fantasy! How could he do such a thing! I was nearly shaking with fury. And how could she let him touch her daughter! Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Charity. Santa Claus for God’s sake! Poor Laura, flesh and blood, bright mind and long future twisted around the pain of protracted, silent victimization. The long slow murder of her childhood.
Her parents had failed miserably to protect their only child. Both of them. For how long had she been pulled into her father’s profound sickness, and felt murdered, nightly or however often he claimed her? For how long had her mother made herself deaf and blind with the help of a bottle? I took another deep breath. Impulses came from every direction, clashing midway. I didn’t want to add more pain or put Laura in further emotional jeopardy by forcing out the truth. But if my suspicions were right, and I was sure they were, then I’d be multiplying her pain just as her mother had if I remained silent, consciously ignoring her signals. I had to say something. I had to drag it out, disinter it, because it wasn’t dead.
“It’s time to be concerned with Laura,” I said. “Nobody else. You’ve been terribly abused, and the idea that you can’t tell the people who could help you is part of the damage he did to you.”
I watched her confusion and slow comprehension. Her secret was out, exposed to light and air, without her having said it. Then her expression turned to horror. Terror. Surely there would be a thunderbolt, the apocalypse. It had been so much easier, more permissible, to confess to murdering the man than even to whisper why she had cause.
“Not one bit of it was your fault,” I said. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be afraid of now, either.”
She looked at me bleakly. It was going to take a lot more than her English teacher saying things were okay before she realized the guilt was not hers. Her father had done his twisted work well.
“And your mother knows, too. She just doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“She could have stopped him!” The words ripped out of her throat. As terrified as she’d been of exposing her secret, I was sure it was equally terrifying to let out any of her anger. “She’s my mother!” The fury drained away almost as quickly as it had come, and her head returned to its bowed, defeated position.
“He was sick, and she’s a very frightened woman.” My rational tone surprised me. Inwardly, I felt homicidal rage against the senior Clausens.
Perhaps some of the violence I felt showed, because Laura crumpled. If I hadn’t caught her, she would have fallen to the floor. As it was, I held her, again aware of how little weight she carried.
She doubled over, clutching her stomach, visibly hurting deep inside.
I held her and eased us both down onto the floor. And there we sat, crying, holding each other.
I don’t know when it was that Mackenzie, worried, sent in a policewoman to check on us. Susan Bertram, her name was, and I will honor her forever, because when I explained, as obliquely and gently as I could, what had happened, she looked as if she herself had been wounded. She sat down next to Laura on the cold tile floor and put her arm around her and made it clear that she had all the time and intention in the world to stay with her and keep her from falling.
I knew Laura’s mind was numb with old griefs and new fears, but I hoped that on some level, through her tears, she’d notice that there were some safe harbors, even if you sometimes found them on a ladies’ room floor.
Seven
ONCE WE EMERGED FROM THE WOMEN’S ROOM, OFFICIAL WHEELS SPUN. Servino, the man assigned to the Clausen case, asserted himself and talked with Laura, Alice and Peter in rapid succession, then repeated the process.
Susan Bertram, the policewoman, talked with Alice and Laura separately and together.
Mackenzie talked with Peter again.
I waited. Ever since I was a kid, I’d been intrigued by the two circles joined by a curve that make up
Her parents had failed miserably to protect their only child. Both of them. For how long had she been pulled into her father’s profound sickness, and felt murdered, nightly or however often he claimed her? For how long had her mother made herself deaf and blind with the help of a bottle? I took another deep breath. Impulses came from every direction, clashing midway. I didn’t want to add more pain or put Laura in further emotional jeopardy by forcing out the truth. But if my suspicions were right, and I was sure they were, then I’d be multiplying her pain just as her mother had if I remained silent, consciously ignoring her signals. I had to say something. I had to drag it out, disinter it, because it wasn’t dead.
“It’s time to be concerned with Laura,” I said. “Nobody else. You’ve been terribly abused, and the idea that you can’t tell the people who could help you is part of the damage he did to you.”
I watched her confusion and slow comprehension. Her secret was out, exposed to light and air, without her having said it. Then her expression turned to horror. Terror. Surely there would be a thunderbolt, the apocalypse. It had been so much easier, more permissible, to confess to murdering the man than even to whisper why she had cause.
“Not one bit of it was your fault,” I said. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be afraid of now, either.”
She looked at me bleakly. It was going to take a lot more than her English teacher saying things were okay before she realized the guilt was not hers. Her father had done his twisted work well.
“And your mother knows, too. She just doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“She could have stopped him!” The words ripped out of her throat. As terrified as she’d been of exposing her secret, I was sure it was equally terrifying to let out any of her anger. “She’s my mother!” The fury drained away almost as quickly as it had come, and her head returned to its bowed, defeated position.
“He was sick, and she’s a very frightened woman.” My rational tone surprised me. Inwardly, I felt homicidal rage against the senior Clausens.
Perhaps some of the violence I felt showed, because Laura crumpled. If I hadn’t caught her, she would have fallen to the floor. As it was, I held her, again aware of how little weight she carried.
She doubled over, clutching her stomach, visibly hurting deep inside.
I held her and eased us both down onto the floor. And there we sat, crying, holding each other.
I don’t know when it was that Mackenzie, worried, sent in a policewoman to check on us. Susan Bertram, her name was, and I will honor her forever, because when I explained, as obliquely and gently as I could, what had happened, she looked as if she herself had been wounded. She sat down next to Laura on the cold tile floor and put her arm around her and made it clear that she had all the time and intention in the world to stay with her and keep her from falling.
I knew Laura’s mind was numb with old griefs and new fears, but I hoped that on some level, through her tears, she’d notice that there were some safe harbors, even if you sometimes found them on a ladies’ room floor.
Seven
ONCE WE EMERGED FROM THE WOMEN’S ROOM, OFFICIAL WHEELS SPUN. Servino, the man assigned to the Clausen case, asserted himself and talked with Laura, Alice and Peter in rapid succession, then repeated the process.
Susan Bertram, the policewoman, talked with Alice and Laura separately and together.
Mackenzie talked with Peter again.
I waited. Ever since I was a kid, I’d been intrigued by the two circles joined by a curve that make up
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