All Is Not Forgotten(42)

He looks at his PD, who nods. Sure, go ahead and dig a deeper hole. What an idiot. I don’t care what it costs you—hire a decent lawyer. You didn’t hear that from me.

Demarco described some of the kids he saw coming and going. His account included the couple who went into the Suburban to have sex—which was consistent with Teddy Duncan’s story. He also saw a teenage boy pass by his car and disappear into the woods.

So he says this, and I’m like, What the f*ck? Is this for real? My head is spinning now. Is he playing us? If he did the rape, there’s no way he cops to being there just to position himself for a deal on the drugs. No way. It made me start to think that he was just there selling dope, and that maybe this kid he saw did the rape. But then I thought, what if he wants us to think that? What if he’s making this whole thing up about seeing this kid go into the woods because he knows we have kids who will place him at the party, he knows about the rape—maybe did the rape—so why not get out in front of that? Maybe the PD is really some do-gooder from Yale who’s outsmarting us. Fuck.

Demarco told Parsons that the boy had been wearing a blue hoodie with a red bird. He couldn’t remember what kind of bird or if there was writing as well. The boy had short hair, light brown, average height, average build—athletic looking. That described about 50 percent of the boys at Fairview High School.

I don’t know what to make of this. I haven’t said anything to the Kramers, but you know what Tom will do when he does find out.

“He’ll want to ask Jenny.”

Yep. And so do I.

I told Parsons that I could try to find a way to ask Jenny this without compromising our work. But, honestly, I did not see how I was going to do that. Since my work began with both Sean and Jenny, I had immersed myself in memory-recovery research, and there were new reports coming in every week. There was one that had caused alarm. A neuroscientist in New York reported being able to reconsolidate memories to make them false, simply by providing detailed facts that were interwoven with strands of reality. People were told they had been lost in the mall when they were little children—something that never happened. The mall was one that they knew well and the story included specifics, like how their mothers yelled at a clerk, what they’d been wearing, what they ate for lunch. The details had all been taken from true stories. It was just that last detail—that they had gotten lost—that was added. Their brains added that last detail into the real memories of going to the mall and, voilà—they had a whole new reconsolidated false memory that they could not discern from the truth. Some of them cried as they “remembered” their fear when they couldn’t find their mothers.

It is one thing to reconsolidate memories in a way that lessens the emotional attachment. I see no harm—indeed, only good—in that. But changing the facts is altogether different.

You can imagine the implications for my work.

I saw Jenny later that day. We began our therapy as we always do, by talking about any new feelings she’d had, her state of mind, her general disposition. I always make sure she’s not slipping back into the darkness that made her suicidal. And I always make sure she’s not using any substances beyond the mild anxiety meds I’d prescribed. Lately, I had added to our session inquiries about Sean because their developing relationship was having a profound impact on her. And because it was beginning to concern her parents. We moved on from there with a significant pause and reconfirmation that she felt prepared to do the memory work. She always has, without fail and with visible enthusiasm. I could see her mood lifting as she pulled from her bag the prompts we have been using to go back to that horrible night.

“Where do you want to start today?” I asked her.

With that smell.

How good is your memory? I know I’ve mentioned that one of the few things Jenny remembered was a strong odor. I obtained samples from a physical rehabilitation center, a variety of “scratch and sniff” patches that are used for patients with anosmia (loss of smell due to brain injury). They use them mostly to test—to see if there are any particular odors that are recognized by the patient. Any recognition prompts hope because if there is none within six months, the condition is considered permanent. It is a terrible condition, but that does not concern my work with Jenny. The patches were extremely useful to us.

Jenny always held her clothing in her lap. They are not the actual torn and bloodstained articles from that night, but new ones her mother purchased—exact replicas. The short black skirt, the ballet slippers, the cropped sweater and underpants. All exactly the same. She rubbed some makeup on her face and lips, the same makeup she has always worn and wore that night. It has a fruity smell. We now know which songs were playing during the party and the entire hour of the rape. I won’t bore you with the list. It was what you would imagine. Demi Lovato, Nicki Minaj, One Direction, Maroon 5, et cetera, et cetera. With closed eyes and the room dark, we played the music and took her back to that night. I did the initial prompts until she knew them herself.

I’m so happy when we walk in. I feel pretty. I feel excited. All I can think about is Doug Hastings. I walk with Violet through the kitchen. We’re looking for kids from our grade. People say hello to us. We get a drink. My eyes are scanning every doorway, looking for a glimpse of Doug. Violet pokes me. She tells me to stop being so obvious. I try to talk to a girl we know who’s already drunk. She sounds like an idiot.