“I’m up to my ass in alligators right now,” he said, laughing. “Sick two-year-olds, actually, but it amounts to the same thing. I’d love to see you later, though. Would you let me buy you dinner? We actually have a Thai restaurant in Natchez now.”

I was silent for a moment-or maybe longer-because Michael said, “Cat? Is something wrong?”

“Ummyeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. But we can do it some other time.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Do you believe in repressed memories?”

“Related to what? That usually has to do with child abuse.”

“Yeah. Like that.”

He was silent for a bit. “Is this a hypothetical question?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Sort of.”

“Forget about dinner. Come to my office right now. I’m on Jeff Davis Boulevard. You remember where that is?”

“Sure, but it’s okay. Forget I called. I’m not even in town right now.”

“Where are you? New Orleans?”

“No. Lookif I get back in time, I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Cat-”

I hung up and put my ringer on silent. Why was I trying to involve a pediatrician who knew nothing about me and my problems? Because we’d known each other in school? Because he had a sympathetic face? Because he treated children, and right at that moment I felt about four years old?

Across the old river channel, a green johnboat is plying the shore in the shadow of some cypress trees. Squinting, I can make out the silhouette of a shirtless black teenager. He paddles a few feet, bends down, works at something, then straightens up and paddles on. When he hauls a fat, gray fish into the air, I realize what he’s doing. Checking a trotline. The static line has dozens of hooks hanging from it, one every few feet, baited with something stinky to attract the cat-fish that abound in this old channel. It’s been ten years since I visited the island, but life doesn’t seem to have changed much.

As the boy works his way along the line, I pick up my cell phone and speed-dial Dr. Hannah Goldman. Hannah is my court of last resort. I don’t call her often, but when I do, she answers immediately or gets back to me within an hour. You don’t find commitment like that in too many therapists.

“Cat?” she says, apparently looking at a caller ID screen.

“Mm-hm,” I say in a tiny voice.

“Where are you? We have a bad connection.” Her statement is punctuated by a burst of static.

“Out of town. It doesn’t matter.”

“What’s going on?”

“I just found out something.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you called me. I think you want to tell me about it.”

“Okay.”

“Twenty words or less.”

“My grandfather killed my father.”

Not much throws Dr. Goldman, but this does. After several seconds, she says, “Please tell me some details. I thought your father was shot by an intruder.”

“I thought so, too. But my grandfather just told me a different story. It’s complicated. I found some blood in my old bedroom. A latent bloodstain, I wasn’t even looking for it. But it got me thinking about that night. I started asking questions. I was going to bring in an outside forensic team, so he decided to tell me the truth.”

“He being Dr. Kirkland?”

“Yes.”

“Was the shooting an accident?”

“No. He caught my father abusing me. Sexually abusing me. And he killed him.”

“I see,” Dr. Goldman says in her most professional voice.

She says that to keep from saying Dear God or something similar. Hannah tries to be detached, but she’s not. That’s why she lets me call her this way. Hannah Goldman is the middle ground between professional detachment and the activist commitment of Nathan Malik.

“Do you believe what your grandfather told you?”

“He’s never lied to me before. Except about this, I mean, by omission. He said he kept the truth from me to protect me. And I always felt like something was wrong with the story they’d told me as a child.”

“Do you have any memory of the events he described?”

“No. But I’ve been thinking about repressed memories a lot lately.”

“Why?”

“It has to do with a murder case I’m working on.”

“The murders here in New Orleans?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Do you believe in repressed memories, Hannah? I mean, do you believe that a person can totally block something from their conscious mind?”

“Yes, I do. It’s a controversial subject. Very little is known about the neuromechanics of memory. But current evidence indicates that some trauma victims dissociate during their experiences and suffer amnesia for those events. The strange thing about your case is that it’s happening backwards. You’ve been handed corroboration of abuse before you even started to remember it. Considering the issues we’ve been dealing with for so long, this information could be the greatest gift you ever receive. I know it’s hard to see that now, but I think I’m right.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen to me, Cat. This is a very dangerous time. I want to see you as soon as you can get to my office.”

“Like I said, I’m not in town now.”

“Well, you need to get here. Are you drinking?”

“I haven’t had a drink ina long time. I’m pregnant.”

“What?” This time Hannah can’t mask her shock.

“I know I should have called you. But I’m doing okay.”

“Listen to me. I think we should consider a hospital detox program. Then an inpatient abuse-recovery program somewhere. You can’t do this alone. After what you’ve been told today, there’s simply no telling what might happen. Flashbacks, body memories, suicidal impulses. Please tell me where you are.”

“I’m all right, really. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“If my daddy was really doing that to mehow could my mother not know?”

Dr. Goldman takes her time before answering. “There are two or three scenarios in these situations that usually explain the mother’s behavior. At some level she is aware of the abuse. But whether she’s in denial or a silent coconspirator, I can’t tell you without more information. In any case, the mother’s primary goal is to keep her family together at all costs. StillGwen might have had no idea that this went on.”

“Did you suspect it? Did you ever think I might have been sexually abused?”

“It’s crossed my mind once or twice. But these days we don’t bring up that idea unless the patient leads us there. And you never did. I thought the murder of your father was sufficient trauma to cause the problems we’ve seen. But now that this has surfaced, there’s a lot of work we can do. That we need to do. I know some very good people in this area, Cat.”

“Do you know Nathan Malik?”

“Why do you ask that?” Hannah’s tone is suddenly guarded. “Do you know him?”

“I met him.”

“Have you seen him as a patient?”

“No. Do you think he’s good at what he does?”

“He’s published some interesting articles. And he’s had some surprising successes with recovered memories. But he uses radical techniques. They’re unproven, and maybe even dangerous. I wouldn’t want you under the care of someone like that. You’re too fragile.”

“I was just asking.”

“Cat, are you in your car? I don’t think you should be driving.”

Dr. Goldman has received many calls from parking lots and from the shoulders of highways. “No. I’m just sitting here.”

“Are you in a safe place?”

I look across at the island, ominous and even forbidding beneath the gray clouds. “Yeah.”

“Where are you in your cycle? Up or down?”

“Neither. I’m numb.”

A sharp intake of breath belies the calming words that follow. “Cat, my concern is that this new information will trigger a manic episode. You’re in shock. You have no defenses left, other than mania. By going manic, you’re brain convinces itself you’re invulnerable. And if that happens, when you finally crash-” Static blots out Hannah’s voice. “The main thing to keep in mind is that what happened between you and your father is not your fault. You were a child. You couldn’t possibly make a free choice. You-” The static returns, this time like intermittent explosions in my ear.