What You Remember I Did (26 page)

She waited for the most memorable quote from the movie. "The things we like best are either illegal, immoral or fattening." She thought about Matt, sex, and a banana split, and lit a joint, something she hadn't done in a long time. Gary and his partner smoked a little weed every night after work; Gary said weed took the edge off better than booze, and without the side effects, and he'd given her a little in case she wanted to try it. It just made her cough.

Unable to justify further inaction, she removed the movie and replaced it with the offensive tape of her mother and Tonya. She set the machine to copy and watched the counter move, remembering that she'd bought the camera in the first place because, while it hadn't quite made her feel like a Bond Girl, it had given her a sense of being "with it." And it had certainly paid for itself in a way she could never have foreseen.

When the copy was done, she put it in her tote bag, hid the original in her closet, and went to bed. Before turning off the light, she took a notebook out of the drawer of her nightstand. On the front page was the list she'd made what seemed like forever ago of the twenty questions that should be asked of a therapist who claimed to have uncovered buried memories of abuse.

How many of them had she asked or investigated? Not all. Not even close. She had looked into Tonya's educational background and read her books, and she knew now that Tonya believed herself to have been the victim of abuse or a sexual attack, but where, when, who? Had a police agency been involved? Had there been a civil suit? Had any third parties watched, taped, filmed or been involved in any of her therapeutic sessions?

And the financial questions. She hadn't asked if Tonya was an owner in any other business or about her spouse or partner's educational background, or whether he or she was a financial partner; come to think of it, she had no idea about Tonya's personal life, which was probably the way it was supposed to be but now felt sinister.

Had Tonya ever been sued for unpaid fees, libel, slander or made a deal with the media or with a publisher? Did she carry liability insurance and, if not, who paid her legal fees?

She had once asked at what point Tonya had diagnosed her as having been abused and what step-by step procedure had led to her diagnosis, but the answer remained unclear. When she'd asked for a written opinion of her case, she'd been ignored. That was when she'd asked if Tonya sometimes brought in other experts as consultants or discussed cases unofficially with her colleagues, what her criteria were for doing so, and whether they provided her with written opinions. "We can talk about that down the road if you like," Tonya had said, appearing to make a note of it.

Another time, thinking more of Eliot than herself and wondering why Tonya had never contacted Matt in that case, she'd asked whether Tonya ever made any specific attempts to verify information provided by her clients. The answer had been, "
Mmm
. Sometimes."

How the pieces fit together she couldn't guess, but there were surely people more informed than she who could make sense of it–see patterns of behavior that meant something. The fact was that, despite all of her homework, she didn't know nearly enough. Her intention tonight had been to mark the questions she'd consciously tried to ask and think about the others, but she was too tired to do anything but go to sleep.

Early the next morning, she picked up the phone to leave a message at Tonya's service, but quickly changed her mind. A forewarning would allow too much time for her to–what? Leave town? Telling herself she'd been watching too much crap on TV, she drove to the Holiday Inn, ate breakfast, drank an entire carafe of coffee, and headed for the familiar parking lot at the back of the building.

It was exactly ten minutes before the hour, the beginning of Tonya's break between patients. So far, so good. Pulling into the spot next to Tonya's car in the lot, Nan dialed the number on her cell.

"This is–"

"You're there. Good. I need to see you." When the therapist didn't respond, she spoke her name sharply. "Tonya?"

Tonya cleared her throat. "I was expecting to hear from you. Can you give me a couple of hours?"

"I really need to see you now."

"Please, Nan. I have to think."

Tonya hung up. Nan lit a cigarette and looked up at the building, counting the floors to Tonya's window. As she pinpointed it, a shining object crashed through the glass and hurtled downward. When it hit the pavement, there was the sound of shattering glass. Normally, she'd have gone at once to see what the object was, but there was nothing normal about this day. She stared at her silent cell phone, flipped it shut, and dropped it onto the passenger seat next to her purse. How had things come to this? Why? She leaned back, closed her eyes, and indulged in something of a retrospective of the time since she had met Matt.

After a while, she got out of the car and walked toward whatever had been thrown onto the concrete. She didn't know what she'd expected, though after watching the tape she should have guessed. Hand shaking, she picked up the shattered picture frame and peered at the sepia mother-and-daughter image she'd seen so many times on Tonya's desk. The daughter sat in the mother's lap. The mother's hands were hidden. The pose echoed several pictures Nan had of herself and Catherine.

Placing the photograph in her bag with the tape, she headed inside the building and upstairs to the fifth floor. The door to Tonya's suite was ajar. The receptionist was busy at her desk.

"'Morning, Nan." She waved toward the inner office, which faced the parking lot. "Go on in."

Tonya sat alone, staring straight ahead. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes red and bordered by dark circles. Her skin had an ashen cast.

Nearly overwhelmed by fury mixed with pity, Nan took out the tape and put it on the desk. "Do you visit all of the mothers?"

Tonya stared at the tape.

"It's your visit with my mother."
 
She waited, expecting Tonya to take it and, at the very least, protest extenuating circumstances.

Tonya said nothing. She buzzed for her receptionist and waited, running her hand over the highly polished surface of the dark mahogany table she used as a desk.

Concern was painted on the receptionist's face more heavily than her Mary Kay makeup. Tonya looked up at her. "I'm not feeling well. Cancel our individual appointments, would you?"

"I'll do that. Then I'll drive you home. Your car's still in the shop."

"No, really, I can manage." Tonya shook her head. "Take the day off–"

"Too much to do, what with the conference and research for your article and...." She stared at the window, then at the desk where the photograph had stood. "I should get that fixed."

"It'll wait. It'll all wait."

