All the Little Raindrops(57)

“Who wouldn’t? It’s disheartening to watch people betray each other.”

He made a sound of agreement in his throat. “I do a lot of consulting work with the Reno PD now, actually. So I guess you and I are sort of coworkers.”

When Evan had first started seeing him, the professor had told him he’d consulted on a case many years before where a troubled man who’d considered himself a game master had tormented the city for weeks. Evan found it comforting that the man had firsthand knowledge regarding the psychopathy of game-related crimes, if such a field existed, and also that nothing surprised Vitucci. He’d seen it all. Too much. Evan wondered how he maintained such calm, and even exuded it.

“You sound happy, Evan. Much more settled than you were when I last saw you. How long ago was that now?”

“Four years.”

“Hard to believe. And how are you doing? Do you still have nightmares, or have those passed?”

“They’ve passed. I have one occasionally, but nothing regular. Nothing that makes me anxious to go to bed at night. You assured me that would be the case. Just a matter of time. And you were right.”

“Most things are just a matter of time,” he said. “It’s very difficult to believe when you’re in the midst of the pain.”

He nodded. He’d found that to be true. Time didn’t necessarily make the pain disappear entirely, but it sanded the sharp edges. It felt like now it was almost possible to run his fingers along it, to investigate the portions that still held splinters, that still had the potential to make him bleed. He played with the plastic end of his shoelace for a moment. The professor waited. He was good at sensing when someone was taking a moment to choose their words. “There’s one thing that’s still . . . difficult for me. Something that I wrestle with, I guess.”

“What is that?”

He raised his eyes and met the empathetic gaze of the professor. “The girl,” Evan said. “The girl who I was abducted with, who I escaped with . . .”

“Yes,” the professor said. “The girl. What was her name?”

“Noelle.”

“Ah, Noelle, yes. I never met her, but I remember most of what you told me about her. She helped you cope while you were there. She was instrumental in figuring out how to escape.”

“Yes. Yes, she was.”

“Are you still in contact with her?”

Evan shook his head. “It was painful . . . afterward . . .” He sighed. How to explain this?

“You became very attached while in captivity,” the professor said, tilting his head as he studied Evan.

Evan nodded, grateful that the professor was as intuitive as ever. “We did. And afterward, it was like . . .” He moved his hand and lowered his foot to the floor. “It was like we were desperate to be together, but also desperate to be apart.” Was that right? Sort of. “The desperation to be together was stronger.” He frowned. “For me more than her. Maybe. But we both knew we needed to heal separately, I guess.” He gave his head a small shake, frustrated. “I’m trying to verbalize what’s only ever been a feeling. I don’t know. I was wondering if it was a kind of Stockholm syndrome.”

“Stockholm syndrome is a bond with one’s captor. That happens too. But what you experienced is called shared trauma. Or unit cohesion, as it relates to war. And I don’t believe it would be going out on a limb to say you survived a war of sorts, would you?”

Evan thought about that for a moment. The unrelenting fear, the isolation, the constant threat of physical harm, the helplessness. Yes, he supposed they had been to war. An atypical one, but a war all the same. “Yes,” he said. “I would say that.”

“Shared trauma bonds are very, very strong because for a time, they mean survival. Even brothers and sisters living under extreme abusive conditions experience this bond and find it difficult to leave it behind even when the abuser is no longer part of their lives. It complicates relationships in a very profound way. Sometimes that bond is even mistaken for deep love, but it’s a love that feels desperate and possessive.”

Evan sighed, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. “So it’s not really love, then, even though it feels like it?”

“No one can tell you whether you love a person or whether what seems like love is solely a shared trauma bond. What I’m saying is that it would be more likely that the desperation you described was the latter.” He sat forward slightly. “Unit cohesion serves an important purpose when you’re at war, Evan,” he said. “It’s a necessary support system that makes it possible to survive more trauma. The trauma bond outside of war, however, serves no real purpose, as ongoing trauma is no longer a reality, nor should it be. I sense that you felt that. You and Noelle both.”

“We did. We knew it was unhealthy. We just didn’t know how to pack it up. We didn’t know how to stop feeling it.”

“And so you parted ways.”

“Yeah.”

“Perhaps for the best.”

“Perhaps.”

“But . . .”

Evan let out a laugh that was mostly breath. “But I wonder. Because sometimes I . . . miss her.”

“Do you? Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”