The Edge of Normal (8 page)

He answers after two rings. “Reeve, I’m so glad you called. How are you?”

She skips the pleasantries and says abruptly, “I thought about what you said, and I’m ready to help.”

There’s a pause, then Dr. Lerner says, “Good. That will be very much appreciated, I’m sure. I’ll tell the Cavanaughs. Would you like their phone number so you can call them directly?”

“No, I’d like to see them. And I’d like to talk to Tilly. Can you come get me?”

“Oh, well I’m not sure when I can get back to San Francisco.”

“But I’m here in town.”

“What?”

“I’m here in Jefferson City.”

“You’re here?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How did you get here?”

“I drove. I borrowed Dad’s Jeep.”

“You
drove
?”

“Yes. I drove.” Reeve had expected Dr. Lerner to be surprised, since he knows she has only driven a car perhaps a dozen times in her life, but now she’s getting annoyed. “I got gas. I parked. And I’m now downtown, sitting here at Starbucks, but I don’t know my way around and I don’t know where you are, so I’d like you to please come and get me.”

“I see. Well, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The truth is, she’s exhausted. She didn’t sleep well, and the drive from San Francisco was just one more nightmare, with fog and traffic and white knuckles all the way. She purposely did not tell Dr. Lerner she was coming so that she could back out at any time without having to make excuses. But as much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t let herself. Because years of therapy have given her enough self-awareness to see that she’s not exactly the poster child for mental health. And because she’s sick of having Daryl Wayne Flint’s claws in her imagination, sick of being stuck on the same worn path of blocked responses.

And because Tilly Cavanaugh deserves at least as much help as she had.

She’s finishing the last of her hot chocolate when Dr. Lerner comes in the door, trailed by a lanky young man in a uniform. She looks up and says, “Hi,” trying to keep the confusion from showing on her face.

“Reeve, this is Deputy Nick Hudson,” Dr. Lerner says. “He’s our liaison with the district attorney’s office and the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Which is a fancy way of saying that I’m the doctor’s official guide and gopher while he’s in town,” Hudson says, stepping forward to shake her hand.

Reeve studies the tall young man, wondering—as she often does when meeting someone new—whether he knows who she is and what happened to her.

“We were just heading to lunch,” Dr. Lerner says. “Care to join us?”

Several minutes later, at a nearby diner with a lumberjack theme, they consult the menu and make small talk until the food arrives on oversized plates, smelling delicious. Reeve tastes her soup and nibbles at half a sandwich. She is used to having Dr. Lerner’s full attention and feels a bit irked at having to share him.

While she eats, she dodges questions and studies the exchanges between Dr. Lerner and this young deputy. Hudson makes casual conversation seem effortless. He volunteers that he grew up here, went to college in Los Angeles, hated the congestion, and returned. He says he plays “a little guitar, you know, in my spare time.” And he gets animated when talking about the many pleasures of living in Jefferson County—skiing, kayaking, fly fishing—a litany of outdoor sports that seem as odd to her as space exploration.

“What drew you to law enforcement?” Dr. Lerner asks, forking up another mouthful of trout.

“Runs in the family, I guess. My dad was a highway patrolman. And I have a whole slew of uncles and cousins who work in law enforcement in some way or other.”

“Seems like an unusual family.”

“I used to think so, but a lot of my coworkers have similar backgrounds. Badges are contagious, I guess.”

“You like what you do, don’t you?”

“It’s interesting work, and it pays a lot better than strumming guitar, I’ll tell you.” Hudson grins. “But eventually, I’d like to go to law school. Or at least, that’s the plan. So I nosed around, and I caught a break, and I’ve been learning a lot in this position with the district attorney’s office.”

Nick Hudson’s relaxed manner mirrors Dr. Lerner’s, and while their desserts are served, Reeve studies his even features, his healthy skin, his nice teeth, and decides that he is handsome.

Dr. Lerner turns toward Reeve, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I’m glad that you took the initiative to come up. The Cavanaughs are looking forward to meeting with you later this afternoon, okay?”

“It’s great that you could come up and help,” Hudson adds, confirming for Reeve that he knows exactly who she is.

She lowers her eyes and spoons into her chocolate ice cream, listening while Dr. Lerner fills her in on the situation.

