The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [67]
The experiential reality of the residual effects of a traumatic expe-rience, I thought, in the precise Germanic tones of Dr. Leah Ginzberg, M.D., Ph.D., and then went on almost automatically as she would have, with a push for more truth.
“Oh yes, I do know that feeling, Jessica. I know it very, very well.
And it gets all tied up with lots of other feelings, doesn’t it? Like feel-ing maybe it was somehow your fault, that if you’d tried just a little harder you could have gotten away.” She gaped at me as if I were con-juring half-crowns from the air. “Like even being angry at your mother and father for not rescuing you sooner.” Both of those hit home, like charges at the base of a dam, and the pent-up waters came gushing out in an intense monotone.
“I almost got away, but I slipped and fell and he caught me, and then I thought maybe if I didn’t eat anything they’d have to let me go, but I was so hungry, even if it meant I had to—had to use the pot, and then I couldn’t get the chain off my leg, and then there was always someone there, and after all those days went by and nobody came, I thought maybe, maybe... well, that Mama’d gone away home to America and Papa wouldn’t want me back.” This last came out in a tiny whisper, and she picked at the hem of her skirt.
“Do you talk to your Mama about it?”
“I tried to yesterday, but it made her cry. I don’t like to see Mama cry.”
“No,” I agreed, and felt a flicker of anger at the woman’s lack of control. “She’s been upset, Jessie, but she’ll be much better in a few days. Try again then, or talk to your father.”
“I’ll try,” she said uncertainly. I put my hands on her shoulders and made her look at me.
“Do you trust me, Jessie?”
“Yes.”
“I mean really trust me? A lot of grown-ups say things that aren’t exactly true because they want to make you feel better, but will you be-lieve me when I say I won’t do that to you? Ever?”
“Yes.”
“Then listen to me, Jessica Simpson. I know you’ve heard this be-fore from other people, but now you’re hearing it from me, your sister, Mary, and it’s the truth. You did everything you possibly could, and you did it perfectly. You left your handkerchief and your hair ribbon for us to find—”
“Like Hansel and Gretel,” she inserted.
“Exactly, a trail through the woods. You tried to get away, even though they hurt you for it, and then when they had you in a place where you could do nothing, you waited, you kept strong, and you didn’t do anything that might make them want to hurt you. You waited for us. Even though it was boring and scary and very, very lonely, you waited. And when I came you acted like the intelligent person you are, and you kept quiet and let me carry you away over those skinny branches, and you were absolutely quiet, even when I squashed your arm coming down the tree.”
“It didn’t hurt much.”
“You were brave, you were intelligent, you were patient. And as you say, it isn’t really over yet, and you’re going to have to be brave and intelligent and patient for a while longer, and wait for the anger and the fear to settle down. They will.” (And the nightmares? my mind whispered.) “Not right away, and they’ll never go away com-pletely, but they’ll fade. Do you believe me?”
“Yes. But I’m still very angry.”
“Good. Be angry. It’s right to be angry when someone hurts you for no reason. But do you think you can try not to be too afraid?”
“To be angry and—happy?” The incongruity obviously appealed to her. She savoured it for a moment and jumped to her feet. “I’m going to be angry and happy.” She ran out of the room. I followed, carrying Mary doll, and entered the sitting room as she was declaring her new philosophy of life to her bewildered mother. I caught Holmes’ eye, and he rose. Mrs. Simpson made as if to stop him.
“Oh, can’t you stay for tea, Mr. Holmes? Miss Russell?”
“I am sorry, Madam, but we have to go to the police station and then