or burn them or try to wash them. He said he felt paranoid that someone would find them and that they would be caught.

I was so unsettled inside. Like I said, this time was different. We were parked between two semis. It must have been close to ten thirty. It was dark out. I remember not being able to see his face very well. He kept talking about logistical things, his clothes, my clothes, what I was going to do with mine. He made suggestions about how to clean the bathroom, how I shouldn’t go in there again. “Just call a service. Tell them there was an accident and give them the keys. There are agencies that do that.…” Blah blah blah. I could feel myself unraveling. I can’t describe it any better than that. Like a thread had been pulled, and now it was working its way out of the seam, inch by inch.

I asked her what she had wanted him to say. She was staring at the small tulip plant on the table in the corner of my office. I bought it at the grocery store and had not removed the white sticker from the pot, which had the price and description. TULIPA “MONTREUX.” I had no preference. These were the only ones they had, and my wife had insisted I have a spring plant in the office. Charlotte was staring at the sticker. It was the one thing she could find that was out of place, and she was subconsciously fixated on it. Naturally, I drew my own conclusions. I made a mental note to leave the sticker.