Page 52 of I Know She Was There

THURSDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 14

Iwas eating dinner when Dr. Ellison walked into my hospital room.

“My timing is perfect,” he said, licking his lips in an exaggerated manner.

I pushed my plate of soggy meatloaf and lumpy potatoes toward him. “Be my guest but be warned: the contents of this tray are not fit for human consumption and may be hazardous to your health.”

He smiled and crossed over to the bedside chair. “I’d better not chance it.” A light shone in his hazel eyes. He didn’t look away from my visual interrogation, but I glanced back at my discarded plate, awkward as a teen at her first school dance.

I looked back at him through my lashes. “And your reason for being here today...?”

“Is to talk about you, of course. See what I can discover.”

I sat up straighter. “What do you want to learn about me that you don’t already know?”

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

Our exchange seemed more like a speed-dating interview than an interaction between a doctor and a patient.

“I can’t think of anything interesting to share.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded. “Why don’t you just tell me how you’re feeling, physically and mentally.” It was not a question.

I suppressed a sigh. “I’m groggy right now. Very sleepy.” I yawned.

“Yes, that’s the meds hard at work. Are you in any physical pain?”

“No, other than this IV stuck in my arm. It’s getting red and raw at the injection site.” I raised my hand and twisted my arm so he could see the irritated skin on the inside of my elbow.

“The IV is providing much-needed nutrients and fluids, Caroline. You were severely dehydrated and malnourished when you arrived here.” He cupped his jaw with one hand. “How do you think that happened?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged with one shoulder. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention to my health. I was so busy tending...” I stopped.

You were not caring for your child, Caroline. You no longer have a child.My mother’s admonishing voice.

I opened my mouth to yell at her then; remembering she was just in my mind, I closed it.

“You were going to tell me you were so busy tending to Emmy that you had no time to eat.”

“I don’t want to talk about Emmy.”

“Why not?” His expression remained pleasant, but I knew it was a trick. A clever way to get me to reveal the things I couldn’t allow myself to even think about.

“If I talk about her, I’ll cry.”

He leaned back, clasped his hands, and steepled his pointer fingers. “Crying is a positive action. It’s what we in the mental health field call a healthy catharsis.”

“Not if I can’t stop.”

He placed his steepled pointers against his lips as if considering my words. “You will cry, and you may cry for a while, but you will not cry forever. Nobody does.” He spoke through his fingers, which made it look as though he were shushing himself even as he was speaking.

“I don’t want to cry or talk about what happened,” I said impatiently. “I want to sleep.”

“That’s avoidance, which is not wanting to discuss what happened. I’d be willing to bet that on some level you think you deserve it. That’s self-punishment.”

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. I had nothing to say, but of course I knew what had triggered my bizarre behavior. I’d killed her, my Emmy. I must have.

Dr. Ellison continued as though he were giving a lecture on the topic. “Guilt and shame block grief. They don’t allow you the introspection you need to be what we refer to as the observing ego—the entity within you that objectively explores the trauma. Breaks it down and deals with it, piece by piece.”

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