Six Strokes Under (12 page)

"How do you know that?"

"We've done experiments," he said. "Of course we can't experiment with actual abuse. We wouldn't want to do that and it wouldn't be ethical. But we have implanted false memories in subjects—incidents that we know for a fact did not occur. For example, we may suggest that a person had gotten lost in a shopping mall, separated from their parents as a child. The subjects become convinced these episodes happened, just as if family members had been telling stories about the incident for years."

"No one implanted anything in me," I said.

"We think the same thing can happen in the course of counseling," said Dr. Turner. "Sometimes therapists and counselors tell their clients that their psychological symptoms exist because of hidden abuse in their family. In fact, the abuse never happened. Unfortunately, as you can imagine, the family relationships suffer very badly under this kind of strain."

"Why would my counselor tell me there'd been incest if there wasn't any?" I asked.

Dr. Turner shook his head sadly. "Lots of reasons. Sometimes it's just naïveté; sometimes people are incompetent; sometimes it's zealotry, or greed."

"Sometimes they must be right," I said.

"Of course. But let me be perfectly blunt with you, Cassandra, trauma therapy means a long recovery. And a long recovery means a steady income."

"You mean he told me that those things happened to keep me coming to my sessions?" I opened my eyes wide in what I hoped looked like shocked disbelief. Which wasn't difficult—I
was
shocked. Did shrinks really keep their customers coming just for the income? What about Baxter? Was the frequency of my appointments based on the projected level of his retirement fund?

"It's possible," said Dr. Turner. I had to remind myself that we weren't talking about Dr. Baxter here. We were trashing a made-up shrink, a hypothetical man without scruples who'd taken advantage of a vulnerable and confused young woman. "I could help more if you'd be willing to describe what your treatment has been like. Did your counselor use memory recovery techniques?"

"He didn't call it that," I said. "What does that mean?"

"There are a number of techniques which allow these people to suggest or implant memories that did not really occur. Hypnosis, massage therapy to uncover body memories, sodium amytyl injections, to name a few." The sneer in his voice was unmistakable.

"I guess I had hypnosis. My counselor said he would take me back to those years so I could remember things I'd forgotten. I don't know what to think. I'm so confused." Now would have been a good time to squeeze a few tears out or at least a few distressed whimpers, but I was afraid Dr. Turner's bullshit detector was a lot more sophisticated than that of the girls in the Bible study group.

"Look over this checklist." He handed me a pamphlet. "It was designed to help people determine whether their therapists are doing honest work with them. See what you think, then we can talk some more."

"Maybe I'd feel more comfortable telling you about the memories in another appointment," I said. "I'm just not up to it today."

"It's certainly not my intention to talk you out of something that really happened," said Turner. The volume of his voice went up a few decibels. "But I am interested in protecting you from an ill-intentioned and unprofessional counselor. Truth is, there are therapists out there who destroy lives with their dogmatism and greed." He took a deep breath. When he resumed speaking, his voice had dropped back to a normal volume. "Sometimes it helps to take the glass half-empty, half-full approach."

"I'm sorry?'

"Let me give you an example. I'm not asking for details now, but did you have any good times with your father? Close your eyes and think about a birthday party that you remember when your father was present."

I shut my eyes. Memories of my tenth birthday came to my mind, the only party I could remember my father attending. Long before the advent of hiring clowns or other expensive party entertainment, Mom had planned a scavenger hunt in our neighborhood. My father came home early from his duties at the Grandpappy and took my friends around looking for the list of souvenirs she'd provided. By the end of the afternoon, all twelve of my guests were in love with him. They adored his knock-knock jokes, his terrible but energetic imitation of Elvis singing "Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear," and the way he had of listening like what you said was the most important thing he'd ever heard. That was the day Mom christened him "Mr. Fun." I felt real tears running down my cheeks.

Dr. Turner looked satisfied. "I can see you understand what I mean. Sometimes therapists forget to look at the whole picture. He's told you your glass is half empty. Maybe it's half full. No parents are perfect, Cassandra. But most of us struggle to do our best. You may need to look for the silver lining."

"I was about ready to come in there after you," said Laura, when I located her in the tropical fish department of the pet store at the end of the strip mall. "You look like hell. Let's go get a drink and some real food. I got a recommendation for a French place in Venice. My treat—it's a good-luck splurge." I was happy to turn the reins over to her.

