Blood Memory

the right side of his chest is a hole where the bullet went in. There are other scars, too, the big sutured Y-incision of an autopsy. As I stare in horror, Daddy puts two fingers into the bullet hole and starts to rip it open. He wants me to watch, but I don’t want to see. I cover my eyes with my hands, then peer between my fingers. Something is pouring out of the wound like blood, only it’s not blood. It’s gray. That’s all I know, and all I want to know.

“Look, Kitty Cat,” he commands. “I want you to look.”

I can’t look.

When he calls my name again, I shut my eyes and scream.

Chapter 37

“Wake up! It’s Michael! You’re dreaming!”

Michael Wells is shaking my shoulders, his eyes frantic.

“Cat! It’s just a nightmare!”

I nod as though in understanding, but in my mind’s eye I see my father pushing his fingers into the bullet wound in his chest, then pulling the skin apart-

“Cat!”

I blink myself back to reality and grab Michael’s hands. He’s wearing a UNC T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. “I’m okay. You’re right…a nightmare.”

He nods in relief, then stands and looks down at me. The overhead light is bright behind his head, but the bedroom window is dark. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I close my eyes.

“Is it one you’ve had before?”

“Yes. The truck, the island…my grandfather. Only this time we made it over the hill.”

“What did you see?”

I shake my head. “It’s too crazy. Did I scream out loud?”

He smiles. “You screamed, but I wasn’t sleeping. I’ve been thinking about everything you told me.”

“Have you?”

“I’ve come up with a couple of ideas, if you’re interested.”

I sit up and prop myself against the headboard. “Is it about the New Orleans murders, or my situation?”

“Your situation. I don’t know anything about the murders.”

“Don’t feel left out. Neither does anyone else.”

“Something you said stuck in my head. That thing about your dad not being the breadwinner for your family. I’d thought his sculpting earned a lot of money. But if it didn’t, then your grandfather was that figure in your household.”

“Absolutely.”

“And from what you told me about your father, he wasn’t a dominating man, or even a strong personality. He didn’t try to control people. Is that right?”

“Yes. Daddy just wanted his own space. He hardly interacted with anyone except me. And of course Louise, the woman on the island.”

“I don’t know Dr. Kirkland well, but I would characterize him as a control freak.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s like a feudal lord.”

Michael nods slowly. “Well, what I’ve been thinking is this. You grew up with one version of your father’s death. You got that version from your grandfather. It’s the same version he gave the police in 1981. Now, twenty- three years later, you discover some old blood in your childhood bedroom. You decide to investigate it, and you make no secret of the fact. What happens? Your grandfather instantly begins revising the story you grew up with, his original story. By his own admission, he told you the new version-supposedly the real truth-to stop you from investigating the scene further. As a result, you stop investigating the bedroom. But you don’t stop probing the events of that night. And when you decide to bring in professionals to search the bedroom for more evidence, Dr. Kirkland changes his story yet again, this time to a ‘truth’ so horrifying that no one-not even you-would want to reveal it to anyone outside your family. In that version, he takes the blame for killing your father. But he also does something else, Cat. He lays the blame for your sexual abuse on your father.”

I feel a strange buzzing in my head. With it comes an almost frantic desire for alcohol. “Go on.”

“Are you sure you want me to? I think you know where I’m going.”

“Just talk, Michael. Quickly.”

“The only evidence you have that your father abused you is your grandfather’s word. If you discount that, what evidence is there? Hearsay about your father’s extramarital love life. Some possible brutality in Vietnam.”

I swallow hard and wait for Michael to continue.

“You do have a long history of psychological symptoms and behavior consistent with patients who’ve suffered past sexual abuse. You don’t have direct evidence as to who abused you. So…I’m just asking a question, Cat. Why should you believe that your grandfather’s latest version of the ‘truth’ is any more true than his first story?”

“Because it feels right,” I say softly. “I wish it didn’t. But it does. It’s like I can almost see it in my mind. The two men fighting over my bed in the dark. I’m afraid that I did see that.”

“Maybe your grandfather did kill your father, as he said. But maybe not for the reason he gave you. I mean, why take his word for it that he caught your father abusing you? It could easily have been the other way around. Maybe your grandfather was the abuser.”

There’s something in my throat, a hot tightness that won’t let any more words pass. “But…”

“I’m just using logic,” Michael says. “You’re so close to the situation, it’s hard to see past the emotion. I don’t think anyone could.”

“I concede that, okay? I don’t want to believe that my father abused me. I’m desperate to find hope that he didn’t. But the idea of Grandpapa doing it just seems outrageous to me. He’s like the model of propriety in this town. Famous for being faithful to his wife.”

“You could be making my point for me. Kirkland didn’t need affairs because he relieved his secret drives at home. And abusers often appear as paragons of virtue to the community. Especially in affluent families. I’ve seen that in practice.”

“What put this in your head, Michael? Was it just the things I told you tonight?”

“Honestly, no. I’ve heard about your grandfather all my life. And I can’t say I like what I’ve heard. All doctors want to make money, but they say Kirkland lived for the money. The general opinion around here is that he only married your grandmother for her money and social position.”

“Gossips always say that when a poor boy marries into a rich family. And Grandpapa doubled the family holdings through shrewd management. Particularly of the oil.”

Michael is filtering all this through some other knowledge, I can tell. In a neutral tone, he says, “The old docs around here say he did a lot of questionable procedures in his day.”

“Questionable in what sense?” I can’t keep the defensiveness out of my voice.

“As in unnecessary. You know, too many appendixes removed that turned out to be normal. Exploratory surgery for belly pain. They say he’d cut the gallbladder out of anybody who even looked like he had a stone. And a ton of hysterectomies for fibromyomas. He did one of those on my mother, in fact. Remember, this was the fifties and sixties. A surgeon could do just about anything he wanted to back then. But they still called your grandfather before a surgical review committee.”

“Who told you all this?”

“I spoke to Tom Cage last night. He stopped referring patients to Kirkland for exactly that reason.”

“Did Dr. Cage say anything about my father?”

“Yes. Apparently Luke told him a lot about his war experiences. Tom served in Korea, so your dad probably felt he was a more sympathetic listener than most.”