All Is Not Forgotten(54)

I nodded. I was pleased with myself for saying what I would have said under normal circumstances.

Still, I was a child with a box of matches.

“Tom,” I said. “I just have to make sure. You said he was holding her shoulder with one hand and the back of her head with the other. And you saw her face.”

Yes. Well, I said his hand was in her hair, didn’t I? He was touching or maybe pulling her hair, but not in a forceful way.…

“And you are certain that it was consensual?”

Yes! My God. After everything that’s happened … I would have thrown him right through that window if I thought it wasn’t consensual. Why are you asking that?

I took a breath then to slow my mind and think about my plan. I had not told Tom every detail about Jenny’s recalled memory—about the placement of her attacker’s hands, one on her shoulder and one around the back of her neck. I considered telling him now, but no—it was not the right time. This is not uncommon when people fornicate in this manner. Men like to pull hair, or run their fingers through it. And they need to brace themselves against something. It is not uncommon at all. And yet in this situation, it was so useful. So very, very useful. I was about to burst wide open.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I just wanted to make sure. This incident should not in any way integrate into our work and your emotional pain from what happened to Jenny. You are right—this woman is an adult. It sounds like she knew what she was doing, that she has her reasons, no matter how sad they are. And that Bob thought she was enjoying the experience.”

Tom seemed slightly unsure now of his impressions. I did not say anything more. We moved on to discuss Charlotte and the work I would be doing with Jenny, issues with his parents again, more stories of woe from his childhood. I let him wallow as I thought ruthlessly about my next move. My work with Tom was done. For now.





Chapter Twenty-one

I had one and a half hours after Tom left before I would see Jenny. I had not seen her since we recovered that one memory, that one piece of the puzzle—the anchor piece that I believed would lead us to the other pieces until we had the whole story perfectly reassembled. Remembered.

But I was not thinking about Jenny then.

Bob Sullivan. That’s who was on my mind. It did not surprise me that he was sleeping with other women. Charlotte and I had discussed their “love” affair, and Charlotte truly believed that he loved her. That she was the only one. That he was tortured by his love for her. But I did not believe it. Not for one moment. His ego was as large as the billboards out on the highway. Men like that didn’t love one woman.

We have not returned to this topic since I told you about that night in the parking lot when Charlotte was still covered in her daughter’s blood. There is more to tell. Three months had passed—three months of therapy and three months of weekly encounters between Bob and Charlotte. We had discussed it again that very morning, right after she told me she’d had sex with her husband.

“How are things with Bob?”

We had come to discuss her affair with the same acceptance and nonchalance as her tennis game. This was intentional on my part. Her affair was anything but normal. But she had to come to this conclusion on her own. And she did not need my opinion of her behavior to muddy the waters. I had maintained meticulous neutrality.

Oh, I don’t know. She said this with a heavy sigh. It’s been different since that afternoon—you know, when we found Jenny in the pool house. We meet at this house on the west side of Cranston. A friend of his asked him to house-sit while he’s traveling in Europe. I go only when the cleaning lady comes. That’s on Mondays. I don’t leave Jenny alone in the house. Not for more than an hour, maybe—if I need to go to the grocery store or dry cleaners. I don’t see friends. I don’t play tennis. When I get in my car and pull out of the driveway, all I can think about is Jenny lying on that floor.…

Charlotte did her reset: The long breath. Closed eyes, just for a second. A slight shudder to chase away the demons.

So on Mondays when the cleaning lady comes, I drive forty minutes to see Bob for one hour. We don’t really talk anymore. We say hello. He asks about Jenny. I give him an update. I ask how he is. I ask about the boys. Then we have sex.

“You say that with less of something. Enthusiasm? Interest?”

I feel less of something. In fact, last week I actually felt irritated. He was taking longer than usual. I pretended to have an orgasm so we could be done. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t like the feel of his hands on me that day. It’s been like that more and more since that night when I met him in the parking lot. That horrible night. It feels like it’s dying a slow death.

“Do you think it’s because of you or him?”

She shook her head from side to side. I really don’t know. I mean, he says the same things to me. And he does the same things to me. He still sends me text messages.

“The suggestive ones?”

They’re more than suggestive. Some of them I delete immediately. They’re pornographic. Pictures of his erection. Descriptions of things he wants to do.

Charlotte seemed disgusted as she spoke about it. In the past, she had been embarrassed. And aroused.

He always says he loves me. But it’s not the same.

“That must be very difficult. Bob has been an important piece of your framework.”