Page 53 of I Know She Was There

I looked at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

“After trauma occurs, we should step back and look at what happened, but humans aren’t wired that way. There are many reasons why we have maladaptive wiring, and it has to do mainly with the fact that our species wasn’t originally meant to live very long, so the initial responses to trauma sufficed—they got us through the tough times.” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Without getting all academic on you, I can tell you that besides punishing ourselves and trying to avoid what happened, we humans try to control the trauma. We want to make things better. That’s what you did, with your daughter. You gave yourself a do-over. You recreated a life with her where you were the perfect mother.”

Perfect mother. I flinched.

“It’s a mind game we play on ourselves: solve the trauma now and we’ve also solved it in the past. Something that happened years ago—in childhood even—is up for grabs today.”

I stared at him. “I don’t understand what you mean, doctor. I’m not sure I even want to.”

He smiled at me. “I really do understand your feelings, Caroline. Trauma overwhelms us. It changes the way we think. But deep down is the woman you were meant to be—the one who is desperately fighting to get out. It’s our job to help her.”

I wondered if he was right, or if that woman was not only resigned to hiding but longed to go even more deeply undercover. I thought of the stranger at 21 Pine Hill Road. Had my mind tricked me as I watched her bleed out? Perhaps she was a premonition, a glimpse of me in the future, the distance between us a temporary shield. A way to see my fate as an impartial observer.

“I suggest you try journaling, Caroline.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t really like to write. I’m no good at it.”

“This is a special kind of writing,” he said, sitting forward in the chair. “Think of it as a cross between a diary entry and an expenditure log, where you track everything going in and out of your account. When we add this form of therapy to traditional counseling and medications, studies show it reduces anxiety and depression on not only a conscious level, but subconsciously, which retrains patients to have more realistic views.”

“My child is gone, doctor. That’s as realistic as it gets, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said. “But journaling helps you remember the trauma. It comes out in your writing—puts everything on the record, so to speak.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to remember. Why would I?”

He laid a hand on my arm. “So you can resolve the trauma. Once and for all, Caroline.”

I squinted at him, not sure I understood. “So I write down my thoughts—even negative conversations I’m having with myself?”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “Then you scratch out all the negative words and replace them with positive affirmations. Over time, the process becomes natural.”

I rolled my eyes.

He shrugged. “It’s easy to incorporate and costs nothing, so give it a shot. What have you got to lose?”

The jarring ring of my bedside phone cut into the quiet room, causing both of us to startle. Dr. Ellison stood, nodding at the jangling device.

“You answer that. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Meanwhile, I’ll have the nurse bring you a journal.”

“Hello?” I said, watching the doctor retreat.

“Caroline?” Mary’s voice was tense. “I’m glad you’re still at the hospital.”

I swallowed my instinct to sigh. “Yes, Mary, I’m still here.” My voice betrayed the fact that I still hadn’t forgiven her for keeping me at her house against my will.

“That’s good,” she said. “You’re safe.”

“Of course I’m safe.” I wanted to hang up on the crazy old bat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because someone’s in your house.”

My stomach dropped into my bowels.

“What? Who?”

“I don’t know. It’s too dark to see from my window. Whoever it is flashed a small beam, just long enough, I think, to get inside.”

“Don’t go over there.” I said, trying to control my shaky voice. “Just call the police.”

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