I put my coffee down and take a seat, my nervousness at our reunion strangling me like a too-tight turtleneck.
“Alexis Healy,” she says, cocking her head to one side. This close, I can see tiny lines around her eyes, proof of all the living she’s done over the years. Do I look older to her, as well? “It’s been what, sixteen years?”
“That sounds right.” I am struggling to reconcile this composed woman with the high-strung teenager that I once knew. I decide to get straight to the point. “This is a weird question, but did you send me an Overton T-shirt?”
She blinks twice, taken aback. “No.”
“One showed up at my house, and I didn’t order it. I can’t figure out who might have sent it. Then I heard you were the alumni coordinator, and I thought … Well, I don’t know what I thought.”
Madeline’s mouth twists into a perfunctory smile. “I’m afraid my duties as coordinator are limited to updating the local chapter’s email list and organizing the occasional happy hour.”
“You must have been surprised to hear from me,” I say.
A small smile passes over her thin, lipstick-free lips. “Not really, if I’m being honest. I fully expected that, at some point, you might reach out to me. In fact, I’ve thought of reaching out to you many times over the years.”
“You have?”
She cups her hands around her oversize mug of coffee and shifts in her seat. “I’m a psychology professor now. At George Mason. My area of research is trauma and recovery. And I don’t mean to sound grandiose, but what happened at Overton, well, it constituted a minor trauma for me. And, I imagine, a not-so-minor one for you?”
“It did.”
“I wasn’t my best self, Alexis.” She holds my gaze for a moment before her eyes flit away. “I can list excuses. Insecurity, immaturity, a lack of positive conflict resolution being modeled in my home, but you’re probably not interested.”
“I am interested in anything you have to say.”
“I’m nervous.” She laughs. It’s a familiar laugh, sonorous with the slight hint of a braying donkey. I can’t help but think of us sitting on the top of the hill that overlooked the sweeping grounds of Overton, cracking each other up with color commentary on all the preppy kids below. Madeline with her black-and-white composition notebook filled with biting observations. Me with my camera slung over my neck.
“I always tell my children to own their mistakes,” she says.
“Children,” I say, returning to the present. Of course she’s married with children. Did I really think she would be frozen as a social outcast, always on the periphery of life?
“Yes. Three. So here I am owning mine. I apologize, Alexis. It was wrong what I did, and I’m sure it hurt you immensely.”
She blinks and purses her lips, and I realize she is fighting back tears. Her professional façade seems to melt away. My own eyes begin to sting.
“It’s okay. I’m all right now.” I don’t know who is framing me for murder, but I am convinced it can’t be the thoughtful woman sitting across the table from me. “I’m married, too. I have a son.”
She sniffs and takes a packet of tissues from her bag. “I’m very glad to hear that. You were always such a creative, sensitive soul. I always hoped that you would land where you belonged.” She blows her nose loudly into a tissue and smiles apologetically. “I’ve carried the guilt with me over the years. For you and the others I ended up hurting.”
I tilt my head, curious. “You mean Paul?”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Well, I can’t say I feel too bad about what happened to Paul Adamson. He was a predator, it’s as simple as that. Even if I didn’t see that at the time, now that I am a mother, I can see it clear as day. But it was a different time then, wasn’t it?”
I meet her eyes for a moment and then look away, focusing on a print of a dandelion on the wall. Predator was not a term used to describe Paul when everything came to light. I don’t remember much attention being paid to his role at all. As for me, there were plenty of words bandied about.
Slut.
Liar.
Nutcase.
Stalker.
“I guess he was a predator. I never really thought of him that way.”
“An adult who uses his, or her, position of authority to enter into a sexual relationship with a teenager is the very definition of a predator.”
“That sounds very official.”
She laughs. “It is. Textbook.”
“What if the teenager in question, you know, wanted it?” My cheeks burn hot as the words leave my mouth. Isn’t this the question I’ve carried with me my whole life, the basis for all the guilt I’ve felt? And someone who was there is about to answer, someone who is an actual authority on these matters.
Madeline shakes her head. “No. Allie, the whole legal concept of consent is there for a reason. Children and teenagers are not mini-adults. Their brains aren’t fully formed. They cannot consent.”
I nod toward her packet of tissues. “Can I have one of those?”
She smiles and pushes the tissues toward me.
“And to answer your earlier question,” Madeline says. “No, I don’t feel particularly bad about him being fired. Or the whole police thing. Now his wife, that’s another story. She was sort of collateral damage in the whole thing, wasn’t she?”
34
You must resist the temptation to trust your own memories.
I read that recently in an article. Most people think of their memories as immutable, but in fact, they change. We are constantly editing them throughout our lives, unconsciously adding bits and cutting out other parts. What rarely changes is our confidence that we accurately remember an event.
I know this.
I have a memory of my father, for instance, buying me a second balloon at a park after my first one floated away into the sky. The second balloon is red. The first was yellow.
I don’t even know if it’s a true
