All Is Not Forgotten(49)
“They won’t let me treat her anymore. If this goes any further. I’ll be out of the case. I won’t be able to help her get her memory back.”
Julie looked at me with contempt. That’s what you’re thinking? Our son could be accused of a brutal rape. His life could be ruined, and that’s what you’re thinking?
“He didn’t do it.”
It doesn’t matter, Alan. You know what will happen. The case will never get solved, and the suspicion will hang over him for the rest of his life!
She was right on all fronts. I don’t know why my mind went to the case and to treating Jenny. My selfishness was more powerful than I had imagined.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
What do we do?
I didn’t have all the answers.
“Call the lawyer back. Tell him you were wrong. The sweatshirt was white with the red hawk. Anything. Just tell him you were wrong and that you’re so relieved. I don’t trust him. He could help his other clients by throwing Jason under the bus. It’s too great a conflict now. We’ll talk to Jason ourselves. We’ll come up with an answer that will work. Not a lie, but some kind of answer.”
Julie agreed. She asked me what then? Surely someone would remember the sweatshirt. And now with the chlorine and the shaving—those would go together, wouldn’t they? Parsons and Tom Kramer would be on that trail, on the trail of a swimmer. It made perfect sense. Every kid on the team who’d been at the party would be scrambling to get out of the way of that train.
As I’ve said, I didn’t have all the answers.
But I would.
Chapter Nineteen
Remembering these days and recounting them is extremely difficult. They were fraught with emotion. Fear, mostly. They are not well organized in my mind.
I saw Jenny on a Wednesday. She recalled that one memory. She remembered the bleach. The next day I saw the Kramers together to discuss this finding. Cruz Demarco had already admitted being at the party and said he’d seen a boy with a blue hoodie with a red bird on it walking into the woods. I have discussed this as well. Tom made me promise I would work on recovering a memory about the blue hoodie now that we’d found one memory of that night. The Kramers went home that afternoon. Thursday afternoon. Tom spent the rest of the day on the computer, searching for blue hoodies with red birds. Charlotte began to see the connection between her experience with her stepfather and what happened to her daughter. She reexperienced that night on the sofa through Jenny’s one recalled memory, and she held her daughter in her arms and tried to give her comfort and hope. Then she gave some to herself by making love to her husband. I went home to my wife and the blue hoodie with the red hawk.
The next day, Friday, Charlotte came for her session. Tom would come in later that day. I have already told you some of it, how she spoke about her talk with Jenny and how I did her the disservice of feeding her conclusions. Now you understand why I was so incompetent.
After seeing Charlotte at eight thirty that Friday, I had been a bundle of nerves. Two patients came and went, and I faked interest in their problems. It was a morning of frivolity. Mrs. C was having a dispute with her neighbor over a fence. She was chronically depressed, but this was what she wanted to discuss. The neighbor. The fence. Mr. P had insomnia again. He didn’t want to take Ambien. I spent the hour addressing his moronic concerns. Do you or don’t you want to sleep? That’s what I wanted to say to him. But I did not. I exercised miraculous self-control, waiting for my wife to call.
She called at eleven fifteen. I took the call even though Mr. P was in my office. I told him it was a patient emergency. Lies, lies, lies.
I told the lawyer the sweatshirt was dark purple and that it had red letters, not a red bird. I did what you said. I told him I was so relieved.
“Did he believe you?”
I think so. He seemed to. He said they were interviewing three more kids today and that Jason wasn’t on the list yet. He spoke directly to Detective Parsons.
“Did he say how much time we have?”
He said it would be at least a week. But I think if we tell them he has a swim meet next Saturday and final exams that maybe we can push it back even more.
“Okay, sweetheart. That’s good.”
She paused. I could hear her sighing. She was tired from worrying all night. You’ll talk to him tonight?
“Yes. As soon as I get home. Make sure he doesn’t go out, okay?”
I will. And the clothes?
“What clothes?”
The clothes … the … oh. Okay.
“You see?”
Yes. I’ll go through the photos on the computer. You’ll get his phone?
“Yes. Tonight when we speak. And the social media. I’ll have him check everything.”
Okay. I love you.
“And I love you. Good-bye.”
This was all I had at the moment. Get rid of the clothes, that damn blue sweatshirt. Get rid of all pictures of Jason in the sweatshirt. He would have to be informed and then, based on what had happened that night, he would have to have a story. The world is not a just place. I have already said this many times. I am reminded of it every week when I go to Somers. I am reminded of it when I think about my patient, Glenn Shelby. I believe I’ve also mentioned that Shelby would eventually commit suicide.
That is not to say there is never justice, or fairness, or righteousness. It is to say, rather, that you cannot count on such things and so you must protect yourself any way you can. I knew I would have to sit with my son and open his eyes. I would have to explain to him that he does not remember what he wore to that party and that he was not near the woods and that he did not see the blue car or Cruz Demarco. I would have to explain to him that he doesn’t remember what happened to his blue sweatshirt, or if he ever had one. He has dozens of sweatshirts. I would have to explain that these small transgressions against the law and his own integrity were necessary for his survival in this unjust world. I told myself this was a good thing. It was giving me a chance to educate my son before something bad happened. I had started to calm down. Jason did not commit this crime, and now he would not be falsely accused by some low-life drug dealer.