The marriage hadn’t been going well anyway. He refused to attend her mother’s Sunday dinners and spent weekends at their beach house. After they split, she set out to find a man who wanted children, but ended up having an affair with her sixty-year-old boss who said he was too old to start a new family. Now that she had been raped, could she have a child? Would there be a physical problem? And would a man ever want her—raped, defiled, unclean? Her shoulders sagged under her thoughts.
Her smartphone alarm rang, reminding her she was late. Having lost faith in her memory, she had resorted to setting the alarm. She turned her thoughts toward the counseling session. This was her habit, to sit alone before meetings with clients and review what she anticipated, consider any agendas that might arise, and decide what she wanted to achieve.
Today, her feelings were mixed. She was desperate for Cindy’s help in stopping these panic attacks, but another part of her rebelled at having a stranger probe her private thoughts.
“Talk out your emotions,” Cindy had said in the ER. “Talking releases fear.” The trouble was, Grazia didn’t know how. Her parents had shown little interest in listening to a sensitive child talk about her feelings, so she had learned early to hold them inside. Although outwardly very social, Grazia kept her own counsel and never confided in anyone. As one of few women in a high-powered, male-dominated, fiercely competitive law firm where she specialized in construction contract law, she had grown skilled at concealing her feelings behind a smile and easy banter. This brought success but also strengthened the walls around her emotions until at times she wondered if she had any feelings at all.
Now, she realized with foreboding, the emotions that she had walled in had burst from their enclosures. She was drowning in them! But who to trust with her confidences? As much as she respected Cindy’s expertise and felt grateful for her support during those nerve-fraying hours in the ER, Grazia wasn’t sure she could tear down her emotional walls for a stranger just yet.
Grazia sighed. Her grandmother would be praying for a miracle from a saint. But that was the Italian way, and she was in New York. Looking at the glass-fronted office building where Cindy was waiting, Grazia realized that if there were a miracle that would cure her emotional and psychological mess, the miracle worker would have to be human. She got to her feet.
A smiling security guard pointed to the elevator, and in a few moments Grazia was stepping out to a small lobby where Cindy and the receptionist greeted her with friendly smiles. Do Americans never stop smiling, Grazia wondered, feeling inadequate in the face of such cheer.
She followed Cindy stiffly into her office and sat guardedly in a soft armchair. She refused the chrysanthemum tea and the homemade ginger cookies, feeling as though eating them would put her under Cindy’s control. “Don’t reveal your weakness,” warned her voice inside her head. “Don’t let her know you can’t handle this situation.”
“Have you called your mother yet?” Cindy began.
Grazia broke down on the spot. She put her hands over her face and sobbed. “She’s in shock. She cries on the phone. She says she can’t tell my grandmother, that she’ll never sleep again. Cindy, I used to be brave. Now I can’t go home because I can’t face my mother. I’m so ashamed.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Cindy said gently.
“In my country, the police say that it is the woman’s fault! That she should know better than to expect a man to behave differently than men behave.”
“You did nothing to cause a man to drug you and rape you.”
“How do I know that!” Grazia blurted, revealing her deepest fear. “Maybe I did invite him to my hotel room. I can’t remember! Ten days ago I sat across a negotiating table from high-powered lawyers and contractors, all of them yelling at me, and I smiled and negotiated a multi-million-dollar contract. The stress made me feel alive. This morning I cried in a restaurant.”
Cindy nodded as if she had heard this before. “You felt intense fear when you were attacked, even though you don’t remember feeling it. Your body is releasing the emotional tension by weeping.”
“Food doesn’t taste right,” Grazia continued, mopping her tears with a handful of Cindy’s tissues. “You said no caffeine, so I feel half asleep. The prophylactic AIDS medication that I’m taking sometimes makes me feel nauseated and tired. Worse,” and Grazia groped for words, trying to be logical while feeling she was standing at the edge of an abyss, “when I walk down the street, anxiety floats around me like a cobweb. But worst of all, is this terror that comes out of nowhere. I can’t move; I can’t even breathe.”
