All Is Not Forgotten (30 page)

“Glenn, I should have come sooner. I know that. I was informed that you stopped seeing Dr. Westcott. I ran into him at the prison last week, and he told me things didn't go well once you got out. Do you want to tell me what happened?” All of that was true. Once boundaries have been breached, they cannot be rebuilt. They are not walls made of plaster or brick. They exist in the mind, like words that cannot be unsaid. I had asked that Glenn be reassigned to another volunteer therapist, Dr. Daniel Westcott, and upon Glenn's release, Westcott had agreed to continue his therapy. It was more supervision than treatment, making sure he was not allowing himself to become too obsessed with someone. Making sure he didn't lose control again.

Glenn looked at the floor and shrugged.
It wasn't the same.

“What do you mean? He's an excellent doctor. And his practice is right here, in Cranston.”

You know the answer, Alan.

I felt a shudder travel down my spine; my hair stood on edge. In the months that followed the transfer of Glenn's treatment from me to Dr. Westcott, I began receiving letters from Glenn at my home. I do not know how he obtained my address or knew the names of my wife and children. I informed Dr. Westcott and the prison officials. Glenn was made to stop, and I believed that perhaps I had dodged a bullet.

Patients with borderline personality disorder are far more likely to form unhealthy attachments to their therapists than other patients. There are numbers for the increased likelihood as high as 40 percent. The numbers don't matter so much as the certainty that it is true. Part of our training is to maintain strict boundaries. But as I have already confessed, my training proved inadequate when I first encountered Glenn Shelby. Boundaries were crossed, an obsessive attachment was formed, and a period of stalking followed—one that was, mercifully, snuffed out by the fear of solitary confinement and possibly new charges that would have kept Glenn in prison.

As an aside, this is a perfect case study to disprove the notion that no patient with an Axis II disorder can be effectively treated. The milder forms are in fact treatable, using the very basic techniques of carrots and sticks. These patients can and do curb their behavior to get rewards and avoid punishment.

They can be treated. But they cannot be cured. Once the carrots and sticks are removed, their behavior invariably returns. I never received another letter from Glenn, even after he was released from prison. But I had come to learn that the letters were not the end of his efforts to feel close to me. I came to see him this day to make it stop.

Our conversation continued for about an hour. Then I left and went home.

One week later, Glenn was found hanging from his ceiling.

When I heard the news, I would remember the things in his apartment I saw that day—things that caught my eye for one reason or another but did not give rise to any concern. They were entirely benign. The jump rope in the corner of the room, coiled up like a snake. The step stool in the kitchen. And the metal pull-up bar that had been installed into the ceiling near the bathroom door. The ceilings were quite high—eight feet, perhaps. I can close my eyes even now and picture him swinging from it, the white stool lying on its side just past the reach of his toes. The rope tied nice and short so his feet would not reach the floor. Naked except for a pair of blue briefs. I do not like to dwell on this. Perhaps I do because it was not just an average failure, the way that most people experience failure in their professions. My failure, this failure, ended with the horrific image I have just placed into your head, the same image I live with every day. It is always there, reminding me that even I cannot cure every patient.

I left Glenn alive, shaking but otherwise functional. I drove back to the office, saw another patient, then went home to my family.

The next day I got a call from Detective Parsons. It was a call I had been expecting. Remember, I was functioning at my very best again, clearheaded, precise. I could see the future. I could see it because I was controlling it. My puppets on their strings. The sticks in my hand.

You were right, Alan. About the alibi. It's all fucking crap!

“I'm sorry. I really am.” I was not.

How did you know? Are you gonna tell me? What else are you hiding?

“I can't tell you. I've explained about—”

Yeah, your sacred patient confidentiality. Honest to God, Alan. Sometimes I think you're screwing with my head.

“It's quite normal to want to shoot the messenger. I'm not offended. Nor did I create that assault record from Florida or lie about an alibi. All of this is real. I had no part in its making.”

Parsons sighed loudly.
I know that. I'm sorry. I'm just not looking forward to this shit show. I can feel a bad ending. One way or another. I feel it in my gut. He's gonna have a whole team of people crawling up my ass.

“And yet it has to have one, doesn't it? It has to end,” I said calmly. “Have you asked Sullivan and his wife about it?”

They claim it's an honest mistake. But the bills from the club don't lie. There's one charge from the wine dinner. The tab was signed by the wife, Fran. Sullivan has no alibi.

“I see.”

And he has that record in Florida. The world is gonna eat this up. He'll have to come out swinging.

“I imagine that's true,” I said. I did not challenge him on his conclusion about Bob's innocence. It didn't matter what Parsons thought. What mattered was the fear in his voice. This was the sort of “fucking crap” that ruined a man's career.

“What happens next?”

He already hired a lawyer. Some shark from Hartford. Karl Shuman. Got those gangbangers off back in the late '90s.

“I remember that case.”

Made a name for himself. Now he just handles anyone who can afford him.
And now we can't go near Bob unless we formally detain him. Bring him in for questioning. That's when the press will know. That's when this whole thing blows up.

“I am sorry you have to deal with this. I wish I could help you more.”

Alan, please, can't you just say whether this will stand up or not? Give me a little wink or a nod. Anything? I gotta make a decision here.

“The truth is, Detective, that it wouldn't matter if I gave you a wink or a nod. Nothing that has happened in this office would ever be admissible. That's the trouble with this treatment all these victims are getting. Even after a memory is recovered, there's just too much uncertainty for the law to give it any weight. I've read the cases, the decisions. These patients get beat up on the stand, and the court has to allow it.”

