Summer Session (24 page)

‘Let’s put this in perspective. You’ve had one shock after another, not just these last few days, but over a period of years. You’ve suffered significant traumas, which is why you came to me.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Finding out that Hank cheated is another trauma. But this one isn’t like the others.’

‘You’re right. Nobody died. So why am I fixated on it when so many worse things have happened?’

‘Harper, in its way, Hank being unfaithful – if indeed he has been – would be more traumatic to you than anything you’ve been through. It would hit you right in the gut, and not because you’re selfish or superficial, but because, unlike the other events, it involves not physical but emotional injury. And not just any emotional injury. It involves betrayal. Betrayal by the people closest to you, the people you’ve trusted.’

Harper replayed that idea in her head. It seemed obvious. Betrayal by someone she loved was worse than a bomb set off by a stranger.

Leslie gave her time before continuing. ‘Harper, we’ve talked about how you feel responsible for others. How, consciously or not, you blame yourself for what happened in Iraq, your parents’ divorce, Hank’s accident, even your students’ deaths.’

Another pause, waiting for the concept to settle. ‘But Harper, as we talked about last time, the flip side of guilt is powerlessness. Being guilty implies that you had control; that it was in your power to prevent an event. But if your husband had an affair – and I mean
if
– then you had no power. No control. No ability to prevent it. And, for you, Harper, powerlessness is the worst of all scenarios. Being powerless, being a victim – it’s unacceptable. Intolerable.’

Harper’s head hurt, partly from her wounds, partly from trying to grasp what Leslie was saying. She didn’t quite get it, didn’t try. Instead, she changed the subject to her latest trauma: finding Larry and Monique.

Leslie checked Harper’s eyes and the newest injuries to her head. ‘You should have gone to the hospital.’

‘And you should know why I didn’t.’

Leslie sighed. Sipped chai. Asked Harper to repeat what had happened at the house. When Harper finished, Leslie was still waiting, expecting more.

‘And?’

And? Harper blinked. And what? Wasn’t the murder of two students enough?

‘Flashbacks?’ Leslie persisted. ‘In all of this violence and mayhem, didn’t you have flashbacks?’

Actually, she’d barely avoided some. She recalled grabbing the twist out of Ron’s Martini glass. ‘I used a lemon a few times. It helped. Ice, too. I was able to ground myself.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

Silence. Leslie watched her, sipped. ‘Harper, I mentioned that I want to try something new today. Grounding techniques like lemons can help you manage flashbacks, but there’s a technique that some say has actually helped reduce them. Even stop them.’

Harper put her mug down. ‘I thought PTSD was permanent.’

‘So far. But every day there are new discoveries about how the brain works.’

Indeed, Harper thought. Drugs were being developed that could help brains learn. Or cause them to commit suicidal rapist serial killings.

‘Is this a drug?’

‘No – oh, no. It’s based on eye movement. Let me explain.’

The technique was called EMDR, for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. The theory was that PTSD arose because the brain had inadequately processed the memories of traumatic experiences, and that stimulation of both sides of the brain through rapid eye movement, coupled with other processes, could help the brain fully process and integrate those memories, thus easing or even eradicating symptoms.

‘Rapid eye movement?’

‘It’s a normal process that happens in sleep. When we dream.’

‘So this is like hypnosis?’ Harper was skeptical.

‘No. You’ll be fully conscious, aware of your location and of your safety.’

‘Sorry. I don’t get how it works.’

Leslie smiled. ‘The idea is that PTSD is linked to a dysfunctional memory. Simply put, your memories got incompletely or inaccurately recorded, so your brain got stuck on them. We’re going to help you retrieve the missing parts of those memories. Parts that haven’t appeared in flashbacks. For example, think of a car crash. The driver is too freaked out during the crash to record every detail. But, revisiting the crash in a relaxed situation, he might recall details, such as the color of the other car or what was on the radio during impact. By retrieving more details, you’ll attain a broader view of what happened. Get it?’

Sort of. ‘But won’t remembering details only bring on more flashbacks?’

‘Doubtful. Your flashbacks are triggered by feelings of imminent danger and specific sensations – smells, sounds and sights that you associate with what happened in Iraq. Here, you’re in no danger. You won’t hear explosions or smell fire. There’s no sun or sand or flies or guns or screams. No triggers, no flashbacks.’

