All Is Not Forgotten (11 page)

There wasn't much to tell before the car showed up again, what was it—ten weeks after the suicide attempt? But I knew Tom needed it, so I made the effort. I probably talked to Tom more than Mrs. Kramer, but still. There's a familiarity there now. But she addressed me like we'd just met. Anyway, she took this long breath and then … I'll never forget it … she used both hands to smooth out her blouse—this white blouse that was completely soaked in her daughter's blood. And then she reached up to her face to brush a piece of hair back across her forehead, and the blood, it just got smeared there across her forehead and she didn't even notice it. It was as if she was still going through the motions of normal behavior but she was so distraught that she didn't even see what she was doing—getting the blood all over her hands and then her face. I just wanted someone to come in and hold her until she finally let it out.

Detective Parsons continued, reading from his notes what Charlotte said to him:

She said she had seen a light on in the pool house bathroom. There's a small window and I guess she was out in the yard to check on some fallen tree branches so she could tell the landscaper what needed to be done. She caught a flash of light coming from the window. So she went to turn it off. That's when she found her daughter. She did not go into the details. She let out a little cough to clear her throat and said that she called 911 from her cell phone, which I guess she had with her, and then she wrapped Jenny's wrists in the towels. Probably saved her life. Hard to say, but at that stage, seconds counted, and it was ten minutes before the paramedics arrived. I was writing all this down in my notebook. At one point, she stopped talking. I thought she was letting me catch up with my writing, but even after I lifted my pen, she was silent. I looked up then, looked at her, and this very thin stream of tears was coming down both sides of her face. It was so odd because there was no other indication she was crying. I mean, Tom was like a contorted twisted ball of flesh, his eyes, his mouth, his brow all scrunched up and bright red. But Mrs. Kramer was just staring blankly with these little waterfalls coming down, dripping onto the bloody shirt. And she said then, when I looked up at her, and I'll never forget this either, she said, “This is my fault. I did this. And I'll fix it.”

Dr. Markovitz immediately consulted with the Naval Health Clinic and the woman doing the study on the treatment. He said she had mentioned other trauma victims who had received the treatment and how she had been following their progress. She was, apparently, shocked that Jenny had tried to take her life. I find this disingenuous. She knew full well what torment Sean Logan had suffered when he returned home without his right arm or his memory. She had followed his treatment at the clinic, the chronic insomnia, the rage attacks against his wife and in front of his son. He had withdrawn from his friends and family and cut off contact with everyone he knew in the navy. His symptoms were complicated by the underlying anxiety, which before had been self-medicated with exercise, drinking, and sex. The clinic had put him on Prozac and lorazepam, and these had muted the symptoms of the anxiety. Had he come to me before the mission where he lost his arm, I may very well have prescribed the same drugs. They could not understand why he was not getting better. But that's because they were missing two crucial pieces of information. First, his chronic anxiety predating the mission. They assumed his anxiety symptoms were a result of PTSD. Why, I might have asked them, would he have PTSD when he had no memory of the events? Wasn't that the whole reason for giving him the treatment? Infuriating. Second, they were unaware of the deleterious, anxiety-producing side effects from the treatment itself—from the dislodging of the emotional and physiological experience from the factual memories

Sean described his mental state like this. This was when he first came to me. His humor and lightness would not return for many months. He refused to wear a prosthetic. I think he wanted the world to see him as defective or damaged, because that was how he felt inside. You will surely notice the similarities to Jenny Kramer.

