Out of the Shadow (5 page)

Chapter Five

“Before we take a morning break, I'd like to speak with you about Repressed Memory Syndrome. As you all know, RMS has become controversial over the years, and there are questions in the professional community about its validity as a diagnosis. Dr. Elizabeth Loftus, in an article in Scientific American, 1997, wrote that 'a growing number of investigations demonstrate that under the right circumstances, false memories can be instilled rather easily in some people...'

“While I'm certain this is true, we must remember the ability to retain and assimilate memory is not fully formed until a child reaches adolescence or beyond. That's why many of our early childhood memories are sketchy or nonexistent. Add to this the effect of trauma on the developing mind, which can either bring an event into sharper focus, or obfuscate it, rendering it difficult, if not impossible, to integrate. Therefore, I believe children can imprint memories which are not conscious or easily accessible.”

I drew a deep breath and surveyed the wood-paneled conference room to make sure I hadn't lost everyone. “What we, as therapists, must remember is to never, ever plant thoughts or ideas in our clients' minds. Our job is to give them the latitude to explore and discover the truth for themselves.

“One more thing. While Becca was having a tough time accepting her fragility, it is not unusual to take a year or more to heal from the type of trauma she experienced.” 

I took in the rapt faces of my appreciative audience. I knew I had them exactly where I wanted them. Taking a breather now would only increase their curiosity. “I think I've said enough about this. Let's take that fifteen minute break. Be back here at 10:45 to continue."

I waited temporarily at the podium, sorting through my notes, while people rose and shuffled toward the back of the room. A handful of participants formed a line at the coffee urn against the far wall, others stood by the bathroom door to my right. I decided to stay put with the afternoon’s lecture notes, refreshing my memory until the lines diminished.

At a sound, I looked up and into the startlingly blue eyes of Dr. Adrian Farley. "Sarah, I have a question for you."

"What is it?"

A clump of thick, dark wavy hair fell over his forehead and he raked fingers through it, away from his face. "I want to know more about Becca. What did you think was going on with her?"

"Could you be more specific? I’m not sure what you are alluding to."

"It’s just that she seems naive in so many ways. Why do you think that is?"

I nodded. “Becca was emotionally stunted and much younger than her twenty-nine years."

I pictured Rachel as she was when I first met her. 'I don’t know what to do, Sarah,' I remember her saying often in those first couple of meetings. 'I’m being stalked by this madman and the police are sitting on their hands.'

She had just finished describing to me her close encounter at the El station, and the intimidating phone calls that kept her on edge. Her hand shook when she raised it to massage her forehead, her anguish clearly visible. I initially had doubts about her veracity, but my meetings with her, and the evidence I had already gathered, suggested she was telling the truth. Either way, I had to act cautiously. Unless she had fabricated the stalker and his calls, she was in serious danger.

"What can you do to protect yourself if the police won’t?" I had asked her.

"I guess I could move back into my parents’ house, but that doesn’t seem like much of a solution. I don’t know how to answer the question."

I studied her. In her navy blue capris with a pale blue knit top and her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked like the dictionary definition of ingenue. While there are limits to my relationships with my clients, and I am typically conscientious in maintaining my professional boundaries, I knew in this case I had to do more. Since the authorities were unwilling to do anything, there wasn’t much leeway for timidity on my part: I had to act decisively to defend her.

"From what I hear you’re at terrible risk. You have to do something now. If you’re not able to, then I’m going to have to step in and help you out."

She glanced up at me in puzzlement. "What can you do?"

Good question! I had to think fast. "I can call the police, with your permission."

She made a dismissive sound. "Good luck with that. They seem certain I’m making this whole thing up to cover my tracks. What good will that do?"

"I’m a professional, which offers me a little more clout. If you’d like, I’d be willing to try to convince them to do something. Or, if all else fails, shame them into action."

She shrugged. "Okay, but I hope you have more success than I’ve had."

I rose to find a permission slip for her to sign.

          
Adrian rubbed his square jaw seductively, and caught my eye. "You don’t look any older than twenty-nine yourself."

I had to remind myself he was referring to Rachel’s age. A tremor ran through me. Is he flirting with me? No doubt this man’s a hunk, but I can’t believe my reaction. As a professional, I’ve always prided myself on my self-control. This is ridiculous, I tell myself, which did nothing to keep the quiver from my voice. "Actually, I’m thirty-eight."

He whistled through straight, white teeth. "You don’t look it. I didn’t realize we were close in age. I thought you were much younger."

Self-conscious, I said, "How kind of you, but back to Becca. Because of events in her life I have yet to reveal, and the fact she’d been sheltered by her parents, she had a developmental lag and was functioning at an age younger than her chronological years."

"And you...you seem to have taken a personal interest in this case. You must be a caring person." He caught my eye again, but I turned away, flustered.

How did he figure me out this soon? Did he suspect how much I identified with Becca, or am I reading too much into what he said? "You’re being too kind. It’s my job to be caring, but..." I looked back at him pointedly, "I have my boundaries."

"I see." He smiled as though he knew something I didn’t. "You must be a good psychotherapist."

"I certainly hope so."

"I’d like to find out more. Perhaps at lunch?"

I looked at my watch, relieved it was time to resume my lecture. It gave me an excuse to end our conversation and to spend a minute regaining my composure. I had to admit Adrian was exactly my type, with a deep throaty voice that could heat the room on a winter day. To maintain my professional distance and integrity, I’d better watch myself around him. "I have to refill my coffee before curtain call. I’ll speak with you later."