“These are normal feelings of fight-or-flight that help you survive. Your body is telling you that the world is a terrifying place and you need to fight or run. Fear is a normal reaction to trauma. It’s physical. Some women feel like they are floating. Other women’s fingers go numb, or they feel breathless, or their hearts pound so hard the floor seems to move. These sensations will slowly pass when you talk about your feelings and work through the trauma. There are techniques I can teach you to control the powerful emotions that are leading to your panic.”
“I don’t want techniques,” burst out Grazia, angrily. “I need to know who this man is. When I know that, I won’t be afraid. He knows everything about my body, and I don’t even know his face! He’s following me, and I can’t stop him because I don’t know what he looks like. Knowledge is control, Cindy. As a lawyer, when I control the facts, I control a case.”
“Knowing who this man is will not give you control over him, and it won’t erase your panic. Many women who come to me for counseling know their attackers’ names, their faces, where these men live. Some women are taking legal action. But these women still have panic attacks and can’t sleep at night. They’re afraid to walk down the street alone. They cry at the drop of a hat.”
“So what do I do?” groaned Grazia. “I can’t keep having panic attacks! Monday afternoon I have a job interview and I need that job.”
“Accept that the trauma you experienced is more shocking than anything that has ever happened to you. You’re alone in a difficult city with no mother, no boyfriend, and no friend to comfort and protect you. Adrenalin is pouring into your blood, speeding up your heart. Your muscles are tensed, keeping you awake to protect yourself. One day you will again be the brave, in-control Grazia. But don’t expect that today. Today, your survivor brain is keeping you hyper-alert and hypersensitive to everything around you.”
“Detective Cargill says that I can’t remember the man’s face because I’m afraid of him. And he says I can’t remember Saturday night because I’m afraid to experience the assault again mentally.”
Cindy sipped her tea. “Detective Cargill has been a cop for thirty years. It’s a dangerous job, and he has learned to stay detached from the emotional side of his work. But his wife had kidney disease and last year she died. He took off six months to be with her. He returned to work a few days after the funeral and started having anger problems. He got suspended a few times. I suspect he said those harsh things to you because he needs to find this perpetrator to keep his job. Your lack of memory is preventing him from doing that.”
Grazia lifted her hands hopelessly. “I wish I could help Detective Cargill, but I can’t even be sure how I got to the Brazilian Bar or who I was talking to before I was drugged.”
“Some of that is dissociative amnesia. It happens when something so terrifying happens to a person that their brain blocks out everything surrounding the event. Some people get their memories back, but some never do. Your memories may return after you feel safe—maybe after time, when you’re back in Italy. In the meantime, I’ll give you some tools to get through your day.”
Cindy slid a paper across the table. At the top was written “My Healthy Alarm System.”
“You know how smelling smoke makes you stop everything and look for a fire? Smoke is a ‘trigger.’ It alerts you to fire. We all have triggers that set off feelings of anxiety, fear, even panic. These tr
iggers come from what we see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. Or our thoughts.”
“My panic attacks come from nowhere.”
“Every emotion is triggered by something. Identify the trigger, and you are on the way to managing your emotions. One of my clients panics in a crowd. She was robbed in a crowded subway. Now when she is in a subway and feels panic, she knows her panic is caused by people pressing against her. She gets out and moves to a less crowded car or she stands near the station master booth where she feels safe. She waits until she feels calm and gets back on a train. Learning what triggers your emotions teaches you about yourself and how you relate to your world.”
“Cindy, I’m not me any more. My name doesn’t feel like my name. If I tell you I’m a lawyer in Naples, I feel like I’m not talking about me.”
