Confidential(79)

LUCINDA


Dear Lucy,

They tell me it’s just a matter of days now, and I don’t have much energy left. I’ll keep this short and sweet.

I don’t know where I go after this. I don’t know what punishment is coming to me. But in a weird way, I’m glad it’s so close. I don’t have to wait and wonder anymore or deal with my conscience. It’s almost here.

But I hope it’s not too hot. I always hated the heat.

Before I go, I want to say how sorry I am. At the time, I made so many excuses. You were so persistent, Lucy, and even though I said no a hundred times, even though I dreaded the sound of the front door closing behind your mom, even though I felt like maybe what you needed was a doctor, none of that matters. Because in the end, I did what I did. You were beautiful and you were telling me you loved me and I just broke. And there’s no excuse for that, because you were supposed to be my daughter, and I was supposed to protect you, even from yourself.

I just hope you can have a real relationship with a man someday. Someone normal. Something normal. But the best kind of normal, you know? I hope you find true love and happiness.

From beyond,

Adam

The letter arrived the same day I got the message that he was dead. Divine intervention or just a fluke of the hospice mail? I didn’t know.

What I knew was that Adam had no reason to lie. Which meant that what I’d told Dr. Baylor—what I’d been telling myself—was the lie.

I’d thought Adam and I were both eagerly anticipating the slam of the front door, that we couldn’t wait to be together. I recalled it as so much love, and so much passion, that neither of us could resist. Instead, I’d just worn him down with my youthful vigor and my determination. Eventually, he’d given in, and I’d said to myself, “See? I knew it! He loved me all this time!”

Since reading the letter, I’d been drinking all night. That made it hard to think too clearly about what was real and what wasn’t. My whole life, I’d avoided alcohol and drugs because of my mom. I’d feared my genes. But I read that letter and I headed to the store, straight for the booze aisle. Apparently, vodka and cranberry juice was my drink of choice.

I was flooded with things that (I thought) Dr. Baylor had said, across our sessions:

It’s not uncommon for clients to develop feelings for their therapist. It’s called transference. We can work through this. It can be grist for the mill.

It can’t happen, Lucy.

No, Lucy.

You need to hear me, Lucy. No, it can’t happen.

You’re a beautiful, wonderful person, and I’m your therapist. Whatever feelings surface can’t be acted on.

You might think it’ll help you, but it’ll only hurt you worse.

Trauma repetition is when you keep trying to replicate the past. You keep hoping for a different ending.

I’d pursued him relentlessly, just like I had with Adam. Then when Michael gave in, I tried to believe it was love. But maybe he’d always been Dr. Baylor; it had always been about his trying to fix me.

Case in point: He was avoiding me now. I texted him about meeting at his office, but he told me he couldn’t. We’d see each other in session.

Just before I fell asleep, I finally returned my mother’s myriad text messages: Adam’s dead.

A smiley face came back.





CHAPTER 65





FLORA


“Maureen Hillard?” I said.

The woman looked up at me with a “do I know you?” expression. She’d just left her house and was about to get into her car, an Audi that looked to be new—purchased in the last year, which was when she’d withdrawn her complaint against Michael. She had lodged the complaint six months before that, though the alleged incidents occurred five years ago. Repeated sex in his office. He’d smartened up by the time he got to me.

I hadn’t been able to find out the other woman’s name, but I’d gotten lucky with Maureen. Some asshole was running a misogynistic website where he posted complaints that were later proven false or the accuser reneged; his point was that women weren’t victims; they were liars. I have no idea how he got the paperwork or why it hadn’t been taken down. Maybe it was because you had to be a real keyword jujitsu master like me to find it. But find it I had, and from there, it hadn’t been hard to find Maureen Hillard.

She was pretty, if somewhat harried, and in her midthirties. Her hair was dyed dark red and parted in the center. Her roots needed to be retouched. Her eyes were bright blue and already suspicious.

“I wanted to ask you about Michael Baylor.”

She yanked open the door. “I don’t have anything to say about him.”

“Did he really do what you alleged in your complaint? And if he did, why did you let him get away with it?”

She shot me a glare. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“But I know a lot about Michael. He doesn’t use Tinder to meet women; he uses his office.”

“Are you saying that you . . . ?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m in the club. Are you a member?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Because then he’d stop paying you?”

It was just a guess, but from her obvious surprise, I’d say it had been an accurate one. Then the glare was back. “Don’t ever come near me again.” She got in her car and drove off. I saw her looking at me in the rearview mirror. I could hardly blame her. I’d totally botched that.