“So, the flare-ups on the field. They are connected?”
“Hey, you’re the expert,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“No, Reed, it doesn’t work like that,” I explained, lifting my hand from his leg and leaning back.
He cut me a look. “So, you’re not the expert? You’ve lost me?”
“It’s my job to get you to realize stuff on your own.”
Reed dragged a hand through his hair. “Well, it first started with panic attacks around a week after the Palmers' house was raided, and I recognized it on the news. Then the anger kicked in.”
I placed my hand on his knee again, and he covered my fingers with his own. “How can I look at myself in the mirror after seeing all those kids who suffered as I did.
Had I come forward instead of saving my own skin, they would have shut that shit down sooner.
You know, one of the girls was so undernourished and academically stunted that her brain didn’t develop properly. She’s eighteen now and talks like a fucking nine-year-old girl. I can’t stand it.”
Tugging his hand away, Reed pushed to his feet and walked over to the window. It had started to rain, and I stood, moving toward him, taking in his body language.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, I spoke the truth. “You were a child, Reed. Terrified. You can’t blame yourself for not going to the authorities.”
After another squeeze of that knotted muscle, I could feel beneath my fingers, I asked. “Who else knows that you are a victim of the Palmers and part of a story that is now nationally recognized?”
“Just you.”
He then turned towards me, his face so pained that I wanted to drag him against my body and hold him, whispering it was OK.
I could see he was close to breaking down as he propped himself on the table just under the window.
“You did what you needed to do to survive, Reed, and there is nothing to be ashamed of.”
We ended the session with Reed back in the chair and me perched on my desk just in front of him.
“So, what now?” he questioned, looking thoroughly exhausted.
And my reply. I really didn’t know.
There was no quick fix solution to how he was feeling. Survivor's guilt wasa psychological condition that occurred when a person believed they had done something wrong by surviving a traumatic event.
After a brief pause, I decided that there was only one thing he could do. Speak out.
“I think you know what you need to do.” As his counsel, I wasn’t supposed to tell him what to do, but as someone who loved him, I felt that was my right.
“What?”
“Go to the cops. Identify yourself as one of their victims. I saw on the news earlier that two more victims have come forward, and they are in their late twenties. That means they would have been there before you.”
“Yeah, I saw that, and I’ve thought about it, but the heat that it would bring to the case would be immense. Not to mention the effect on the team.”
“I know. And it will be hard, but it’s the right thing to do. Now is your chance to make what you believed you have done wrong, right.”
“The only way to get closure is to ensure those fuckers pay. And it looks like they will get that irrespective of whether I come forward or not.”
“Maybe. But I think this is something you need to do, to cleanse yourself. You’re a big star, Reed; you could bring the entire world's eyes to that story. Educate people as to what can happen in the social care system. They failed you and so many other kids, and they should be brought to task.”
“I know, I agree. I guess I’m afraid,” he confessed, his shoulders dropping: the need to pull him into my arms powered through me again.
“I get that, but you don’t need to do that alone,” I took his hand and pulled it toward me.