“They’re being gentle with their daughter, and they’re not pressing for details about what she endured. Which is wise.”

She nods, remembering.

“Right, but this is not the way the prosecution would normally want to proceed in building a case,” Hudson says.

She stops eating and looks up.

“Understood,” Dr. Lerner says, “but first we’ll let her reveal things in her own time, as she feels more comfortable, more secure.”

“What was that about building a case?” Reeve asks the deputy.

“I work with Jackie Burke, the prosecutor. She’d like to meet with you, too.”

“Why me?”

“Because she needs to hear how things go with the Cavanaughs. Because she’s hoping to accelerate the charges against Vanderholt.”

“The kidnapper.”

“The suspect, right.”

She shifts in her chair. “So you’re expecting that, as Tilly shares more specifics, the prosecutor will have what she needs for going to trial?”

“But understand that this will be a gradual process,” Dr. Lerner says to the deputy. “We have to assure Tilly of some degree of confidentiality, help her feel safe, so she can start coming to terms with what has happened to her.”

“And stop blaming herself,” Reeve adds.

“Wait.” Hudson gives her a quizzical look. “What do you mean? Why on earth would she blame herself?”

Reeve sighs. “It’s common, with victims of abduction and captivity, to feel that you are somehow complicit, or that you have contributed to your own victimization.” She shoots a look at Dr. Lerner, realizing that she sounds like her therapist.

“Really?”

She gives a shrug. “The media makes it worse by asking things like, ‘Why did she stay?’ As if it’s a choice.”

Hudson cocks his head. “You mean, like Beth Goodwin, when she was walking around in public with her kidnappers?”

“Like that.”

“That’s what they call Stockholm Syndrome, right?”

“That’s the common term,” Dr. Lerner says to him. “But it has become kind of a pop phrase, used to cover all kinds of hostage and captive situations, and it’s imprecise.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, it’s just one aspect of what is broadly called post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Sure. PTSD,” Hudson says. “So, they’re the same thing, more or less?”

“Not really. Stockholm Syndrome isn’t actually in the diagnostic manuals, and post-traumatic stress disorder is such a broad term that it ceases to be useful at some point.”

“I can tell you’re a college professor,” Hudson says with a grin.

“Forgive me for lecturing.”

“No, listen, I’m not the smartest guy around, but I like to understand. So, why do we even hear about Stockholm Syndrome if it isn’t in the—what?—diagnostic manual?”

“Good question. The term was coined years ago by a Swedish criminologist who was trying to understand the sympathy a group of hostages expressed for their captors at a Stockholm bank robbery.”

“But they were held for just five days,” Reeve interjects.

“Yes, and since then, a similar response has been seen in many individuals held under duress. Plane hijackings, prison riots, POWs—”

“But I thought Stockholm Syndrome was about captives falling in love with their captors,” Hudson says.

Reeve groans. “It’s a survival mechanism.”

Dr. Lerner nods. “And it only scratches the surface, really, in trying to explain the psychological effects of prolonged captivity and profound coercion.”

“Coercion?” Hudson asks, a forkful of pie stopping in midair.

“That’s right,” Reeve snaps. “Coercion.”

“Or brainwashing, as it’s often called,” Dr. Lerner says, waving a hand, “though that’s not a clinical term. Anyway, consider the different circumstances. Some hostages are held only a short time. Many are aware of ongoing negotiations, so they know that they’re essentially bargaining chips, that their abductors want something in exchange, usually money.”

“But sexual predators don’t ask for ransom,” Reeve says, gripping the sides of her chair. “There are no negotiations. The person taken is their prize.”

“I’m sorry, but could we back up? Terror, I get. Rape and sexual abuse, I understand.” He is addressing Dr. Lerner, but glances over at Reeve, who meets his eye. “But what I don’t get is, unless it’s a military situation, where does coercion come in?”

“Remember Patty Hearst?” Reeve’s voice goes up a notch. “Remember how she was indoctrinated by the SLA? Remember how Beth Goodwin’s captor spouted all that twisted, pseudoreligious crap?”

Hudson rubs his chin. “Same thing with that creep who took Jaycee Dugard, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Coercion is common in captive situations,” Dr. Lerner explains. “It’s part of the captor’s strategy. POWs, for instance. A parallel situation, with coercion employed along with extreme emotional and physical deprivation.”

