There was a loud knock on the door, and it flew open. Dr. Weeks looked surprised. There was a sign on the door indicating that we weren't supposed to be interrupted.
Evan was standing there with my dad. Dr. Weeks stood. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Your mom called,” Dad said. “She told me about the dream you had last night. I talked about it with Evan, and we thought we better come right over.” The two of them shuffled for space in Dr. Weeks's overstuffed office.
“I called her this morning to tell her I remembered hittingâ”
Evan cut me off before I could say anything else. “You don't remember. You had a dream. ” He smiled at Dr. Weeks. “I think it would be best if Jill's therapy stayed away from difficult topics.”
Dr. Weeks's mouth twitched. “As I'm sure you can understand, the entire point of therapy is that nothing is off-limits for discussion, including difficult topics. I would like her to reflect more on her relationship with Simone so she can move forward.”
Evan straightened his paisley tie. “As you can surely understand, anything, including your notes, could be subpoenaed in a trial.”
The two of them stood on opposite sides of the room, like an Old West showdown. I could picture Dr. Weeks pulling the plastic model of the brain out of a holster at her hip. Evan would have to counter with his fountain pen.
“Maybe Jill shouldn't have any counseling until this whole thing is resolved,” my dad suggested. “Focus on the physical stuff for now.”
“She's been through a traumatic event,” Dr. Weeks said. “It's important that she get emotional support as she processes what happened.”
“I'm standing right here,” I said, rolling forward so I was between them. “You guys don't need toâ” The word was gone, and I clenched my fists, wanting to scream. I thought my aphasia was getting better, but at times it still popped up like a nasty jack-in-the-box, sucking back my words in giant gulps. My brain fished through my memory, trying to find a replacement term. “Speak about me like I'm not even here.”
Dr. Weeks smiled at me. “You're right. What do you want, Jill?”
“I like the counseling,” I said. “Coming here helps.” There were all these thoughts swirling around in my head, and Dr. Weeks seemed like the only person who would be able to anchor them in place.
Dad rubbed his eyes. “Look, this isn't the time to put this to a vote. This isn't a democracy. We need to do what's best for Jill.”
“Why do you assume I don't know what . . . ” I bit down. The word was right there. “That I don't know what . . . what's best?”
“Fine, we'll play it your way,” Evan said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But I want you to picture this. You're on the witness stand, and they're asking you about every little detail you shared in here. They're reading out loud how you remember hitting Simone. They'll show that slutty photo of you that's all over the Internet, some stupid quote you put on Facebook. They'll put people on the stand who remember you two fighting and repeat any nasty thing you ever said about herâeven if it was a joke at the time. That's how they build a case, block by block, until the jury believes everything that comes out of their mouth. They're putting enough together without you giving them a loaded gun.”
“I didn't kill Simone,” I insisted. My voice came out harsh. I held on to that fact, that certainty, as if I was trying to withstand a hurricane.
My dad looked away. “The truth doesn't matter,” he said. “What matters is how the prosecution spins the facts.”
“The truth matters to Jill,” Dr. Weeks said quietly.
Evan interrupted her again, telling her that he wasn't trying to shut down the truth but was simply ensuring that things wouldn't get twisted.
I kept looking at my dad. I could feel all the blood in my head abandoning ship and sinking down to my feet. He thought I might have done it. He believed I killed Simone, or at the very least that it was possible. I swallowed hard. I should have been happy my dad was still trying to keep me safe, but maybe he was only doing that because he didn't want to be dragged through the mud with me.
“What does Mom think?” I asked.
Evan crouched down so he was even with my wheelchair. “Your mom agrees that it's important we circle the wagons right now. Make sure we don't make things easier for the prosecutors.” He patted my arm like I was some addled old woman in a nursing home who was raving about something that happened years ago. He stood. “Perhaps there's an easy compromise. What if Jill continues with counseling, but we don't discuss Simone?” Evan smiled as if he'd figured out a particularly difficult calculus problem.
I had to swallow a rush of bile in my throat. My parents believed I killed Simone. They thought I was guilty.
There was a buzzing in my ears. I was willing to believe that Simone and I might have fought, and even that if things had been very bad, that I might have shoved her, or hit her. But driving off a cliff with her in the car? Never.
Except the two people who should know me best in the world seemed to think it was possible.
