Public Secrets

think if I could pull him out of my dreams, erase his face and his voice from my subconscious, I’d be able to take that next step with Michael.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Of course that’s what I want. Do you think I want to go on being punished?”
“For what?”
“For not doing what he wanted quickly enough, or in the wrong way.” Agitated, she set the crystal down to wrap her arms around her breasts. “For not wearing the right dress. For being in love with Michael. He knew, he knew I felt something for Michael.” She began to pace again, twisting her fingers together. “When he saw us together at the showing, he knew it. So he beat me. He made me promise I’d never see Michael again, and he still beat me. He knew I wouldn’t keep the promise.”
“A promise made under duress isn’t a promise at all.”
Dismissing logic, Emma shook her head. “The point is, I tried to keep it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. So he punished me.”
She dropped into a chair. “I lied,” she continued, half to herself. “I lied to Drew, and to myself.”
Katherine leaned forward, but she kept her voice very low and mild. “Why do you suppose Drew is there in your dream, your dream of the night Darren died?”
“I lied then, too,” Emma murmured. “I didn’t keep my promise. I didn’t take care of Darren. We lost him. Da and Bev lost each other. I’d sworn to them that I would always look after him. That I’d keep him safe. But I broke my promise. No one ever punished me. No one ever blamed me.”
“But you did. Haven’t you blamed yourself? Punished yourself?”
“If I hadn’t run away—he called to me.” For an instant it flashed into her mind. The way his voice had raced after her as she’d fled down the dark hall. “He was so scared, but I didn’t go back to him. I knew they were going to hurt him, but I ran. And he died. I should have stayed. I was supposed to stay.”
“Could you have helped him?”
“I ran because I was afraid for myself.”
“You were a child, Emma.”

“What difference does that make? I made a promise. You don’t break promises to people you love, no matter how difficult they are to keep. I made one to Drew, and I stayed because…”
“Because?”
“Because I deserved to be punished.” She dosed her eyes on a dull, dreary horror. “Oh God. Did I stay all those months because I wanted to be punished for losing Darren?”
Katherine allowed herself only the briefest moment of satisfaction. This was exactly what she’d been hoping for. “I think that’s part of it. You’ve said before that Drew reminded you of Brian. You’ve blamed yourself for Darren’s death, and in a child’s mind, punishment follows guilt.”
“I didn’t know Drew was violent when I married him.”
“No. You were attracted to what you saw on the surface. A beautiful young man with a beautiful voice. Romantic, charming. You chose someone you thought was gentle and affectionate.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes, you were wrong about Drew. He deceived you and many others. Because he was so attractive, so loving on the outside, you became convinced that you deserved what he did to you. He used your vulnerability, exploited it and compounded it. You didn’t ask to be battered, Emma. And you weren’t to blame for his sickness. Just as you weren’t to blame for your brother’s death.” She took Emma’s hand. “I believe when you accept that, completely, you’ll remember the rest. Once you remember, the nightmares will pass.”
“I will remember,” Emma murmured. “And I won’t run this time.”

T HE LOFT HAD hardly changed. Marianne had added a few of her own bizarre touches. A full-sized blowup of Godzilla, an enormous plastic palm tree that was still decorated for Christmas though the January white sales were in full swing, and a stuffed minah bird that swung on a perch in front of the window. Her paintings dominated the walls, landscapes, seascapes, portraits, and still-lifes. The studio smelled of paint, turpentine, and Calvin Klein’s Obsession.
Emma sat on a stool in a slash of sunlight wearing a sweatshirt that drooped off one shoulder and the sapphire and diamond earrings her father had given her for Christmas.

“You’re not relaxed,” Marianne complained as she stroked a pencil over her pad.
“You always say that when you sketch me.”
“No, you’re really not relaxed.” Marianne stuck the pencil in her hair. It was a mass of curls now that just skimmed her