Greg Iles - Blood Memory

“No. He caught my father abusing me. Sexually abusing me. And he killed him.”

“I see,” Dr. Goldman says in her most professional voice.

She says that to keep from saying Dear God or something similar. Hannah tries to be detached, but she’s not. That’s why she lets me call her this way. Hannah Goldman is the middle ground between professional detachment and the activist commitment of Nathan Malik.

“Do you believe what your grandfather told you?”

“He’s never lied to me before. Except about this, I mean, by omission. He said he kept the truth from me to protect me. And I always felt like something was wrong with the story they’d told me as a child.”

“Do you have any memory of the events he described?”

“No. But I’ve been thinking about repressed memories a lot lately.”

“Why?”

“It has to do with a murder case I’m working on.”

“The murders here in New Orleans?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Do you believe in repressed memories, Hannah? I mean, do you believe that a person can totally block something from their conscious mind?”

“Yes, I do. It’s a controversial subject. Very little is known about the neuromechanics of memory. But current evidence indicates that some trauma victims dissociate during their experiences and suffer amnesia for those events. The strange thing about your case is that it’s happening backwards. You’ve been handed corroboration of abuse before you even started to remember it. Considering the issues we’ve been dealing with for so long, this information could be the greatest gift you ever receive. I know it’s hard to see that now, but I think I’m right.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen to me, Cat. This is a very dangerous time. I want to see you as soon as you can get to my office.”

“Like I said, I’m not in town now.”

“Well, you need to get here. Are you drinking?”

“I haven’t had a drink in…a long time. I’m pregnant.”

“What?” This time Hannah can’t mask her shock.

“I know I should have called you. But I’m doing okay.”

“Listen to me. I think we should consider a hospital detox program. Then an inpatient abuse-recovery program somewhere. You can’t do this alone. After what you’ve been told today, there’s simply no telling what might happen. Flashbacks, body memories, suicidal impulses. Please tell me where you are.”

“I’m all right, really. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“If my daddy was really doing that to me…how could my mother not know?”

Dr. Goldman takes her time before answering. “There are two or three scenarios in these situations that usually explain the mother’s behavior. At some level she is aware of the abuse. But whether she’s in denial or a silent coconspirator, I can’t tell you without more information. In any case, the mother’s primary goal is to keep her family together at all costs. Still…Gwen might have had no idea that this went on.”

“Did you suspect it? Did you ever think I might have been sexually abused?”

“It’s crossed my mind once or twice. But these days we don’t bring up that idea unless the patient leads us there. And you never did. I thought the murder of your father was sufficient trauma to cause the problems we’ve seen. But now that this has surfaced, there’s a lot of work we can do. That we need to do. I know some very good people in this area, Cat.”

“Do you know Nathan Malik?”

“Why do you ask that?” Hannah’s tone is suddenly guarded. “Do you know him?”

“I met him.”

“Have you seen him as a patient?”

“No. Do you think he’s good at what he does?”

“He’s published some interesting articles. And he’s had some surprising successes with recovered memories. But he uses radical techniques. They’re unproven, and maybe even dangerous. I wouldn’t want you under the care of someone like that. You’re too fragile.”

“I was just asking.”

“Cat, are you in your car? I don’t think you should be driving.”

Dr. Goldman has received many calls from parking lots and from the shoulders of highways. “No. I’m just sitting here.”

“Are you in a safe place?”

I look across at the island, ominous and even forbidding beneath the gray clouds. “Yeah.”

“Where are you in your cycle? Up or down?”

“Neither. I’m numb.”

A sharp intake of breath belies the calming words that follow. “Cat, my concern is that this new information will trigger a manic episode. You’re in shock. You have no defenses left, other than mania. By going manic, you’re brain convinces itself you’re invulnerable. And if that happens, when you finally crash-” Static blots out Hannah’s voice. “The main thing to keep in mind is that what happened between you and your father is not your fault. You were a child. You couldn’t possibly make a free choice. You-” The static returns, this time like intermittent explosions in my ear.

“Thanks for answering,” I say into the static. “Thanks for always-”

A blaring horn nearly knocks me out of my seat. I look in my rearview mirror and see a big white pickup truck parked behind me.

“Hannah?”

The connection is gone.

The truck honks again. It’s waiting to use the causeway. The driver behind me may trust the muddy span, but I don’t. I want to back up and get out of his way, but I can’t seem to move. My hands lie on my lap like the hands of a quadriplegic. The horn blares again.

I can’t move.

Half a minute passes. Then a black man who looks like he weighs three hundred pounds climbs out of the truck and walks toward my car. He’s wearing a T-shirt stretched tightly over breasts much bigger than mine, and he doesn’t look happy at being delayed. When he reaches my car, he knocks on the window.

Up close, the man has a kind face. He looks about fifty years old, and though it seems unlikely, I wonder if fate has put me in the path of Jesse Billups. With great effort I pull the switch that rolls down my window.

“You look like you in the wrong place, lady,” he says in a deep and melodious voice.

“Are you Jesse Billups?”

The big man’s mouth breaks into a broad smile. “ Hell no. Jesse my cousin, though.”

“Is he on the island today?”

“Jesse always on the island.”

“I need to talk to him.”

The man leans back and looks at my Audi, then laughs. “ You got business with Jesse? That’s kind of hard to believe.”

“Is it? Well, I do.”

“Wait a second. You with them Sports Illustrated people who shot that bikini spread here back in the spring?”

“No. I’m Catherine Ferry.”

A blank look, then a faint spark of recognition in his eyes.

“Catherine DeSalle Ferry,” I clarify.

The smile vanishes, and the man straightens up and starts to tuck in his T-shirt. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, ma’am. I’m Henry Washington. What can I do for you? You want me to lead you over the bridge and find Jesse?”

“Is it safe to cross?”

Washington cocks his round head to one side. “Well, that’s a stretchy kind of word, safe. I been over this old thing many a time and it ain’t caved in yet. But one of these days, it’s bound to happen. Dr. Kirkland need to put a little more money in this old bridge. Make life a lot safer for everybody over here.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you ride over with me? When you done talking to Jesse, he’ll bring you back here to your car. And if he can’t, I will.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Talking to another person-particularly a stranger-has forced me to reenter the world of time and motion. After backing the Audi under a pecan tree and locking it, I climb up into the cab of Henry’s truck and perch on the passenger seat.