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 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 character Amy, 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 have to warn you, though. This FMS group is very controversial in psychiatric circles. Some see it as just another way of saying ‘I don’t believe you’ to rape victims.”
“But I know Georgina hasn’t been raped.” I watched a squirrel scamper up a tree outside the window and thought about my options. Up until now, there weren’t any. This was the first positive lead I’d had. “How do I contact them?”
“Your best bet would be through the Internet. Search Yahoo or Lycos.”
I was impressed that this woman, who had come of age during the Depression, would know so much about the Internet. Although I tried not to think in stereotypes, my astonishment must have shown on my face, because she added, “Another one of my hobbies.”
She laid her crumpled napkin on the table and sighed. “Everyone’s a victim these days. It’s the most popular sport in America. If I’m failing in school, it’s some teacher’s fault for not preparing me properly. If I wreck my car, it’s the manufacturer’s fault. If I’m depressed, it must be due to some dark secret in my past.” She scooted her chair backward and stood.
I reached for my purse. “Whether Georgina was abused by my father or not, we still have the problem of what to do about Diane Sturges’s murder.”
“Sherlock Holmes said it best: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ ”
“I see. Roughly translated, since my sister and my father are innocent, then someone else must have killed the therapist.”
“Exactly.”
I pulled out my wallet to pay for our lunch, but Ms. Bromley waved it away. “No, no, Hannah. Your money’s no good here. Besides, you’re my guest. It’s the least I can do after all the work you’re doing on my moldy archives.”
“Well, if you’re sure, then thank you.” I stuffed my wallet back into my purse and began rummaging in the bottom for my car keys. One day I would simplify my life and learn to carry one of those itsy-bitsy wallet-size purses on a string, but for the time being, I’d have to sift through the old lipsticks, loose change, paper clips, and pencils jumbled about on the bottom of my tote. My fingers eventually closed around a key chain-shaped object underneath a plump packet of folded paper. “What on earth?” And then I remembered. I still had the pages from Diane Sturges’s appointment book, right where I had stashed them the night I drove Georgina home.
“Thank you!” I said again, fingering the crisp folds of paper and remembering the list of names they contained. “And now I think I have a very good idea about where to start looking.”
chapter 8
I was surprised when no one answered the door at my parents’, because my father’s Lincoln was sitting, big as life, in the driveway. I jiggled the doorknob, but the front door was locked. Making a mental note to ask my mother for a key, I wandered around back, along an uneven path of slate paving stones that wobbled under my weight. The path led through a side gate into a pocket garden where brownish grasses and scraggly gray weeds flourished. I bent over to pull up a clump of crabgrass and smiled, thinking, Watch out, weeds! By spring this plot would respond to my mother’s green thumb, and bloom with color.
Although I was thinking about her, I was surprised when I turned the corner to discover my mother, bundled in her purple parka, sitting at the picnic table. Her elbows rested on the sun-bleached redwood boards next to a can of Diet Coke, and she was smoking a cigarette.