Chapter 13 - GRACE’S MEMORY
Grace saw Dr. Hannah Lin, a child psychologist.
Not because she was “damaged.”
Because she had been assaulted by a trusted relative and already carried anxiety from a prior allergic emergency.
Grace drew the wedding table.
Celeste’s chair enormous.
Mine small.
Dr. Lin asked:
“Who is this?”
Grace pointed.
“Daddy.”
“Why small?”
“He was far.”
Twenty feet.
In her memory:
Far.
That hurt more than any legal accusation.
Then Grace drew her purse.
Orange injector.
Dr. Lin:
“What happened to it?”
“It fell.”
“Did you need it?”
“No.”
“Were you worried?”
Grace nodded.
“Why?”
“Aunt Celeste hates special food.”
There.
Children notice themes.
“What does special mean?”
“Safe.”
“Does safe food make you bad?”
“No.”
“Does needing medicine make you bad?”
“No.”
“Did Celeste make you feel bad?”
Grace looked at the paper.
“Yes.”
Then:
“She said filthy.”
“Are you?”
Grace looked offended.
“No.”
Good.
Therapy sometimes succeeds through indignation.
She did not discuss the old allergy dinner much.
Only one detail.
“Aunt Celeste took the lid.”
“Which lid?”
“My chocolate.”
There.
She remembered.
Not enough to convict by itself.
Corroboration already existed.
Still.
May you like
Grace had told us in fragments.
Adults had been too busy deciding which fragment could survive cross-examination to notice she had been trying to describe exactly what happened.