"What about Group? I called everyone last night like you asked."

"I'll handle that. Go home."

The office door swung shut, leaving Nan alone with the therapist in the soundproofed room.

"Do you, Tonya?
 
Do you visit all of them?" She handed the photograph to the therapist.

"I was eight years old," Tonya said, so quietly that Nan could barely hear her. With one fingertip she stroked the cheek of the little sepia girl. "I'm not eight any more, but my life isn't worth a damn."

Rather than sitting in her usual spot on the big, comfortable, leather sofa, Nan chose a high-backed chair.

"Have you read anything about mirror neurons?" Tonya asked, almost conversationally.

Nan nodded. "I read Dr. Siegel's book."

"
Parenting from the Inside Out
?"

"Yes."

The author was the director of the Center for Human Development in Los Angeles, so Nan had figured she could put some stock in what he'd written. If she remembered correctly, and provided she had properly understood what she was reading, therapists could use their own system of what was called mirror neurons to provide a potential bridge between minds. MN systems, as they were called, were used to perform cognitive functions and to mirror the actions of others. She had thought of it as a complicated extrapolation of "Do-As-You-Were-Done-By."

"I gathered that early developmental failures of MN systems could be the reason behind all manner of developmental problems, even autism," Nan said, somewhat uncertainly.

"Since you know that much," Tonya said, and Nan felt a dangerous thrill of pride, "you also know that there is purportedly a neurobiological basis for patient-therapist transference and, this is the interesting part, for counter-transference."

Here it comes
, Nan thought.
The rationale.

"Counter-transference," Tonya repeated. "The assumption is that if therapists can use their own mirror systems to understand problems and generate empathy–"

"Are you talking about transferring emotions about things in their lives onto a client?"

"Yes. The work on mirror neurons supports and provides scientific basis for Freud's theory that transference is a two-way street."

"Meaning?" Nan's pulse quickened.

"Meaning a therapist's reactions to a client could be shaped by the therapist's own earlier relationships. Try to understand, Nan. Please. All those things I thought your mother did to you? It was my mother who did them. To me." Her eyes filled with tears.

"Are you sure?"

"No one can be absolutely sure. There
are
such things as repressed memories. But there are also–"

"–false memories."

Tonya nodded. "Memories implanted by a trusted therapist who herself has been victimized. Or believes she remembers being victimized." She closed her eyes. "I don't expect you to absolve me of what I've done, but I want you to know I am terribly sorry."

As Nan's fury began to dissipate again in the face of Tonya's remorse, she reminded herself how much she and her mother had been harmed by this woman. "I have to go to the licensing board" she said.

"I'm not licensed. Under state law, therapists don't need to be."

"Then I'll go to the police."

Tonya shook her head. "You know, I actually wish it were that simple. This is a matter of personal conscience, not legality. What I've done may be unethical and immoral, but there's no law against it."

"You can't keep practicing. You're hurting people."

"I know. I promise I'll do the right thing."

Nan was tempted to trust her. Tonya seemed instantly aware of her weakening resolve. She looked at her watch. "I called a group session. Would you join us before you hang me out for the vultures?"

On autopilot, Nan followed Tonya toward the room where most of the support group had already gathered. En route, one of the newer women stopped them.

"Lorna won't be making it," she said. "Some woman in a white car ran over her mother and never slowed down. She–"

"Not now," Tonya said.

They went into the room.
 
Nan sat next to Biker Dude and waited for what she thought of as the opening ceremonies–a whine here, a complaint there, Tonya trying to settle everyone down with a smile and a few kind and skillful words.

But there were none of the usual rituals–no chitchat, no going around the circle so each could tell what progress or lack thereof had happened during the week. In uneasy silence, the group members looked at Tonya or averted their eyes. Even Biker Dude said nothing.

"I have an announcement to make." Tonya held up the tape Nan had given her and looked around the room. "This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do."

She stopped.
Say it
, Nan silently urged.
Say it or I'll say it for you.
But she wasn't sure she could.

"Without meaning to, I've hurt all of you."

"Hurt us?" somebody exclaimed. "Tonya, you've helped me so much–"

"No!" Tonya cried, and several people flinched. Nan guessed they'd never heard the therapist speak in anything other than calm and measured tones. "What we discovered together about the memories you had repressed may or may not be true."

Biker Dude leaped to his feet and shook his fist. "Bullshit! That's bullshit!" Others murmured and gasped.

"No one can ever know for sure," Tonya said, and Nan thought she would scream at the repetition of the infuriating phrase. "I do know for sure that my own baggage has contaminated my work with all of you."

The gravelly-voiced woman spoke up. "You mean the memories you've helped us recover aren't true?"

"I think they're not yours." Tonya took a deep, ragged breath. "I think the memories we've recovered are mine."

"Oh my God! You were abused?"

"Who did that to you? Tonya?"

"Tell me who it was and I'll kill the bastard!" Biker Dude had assumed a fighting stance.

"You were imposing your experiences on us? Tonya, how could you?"

Tonya got unsteadily to her feet. "This is the last time you'll see me." For a moment her gaze rested on Nan. Then, weeping, she clutched the tape in both hands and stumbled out of the room.

"Do you think we have to pay for today?" someone asked, as Nan stood and headed for the door.
 
And life goes on, she thought, opting not to take the elevator.
 
She took the stairs slowly, thinking about Tonya as she put one foot carefully in front of the other. She got into her car and, as if out of nowhere, the pieces fell into place: The old woman at West Nyack who burned to death; the sudden death of Joy's mother; the woman who pulled out her own life-support system; the attack on Catherine and the strange nurse at the hospital. Now Lorna's mother, killed by a woman driving a white car like the one Tonya had in the shop.