Chapter 28 Trauma Bond
Trauma Bond
Hi, William. No, I’m not all right. Are you?
No.
Did you give a witness statement?
Yes. You?
Yes. It sounds like they think Cyndi’s death was a suicide.
What else could it be? Occam’s razor: The simplest explanation is usually the right one.
Agree. But it could have been the Rabbit?
Unlikely. But possible. I told them that.
So did I.
Has she troubled you lately? Contacted you?
No. Not since we stopped . . . No.
Thank God for small mercies.
I guess.
. . .
. . .
God, that was devastating. I’m sitting in my car shaking and I can’t stop. Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?
Yes. Tell.
I found Hank.
. . . Forgive me, I’m confused. Was he lost?
No. I mean he had a suicide attempt. When he was drinking. I found him.
Oh Simone. Honey. You never said.
Maybe I should have mentioned it.
Yes, you should.
Can I tell you now?
Please.
It was when we lived in the Berkshires. He was on a serious bender, the one after he set the garage on fire. I asked him to
leave. I told him he had a choice: I could drive him to the nearest motel or I’d call the cops. He chose the motel. I drove
him there. William, the hardest thing I ever did was leave him there in the middle of the night. I drove away watching him
in my wing mirror, walking into that motel room with his porkpie hat on, and I had no idea if I’d ever see him again.
Oh, Simone. I’m so sorry.
Thank you. I had a bad feeling. And I was right. The motel owner called me around 4 AM. She’d smelled smoke coming from Hank’s
room. He’d cut his wrists. And taken pills with vodka. His cigar had rolled onto the rug. Good thing he smoked, right?
What a terrible ordeal.
The motel owner was so pissed. She kept saying, You’ll have to pay for that carpet, you know. Meanwhile I took Hank to the ER and they got him patched up. He wouldn’t let me come in because he didn’t want me to see
the cuts. After that he went to the psych ward. Inpatient. And that saved his life. They got him the right meds. But it was
the hardest thing I’ve ever lived through.
What you did was an incredible act of courage and kindness, Simone.
Not at all. I loved him. And he was a human being who needed my help. I’m sure you’d do the same.
I would have, if I’d gotten the chance.
OMG. Right. Becky. I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me. Of course you know how I feel. How did she, if you don’t mind my asking . . .
Pills. Like Cyndi. But without the wrists.
Oh God. And you found her?
I did. In our apartment.
I’m so sorry, William.
Thank you.
And maybe this isn’t the right time to bring this up. But I want you to know I meant you and Becky no disrespect with my novel
idea.
. . .
William? Are you there?
Here. Thinking.
Okay. Well, I needed you to know that.
I heard you, Simone. I heard you the first time. You tendered an apology and I thanked you. It was not good enough. You didn’t
say you’d give up the book. You were considering going ahead with the thievery of my story. I had to protect myself.
By getting involved with Cyndi?
. . .
Hello?
I was typing, Simone. Would you like to know what I was typing? I was asking you what you were doing there. At the Hawthorne.
How did you know Cyndi?
Honestly? I got in touch with her because I thought you were dating her and I couldn’t stand it. Especially because you and I had no real closure. It was making me crazy. So I’m not proud of it, but we met to discuss you. Which, speaking of which, what were YOU doing there? Were you two dating?
Not dating per se. She was obsessed with me, Simone.
What do you mean, obsessed? In what way?
In the obsessed way. She reached out to me after attending a Darlings meeting. Asked me for help with her novel. I acquiesced,
although I was very busy with the end of my tour and also reeling from your betrayal. She would not leave me alone. I made
a grave error by going to her house to work with her, and she seemed to think we were in a romantic arrangement. Perhaps I
should have been more blunt, but she was so vulnerable, I was afraid to hurt her. Do you know what I mean?
Yes. I saw it too. She was on serious meds.
Her antipsychotics. Yes. And the cats.
I didn’t meet the cats.
Count yourself lucky. They are a nightmare. The best thing that could happen to those poor creatures is to be shipped off
to a sanctuary in Hawai’i. Cyndi’s house was a hoarder house. She was very unstable. But also tenacious. She pursued me hotly.
When she begged me to come to the Hawthorne, I stupidly went. I thought maybe I could make it clear to her that I was interested
in her as no more than a helpful editor. I got there minutes before you did. You know the rest.
Yes. I’ll never forget it.
Nor I.
. . .
. . .
Hi, Simone.
Hello, William.
I have missed you.
Have you?
Yes. I’ve been haunted by you.
Well. That’s nice. I feel the same. But your ghosting me made it hard to tell.
I did not ghost you, Simone, if we must use juvenile vernacular. I stepped out of our relationship out of self-preservation.
Perhaps I overcorrected, and if so, apologies. But I was angry and bereft over your carelessness. Do you know how badly you
hurt me with that book idea? Do you feel any repentance? Have you thought more about your decision?
. . . What decision? I thought we were done.
Whether we are done or not depends on your decision whether to write your book. Your so-called thriller.
. . .
No answer, Simone? Wrong answer. I’d better get back on the road. I’m at a rest stop to have this conversation, but I see
it’s perhaps not worth my time.
Wait! William. Stop. Sorry, I was processing. I didn’t know there was any possibility left for us. This is new information
for me. And I want to respond mindfully because this is such a fraught topic for both of us.
True. Take your time. I’ll wait. Respond wisely.
I’m not working on that book right now.
How do you feel about that?
. . . I don’t know.
I feel relieved, Simone. It means you’ve taken that thriller idea out behind the barn and shot it. It means you’ve learned
the difference between empty equivocating and meaningful action. It goes a long way toward repairing us. But I also hate the
idea of you not writing.
Me too. Thanks.
What if . . .
What if what?
What if we were having this conversation in person? There’s much I think we still have to clear up. And much we could say to each other.
Agree.
Where are you now?
Still in my car. In Salem.
Remember when I was going to invite you to my house in Maine?
I remember.
What if I re-tendered my invitation? What if I gave you the coordinates to my house now? Would you come?