Over crabmeat imperial crepes, spinach soufflé and a glass of Chardonnay, I updated Laura on the events surrounding Kaitlin's lawsuit and Bencher's murder, including my visits to the Bible study group and Dr. Turner.

"Jeanine said that Turner's organization has been very active lately. She says he's ruthless."

Laura rolled her eyes. "Mind if I ask a few questions here?" I knew she'd ask them even if I did mind.

"What was in the folders you saw on Bencher's floor?"

"I don't know. I didn't have the time or the wherewithal to read them," I said.

"Okay. What was on the floor around the folders?"

"Nothing important, as far as I could tell. Shards of glass from the broken coffeepot."

"Did you see or hear anyone in the office or out in the hallway after you found Bencher?"

"No."

"My point is, you don't know anything, Cassie. You've got yourself all wound up thinking someone is after you for information, when you don't have any. You just got damned unlucky stumbling into that scene. You had nothing to do with it."

"I know that," I said. "It's Pate that keeps bringing all this stuff up."

"Pate's an ass," said Laura. "I can tell that without even laying an eyeball on him. From what you've told me, there's no one threatening you except for him. And he's wreaking havoc on what is already your tenuous grip on mental stability."

"Thanks a lot, pal."

"Listen. Q-school starts tomorrow. You've got to drop the cloak-and-dagger routine and let the cops do their work. You're a mallard in the rain, Cassie, a mallard in the rain."

"Excuse me?"

"Water off a duck's back, babe. Take in Sheriff Pate's nonsense like water off a duck's back."

She paid the check and led me back to the Starlight Motel for a Laura Snow-imposed early curfew.

 
Finally it was here: my first day of School, with a knee-knocking capital S. When I pulled into the club in the near darkness at 6:30, the range was deserted. Now, with the first streaks of sun lighting up the golf course like a carpet of emeralds, every centimeter of the practice area was filled. And no lighthearted chitchat today. I heard only the crack of balls whistling out into the range and the quiet murmur of caddies coaching their golfers. Laura had roared off on a quick tour of our first hurdle—the Bobcat course—with my notes and the LPGA yardage book in hand.

As Mike's caddie on the PGA Tour, I'd loved this moment in a golf tournament most of all. Not one shot had been officially struck, so in theory, anything was possible. There was no discouraging high round from yesterday to overcome, no muffed shot from the last hole to forget, not even a fantastic finish to live up to. None of the confidence-crushing history of previous rounds. There was only hope, promise, and enthusiasm for the round ahead.

I hit about a hundred balls out into the range, running through my clubs from wedge to three-wood. The results, though unspectacular, were respectable in a reassuring and familiar way. Finally satisfied, I cleaned the grooves on the clubs and wiped down the grips, humming Patsy Cline's "Someday You'll Want Me to Want You." Patsy never gave up on love, though you could tell she knew what heartbreak felt like firsthand.

"How's it look out there?" I asked Laura when she returned.

"Manageable," she said. "How'd your warm-up go?"

"Good. I just need to chip and putt."

"You've got the time, baby," she said. "Five hours, to be exact." We'd argued about getting over to the golf club so early. With a one o'clock starting time, she had strongly suggested I hang around the motel, maybe exercise or watch a couple of talk shows so I wouldn't get too jazzed up waiting to tee off. I'd told her no way was she going without me.

By ten o'clock, I had to admit she was right. I'd visited the bathroom so many times, I caused a rumor about a virulent strain of the stomach flu. I'd been to the driving range twice more, with declining results for each successive excursion. Tom Reilly, the LPGA public relations coordinator and a captive audience, stationed by his laptop in the tournament office, was my new best bud. He now knew more than he'd ever wanted about the Burdette family tree and my junior golf experiences.

Finally, I'd memorized Walter Moore's slick sales approach to the women warming up at the range: what Dei-kon manufacturing and I can do for your financial and golfing future. I noticed he only selected six or seven of the bigger hitters for his pitch. Girls who'd make his clubs look good if they made it onto the Tour using his equipment. Girls who'd make any clubs look good, anywhere.

"Cassie, how are you?" I stopped my pacing, astonished to see Max Harding in front of me.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Here at the tournament? Business. Here with you? I've been wanting to talk to you since I ran into you the other night at Chili-Dippers."

"This is a lousy time to talk. I'm teeing off in forty-five minutes."

