The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [27]
By five-fifteen, when half a dozen squad cars still haven’t careened down the streets with lights flashing, I give it up and begin the walk home. I retrace the day in my mind, trying to control my growing anxiety. After spotting the canvassing officers this morning, I did the sensible thing and went to work. After all, the police will find me soon enough, and when they do, how I’ve spent the hours since Mrs. Jones went missing is going to be a key topic of discussion. As it stands, I was half an hour late from lunch, given my talk with Mr. Jones. This anomaly will stand out, but nothing I can do about it now. I had to talk to the guy. After all, my only hope is that they arrest him instead of me.
Now, approaching my front steps, still not seeing signs of men in blue—or, more likely, SWAT team members in flak vests—I realize it’s Thursday night and if I don’t hustle, I’m gonna be late for my meeting. I can’t afford another deviation from my schedule, so I hustle, bursting into my bedroom for the five-minute shower-and-change, then I’m back out the door, hailing a cab for the local mental health institute; it’s not like eight registered sex offenders can hold their weekly support group meetings at the neighborhood library.
I arrive at the front doors at 5:59 P.M. This is important. The signed contract states you cannot be even one minute late for meetings, and our group leader is a stickler on this point. Mrs. Brenda Jane is a licensed clinical social worker with the looks of a six-foot blonde cover girl and the personality of a prison guard. She doesn’t just run our meetings, she controls every facet of our life from what we do or do not drink to who we do or do not date. Half of us hate her. The other half are extremely grateful.
Meetings are approximately two hours long, once a week. One of the first things you learn as a registered sex offender is how to do a lot of paperwork. I have an entire three-ring binder filled with such documents as my signed “Sex Offender Program Contract,” my customized “Safety Plan for Future Well-Being,” as well as half a dozen “Program Rules for Group Sessions,” “Program Rules for Dating/Relationships,” and “Program Rules for Offenses Within the Family Unit.” Tonight is no exception. Each of us begins by filling out the weekly status report.
Question one: What feelings have you experienced this week?
My first thought is guilt. My second thought is that I can’t write that down. There is no confidentiality when it comes to statements made in support group. Yet one more piece of paper we all had to read and sign. Whatever I say tonight, or any night, can be used against me in a court of law. Adding to the daily paradox that is any sex offender’s life. On the one hand, I need to work on improving my skills in the honesty department. On the other hand, I can be punished for doing so at any time.
I write down the second answer that comes to me: fear. Police can’t deny me that, can they? A woman has gone missing. I’m the registered sex offender living on her block. Damn right I’m afraid.
Question two: What five interventions did you use this week to avoid unhealthy situations?
This question is easy. First day in group, you receive a list of approximately one hundred and forty “interventions” or ideas on how to break the abuse cycle. Most of us laugh at the list first time through. One hundred and forty ways not to re-offend? Including such winners as call the police, take a cold shower, or my personal favorite, jump in the ocean in the middle of winter.
I go with the usual: Wasn’t alone with children, stayed out of bars, didn’t drive aimlessly, didn’t place high expectations on myself, and snapped a rubber band.
Sometimes I include “avoided self-pity” as one of my five, but even I know I didn’t achieve that this week. The “didn’t place high expectations” makes a nice substitute. I haven’t had expectations in years.
Question three: What five interventions did you use this week to promote