He smiled again. "I look forward to it."

I watched him saunter off as I wiped perspiration from my brow, wondering if anyone had tampered with the thermostat without my permission.

Meeting Adrian might be the most interesting thing that's happened to me in recent memory, but it’s at such a bad time. I have barely recovered from Ken’s betrayal and the messy divorce. I couldn’t even consider in my wildest imagination—okay I could consider, but it doesn’t mean I’d start a relationship with anyone new. What advice would I give myself if I were my own client? ‘The timing’s not right. Don’t go there. Use your head, not your heart.’

Sure, I had all the answers, but would I follow my own advice? Typically yes, but Adrian’s obvious interest made him more appealing than any ordinary man. And I was in no ordinary mood.
 

Back at the podium I cleared my throat and waited for the room to quiet. Then I began.

That night the jangle of the phone woke Becca from a deep sleep. Thinking it might be Evan, she reached across the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water. Flustered, she picked up the call before the answering machine did. Her heart sank on hearing Julie’s raspy voice.

"I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Where have you been?"

"Sitting by the phone anxiously awaiting your call."

"Why do you always have to be so rude to me?"

Because you woke me out of the best sleep I’ve had in months, to berate me for not being available to you. Perhaps Julie was right, she should be more tolerant, but sometimes it was damn difficult.
"Sorry, Mom. I’ve been busy at work."

"Too busy to call your mother? You know I worry about you."

"That’s the problem, Mom. I don’t need you to worry about me. I’d let you know if I needed anything. I can take care of myself."

Julie gave a derisive laugh. Becca heard the reprimand coming before her mother spoke. "I’m not so sure about that. Why, your dad and I were shocked at the condition of your apartment last week!"
             

She tried not to sound defensive. "You do remember I just moved back in? A few weeks before, the police were picking the place clean."

Silence for a second. Perhaps Julie was reconsidering. "I’m your mother and I worry about you. Is that a crime?"

No, but it was the crux of the problem. No use arguing with her. "So, besides my daily check-up, to what can I attribute this early morning wake-up call?"

"I have good news. My baby brother, your Uncle Paulie, has returned to town from California. I’m having a small get-together at the house next weekend. Plan on being here Saturday night for the gathering."

No way ready to face new people—or even old relatives for that matter—in a social situation, Becca cringed. "I don’t remember Paulie well."

"Of course you don't. He moved away when you were only twelve, but you were quite close before he left. He adored you. I know he’s eager to see how you’ve turned out."

Not so well at the moment.
She rubbed her irritated eyes. "I don’t know, Mom."

"I won’t take no for an answer. We expect you next Saturday no matter what. Bring your friend from work if you like, but be here one way or the other."

Julie sure had a way of putting things. She needed time to consider. "Angela has a new boyfriend and I doubt she’ll be available."

"Bring another friend. Just come."

She heard a click on the line.
Saved by call forwarding
. "Hold on a sec. I have another call coming in."

She compressed the button. "Hello?"

"Where have you been hiding?"

Evan’s melodic voice immediately acted like an elixir and wove a spell over her. She had to remind herself of her upset with him.

"I could ask you the same thing! Let me give you a call back when I’m done with my mother. I’ll only be a couple of minutes."

She put Julie off on the dinner without making a firm commitment, and took a moment to soak up water with a tissue before getting back to Evan. Her mom was driving her crazy. She couldn’t have Julie calling all the time, making her feel guilty for something she hadn’t done, or had yet to do. If she didn’t think of an excuse, she’d be at the dinner party. Who knows? Maybe showing her face would get Julie off her back. But first, Evan.

She pushed the recall button on the receiver. "So, where have you been?" Was she beginning to sound like her mom? She hoped not, but she wouldn’t be surprised after all the years of rigorous training. "You’ve been missing in action the last couple of days. Let me guess. You were captured by a band of terrorists and held for ransom. You barely escaped to call me."

"Must be the same organization that seized you. I stopped by your place a couple of times, but you weren’t home."

"Oh, you haven’t heard about my stimulating night life. I’ve been on a double-shift at St. John’s. Just living it up."

He laughed. "I don’t know if I could handle that much excitement. But," his voice dipped lower, "I could sure handle seeing you."

Against her will the last of her resistance and resentment melted away. "Your timing’s impeccable. I have a dilemma I wanted to run by someone, and you’re it. But," she glanced at the clock, "I have to go to work. What are you doing for dinner?"

"Bringing wine and dessert?"

"And a willing ear. Come by around seven."

She hung up and started the shower, luxuriating in the sensation of frothy water sluicing down her stomach and over her thighs. She found herself humming one of her favorite tunes, but in the middle of U2’s Beautiful Day she stopped, annoyed. Even though she had no claim on Evan or his time, he had never answered her question about his whereabouts. Why was he being so secretive if he had nothing to hide?

"Do you want anything else?" Becca asked, glancing over at Evan, who looked spectacular in jeans, tooled boots, and a forest-green flannel shirt. He certainly carried clothes well on his lean- but-muscular frame.

He put down his fork and pushed back his chair. "I’m stuffed, what a great meal. You’re quite the cook."

She wouldn’t know about the meal. She’d been so enthralled with Evan she had hardly touched her fish. Between bites of salmon with hollandaise sauce and steamed asparagus, he had answered her questions about the use of medicinal herbs in the treatment of rheumatoid arthritis, and explained the application of acupuncture needles for mitigating pain. While telling her about his first successful patient, he absolutely glowed in the candlelight. She could hardly take her eyes off him.