I lie in bed at night. The acid in my stomach is gone. The meds took that away—along with my personality, I'm told. I'm not that fun guy anymore. But I'd take that, you know. I'd fucking swallow that down and ask for another if I could stop this other thing. I look at the empty space where my arm should be, and then I close my eyes and try like all hell to remember that day. They gave me the report, but who the fuck knows? We were sweeping for this one bad guy. There was solid intel. Eight of us went in. We had air cover, and a corps unit was on its way. We moved through the streets, breaking off in pairs. The unit was ambushed right after I broke with this other SEAL, Hector Valancia. The corps found him dead next to me. Half his head got blown off. We took it from an IED. I was unconscious. Mangled arm. They got me out. Took off the arm. Then gave me the drugs. I can't blame them. I signed off on it. We all did. Shit, if someone asked you, “Hey, if you get fucked up in the field, do you want us to give you some drugs to make you forget all about it?” Fuck yeah, I do! But now, all of it is just a story. It's no more real or unreal to me as any other story. It feels like there's a ghost inside me—the ghost from that afternoon, and he's pissed off, just raging inside my body, searching for the story, not the words from the report, but the images of my buddy dying beside me, and the blood seeping from my shredded flesh, it rages for the memory of the pain that I must have felt when the bomb went off, even for a second. This ghost is a strong motherfucker. He just gets bigger every day and it's like there's no room for anything else. When I try to hold my son, when my wife tries to hold me, nothing can get in. Then there's just broken plates, a scared kid, my wife in tears. I'm a monster.

Charlotte Kramer called me after getting my name from Dr. Markovitz. As I've said before, she and her husband were eager to employ me. I met with her in my office before agreeing to take the case, although I knew I would be compelled to do so. How could I not? My involvement with Sean, my growing knowledge of the treatment, both its pathology and the potential countertreatment, my work with victims of trauma and crime and my proficiency with medications—I don't think I've ever been more suited to treat a patient than I was for Jenny Kramer.

And I will say one more thing on my proficiency treating survivors of trauma. It is an aside, really, but I was myself the target of an altercation when I was a young boy. I do not disclose this to my patients, because there must be boundaries. But there are times when they say things to me, things like
You don't know what it feels like
or
I can't explain how I feel now,
when I want to tell them that I do have some idea. Of course, few of us escape childhood without some bullying or aggression, or worse. Most of us can identify to a degree with these survivors of more serious crimes. Still, my patients cannot see me as anything less than a rock. I cannot cry with them. I cannot get angry with them. I cannot let them know they affect me in any way. They must be free to pound their fists into my gut without the fear that they will break me.

I know you have detected my soft spot for Charlotte. I recognized it myself the moment she walked into my office and sat elegantly on my sofa. Please do not misinterpret things. I am not, nor have I ever been, “attracted” to her in an inappropriate manner. It's simply that I knew, from everything about her, the way she held her back so straight, the way she spoke with a slight affectation, her neat clothing, the tucked-in blouse and pressed trousers, hair pulled so tightly in a bun, even the words she chose, that the story of Charlotte Kramer was going to be rich. I knew that it would be difficult but that I would uncover it, that she would reveal it to me, and that the extent of her emotional scars and the skill it would take to reach them would present a deeply satisfying professional challenge. I have no qualms admitting this to you or anyone else. It is no different from a lawyer relishing a complicated criminal defense. Or a builder reconstructing a home after a fire or flood. Is there empathy for the client? Of course. But legal, psychological, structural—whatever the problem the client has, the professional employed to solve it is not at fault for enjoying the task. That is why we joined the profession, is it not?

At our very first meeting, we spoke for an hour. During that time, she began to trust me to treat her daughter, and I would later use that to open her own vault of secrets. I could sense it. It is essential, and every competent practitioner has acquired the skill to do it. It requires strict adherence to boundaries, compassion, and an appropriate degree of distance. I did not flinch when she told me about the rape, the treatment, the strained year, and the attempted suicide, even though my thoughts were spinning with all the implications, which I have already described. Jenny Kramer had been a puzzle I could not solve, and now I had been given the pieces.

I met them all at the hospital the next day—Charlotte, Tom, and Jenny. I met with Lucas at my office sometime after that. He has gotten little of my attention as I recount the story. But I did speak with him and I did consult with both Charlotte and Tom frequently about how they should parent him during this crisis. It would take far too long to explore the deleterious effects events like these can have on siblings. Neglect, withdrawn love, and emotional denial are every bit as toxic as outright abuse. I made sure Lucas was spared that fate.

