he had absolutely no recollection of what had happened until just ten months ago.”
“What set him off?” one student wanted to know.
“He said he went to mass at his boyhood parish one Sunday. The memories of abuse rushed back to him in a torrent.” A hand shot up. “Yes,” said the teacher.
“What did he mean by abuse?”
“He claimed Mulcahy would force him to strip down to his underwear and socks, and then get dressed with what vestments were on-hand in the sacristy. He also claimed that Mulcahy told him dirty stories, and revealed sordid, sexual details about parishioners’ confessions.”
“So, he filed a lawsuit?” asked another student.
“Oh, yes. A 7.5 million dollar lawsuit, to be exact.”
Caitlin Prescott felt queasiness in the pit of her stomach, but did her best to ignore it. “What’s the point? Mulcahy’s deceased,” she said.
“Very much so,” added Tessler. He frowned. “Are you feeling okay? You look a bit off.”
“I’m fine,” insisted the first daughter. “What bothers me,” she continued, “is that Mulcahy can’t defend himself.”
Tessler nodded. “And there are no witnesses. Moreover, nobody else ever filed so much as one complaint against Mulcahy in his five decades of service to the Church.” The teacher finished off his coffee with one, big gulp. “Let’s just assume the plaintiff was abused as a twelve and thirteen-year-old altar server. What do we make of him forgetting about the sordid events until the visit to his boyhood church forty years later? What would this be called?”
Several hands went up. Tessler selected a girl towards the back of the room.
“Repression.”
“And what can you tell us about repression?”
The girl thought for a moment. “I guess it’s when someone has such horrible or offensive thoughts that the mind blocks those thoughts from the conscious mind.”
“Relate that to abuse, and the claims by this man.”
Caitlin’s queasy stomach was not going away. It was intensifying. She was now sweating and her hands felt cold and clammy.
The girl in back said, “After what happened in the sacristy, the boy’s mind couldn’t handle the horrifying nature of the abuse. Fortunately, his mind was resourceful enough to protect itself from the offensive thoughts.”
“Where did the thoughts go?” asked the teacher. “They have to go somewhere.”
“They went to the unconscious.”
The first daughter thought she heard the boy next to her whisper, “Are you okay?”
She rubbed her eyes. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”
“Seriously, you look like you’re going to be sick.”
Going to be sick? I’m not sure, but something just woke me out of a sound sleep. I’m rolling out of bed now, letting my eyes adjust to the darkened room. The blue numbers on my digital alarm clock glow 1:44. It’s very late and I have school tomorrow. Uncle Terry kept me up again, showing me his latest scrapbook from Malaysia. He put his hand on my knee at least six times. He sat very close to me. I hate it when he—
I hear something. Noises. They’re coming from the front lawn below my second story bedroom window. Did I hear a muffled cry and the sound of someone shutting a car door? I’m moving toward my window, which is thrown open on this first cool night of fall. A soft light from across the street spills into the room, breaching the darkness, and the curtains rise and fall with the gentle breeze. I can hear crickets. My feet are cold, and my toes grip the carpet beneath me. I inch up to the window and gaze down at our front lawn and driveway. Shadows stretch across the lawn in a chaotic pattern. I see footprints in the fresh dew. But I’m confused. Uncle Terry’s silver Mustang is still parked out front. How can that be? He left at eleven—right after he put his hand on my hip and hugged me a little too tight and kissed me—
I see a man. It’s not Uncle Terry. He’s a tall man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He’s hunched over the driver’s side with his head inside the Mustang. Who is he? What is he doing? He’s pulling himself out of the car window. He’s turning around. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. I pull back behind the curtains. Slowly, I count to ten and edge back to the window. My heart leaps against my chest. The man is looking up at me, but I can’t see his face beneath the sweatshirt’s hood. He is staring at me with his large hands hanging at his sides. I gasp and stagger back. Now I’m praying. Please, God. He didn’t see me. He didn’t see me. But I know he did. Please, God. I want to scream until I hear the sound of truck’s engine. I summon the courage to look back out the window in time to see a black pick-up truck accelerating down our street. I no longer see the man in the hooded sweatshirt. As I catch my breath and try to calm my racing heart, I study the Mustang below. The driver’s window is down, but I can’t tell if anyone’s inside.
Downstairs, I get a different perspective on Uncle Terry’s Mustang. His windows are darkly tinted, so I still can’t tell if there’s anyone inside. I’m afraid of the man in the hooded sweatshirt. I remain at the front window for a full twenty minutes until I’m certain the pick-up truck is not going to return. Though I’m not allowed outside after my parents have gone to bed, I know the security code: 12-88-99. I ease open the door and step out. I shiver. I’m stupid; this is not smart. I spend another ten minutes on the front porch looking for the hooded man and the pick-up truck. He is nowhere to be found. I shiver again as I edge my way across the lawn to the driveway and the Mustang. As I approach, I can see Uncle Terry inside. His head is thrown back and his mouth is open. He’s asleep. I’m afraid. I know he’ll want to talk to me. And put his hands on me. And kiss me. I’m afraid, but something is not right. I can’t put my finger on it. I slip over to the driver’s side. I look in.
I cringe and begin to tremble. Oh my god. Oh my god.
“Seriously, Caitlin,” said the boy. “I think you should lie down.”
Her ears were ringing. The room began to tilt to the right. Her vision blurred. She leaned left, and began sliding out of her desk. Everything went black.
“Sit up, honey,” said the nurse, her voice echoing inside of Caitlin’s head. She was shoving a container of juice in her direction. “I want you to sip this slowly.”
Caitlin took small sips. She breathed deeply, feeling the fog begin to lift. Her vision had returned, and there was no more ringing in her ears.
I fainted.
The nurse leaned in close and said, “Honey, you fainted.”
Yes, I kind of figured.
She looked past the nurse to Agent Jim McManus. He was on his cell phone, stealing furtive glances her way. She guessed he was trying to reach her mother at the White House. Her other detail agents, Kiel, Ivy and Wells stood back against the wall. They hadn’t been with her detail more than a few weeks. She’d heard rumors about an upheaval of sorts in the agency to address a recent rash of early retirements and medical leaves but what did she know?
