They fade down the upstairs hallway. He must be going into his room to get changed. He probably still wears his suit and tie.
What are they fighting about? Why would Tom’s father want to punish his mother? What does that mean?
Tom lies there wondering, listening to the sounds of the house. His father running the water in the upstairs bathroom. His mother moving around in the kitchen. For a moment, he thinks she’s speaking. But to whom? Herself?
The tension between his parents forms a deep ache in his heart. A splitting in his mind. If his parents don’t love each other, what does that mean for him? They made him — they came together and made him; he knows that much. They loved each other, and he grew in his mother’s belly. Now that they don’t love each other, does he cease to exist? No, he’s still here. But what does it mean when he’s one part his father and one part his mother — and they’re so divided?
* * *
Michael’s eyes are wet. He lies on his side, holding the blanket.
He won’t talk for a long time. I have a hundred questions. And I want to press on, to go deeper into the night of the murder.
But I’m getting simultaneously pulled toward my own son. I need to call Paul and Joni and check in with them.
Just when I’m about to end the session, Michael speaks again.
“There’s someone else here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
As Tom lies there worrying about his parents, he hears a familiar sound: a car engine. But Dad is already home. And this car doesn’t turn into the house driveway. Instead, it comes to a stop somewhere outside.
Tom dares to get out of bed and go to the windows. Below the windows is a radiator, wafting heat. He climbs atop it for a view down on the street.
The vehicle idles just beyond the light thrown by a streetlamp. A figure sits behind the wheel, and a white curl of smoke rises up from a slightly open window.
The bathroom water shuts off. Tom rushes back to bed as someone approaches his door. He’s just gotten the covers right when his door opens.
His father enters — Tom knows it’s his father by the smell of soap and the creaking of the floor beneath his weight. He keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep. But when his father places a gentle hand on Tom’s chest, then kisses him on the forehead, Tom stirs.
“Dad?”
“Just me, buddy. Go back to sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
David opens his mouth, then closes it. He sits on the side of the bed. Tom feels his weight; the mattress sags toward his father, pulling Tom closer as his father asks, “Did you hear us? Talking?”
“Yeah. A little.”
“It’s all right, buddy. Every couple has arguments.”
“But you and Mom . . . for a long time . . .”
“We’ll work it out. How was your day?”
Tom describes some of school and day care, but he has a hard time taking his mind off his worries. Divorce? He knows a little about that. But he can’t bring himself to ask his father. David kisses his forehead again and wishes him a good night. At the door, he turns.
“I love you, Tom.”
And then he leaves.
* * *
“Tom?” I try to remain calm, but inside I’m filling up with anxiety, about to spill over. “Who is outside? Can you see him?”
“No.”
A name comes to mind, bright and clear. “Is it Doug Wiseman?”
“Who?”
The question spilled out of me before I could stop it, but Tom’s response gives me pause. That angle might be moot because Tom doesn’t know Doug Wiseman yet. Both Frank and Detective Mooney thought he came later. Even if they’re wrong and David Bishop is “punishing” his wife for having an affair, it’s still highly unlikely Tom knows Doug at this point in his life, even if his mother does.
“Never mind,” I say. “Just tell me what happens now.”
* * *
His father and mother talk some more in the kitchen. It sounds less fraught, and that eases Tom’s mind. He hears her walk up the stairs — her footfalls are as distinct as his father’s — and listens as she moves down the hallway to her bedroom and shuts the door. Now it’s just his father downstairs. Probably finishing up his meal.
His mother is going to bed and his father is eating a late dinner. All is right with the world.
Relieved, his mind wanders to school and some of the kids there, and then to Harry Potter and the story he’s reading.
With that, Tom drifts off to sleep.
For a little while.
His rest is disturbed when the side door to the house opens and closes.
It, too, is a distinctive sound he knows well. Has his mother gone out to smoke? Has his father left?
Tom checks the window: The car in the street remains parked there. Only now, it’s unoccupied. Something smolders on the snowy road, too small to see. A cigarette, maybe.
Nimbly, he hurries to his door. Before he even gets it open, a voice rises from the kitchen. His father.
“What are you doing? Are you fucking crazy?”
Tom freezes, thinking it’s him David is talking to. But it can’t be. His father can’t see him yet. And he’d never speak to Tom that way.
But from downstairs, there’s no response. Maybe just the rustle of a coat, the groan of the floor beneath solid weight.
“I’m calling the police,” David says.
Heart beating harder now, Tom pushes his door open farther and eases out to the stair landing. He starts down, mindful of the noise.
“I’m calling them,” David says. “I’m calling them right now. You better put it away. Hey — put it away!”
There’s a noise — a wet, smacking sound — like the sound made when his mother hits the chicken with a studded mallet, and his father cries out in pain. Tom freezes in place. He’s halfway down the stairs, listening as two people wrestle. Bursts of grunts. Feet scuff the linoleum in an obscene, aggressive dance. The sounds reverberate in the stairwell, past the clocks, up to Tom’s ears.
Bad fighting . . .
There’s another wet-smack sound and a soft noise, almost like a kitten’s mewl.