Jenny had been moved to the psych ward, where she was under a mandatory forty-eight-hour watch period before she could be released. There was recognition in her eyes when she saw me, and she even smiled slightly to acknowledge this.
I've seen you in town.

She said this, and I realized that it was the first time I had heard her voice. She did not sound anything like what I'd expected. That may be a strange thing to say, but we all do this, we all impute certain missing variables to people we meet based on our preconceptions or past experiences. I was expecting Jenny's voice to be high pitched, maybe even childlike. But it was not. It was deep, slightly raspy, as you might expect from a middle-aged blues singer. It is not uncommon. Think about it—you will surely have before you one or two people from your life who have this type of voice.

She wore a hospital gown, tied in the back, and a robe her parents had brought from home. There was no sash, for obvious reasons, so it hung loosely around her in the wheelchair. I could see the white bandages poking out from beneath the sleeves.

Tom was eager to meet me. He stood and shook my hand vigorously, as though he could shake the cure for his daughter from my limbs.
We are so happy we found you.

Tom was sincere. We all sat down and they looked at me, waiting for something brilliant to emerge from my mouth.

“I'm happy to help, if I can.” I said, “But, Jenny. I have to ask you one very important question.”

She nodded. Tom looked at Charlotte, who seemed to reassure him with the look she returned. They both nodded at me, and then I continued.

“Jenny. Do you want to remember what happened to you that night in the woods?”

I will never forget her face in that moment. It was as though I had solved the mystery of the universe, discovered the truth about God. She knew when I spoke these words what she hadn't known before but what was suddenly crystal clear. And her expression carried relief and gratitude so profound—I will never have a more satisfying moment in my professional career.

She nodded her head, choking back tears, but then they just exploded out of her.
Yes!
she said.

Then she said it over and over as her father hugged her, her mother wrapping her arms around herself.

Yes, yes, yes …

 

Chapter Ten

I suppose I should
get to the blue Honda Civic and how it was found again in Fairview. If you recall, the Civic was spotted by a neighbor's kid on the night of the rape. He said it was parked on the street along the side that bordered the woods. He thought it had New York plates. But that was all. He could not narrow down the model year or anything else that might have helped to locate the car.

One thing I have to give to Detective Parsons is that he is very good at taking credit for things that are not exactly on his side of the scorecard. The blue Civic was one of them. Technically, Parsons was responsible for the acute awareness within the town to the importance of this car. Public notices appeared weekly in the local paper. Official police flyers were kept on community boards at every diner and coffee shop and nail salon. And Parsons reminded the force at every staff meeting. I pitied anyone who dared enter our borders with a blue sedan. There had been over two dozen false reports during the course of the year. Officers were pulled from their posts to drive by the pharmacy parking lot, or the line for the car wash, or someone's driveway, only to find a blue Chevy or Saturn or Hyundai. Not one Civic.

As you have likely ascertained, Detective Parsons worked not only for the Town of Fairview, but also for Tom Kramer. Tom's single-minded obsession with vengeance, as he put it, had stripped him of any social inhibitions, and he hounded Parsons relentlessly. And Parsons was a nine-to-fiver at heart. Some people just are, and you can't shake it out of them. He treasured his free time. He did not have a family and I did not know whether or not he had a girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter. I had not been able to discern his orientation. He liked to play sports and stay fit. Recreational soccer, softball. He was an avid swimmer. Tom's demands interfered with his life. It wasn't just with the blue Civic. At Tom's insistence, Parsons and the Fairview police force had reached out across the country, not only through various computer-based systems, but through actual personal contact as well. Tom advised me once that there are about 12,000 local police agencies in the United States. He said it was his intent to have Parsons call, write, or e-mail every single one of them.