spoke so softly that I had to lean forward to hear her. “Hannah?”
“Yes?”
“This isn’t one of those I-have-a-friend-who conversations, is it?”
When I didn’t answer right away, concern clouded her face. “Were you …?” She paused, as if unwilling to put words into my mouth.
I considered how much to tell this woman I’d just met. Maybe I had read so many of her books that I just felt that I knew her. Maybe she reminded me of my grandmother. For whatever reason, I instinctively knew she would be discreet, so I decided to trust her.
“No, not me. I was curious about your characterAmy, Ms. Bromley, because she reminded me of my sister Georgina.” I pushed my pie aside and leaned toward her over the table, my voice a whisper. “She has just accused our father of sexually abusing her while we were living in Sicily.”
Ms. Bromley reached out and laid her hand, warm and soft, on mine. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” I felt so relieved! She really understood.
“And it’s obvious to everyone in our family—except for Georgina and her husband—that these so-called memories are totally false!”
“Have you tried talking to your sister?”
“Several times. At first I didn’t know what she was getting at. She kept asking me all these weird questions. By the time I figured it out, her therapist had been murdered, and now we’re all in a fine pickle.”
“Murdered?” Her teacup grazed the edge of its saucer. “Is this the therapist up in Baltimore that I heard about on the news?”
I nodded.
“You poor thing!” She shook her head. “I’ve written about murder all my life. I’ve stabbed ’em, shot ’em, poisoned ’em … even threw a victim out of an airplane once, but it was all the fruits of an active imagination. Never hit me close to home, thank goodness.” She reached over and patted my hand, which was nervously converting what was left of my roll into tiny crumbs.
“The police suspect my sister, I’m afraid, although they also questioned my father.”
“How perfectly dreadful!”
“It’s actually my sister who pointed the finger at Dad. It’s tearing the family apart, Ms. Bromley! My brother-in-law won’t even allow his children to visit their grandparents anymore!”
“That’s a great pity. I can’t imagine …” She sat quietly for a moment, as if lost in thought. “There are good therapists and bad therapists out there, Hannah. But if you’re convinced your sister’s gotten herself into the hands of one of the bad or careless ones, it will take some kind of proof.” She stared out at the bare trees for a moment. “For instance, I read about an unmarried woman who claimed she had been systematically abused by her father, even aborted his child. It wasn’t until a medical exam showed she was still a virgin at twenty-eight that she recanted.”
“I’m afraid Georgina’s not a virgin.”
“But there may have been some exculpatory evidence earlier; do you have access to her medical files? Her school records? Abused children are often absent from school.”
“My older sister and I thought of that. I’m going to ask Mother about them this afternoon, although my parents have just moved, so God only knows where they’re packed or if they’re even still around. I hate to upset my mother.”
“Take some advice from an old woman. Your mother probably already knows. You’ll need to work on this as a family, my dear. And when you do, you’ll find support groups out there. One in particular. The FMS foundation.”
“FMS?” I thought of the financial management system I used in my former life at Whitworth & Sullivan.
Ms. Bromley paused while Trish cleared away the empty teapot and our dirty dessert plates. When the waitress was out of earshot, she continued. “The initials stand for false memory syndrome. You can link up with other people who have gone through the same experience.” She leaned comfortably back in her chair. “I haveto warn you, though.
“Yes?”
“This isn’t one of those I-have-a-friend-who conversations, is it?”
When I didn’t answer right away, concern clouded her face. “Were you …?” She paused, as if unwilling to put words into my mouth.
I considered how much to tell this woman I’d just met. Maybe I had read so many of her books that I just felt that I knew her. Maybe she reminded me of my grandmother. For whatever reason, I instinctively knew she would be discreet, so I decided to trust her.
“No, not me. I was curious about your characterAmy, Ms. Bromley, because she reminded me of my sister Georgina.” I pushed my pie aside and leaned toward her over the table, my voice a whisper. “She has just accused our father of sexually abusing her while we were living in Sicily.”
Ms. Bromley reached out and laid her hand, warm and soft, on mine. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” I felt so relieved! She really understood.
“And it’s obvious to everyone in our family—except for Georgina and her husband—that these so-called memories are totally false!”
“Have you tried talking to your sister?”
“Several times. At first I didn’t know what she was getting at. She kept asking me all these weird questions. By the time I figured it out, her therapist had been murdered, and now we’re all in a fine pickle.”
“Murdered?” Her teacup grazed the edge of its saucer. “Is this the therapist up in Baltimore that I heard about on the news?”
I nodded.
“You poor thing!” She shook her head. “I’ve written about murder all my life. I’ve stabbed ’em, shot ’em, poisoned ’em … even threw a victim out of an airplane once, but it was all the fruits of an active imagination. Never hit me close to home, thank goodness.” She reached over and patted my hand, which was nervously converting what was left of my roll into tiny crumbs.
“The police suspect my sister, I’m afraid, although they also questioned my father.”
“How perfectly dreadful!”
“It’s actually my sister who pointed the finger at Dad. It’s tearing the family apart, Ms. Bromley! My brother-in-law won’t even allow his children to visit their grandparents anymore!”
“That’s a great pity. I can’t imagine …” She sat quietly for a moment, as if lost in thought. “There are good therapists and bad therapists out there, Hannah. But if you’re convinced your sister’s gotten herself into the hands of one of the bad or careless ones, it will take some kind of proof.” She stared out at the bare trees for a moment. “For instance, I read about an unmarried woman who claimed she had been systematically abused by her father, even aborted his child. It wasn’t until a medical exam showed she was still a virgin at twenty-eight that she recanted.”
“I’m afraid Georgina’s not a virgin.”
“But there may have been some exculpatory evidence earlier; do you have access to her medical files? Her school records? Abused children are often absent from school.”
“My older sister and I thought of that. I’m going to ask Mother about them this afternoon, although my parents have just moved, so God only knows where they’re packed or if they’re even still around. I hate to upset my mother.”
“Take some advice from an old woman. Your mother probably already knows. You’ll need to work on this as a family, my dear. And when you do, you’ll find support groups out there. One in particular. The FMS foundation.”
“FMS?” I thought of the financial management system I used in my former life at Whitworth & Sullivan.
Ms. Bromley paused while Trish cleared away the empty teapot and our dirty dessert plates. When the waitress was out of earshot, she continued. “The initials stand for false memory syndrome. You can link up with other people who have gone through the same experience.” She leaned comfortably back in her chair. “I haveto warn you, though.
Similar Books
