Not ever, really.
Jaime’s therapist said thinking like that wouldn’t help him get better. He attended one session a week, to process the trauma and grief of what had happened last year and his resulting isolation.
They helped, really. He’d been a complete disaster in the weeks following Vera’s murder and the attack, and now the nightmares weren’t nearly as frequent. Still, he would often stay up late into the night, tense and anxious, reciting the facts from that evening over and over.
He would repeat them the same way the police had made him do in that tiny, cold room filled with stale air and metal furniture. They’d barely finished patching up the cut on his temple when they sat him down and began peppering him with questions before Sam swooped in like an avenging angel, armed with a lawyer and a scowl that cowed even the most hardened detective, and ushered him out.
Yes, she knew I was coming to drop off the commission myself.
No, I don’t do that very often, but I did this time because I wanted to make a good impression so that she’d recommend me to all of her wealthy friends.
No, I didn’t follow her out of the room when she went to find her phone.
No, I didn’t see who murdered her, just the shadow of a man in the window before I went into the house. I thought it was her husband.
No, I didn’t see what weapon they used.
Yes, it really did only last a few seconds.
No, I didn’t see the murderer before they knocked me out.
No, I don’t know how much time passed before I came to, tied up in that closet.
No, they never said who they were talking to on the phone.
Yes, they called her by name.
No, I didn’t see their face.
I don’t know why they left me alive.
I don’t know how I got out of there.
No, I didn’t fucking kill her!
Reciting it over and over wasn’t about trying to remember details he might have forgotten in the initial panic.
Jaime knew he never saw the murderer, and that no matter how often he thought back on the moment he’d been hovering over Vera’s torn and ravaged body, searching for a pulse, helplessly trying to put her insides back inside of her, trying to dosomething, he hadn’t seen or heard anyone come up behind him. There’d only been the barest hint of a shadow in his periphery, the most subtle draft along his cheek before he was knocked out cold, only to wake and find himself tied up and gagged in a closet.
He never saw the face of the man who’d murdered Vera, but he had heard his voice, and Jaime was haunted by both.
His therapist said that reciting the facts over and over was a coping mechanism. By doing so, his mind was reminding him that he got out. He survived.
Jaime told her he wished his brain would find a better way of doing that.
And that’s when she would suggest he try painting his feelings like he used to.
But he couldn’t.
There was no emotion in rote facts. He could repeat them without confronting the deep fear and anxiety lurking beneath the surface, but if he were to try to paint how that night felt… no. Not yet.
It would remind him of why his brother had finally decided he’d had enough of taking care of Jaime, of always having to be there when he couldn’t take care of himself. Like he was pathetic and helpless and in need of being managed.
The short, rhythmic buzz of his phone on the nightstand cut through the silence. Jaime reached over and fumbled with the charger before seeing a text from his attorney, Dana Chase. She was one of the few people who had his new number, and one of the fewer who actually used it.
After the case hit national news, Dana had told him that it was in his best interest to change his phone number and stay off of social media for a while. “Just in case,” she’d said.
Jaime, please give me a call when you are available, ASAP.