“Women who are raped feel like their whole world has changed. They lose trust in themselves to cope with life. Trust is the first thing that date rape destroys. Recovering from rape involves learning to trust again. Many women discover that what they thought was trust in a man was actually a need for security. They take a hard look at their relationships. They spend time with people they want to be like. They find new jobs. Grazia, you will find yourself again, even though you will have changed. You will trust yourself again. But this takes time. Typically a woman who has been raped goes to a counselor for a year.”
“I don’t have a year,” Grazia said flatly. “I have five days. I leave for Italy Friday morning. Monday afternoon I have a job interview. I have to be in control of my emotions or I won’t get the job.”
“Goal-oriented women like you like deadlines. But deadlines won’t work with health. Your body heals at its own pace. Take away your time expectations. You will be amazed how quickly you recover.”
Soothed by Cindy’s calm acceptance that she would recover her emotional balance, and feeling stronger as she realized that other women had recovered from the same trauma, Grazia accepted a cup of chrysanthemum tea and started writing down the times and places she had felt panic in the last twenty-four hours. Writing was a familiar activity. It calmed her. Then she and Cindy talked about what might have triggered each episode.
Progress was slow. When Grazia described the terror she felt leaving her room or walking down the street alone, she had to take deep breaths. When she described the glint of Francisco’s diamond wedding band under the table lamp, or the flash of sunlight on Raoul’s watch in the café, or the eyes of young men on the street as they watched her pass, her voice grew hoarse. She felt as if she were floating. When she described her reaction to the young man at the Brazilian Bar putting his hand under her elbow, her hands tingled.
“Your bruises show that you were grabbed by the arms,” concluded Cindy. “Your pull-away reaction was normal. As time passes, you will learn to step back from your emotional response and remain calm. One day, a man will take your arm to help you and you will thank him.”
By the end of the hour, the cobwebs of anxiety still clung, but not so tightly. Grazia felt that now she could look a bit ahead. She could start to plan how to go after the man who had spun these cobwebs around her.
Chapter 16
Grazia left Cindy’s office feeling optimistic that she could eventually control her fear and panic by locating what triggered them. Now it was lunchtime, and Cindy had counseled her that regular, healthy meals would help her body expel the Rohypnol. At the same time, she thought, she was taking another powerful drug, the prophylactic AIDS drug. While one powerful drug was leaving her body, another was building up. One day, she thought with determination, she would find the man who raped her and learn if he had AIDS. If he didn’t, she could stop taking the prophylactic AIDS medication. She pushed all of that out of her mind and headed towards her breakfast café. The food was good and the waiters welcoming. It was a friendly island in a sea of strangers.
The morning snowstorm was over and a weak sun was emerging from behind gray clouds. Grazia drew the cold air deep into her lungs and walked briskly, vigorously swinging her arms, feeling energetic and confident. Grazia Conti was back! Suddenly, panic hit the pit of her stomach. Shocked, she spun around, heart pounding. “Find the trigger,” she said aloud. She was on the corner of Seventeenth and Irving Place, a few doors from the Brazilian Bar. Had something happened to her Saturday night on this corner? Or had she spotted someone connected to Saturday night?
A young man was walking toward her. His black wool overcoat and dark trousers made her arms tense. But when she saw his dark knit cap, her chest tightened. She pulled out her journal and scribbled, “Trigger: dark knit cap, dark wool coat, dark trousers.”
Knees weak, she nevertheless felt jubilant. Her emotions were pinpointing the characteristics of the man who had attacked her! She would recognize the man when she encountered him because her emotions would tell her!
She continued walking toward Fourteenth Street, proud of herself. Then all at once, her stomach tightened into a cold knot. Not another panic attack! Despair flooded her heart. How long would she have to suffer these? As she looked around for the trigger, the anxiety faded. She continued onward, her thoughts drifting to Francisco and the upcoming contract negotiations with Kourtis. Panic hit again like a stomach punch. Her thoughts were the trigger! If even a wandering thought could trigger panic, identifying the many triggers was going to be more complicated than she thought.
