Page 66 of For Her Own Good

“The job I took in Chicago was for working with adults.”

It’s my knee-jerk response, the one I give to anyone who asks. It seems obvious, yeah, that’s the job that was available so that’s the one I took. I had to do some studying up to get the latest on treating adults, but I think that shift is far easier than going from treating adults to adolescents.

Starla, though, knows oh-so-much better. And from where she sits, head still resting on her knees but fully turned toward me, her eyes narrow. There is no way in hell I’m getting off that easily. Nor should I. Yet I can’t seem to continue my explanation. Perhaps she’ll take pity on me. Play the therapist and ask leading questions that will compel me to answer. It’s not fair to put her in that position, not at all, but when you’re bogged down in self-loathing and hypocrisy and throat-closing disgust…

“Okay, but you could’ve gone anywhere. You were an incredibly well-regarded children’s psychiatrist with a specialty in treating difficult and persistent cases of depression and anxiety. Any practice or hospital would thank their lucky stars to have you. So, nice try, doc, but I’m not buying it. Next?”

It’s strange how the very things you can love about a person can also be the ones that drive you most mad. Starla is persistent, intuitive, and intelligent, all of which mean she’s perfectly reasonable to demand these answers. Doesn’t mean I want to give them to her any more, though. If anything, I want to hand them over less. Should’ve kept my mouth shut, took this secret to my grave, and perhaps gotten to live happily ever after. Though I wouldn’t have deserved it and probably would’ve wizened under the weight of getting a fairy tale ending I didn’t at all deserve.

“It’s…it’s not a nice reason.”

I can’t even meet her gaze anymore. There’s a nonzero chance she’s going to be horrified and demand I get out of her apartment, and I’ll go, no argument, no cajoling, just walk out and maybe throw myself into the Charles because all I could say to that is, “Aye, ye’ve got the right of it, lass.”

Also, I don’t want her to feel guilty. There’s no reason for her to, but she might anyway. She always takes too much on herself, makes things her fault when they aren’t. When the people around her should’ve been better than they were and they failed her. Like her father did. Like I did. But I’m not going to fail her now, keep this secret from her when she ought to know and then decide if she really wants to be with a man like me. If I even still have a chance after she’s said she hates me.

I force myself to look up at her and she’s regarding me, calmly, kindly, chin now perched on her knees. She probably thinks I’m exaggerating. I’m not.

“Did you know I grew up Catholic? Not like church on Easter and Christmas Catholic, but church every Sunday, Catholic schools, went to confession every week, was an altar boy. That kind of Catholic.”

“I bet you were an adorable ginger altar boy.”

I force the corners of my mouth up to acknowledge her gentle teasing. How do I deserve this kindness from a woman like her?

“I don’t know about adorable, but I took my duties very seriously. Unlike my brothers, of course. But that’s neither here nor there. My mother thought about becoming a nun, but she met my da and changed her mind. Had a gaggle of kids she swore to raise up as good Catholics to make up for it. Her brother, though, he became a priest.”

I have very clear memories of Uncle Sean. He had red hair like me, and was always ready with a joke or a little magic trick. I thought that man had hung the moon. I haven’t talked about Sean in years, though I think of him often.

“We’d go to his church and see him give mass sometimes, and he was the kind of priest every parish wants. He was engaging, funny, warm, flirted with the old ladies, and…”

My throat closes, which is fine since it keeps the bile in my throat, not spilling out of my mouth and onto Starla’s expensive carpet. Best get this part over with, though, rip off the Band-Aid as it were, because the story’s not going to change no matter how long I wait. So I clear my throat, trying to breathe through the roiling in my gut.

“Turned out he was molesting little boys. He’s one of the few who went to prison for it, so at least there’s that. He’s out now, though I haven’t spoken to him. Can’t bring myself to. But when I was a boy, I was jealous of those lads. The ones he spent extra time with, who he seemed to take a special interest in.”

Makes me sick even now to think of it all these years later. I imagine it will for the rest of my life.

“Maybe if I hadn’t been so self-centered, I would have noticed the boys themselves weren’t so thrilled about it. Avoided him, more like. But I was a kid and it never occurred to me. It just seemed wildly unfair that Sean was my uncle and though we got to see him most Sunday evenings for dinner, he wasn’t around more than that.”

Starla’s uncurled herself from her protective snail shell, and I hate that I’m sullying her with this. Not that she’s naive and doesn’t know these things happen because the world is an eminently fucked-up place, but there’s a difference between knowing these things happen in an amorphous kind of way and having the vile show up in your own backyard. She doesn’t look horrified, though, more like angry. More like she might fly over to Scotland, hunt down Sean, and throttle him herself. I’ve thought to do it myself to be honest, and though I dissemble when my family asks, I know he’s one of the reasons I so rarely go home.

“So your uncle was a sick fuck who got what he deserved. I’m not sure what that has to do with you.”

Oh, my sweet Starla. She should know better than I do that men who seem good aren’t always.

* * *

Starla

“I think maybe I knew about it?”

The icy sensation that’s been lapping at my feet hits me full-on in the face.

“You knew?”

He shrugs and his cheeks have gone ruddy. A deep, searing burn of embarrassment and probably worse. Humiliation? Guilt? Remorse?

“It was during a time when it was in all the American papers. People whispered about it, made it sound like it was a problem over here, but not in our own backyard. But that didn’t make any sense to me. I should’ve put it together. Should’ve figured it out. Should’ve said something to someone even if I wasn’t sure.”

“Lowry…” Though a few minutes ago I was so angry at him and so hurt I could have thrown a full-on tantrum, I have the urge to touch him, comfort him. I’m not sure what this has to do with why he left, but he’s a human being, one I care for very much, and I don’t like seeing him in pain. So, I put a hand on his shoulder, and he stiffens but doesn’t shrug me off. “You were a child. That’s what you would tell any of your clients, and I’m sure what your therapist has told you.”

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