Parsons was silent for a moment. He did not want to hang up the phone in the same state of mental chaos he'd been in when he dialed my number. He was in a box, and there was no way out. If he did nothing and the press found out there was enough to move forward, he would be called out as a panderer to the rich and powerful. But if he dragged Fairview's golden child through the mud for no reason, there would be lawsuits and private investigators. With lawsuits came dismissals. With the PIs would come close scrutiny of his efforts to solve the case, of which he seemed increasingly fearful. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. The only way out was if Bob Sullivan was guilty. And he was not.

Poor Detective Parsons.

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

The seeds of doubt
grow like weeds when given enough sun. Enough water. Enough nurturing.

Charlotte sat in my office at her next visit with her doubt about Bob sprouting from her pores. She had not seen him again, but he had called her to tell her about the problem with the alibi and his new lawyer. He would not come off his story that he was at that dinner. And yet there were no more flirtatious text messages. No more pictures of his erect penis. He was being careful like a guilty person is careful.

“I'm sorry things with Bob are troubling you. Sorry because I can see you're anxious about it.”

I am. It's very troubling. I mean, what is he hiding? I even asked him, I said, “Just tell me where you were that night. If you were with another woman, then I'll deal with it.” He just kept saying he was at the club and everyone was persecuting him because of his run for the seat and his money and blah blah blah. He was overselling it, you know?

“Yes. It sounds very strange, and I can see why you are concerned.” I let that sit for a moment. “How has Jenny been since the group session?”

The same. She was doing so well before she remembered the voice. And now she just seems to have given up. It's like she doesn't believe in the therapy anymore and is just resigned to being in constant pain. God, it's so hard to watch. And worry—all over again.

“I see. I thought maybe the session would have changed that. There was a somewhat graphic disclosure by one of my other patients. Another rape victim. I was going to stop it because I am always very cognizant of Jenny's age. But I let it go. It was not that disturbing in and of itself. But it was of the moment of first penetration, and that is the one memory Jenny has regained of that night.”

Charlotte's eyes got wide and she sat up on the edge of the sofa.
I didn't realize she'd told you in that much detail.

“Well, of course. What did you think happened in that session?”

I don't know. I guess I thought she just remembered it and told you she remembered it. I haven't wanted to ask her the details. But I did not realize she told you.… It just seems … so personal. Not that it's wrong. Oh, I don't know what I'm saying!

“No—it's fine. It is strange to think that your daughter described this act to me, a man, in such a sterile environment.”

Charlotte stared at the sticker on the plant. Her face was scrunched up like she was thinking. And pained by her thoughts.

“Would you like to know what she said? Would it help you to share this knowledge?”

Maybe. Yes. Actually, I would like to know. Everything that was said. Everything.

This was all too easy.

I told Charlotte about an act of penetration. The act I described was not the rape of Jenny, although it was not far off. Rather, it was Bob Sullivan fucking his teenage secretary in the showroom. The rear entry. The hand braced on her shoulder. Her face pressed to the ground. The hand on the top of her head, fingers intertwined with her luscious hair. The powerful thrusting, back and forth like an animal.

Charlotte sat back and folded her arms. And on her face, I could see that I was right, that Bob Sullivan had fucked her exactly the same way. And that now she was wondering where he really was that night.

Five days later, the sprouts would bloom.

But let's not jump ahead.

We were all very concerned about Jenny and the abrupt cessation in the progress we were making. I took the chance that I had done enough to fuel my little fire—that there was now enough smoke for my son to slip quietly out of sight. I decided to return to my selfish desires to save my patient.

“How have you been?” I asked Jenny at her next session. “Still feeling like you can't solve that stubborn math problem? That you want to give up?”

Jenny shrugged.

“You seem sad today.”

Tears came. I handed her some tissues.

“Is it the memory? The one we recovered?”

No. I feel better about that. It really is like you said. Even though I hate the images that come into my mind—I mean my skin actually crawls when I remember his hands and … everything else. But it's like I have those moments when my skin crawls and when I want to scream and cry and curl up and die even, and then they go away. When I think about other things, or do other things, the feelings go with them.

“Yes!” I was beyond excited. “The feelings have found their home. They have attached to the memory and can stop haunting your mind in search of it. That's exactly how trauma recovery is supposed to work. And over time, as you let those feelings come out, and let the images come out, they'll start to recede and fade. They'll come out and see that you are safe and that they do not need to provoke you.”

Jenny nodded. But then she sighed.

“So what is it, then?”

I don't feel right talking about it.

Then I knew. “Sean?” I asked.

Her face gave her away.

“You can tell me. Sean knows we speak about your relationship. And he speaks about it to me as well.”

Really?

“Yes.”

Okay. I don't know. I feel like I'm bad for him. Like I'm making him feel bad.

“In what way?”

He's just so angry. He really thinks Mr. Sullivan raped me, and he …

“He what?”

He's just really angry. When we meet now, I feel like I can't talk to him about anything, because he just goes back to Mr. Sullivan and the fact that he hasn't been arrested and that he'll never get punished, because I was given the treatment so my remembering his voice won't even matter.

“I see. And do you still feel that the voice you remember is from that night in the woods?”

It's the same as before. My brain thinks so. But I don't really feel weird around him or anything. I should, right? I saw him at my dad's work last week, and I got nervous because of the memory but I didn't feel anything else.

“Do you think Sean knows they've questioned him?”

What?

“Your mother didn't tell you? Oh—maybe she's afraid of your dad finding out.”

Oh my God! That explains why he walked the other way when I saw him!
Jenny hung her head in her hands like she was ashamed.
Oh my God!