Seated at the corner window table in the cafe, back to the wall, she ordered vegetable soup, a veggie wrap, and herbal tea. A quick call to Janine verified that lab results showed the drug was Rohypnol. She felt a surge of satisfaction. This one fact was the beginning of many more. The final fact would be the perpetrator’s identity. She pulled out her journal and revised her plans for the day: 2 p.m. hypnotist; 3 p.m. return to hotel to search Internet for the names Sophia had given her; 5:30 p.m. Brazilian Bar to talk to Nick; 6 p.m. quiet take-out dinner in her room, early to bed. Her schedule created a sense of order and security. Tomorrow she would go out for a good American steak at lunch, maybe with Raoul.
She drew Raoul’s face up into her visual memory. No anxiety, no panic. Still, she wondered with a flash of disquiet, could she trust her emotional reactions to give her accurate information? She couldn’t trust her mental memory; how far could she trust her emotional memory?
After lunch, Grazia headed down Irving Place toward the subway entrance on Twenty-third Street. Her fear of possible attack kept her vigilantly glancing over her shoulder or turning around to check behind her. Young men wearing dark wool coats and knit caps were everywhere—and all seemed to be looking at her. Forcing courage, she snapped photos with her smartphone. She would show Nick this afternoon. He could point to the features that looked familiar. Detective Cargill treated Nick as an un-convicted perpetrator. But Nick was a witness. She would decide for herself whether to trust him.
She started down the dark slippery steps of the subway entrance, and then scrambled back up. Huddled in a shop entrance, she struggled to identify what had triggered her panic. Was it the roar of trains coming into the station? Cindy had said that loud noises could set off panic in emotionally stressed women. More likely it was the young man in the dark coat and knitted cap who had followed her down the steps. A taxi slowed. The driver was wearing a turban. No anxiety. She climbed in.
A black-robed monk was texting while crossing against the light. The taxi driver honked. Sweat broke out on her forehead. But what was the trigger—the monk or the honking? She recorded both in her journal.
A traffic cop whistled them through an intersection. The sidewalks were jammed with people buying halal food from pushcarts. She rolled down the window and inhaled the spicy aromas of kebab and souvlaki. A grinding cement mixer and a crane unloading steel girders made Grazia homesick for Naples. Even though Francisco excelled at diverting suits and fines with bribes or other inducements, he wanted Grazia to visit construction sites to monitor the contracts she had negotiated. Francisco trusted her quick eye for faulty cement, po
orly laid electrical lines, or shoddy construction that could lead to a contract violation lawsuit or would bring the Building Safety Department down on their client’s neck.
Grazia’s mind turned to Monday afternoon’s job interview. Would the prospective employer expect her to be proficient at bribery because she had worked with Francisco? That thought led to Francisco’s call on Sunday evening. He had raged with fury about her draft of the terms for the Kourtis contract. She wondered if Francisco had yet contacted Kourtis.
Thinking about the Kourtis contract made her fists clench. She distracted herself by gazing at the new office buildings squaring off the blocks and dwarfing the graceful older structures. New Yorkers liked everything new—restaurants, fashions, and partners. Detective Cargill, on the other hand, wasn’t into the new, as witnessed by his faded green pullover sprung at the elbows, cheap haircut, and halfhearted attempts at shaving. Were his shoes ever polished? He had said the medical examiner would have results by tomorrow—Tuesday. Grazia would call him again after her hypnosis and tell him the memories that hypnosis had unlocked.
Evie’s hypnosis practice was on the fifth floor of a restored brick warehouse in SoHo on the corner of Spring and Wooster Streets. The display windows of the designer clothing shops on the ground floor featured clothing in theatrical shades of sequined black. Inside the tiny entry hall, Grazia took one look at the ancient elevator and climbed the steep metal steps. Her anxiety level balked at taking risks.
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