He nodded. "I know. Sorry. Maybe I can catch up with you later. Hey, good luck. I know you're going to be great." I watched him walk all the way back to the clubhouse. He filled out the yellow Cutter and Buck golf shirt just as well as he had the business suit I saw him in last week. I returned to the putting green for one last session.

"Putter and I are one," I muttered. I jabbed at a practice Titleist ball. It went screaming past the hole I was shooting for.

"Let's go," said Laura. "Ten minutes to blastoff."

We met our playing partners waiting on the path leading up to the first tee. I introduced Laura to Julie Atwater. I wasn't sure whether it would help or hinder to share a cart and play with her again today, not that I had any say about it. On the bright side, she'd be familiar, and familiar was good. On the dark side, we'd both played lousy yesterday—just seeing her here brought that springing clearly to mind. I knew we'd stay away from discussions about her possibly confused sexuality or my problems with finding dead bodies. That could only help my focus.

Our third contestant, Heather Boyle, had brought her fiancé as caddie and her mother as gallery. The mother was elfin-sized, with painted eyebrows and lids, spiked hair, and pixie sparkles on her cheeks. The boyfriend looked more like a banker than a caddie—blond and solid, the kind of solid that would turn on him fast as he edged closer to middle age. All three seemed pleasant, but distant, just focused on Heather. As we waited for the threesome in front of us to hit their first drives of the day, Gary Rupert approached the tee.

"Hope the day goes well for you, Cassie," he said. He moved close enough to rub my shoulders. Which reminded me for a minute of Odell Washington. And felt damned good, I had to admit.

"I don't think you've met Laura Snow," I said. "She'll be piecing me together this week. Laura, this is Gary Rupert, Kaitlin's brother." He stopped his massage long enough to shake her hand.

'Take good care of her," said Gary. "She's got a bright future." He trotted back down the path toward the tenth hole, where I knew Kaitlin would be teeing off in twenty minutes. He passed Julie polishing her balls at the ball washer without a word or a smile.

"I don't like that guy," Julie said, as she reached our cart and threw her putter in her bag.

"It's time, ladies," called the starter.

"Get your butt onto the tee box," said Laura. "You've been waiting here seven hours and you're going to disqualify yourself by standing around like a bonehead outside the ropes?"

Julie and Heather laughed at her scolding. We compared the brand of balls we were playing and the identifying marks we'd drawn on them—a smiley face for Heather, a big, black ja on Julie's, and two blue slashes under the Slazenger cat logo for me. Receiving a two-stroke penalty for hitting the wrong ball would be a demoralizing mistake. Then Heather leaned over, balanced her ball on the tee, and stood back to squint down the fairway.

"Say a prayer that it goes straight," whispered Heather's mother. Heather swung, producing a low, straight ball that skimmed the center of the fairway and rolled up the hill and out of sight.

"Nice ball," said Julie, taking her place on the tee. Her drive leaned right and skidded into the fairway bunker she'd found the day before.

"Next on the tee, Cassandra Burdette from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina." My legs felt wobbly and my arms like overcooked Ramen noodles. Laura smiled reassurance. The other girls were smiling, too. More, I assumed, from the relief of getting off the tee themselves than for my benefit.

I waggled my three-wood and stared down the fairway. "You can do it," I whispered. "Let it go." I coiled up and launched an adrenaline-powered drive that landed just short of where Heather's ball had come to rest.

"Good start," said Laura, as I hopped into the cart and roared by with Julie. When we reached my ball, I chose a seven-iron without hesitation and hit it to the back of the green. A triumph—a birdie try on the first hole. Never mind that the putt was unsinkable by anyone outside of Tiger Woods. I leaned over against the cart to stretch my calf muscles while the others hit their second shots.

"Do you have something going with that Gary?" Laura asked, breathing hard from her jog up the fairway.

The blood rushing to my face felt hot. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," she said. "The little public massage. The 'she's got a bright future' routine. Does that guy have the hots for you?"

"That's Kaitlin's brother," I said, not addressing her question. "I know him from high school and we've talked some about the tournament and the mess she's in."

Laura shrugged. "Just checking, pal. It's a little hard to keep up with you and your guys. Remind me later to tell you my theory about you and men."

"It's not fair to leave me hanging," I said. She laughed, took the putter from my bag, and walked toward the green.

