mother, Dr. Goldman, Nathan Malik-even the things Grandpapa told me earlier today. The only thing I don’t tell Michael about is being pregnant. That I cannot bring myself to do.
When at last my stream of words slows to a trickle, he sighs deeply and says, “You want to watch a movie? I rented the new Adam Sandler.”
I’m not sure whether I’m offended or relieved. “Are you kidding?”
He grins. “Yes. You want to know what I really think about all that?”
“I do.”
“I think you’re under more stress right now than most people could stand. I think your life is probably in danger from whoever is behind these murders, not to mention the risk of dealing with your disease without adequate therapy or medication.”
I say nothing.
“Does it piss you off that I said that?”
“A little.”
He holds up his hands, palms outward. “I know it’s not my business. If you don’t want to take your medication, fine. But I know a little bit about being bipolar. I had a good friend in medical school who was that way.”
“I’m not bipolar. I’m cyclothymic.”
“That’s just semantics. Same symptoms, just a question of degree.”
I concede this with a nod.
“What I learned from my friend was that a lot of bipolar people
“I can’t argue with that. What happened to your friend?”
“He flunked out of med school.”
“Just like me. Is that your point?”
“You didn’t flunk out. They basically kicked you out for causing someone else to try to kill himself.”
“Yep.”
Michael’s face is nonjudgmental. “I don’t think any of that stuff was your fault, Cat. I don’t know too much about the links between childhood sexual abuse and adult psychological problems, because I treat kids. That’s why I knew so little about repressed memories. But I do know about child abuse. I’ve seen a lot of it, especially as a pediatric resident working ERs.”
There’s something in his eyes that reminds me of John Kaiser’s eyes. Knowledge earned through pain. Wisdom never asked for.
“Those cases are the easy ones, though,” Michael says. “The tough cases are the ones where you know something isn’t right, but you’re not looking at genital warts or something obvious like that. Dealing with those cases is how I learned the most surprising things about sexual abuse.”
“Like?”
“Like it’s not usually the physically painful, horrible thing that people imagine. It’s not violent rape or even necessarily a terrible experience in itself. Not in the beginning. If it were, sexual abuse wouldn’t be the invisible epidemic that it is. Sex is pleasurable, even to a child. Adult abusers know that. They seduce the child a little at a time, gradually raising the stakes. The family dynamics are altered in ways it would take Freud years to figure out. Complex power games are played between abuser and victim. You get young girls serving as surrogate wives in the home, sisters competing for the sexual attention of their father, fathers training sons to use women the same way they do. Of course, the reverse happens, too. You get older daughters trying to protect younger siblings by doing anything they can to keep the abusive father focused on them.”
I close my eyes in horror. “I’ll bet this isn’t how you thought you’d be spending this evening.”
Michael spears a piece of cold steak and chews it thoughtfully. “No, but I’m okay with it. I was always curious about you. Why you picked the guys you did in high school. And these repeated relationships with married guys. That’s not hard to figure out now, is it?”
“My therapist tells me I pick unavailable guys so that I can’t become too attached to a man. That way the loss I experienced with my father can’t be repeated.”
“Is it too late to get your money back?”
Michael’s eyes silently apologize for joking about something so serious. But he’s so honest about his opinions that it’s difficult to get angry.
“I think it’s the secrecy that’s the root of your affairs,” he says. “Secrecy was part of your sexual imprinting. I think you’ve been reenacting your abuse for most of your life. You thrive on a secretive relationship with a forbidden partner, a relationship that’s very sexual in nature. Is that accurate?”
“Are you sure you didn’t subspecialize in pediatric psychiatry?”
He shakes his head. “Once you know about the abuse, it’s easy to see the connections. You may not feel comfortable telling me this, but do you have any quirks in your sex life that seem abnormal?”
I feel myself flush, and it surprises me. I’m usually quite candid with men about sexual matters, sometimes shockingly so. But tonight…“I’m not sure we know each other well enough to go there yet.”
“You’re right.” He puts down his fork and lays his hands on the table. “Let me ask you another question.”
“Okay.”
“Did your mother have an illness that kept her bedridden for long periods?”
“After I was born, she had some kind of female problem. Pelvic inflammatory disease, maybe? I’m not sure. But she would stay in bed for weeks at a time. I was very young then, of course.”
“What about later? Was she absent from the home a lot?”
“Yes.” My main memories of my mother are of her leaving home or returning. And she always had something in her hands-something besides me. “Mom was completely obsessed with her interior design business. If you asked her whether I liked mayonnaise on my sandwiches or not, she couldn’t have told you. But if you asked her how many shades of grass-cloth wallpaper were available in America, she could list them from memory.”
Michael doesn’t seem surprised. “Was alcohol a problem in your house? Or substance abuse?”
“Both. More drugs than alcohol. My dad used all kinds of drugs when he got back from Vietnam. Prescription, mostly. My mother didn’t drink when I was growing up, so I thought she was clean. But apparently she was taking my father’s prescription meds for years. Why are you asking these questions?”
“They’re classic markers for an abusive situation.”
His uncanny accuracy about my life makes me want to know more. But to learn more, I’ll have to give more. Can I trust him with my secret self?
Michael reaches out and touches my hand. “You’re shaking, Cat. You don’t have to tell me any more.”
“No, I want to,” I say quickly.
He withdraws his hand and leans back in his chair. “All right, then. Tell me.”
Chapter 33
“I’ve always needed certain things during sex,” I say softly. “Pain, for example. Nothing masochistic really, but just…very physical penetration. With fingers, objects…I don’t know. And choking. Sometimes I have this intense desire to be choked during sex.”
Michael is still leaning back from the dinner table, but I sense a new alertness in him. “And?”
“I have a problem reaching orgasm. Even if I get those things I want, it just doesn’t happen for me. On one hand I have this hyper-active sex drive, but on the other, I can’t make it to the point of release. Not with a man, I mean. I can do it alone. But with men, it’s this maddening spiral upward without ever being able to break through.”
“But the men you’re with think you’re the best sexual partner they ever had, right?”
Now I’m really blushing. “They say so.”
“All classic signs of past sexual abuse. Pain was part of your sexual imprinting, just like secrecy. Your father