Harper shifted, folded her arms. ‘I’m not sure it will work.’

Again, Leslie smiled. ‘Well, we won’t know unless we try.’

And so they began. First, Leslie asked Harper to identify a place where she felt safe, and to relax and think about it. If she had to, during the therapy, she could always return to that place. Harper thought of her grandmother’s kitchen, the aroma of mince pies baking, and allowed herself to drift.

Then Leslie used her hands to direct Harper’s eye movements from side to side, quickly. And she asked her to return to Iraq, to the morning of the explosion that had wounded her. Leslie guided Harper to the checkpoint where she and Marvin had been on patrol. And Harper’s memories began. Marvin was talking about a movie. The morning was hot. Dry. She had cramps. Felt sore and bloated. Wasn’t really listening to Marvin. The others on patrol were in the intersection by the orange cones, facing away. A local boy came along, waving. The woman, Sameh, approached, heading for the market. For about twenty seconds, Harper pictured the scene. The boy hanging around the soldiers, the sun glaring through the dusty haze, buildings the color of sand, conversational clatter from the market. Her cramps so bad that she didn’t notice a car approaching from the north.

And – bang – the sensation of flying.

Leslie told her to relax and stop moving her eyes. ‘Tell me what comes to mind. Any thoughts?’

Harper bit her lip. ‘I should have prevented it. It was my job. They all died because I fucked up.’

‘Tell me what was new. What do you notice about the memory?’

‘The car. I should have seen it.’ She was holding her stomach.

Leslie pointed to Harper’s hands. ‘What’s with your tummy?’

‘Oh. I had cramps that morning. Bad ones. I’ve never remembered that before.’

Leslie beamed. ‘See that? You recalled things that your mind never processed. New details.’

‘So this is working?’ Harper let go of her belly. ‘Remembering cramps will stop my flashbacks?’

‘It’s a start.’ Leslie finished her tea. ‘Let’s begin again.’

Again, Leslie directed Harper’s eye movement, asking her to focus on the approaching car. Harper saw it in the periphery of her vision. She stood beside Marvin, nodded ‘good morning’ to the boy and to Sameh. The car approached, trailing a cloud of dust. Leslie asked who was driving the car. Were there passengers?

Harper stood on the corner, peering at the car, trying to make out the person inside. Her eyes darted rapidly from side to side. Who was driving? A man? Yes, a man. But there was a second person beside him. So, two young men? And an arm hanging out the open back window. Three?

Leslie told her to relax, stopped directing her eyes. ‘What do you think?’

‘There were three. At least three in the car.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

Harper thought. The car full of suicide bombers was coming straight down the road. Headed for the soldiers at the checkpoint, Sameh, the boy – all of them unaware that in seconds they’d be dead. Because Harper had been too distracted to stop the car.

For the rest of the session, they repeated the pattern: half a minute of rapid eye movement with memory, then a short discussion about it.

Again and again, Harper faced the unbearable fact that she was responsible for the carnage that morning. She had seen the car, should have stopped it. Again and again, she saw the boy with no face and felt her body soar on to the top of a parked car, covered with bits of Marvin. But, at the end of the session, even though she tried, she still couldn’t locate the remains of the other soldiers, and she had no idea what had happened to Sameh.

Leslie was excited by Harper’s progress and made an appointment for the next day, urging her to jot down any related thoughts or memories that might arise. As Harper was leaving, she touched her arm. ‘One more thing, Harper. Remember: an affair doesn’t have to mean the end of a marriage.’

Really? It didn’t? Harper walked out of Leslie’s office, unable to imagine trusting Hank ever again. Or any man. Or woman. Did she trust Leslie? Who knew? Harper felt drained. Except for her skull, which felt full of goose down, fuzzy and soft, unable to function. Her limbs ached, sore to the touch. She needed sleep; thought of her room, her bed, her home. She wondered if she could go back. Even if the police were done with it, could she go back there? Could she sleep where Monique had been murdered, where Larry had sucked his last breath with a nail file stuck in his larynx? There would be blood on the porch, on the bathroom floor.

