Confidential(65)

“I took you to those places because I needed my fix. Because for a while, I loved drugs more than anything else, including you.”

Tears ran down my face. “Please stop.”

“I was a terrible mother for years, Lucy. No wonder you were so furious with me. No wonder you wanted to get back at me by seducing my husband.”

Even though he hadn’t made his voice higher, it was like I could see her there, talking to me. I could see myself through her eyes.

“I wasn’t furious,” I said. “At least, not that I knew.”

“And I wasn’t a terrible mother. At least, not that I knew.”

“You weren’t terrible! Don’t say that.”

“I was, until I wasn’t. Then I tried too hard, but maybe it was too late. The damage was done.”

I stared at him—at her. “You mean I’d already turned bad?”

“I mean the damage to our relationship had been done. And yes, you were harmed, but you’ve gone on to become such a beautiful person. A talented, beautiful, loving woman.”

“I’m not. I’m a mess.” The snot was flowing down to my mouth; I could taste the salt. Where was his trusty tissue box when I needed it?

“No, that’s an old story. Look at yourself now.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. See what you’ve become, and then you can forgive us both. You can forgive me for how I neglected you and exposed you to abuse, and you can forgive yourself for what Adam did to you.”

“For how I seduced him. You said it yourself. I did it to get back at you.”

“But he was the adult, and you were the child. I get that now. And I forgive you.”

I let out a sob. “No, you can’t. I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do. But can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. You got clean, and you were a loving, attentive mother. You went back to school, and you helped other people. I was so proud of you. You’re a good person, and I’m not.”

“That’s an old story, Lucy.”

I put my head in my hands, weeping. “It’s the only story I know.”

I felt Dr. Baylor’s weight on the couch beside me, his voice close to my ear. “It’s time to tell a new story.”

I’d always felt so much guilt—how could I have done this to the mother who’d been at every school assembly and baked so many cookies and loved me, oh, how she’d loved me?—but Dr. Baylor had his hand on my shoulder, and he was telling me that my anger was righteous; it had been directed at the mother who came before. “Even though you didn’t remember,” he said, “you knew. You were a small child, left to fend for yourself, and you were victimized. Consciously, you were only allowed to feel love for your mother, but subconsciously, you were full of rage. That was how you protected yourself. You thought you loved Adam, but that wasn’t love. You’re just coming into your ability to love.”

I lifted my face. “Here, with you. I’m learning to love, here, on this couch, with you.” I meant on non-Wednesdays.

“Our work is for you to be able to separate love from hate. To be able to love in a pure and healthy way. To take care of someone and be taken care of.”

“Right,” I said. “With you.”

“I’m just the vehicle. You need to find your love outside this room.” Was that a promise? That someday he and I would emerge into real life?

I hoped so. I’d make it so.

I started to smile, just a little. Dr. Baylor left the couch and returned to his chair. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For letting me be a part of your recovery. For letting me bear witness.”

“You do a lot more than that.”

“It’s all you, Lucy.”

When I stepped out onto the street, it was like I was levitating. But then I saw that woman again, the one with the bruises, now considerably faded or possibly concealed, inside her parked car. No sunglasses today. Last time, I hadn’t been sure if she was really looking at me. But this time, it was undeniable. In her eyes was pure hatred.

I stopped, staring back. She dropped her gaze first, and then I got it. I knew who she was.

Dr. Baylor had said that assertiveness is a little bit of anger crossed with self-esteem. It’s knowing that no one has the right to mistreat you. Not ever again.

I strode up to her car. I felt this tingling all through my limbs, and it was probably adrenaline, though it felt like the origin story in a superhero movie, the moment when someone got bitten by a radioactive spider or drank an isotope. When that person was infused by a force greater than themselves.

She was doing that same thing as last time: staring straight ahead, her windows rolled up. I knocked on the passenger side. I could see her jaw working, just a little. She was nervous again. She was also ignoring me.

I walked around to the driver’s side. “I know who you are,” I said loudly. “I heard you and Michael that day in the waiting room.” Then, still at top volume but tinged with empathy, I added, “I know it’s hard, losing a man like him, but this isn’t good for you.”

Her jaw twitched, but she wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of looking at me. She was trying to maintain her pride. I could understand that. But stalking her ex wasn’t going to help, and from her reaction, I could tell I was right. She was there about Michael.