I putted first, my approach having skidded off the back of the green, sixty feet from the front pin placement.

"Just get it to the hole," said Laura. "Right edge."

I sent the putt across the entire length of the green. It passed the cup and dove back off the putting surface onto the far-side collar. "I got it there," I said grimly. Two putts later, I carded a bogey and we headed on to the second hole, a par four lined with a water hazard along the right side.

"The second shot's blind," I told Laura. "The whole fairway slopes right. It's not an easy hole. And the green's even trickier."

"Fairway first," she said. "Then we aim for the center of the green. We'll worry about the putt when we get there."

In spite of a cement truck passing by in the backswing of my drive, and a weed-whacker starting up during my approach, I hit two serviceable shots and produced my second birdie try. This time, I would not underestimate the speed of the green, I assured myself. Three putts later, Heather wrote another bogey on my card.

"No problem," Laura told me. "You got caught up in worrying about the speed and forgot about the line. You're getting the hang of them. We're doing great."

We crossed the road to the third hole, a par three with water on the left, condos on the right. The group in front of us had just arrived on the green.

"Looks like it could be a long day," said Heather.

"We've got the time," said her fiancé. Easy for him to be cheerful: Heather had shown no flaws in her game so far.

"What's Max Harding doing down here?" asked Laura as we waited.

"He said business."

"He's Coach Rupert's lawyer now?" I nodded. "Why would that bring him here?" I shrugged.

"These girls are so slow our clothes will be out of style by the time we finish the round," said Heather.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," said her fiancé. I wondered if they'd spend a lifetime of marriage speaking in clichés.

By the time the girls ahead finally cleared the green, I felt even tighter than I had on the first tee. I popped my drive up short of the green.

"At least it's not wet," said Laura. "And chipping's your game."

Was
my game, I thought, after chunking the shot fifteen yards short of the flag. I banged my ball up the hill. Instead of curving gently to the left and dropping into the cup as I'd predicted, the putt held its line and hung out six inches from the hole.

"Tough break," said Laura. "You made a good run at it."

I stomped off to the fourth tee. Heather teed off with another screaming drive and Julie followed closely on her heels.

I could feel the gears churning in my brain. There are two kinds of golfers out there, those who play by understanding mechanics and those who play by feel. The mechanical players, like Nick Faldo, are always tinkering with their swing. They want to know precisely where the toe of the club should point at each position on the backswing. They've spent hours with slow-motion videotapes and full-length mirrors getting their swings just right. I wasn't in this camp.

I liked to understand the golf swing along with the best of them, but when it came to working around the greens, I was strictly a feel player. I just seemed to have an easy knack for reading the contours and knowing what speed would get the ball to the hole. Maybe it came from having grown up around a golf course. The point was, this was where I thought I'd really make up for other weaknesses. Length off the tee, for one glaring example.

But today, my so-called feel had evaporated, leaving me alone with shortish tee shots and even shorter on confidence. I knew that pairings in a tournament could have a big effect on a golfer's state of mind. If you got stuck with a girl who was off her game, it was hard not to be poisoned by her choppy rhythm or foul mood. On the other hand, a girl playing in zone, and it looked like Heather was headed that way today, could carry a struggling golfer right along with her. I sure hoped this would happen with me.

I stood up on the tee box and manufactured a weak slice, which rolled to the right, almost dribbling into the pond that ran along the length of the hole.

"Forget about it," said Laura. "Everyone's got to lay up on this hole—you'll just have a five-iron in your hand instead of an eight."

As she'd predicted, all three of us laid up in front of the pond that guarded the green, then hit third shots on. The Plantation had some pretty vistas, but this green was not among the most picturesque it had to offer. It was lined by crackerbox ranch homes crowded with the flotsam of vacation living: above-ground pools, swing sets, buzzing lawn mowers, and, to top it off today, a frantically barking dog on a too-short leash.

"Say a prayer that it goes in," said Heather's mother as her daughter stood over her putt. God was going to be awfully busy this afternoon, watching over each of Heather's shots. She sank the birdie putt and walked off the green into her fiancé’s embrace.

I, without the benevolent intervention of either a mother or a higher power, pulled my birdie putt left. "Shit!" I said, not so softly. "We might as well be playing putt-putt golf in a trailer park. There's no way I can concentrate with that racket going on."

Laura nodded. "Let me know if I can help," she said.