and drew blood. We had to report the naughty girl to dog control.” She leaned back in her chair, her face alive with the memory.
Remembering my husband’s unfortunate experience with the press the previous spring when reporters had lurked about on the street outside our house, ambushing him whenever he appeared, I said, “Give the pooch a medal.”
Ms. Bromley crinkled her nose thoughtfully. “I wrote a radio play once for NPR, but it was never produced.”
“I don’t remember running across any of your plays.”
“And you won’t, my dear. There was only the one, and it should stay well and truly buried.”
The waitress brought our food at that moment and the conversation turned to children (mine) and pets (hers) and grandchildren (hers and mine). I confess I even dragged out my wallet-size photos of Chloe, aged one month and already cute as a button. When our plates were taken away and Trish went off to fetch the world-famous pie, I figured I had beaten around the bush long enough. “I was interested in one of your books in particular.”
Ms. Bromley looked up from her tea. “Oh, yes?”
“Triple Jeopardy?”
Ms. Bromley cast her eyes upward as if what she wasabout to say was written on the ceiling. “Ah, yes.” She laid her elbows on the table, made a tent with her fingers, and rested her chin on her thumbs. The eyes studying my face were green, flecked with brown. “That was an interesting one. I spent some time with a woman in Charleston whose therapist claimed to have identified twenty-three distinct personalities. She wasn’t so much a woman as a club!” She straightened her back and leaned forward, confidentially. “Can’t imagine what I’d do with all those people cluttering up the place. I have a hard enough time managing the one personality I’ve got.”
Trish set a thick slice of pie crusted with cinnamon in front of each of us. Ms. Bromley took a bite from the pointy end and chewed it thoughtfully. “I wrote that back in the days when multiple personalities were all the rage. You probably remember Sybil ?”
I nodded.
“But before that, there was The Three Faces of Eve .”
“Joanne Woodward,” I said.
“Exactly.” She took another bite of pie. “That theory’s been largely debunked, though.”
I was surprised to hear that. If you believe what you see on Lifetime TV, one woman out of three is harboring multiple personalities. “It’s not the multiple personalities I’m curious about, actually. It’s the idea that memories of things that never happened—like sexual abuse—can be recovered.”
I watched her face carefully when I said that. I didn’t want her to think that I had been sexually abused.
“The two are related,” Ms. Bromley said matter-of-factly. She dabbed her lips with her napkin, then rearranged it in her lap. “Some therapists theorize that abused children develop these alternate personalities as a coping mechanism to help them deal with the abuse.The only way to integrate these individuals, they feel, is to help them remember the traumatic experiences that triggered the split.” She leaned back in her chair and studied me thoughtfully. “I suppose there may be genuine instances of memories being deeply buried, then remembered sometime later, but unless we are to believe that there’s been a recent epidemic of child sexual abuse, most experts now discredit this theory, too.”
I felt my spirits soar. “They do?”
She nodded. “Experiments have shown how easy it is to create false memories in even the most levelheaded of people. I think you’ll find a lot of background material on this in my files.”
She laid down her fork. “And there have been recent cases …” She looked thoughtful. “… a big article in The New Yorker , even. They’ve coined a term for it—false memory syndrome.”
What a relief! If Georgina’s symptoms had a name, maybe there was a cure.
Ms. Bromley folded her hands on the table in front of her. She
Remembering my husband’s unfortunate experience with the press the previous spring when reporters had lurked about on the street outside our house, ambushing him whenever he appeared, I said, “Give the pooch a medal.”
Ms. Bromley crinkled her nose thoughtfully. “I wrote a radio play once for NPR, but it was never produced.”
“I don’t remember running across any of your plays.”
“And you won’t, my dear. There was only the one, and it should stay well and truly buried.”
The waitress brought our food at that moment and the conversation turned to children (mine) and pets (hers) and grandchildren (hers and mine). I confess I even dragged out my wallet-size photos of Chloe, aged one month and already cute as a button. When our plates were taken away and Trish went off to fetch the world-famous pie, I figured I had beaten around the bush long enough. “I was interested in one of your books in particular.”
Ms. Bromley looked up from her tea. “Oh, yes?”
“Triple Jeopardy?”
Ms. Bromley cast her eyes upward as if what she wasabout to say was written on the ceiling. “Ah, yes.” She laid her elbows on the table, made a tent with her fingers, and rested her chin on her thumbs. The eyes studying my face were green, flecked with brown. “That was an interesting one. I spent some time with a woman in Charleston whose therapist claimed to have identified twenty-three distinct personalities. She wasn’t so much a woman as a club!” She straightened her back and leaned forward, confidentially. “Can’t imagine what I’d do with all those people cluttering up the place. I have a hard enough time managing the one personality I’ve got.”
Trish set a thick slice of pie crusted with cinnamon in front of each of us. Ms. Bromley took a bite from the pointy end and chewed it thoughtfully. “I wrote that back in the days when multiple personalities were all the rage. You probably remember Sybil ?”
I nodded.
“But before that, there was The Three Faces of Eve .”
“Joanne Woodward,” I said.
“Exactly.” She took another bite of pie. “That theory’s been largely debunked, though.”
I was surprised to hear that. If you believe what you see on Lifetime TV, one woman out of three is harboring multiple personalities. “It’s not the multiple personalities I’m curious about, actually. It’s the idea that memories of things that never happened—like sexual abuse—can be recovered.”
I watched her face carefully when I said that. I didn’t want her to think that I had been sexually abused.
“The two are related,” Ms. Bromley said matter-of-factly. She dabbed her lips with her napkin, then rearranged it in her lap. “Some therapists theorize that abused children develop these alternate personalities as a coping mechanism to help them deal with the abuse.The only way to integrate these individuals, they feel, is to help them remember the traumatic experiences that triggered the split.” She leaned back in her chair and studied me thoughtfully. “I suppose there may be genuine instances of memories being deeply buried, then remembered sometime later, but unless we are to believe that there’s been a recent epidemic of child sexual abuse, most experts now discredit this theory, too.”
I felt my spirits soar. “They do?”
She nodded. “Experiments have shown how easy it is to create false memories in even the most levelheaded of people. I think you’ll find a lot of background material on this in my files.”
She laid down her fork. “And there have been recent cases …” She looked thoughtful. “… a big article in The New Yorker , even. They’ve coined a term for it—false memory syndrome.”
What a relief! If Georgina’s symptoms had a name, maybe there was a cure.
Ms. Bromley folded her hands on the table in front of her. She
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