“And torture,” Reeve adds hotly. “The media always tries to make it sound titillating, calling it sadomasochism. But people who are kidnapped are not masochists. They’re beaten. They’re starved. And whether it happens to trained soldiers or to young girls, whether or not there’s actual rape, torture is still torture.”

The conversation lurches to a halt.

Reeve glares at her melting ice cream, excuses herself, and bolts from the table.

In the restroom, she washes the heat off her face. This is twice in the past two days she has allowed anger to overtake her. She makes a face in the mirror, muttering, “Well, Miss Sunshine, that went well.”

*   *   *

After lunch, Deputy Hudson directs Reeve to a parking structure where she can park her Jeep all day for free—something unthinkable in San Francisco—and the three head toward the Cavanaughs’ home. Having barely spoken since lunch, Reeve hunches in the backseat, watching the scenery roll past, telling herself to get a grip. What’s the worst that can happen? The kid won’t like you? You’ll make her cry?

As the highway dips and turns west, they cross a long bridge. She stares out at the unfamiliar territory, the wide river that runs through town like a blue vein. What the hell was she thinking? It’s not like she has an obligation to be here. It’s not like she’s a card-carrying member of the Pay-It-Forward Society of Kidnapping Survivors.

Nick Hudson tries to engage her in conversation, but she feigns trouble hearing, then pretends to like a country song on the radio, asking him to turn it up. She searches the mournful lyrics for meaning while they wheel through a residential neighborhood, where trees shed crimson leaves and early Christmas decorations line rooftops, sprawl across lawns, and crowd porches.

The moment they turn onto the Cavanaughs’ street, she spots the TV vans. “Oh, crap!”

“Sorry about the welcoming committee. You might want to scrunch down,” Hudson suggests, but she is already slipping out of her shoulder harness and gluing herself to the seat.

The vehicle slows as they approach a gate. She hears car doors slamming around them and voices calling out Dr. Lerner’s name, begging for comments. Hudson keeps the tinted windows rolled up tight while Dr. Lerner calls the Cavanaughs on his cell phone, announcing their arrival.

She shuts her eyes. As the vehicle eases forward, past the clot of reporters and through the iron gates, she clamps down on the swelling apprehension that coming here was a mistake.

*   *   *

Tilly’s eyes fix on Reeve from the moment they’re introduced. She’s a wisp of a girl with long wheat-colored hair and a pixie face. She wears a serious, unflinching expression, but looks younger than thirteen in her pink flannel pajamas and fuzzy blue socks.

Mrs. Cavanaugh offers coffee, but Deputy Hudson is the only one who accepts, politely adding that he’ll take it in the kitchen, “so the rest of you can talk.”

They sit in a pleasant room with high ceilings and logs flickering in the fireplace. The air is fragrant with the fresh, piney aroma of a tall Christmas tree, which stands unadorned in one corner of the room. Except for several unopened boxes of lights and ornaments, the décor is unseasonal and nearly bland, apart from several colorful oil paintings that appear to be the work of the same artist.

Tilly perches on the sofa with her parents, looking very small between Gordon and Shirley Cavanaugh, who are both tall and big-boned. An assortment of sweets sits untouched on the coffee table that stands between the sofa and the overstuffed chairs occupied by Dr. Lerner and Reeve.

“We’re so grateful you decided to come,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says. Her face looks damp, but her expression seems warm and open. She keeps one hand on Tilly’s knee, as if reassuring herself that her daughter is really home, and this small shared intimacy brings Reeve a stab of longing. She recalls being in exactly that spot. The memory swims behind her eyes.

Mr. Cavanaugh apologizes that their son can’t meet them because he’s out with friends. After a few more polite comments, Reeve realizes that everyone is waiting for her to speak. The room suddenly seems overheated. Pinching the numb patch on her left hand, she licks her lips and begins, “I’m not sure how much help I can be, really, but I know a lot about what you’re going through.”

She meets the eyes of the family assembled around her and describes what comes to mind: the comfort and strangeness of being home again with her parents. The shock of seeing her older sister as an adult. The hollow realization of how much she had missed.