Something hits the floor.
A second later, Tom sees a bloody hammer tossed aside, hears it thump against the lower cabinets.
Then a figure, its back to Tom, runs for the side door.
* * *
I’ve temporarily forgotten everything else in my life. I’m leaning toward the bed, barely seated, straining toward Michael, who has drawn into an even tighter ball. The tears stream down his face sideways. His body shakes. I want to stop this, but I can’t. Not now. We’re too close.
“Michael . . . who was in the kitchen?”
* * *
Snowflakes not yet melted stand out in crisp white contrast on the person’s black jacket. Tom sees this as the person leaves. Slipping back out into the night, where more snow swirls in an updraft.
The moment is so shocking, so unfamiliar, that Tom doesn’t move. Can’t move. It’s as if he’s become disconnected from his body. There’s just the thinnest sense of existence, of being loosely tethered to reality.
Finally, after what seems like it could be either seconds or hours, Tom continues down the stairs, until his father comes into view.
And his mother, who cradles his father’s bloody head in his hands.
She looks up at Tom, tears streaming down her face, her mouth open in a frozen scream.
* * *
Michael is moaning on the bed. The sound has a different tone and pitch from his regression to Tom. This is distinctly feminine; the unsung howl of his mother.
“Tom,” I say quickly, sensing the danger, “it’s time to come back to the here and now. It’s time to return to our time. Where you are called Michael. Return to where I am. Where everything is safe and sound.”
“No,” he says sharply. His eyes stay scrunched tightly closed, though the tears have stopped. Determination resounds in his
words. “I’m staying.”
“You can’t. You can’t stay there. It’s not even really a place or a time. You’re here, with me, Dr. Lindman. This is your rightful place. It’s time to wake up.”
“No.” It’s a softer protest now.
I try to pull him out of it. I tell him to focus on my voice. To let everything else fade away. He’s been suggestible up until now. “When I count backward from five, you’re going to—”
“No!” Michael bolts upright as he screams. The force of his voice tightens my defenses. A second later, he’s off the bed. His eyes are still closed, unseeing, but he’s flailing with his arms, as if fending off attackers.
As if he’s reenacting the fight in the kitchen.
He picks up the lamp from the bedside table.
As soon as I see what he’s about to do, I’m out of the chair. I take refuge in the doorway, watching.
Michael swings the lamp, yanking the cord from the wall. The room darkens. He breathes and grunts and swings. The lamp strikes the bed post, exploding the bulb with a terrific pop.
“Michael,” I say, from the door. “Michael, please stop . . .”
But he’s got to work it through.
I stay out of harm’s way as Michael destroys my daughter’s bedroom. Using the lamp as a bat, he clears the perfumes and bric-a-brac from the dresser. He hurls it at the white walls, leaving jagged scrape marks where it shatters. He beats at the bed and pillows until the down feathers fill the air. Finally, he runs out of energy. Panting and sobbing, he drops to his knees, head hanging. He collapses onto his side.
For one terrible moment, I’m sure I’m going to have two young men in my life who are persistently unconscious. But Michael rolls over onto his back.
Moaning, he then opens his eyes. Staring up at the ceiling, he says one sentence. It is a crisp utterance, sharp and clean with discovery.
“It wasn’t her.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I don’t know what to do first. Or who, if anyone, to call.
After a moment’s indecision, I start by getting Michael a glass of water from the upstairs bathroom. He’s still in Joni’s room. Both the space and the man in it are demolished. He sits on the edge of her bed, his hands on his knees, his head lowered. He’s covered in down feathers. They cloak the room, like snow.
“Here. Drink this.”
He takes the water from me but doesn’t look up. I wait while he drinks — greedily, in one go — and then carefully, I sit beside him.
“Okay,” I say softly. I need to speak to my husband. And with Joni. And to check on Sean. “Are you okay?”
Michael nods, silent.
“You did really well, Michael. We just covered a lot of territory. It’s normal to be feeling upset. Drained, even. All completely normal.”
He nods some more.
“You’ve got a lot of new information — well, it seems like new information — crowding your brain. And all the emotions that come with it.” I ask the question quietly, but boldly: “Do you remember?”
His head slowly rises, and his eyes connect with me. I see a depth I hadn’t seen before. A sorrow that breaks my heart.
He says, “I remember.”
“You didn’t see your mother hurt your father.”
He slowly shakes his head. Tears fill his eyes. He swallows. “No.”
“It was a confusing time. A terrible time. Things get jumbled up.”
He doesn’t respond to this.
“We’re going to have a long road ahead now. But it’s important we stay the course. Don’t you think?”
He nods.
I say, “If these memories we unearthed tonight, if you’re sure they’re the truth, then we’re going to have some people to call. A lawyer, for starters. We’ll need to figure out our next steps.”
He looks at me for a moment, unspeaking. Then: “Okay.”
Finally, I say, “And because some of these people are going to ask, let’s try and get to it right now — do you think you could identify your father’s attacker?”