Still, she’d have to go back some time; ought to call Detective Rivers and find out when she’d be allowed. She pulled her phone out of her bag, saw that she had missed calls. Two from her mother, wanting Harper to call. Two from Vicki, explaining that Harper had been asleep when she’d left that morning and she wanted to know how she was; would she please call. One from Detective Rivers, reporting that her house was no longer a crime scene, so Harper could go home. And one from Ron, asking how she was.

Ron had called. Just to ask how she was.

Harper got on to her Ninja, thinking about Ron. About their dinner the night before. And about going back to Vicki’s, turning down his invitation to stay with him. She’d been unable to sleep afterwards, imagining it. Not just staying there, but actually sleeping with him. Having sex with him. She hadn’t done it, of course, but she’d thought about it. So, how different was that from Hank?

Very different. Because, even if she’d considered it, she hadn’t done it. She had spurned the offer and lain awake, feeling lonely, needy, guilty and cranky, staring at the television, turning, pacing and, eventually, going through Hank’s computer. To find out that he had slept with Vicki.

If only she hadn’t logged on to that damned computer. Everything would be different. She wouldn’t be furious with Hank, wouldn’t want to tear out Vicki’s hair. The affair, the cheating and lying still would have happened, but at least she’d be blissfully unaware.

In her head, Leslie repeated, ‘An affair doesn’t have to mean the end of a marriage.’

Really? What did Leslie know about it? Had Leslie’s husband ever cheated? With her friend? Harper doubted it. She’d only seen him once, from a distance. His shorts had been too short; his legs pale and skinny, his knees knobby. Not a cheater.

Starting the Ninja, she stopped to make sure her bag was secured behind her seat. Man the thing was bulky. She carried too much stuff with her – all that junk she’d dumped on to Vicki’s guest bed, looking for that missing paper. And what about that missing paper? She took her bag out again, peeked inside, half expected to see it lying right on top. No luck.

She poked around, but it simply wasn’t there. So where the hell was it? She’d promised to give it to Ron. Now she’d have to tell him she’d lost it. Embarrassing. Even so, she picked up her phone, returned his call. And minutes later pulled into the Ithaca Bakery’s parking lot, feeling flushed.

Ron was waiting at a table with her iced chai and some banana walnut bread. When Harper approached, he stood, brushed her cheek with a kiss. A kiss? Just a peck, Harper told herself. A greeting, nothing more. In France, she’d have gotten two of them. She took a seat, her cheek tickling from the bristles of his chin.

The place was empty. Two o’clock: quiet time. Ron reached over and took her hand. His grasp was confident. Entitled.

‘I’m glad you called.’ His eyes glowed, golden. ‘I’ve got to say it even if it offends you: I thought about you all night.’

He had? Harper looked away. Then she looked back. ‘You didn’t need to worry. I was fine—’

‘I wasn’t worrying.’ Ron grinned, his teeth white against his tan. ‘The fact is, you were on my mind.’

Harper’s free hand tightened around her drink, a smile pasted on her face. Awkward.

‘You’re not offended?’

She laughed nervously, dared to meet his eyes. ‘No. You were on mine, too.’

‘Seriously?’ He grinned, leaned forward. ‘Harper, I don’t know what’s happening here. And I shouldn’t say this. But . . . honestly, I’m kind of smitten.’ He watched her. ‘I should be at work now, but I had to see you.’

Harper watched his lips move. He had to see her?

‘I know it’s bizarre. Fact is, aside from the Center, we barely know each other. And you’re married, for Christ’s sake. And the circumstances. Murders and drug thefts? Not exactly a good prognosis for a relationship.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘But here I am. Here we are. I mean, are we?’

Were they?

Harper stalled, crushed a napkin. ‘We are.’ Well, they were. What to do about it was a different issue. But, for the moment, she didn’t need to do anything. It felt good just to be there.

They left together, in his car. Going to her house, presumably so she wouldn’t have to face the mess alone. As he drove, he held her hand with a comfortable grip. She thought only sporadically of Hank.

There were no police cars at the house, but yellow police tape still draped the porch. She dreaded going inside. Her belongings would be scattered. Blood would have crusted on the bathroom floor. When Ron parked the car, she turned to thank him; silently, gently, he lowered his mouth to hers.