Michael crosses his arms and takes a shuddering breath. It’s as if he’s drawing inward, protecting himself. The thought of his father’s attacker still out there . . . In addition to everything else, obviously including the possible false conviction of his mother, it’s got to be scary. A murderer walking free.
I rise from the bed when it’s clear he can’t — or won’t — identify anyone now. I don’t even have a picture of Doug Wiseman to show him. Maybe in an email from Frank? But that can wait.
“The important thing is,” I say, “you’ve taken this important step. You’ve—”
“Why did I say it was her?”
The question stops me cold. It’s so innocent, carrying such guilt and shame with it, I almost lose the ability to stand. But we can’t get into that right now. Going charging after the cops before we have the whole story will only make matters worse.
I tell Michael, “What you need to do now is get some rest. Don’t worry about any of that. Just let the new information take its time to soak in. Let the thoughts and feelings come up; don’t try to suppress them. You’ll be able to relax soon, I promise you. Go ahead and use Sean’s room.”
Michael shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t stay in there. It’s my fault what happened to him.”
“No, it’s not. Sailing accidents happen. Now you’re conflating two things.”
“He was out there because of me.”
“He would’ve been out there anyway. You feel responsible for your mother, and so now you feel responsible for Sean. But you’re not responsible for her. You were a child. So stop.”
He looks up and studies my face. Then he lowers his head again. His shoulders jump with a single sob.
“Michael,” I warn him softly. “I need to know if you’re going to be okay. Are you worried you might hurt yourself?”
His face tilted down, he shakes his head.
“Are you worried you might hurt someone else?”
He looks up and frowns. “What? No.”
“I have to ask. I’m not your therapist, but I have to ask. And listen, if you’re not comfortable in Sean’s room, take the couch downstairs.”
Michael sniffs and swipes at his nose with the back of his hand before glancing around the room. “I’m going to clean this up.”
I surprise him, and myself, by grabbing his shoulder. “Leave it. Just go downstairs. Lie down on the couch. Drink some more water, try to unwind. I’m going to make some calls.”
And I leave the room, afraid my own emotions are going to tear loose in front of him.
Enclosed in my bedroom, I pull out my phone. Calling Paul first isn’t right, either. I can’t be present for my family until I take care of my needs. I’m a dam about to burst.
I call the only person I can think of. The person who’s known me for over twenty years, the one who’s seen me through the roughest parts of my life.
I call my old therapist, Sarah.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It’s her machine. Not her voicemail, but the landline machine she still keeps in her home office. I start to leave a brief, if vague, message — “Hi, Sarah, it’s been so long and . . . the timing is strange, it’s late, I know . . . I’d really like to speak to you. One professional to another . . .” but the message grows until I’m pouring my heart out.
I tell Sarah about what happened from the time Michael showed up to the revelation just minutes ago. I tell her about Arnold Bleeker and Candace. About Rebecca Mooney. I even mention Maggie Lewis’s suicide.
By the end of it, I’m fully sobbing. Every other sentence is an apology. For calling her, for calling late, for not keeping up with my therapy these past few years. Through it all, I picture Sarah the way she was twenty-five years ago, her silver hair back in a braid, her large hoop earrings, the smell of jasmine in her office. A real hippie.
God, she has to be in her mid- to late seventies now. Poor Sarah, getting dragged into my mess
. But therapists are great with boundaries, and she’ll know how to process it. And so I unload and talk for so long that the machine cuts me off with a shrill beep.
A bit dazed, I put my phone away. I find the Kleenex on Paul’s dresser and wipe my eyes, clear my sinuses. Paul is my next call. He talks very quietly at first, as if he’ll disturb Sean. But Sean can’t hear him, of course. There’s been no change. The doctor came back briefly about an hour before and then went off shift.
Our son’s future remains in limbo.
I ask Paul where Joni is.
“I don’t know. I assumed Michael came back and the two of them went out.”
“It’s almost eleven . . .”
“Yeah.”
I sigh and say, “Michael is actually still here with me.”
“Oh. Okay. Why?”
“We . . . I’ll talk to you about it in the morning. It’s too much right now.”
But Paul knows. “You did it again. You regressed him.”
“Let’s just wait until tomorrow.”
I hear a door close downstairs. Alarmed, I leave the bedroom and start down. “Michael?”
Paul, on the phone: “What? Did he leave? Emily, I think you need to be careful now. We don’t know how he’s going to act . . .”
I come into the kitchen first, then check the living room. No one on either couch. “Michael?” Moving to the windows, I see a figure walking across the darkened front lawn, toward the docks. Oh no.
“Paul, I’ve got to go. He’s on his way down to the water.”
“Let him. Listen to me. Maybe you need to stay away from him complete—”
But I run for the door. It doesn’t matter what Michael has gotten us into. He was an innocent child. Now he’s out there, riddled with pain and guilt. Because of me. Because of choices I’ve made.
I can’t let anything happen to him. I can’t have another Maggie Lewis.
“Michael!”
I run across the yard, down the gentle slope toward the water, flailing my arms as I go, as if trying to flag down a truck. Michael turns as he steps onto the dock. It’s hard to make out his features in the darkness.
HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Page 19
