Free What You Remember I Did by Janet Berliner, Janet & Tem Berliner

relevant information she had acquired was that the therapist was the same one he'd used from the start, right here in Rockland County, and her office was somewhere near the Inn off Route 59, which was where Eliot stayed when he came to see her.
    Even if she could figure out who that was, Eliot was obviously not about to sign a release allowing the therapist to talk to her about their session. Which didn't mean, she suddenly thought, that she couldn't make an appointment to see her on the pretext of talking about Gary. If nothing else, she'd learn something about therapy in general, and with a little bit of luck, if she asked the right questions, she'd learn enough about repressed memory syndrome to supplement what she'd been reading in the library and on the web.
    She had uncovered a wealth of material. The most direct, understandable, and lacking in hysteria came in the form of newsletters from the False Memory Syndrome Foundation and from the work of Paul J. Ciolino , an expert on child abuse investigations. He gave exactly the kind of guidance Nan had hoped to find. Best of all, he offered it in lay language, side-stepping the usual annoying buzzwords.
    Ciolino offered twenty questions to be asked when trying to determine the veracity–or lack thereof–of therapists working with patients who had suddenly remembered familial abuse. He said the answers would, in most cases, lead to the exposure of what he called "The Repressed Memory Myth." If she ever found Eliot's therapist, she would work in Ciolino's twenty questions. Maybe she would go to the source for an interpretation of the answers or talk to an expert at the FMS Foundation.
    The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Jordan stood on the porch, lugging a duffle bag. Matt held an armload of what smelled like Won Ton soup and wet brown bag.
    Ashley, who knew nothing of Nan's estrangement from Matt, waved from her car. "Thank you, Mom."
    Not looking at or speaking to Matt, Nan kissed Jordan. The image flashed through her mind of someone hurting her granddaughter the way Matt was accused of hurting Eliot, and she held onto Jordan, burying her face in the sweet-smelling hair until the little girl squirmed to get away.
    Ashley was tapping the shiny blue enamel of the car's paint with a manicured fingernail. "Cruise wear." She held up her hand. "This, my shawl, sunglasses and a swimsuit, and I'm good to go." She leaned out and angled her face for a kiss. Nan trudged across the lawn to oblige. "You have the emergency number for the ship, right?"
    "Right. Go on. I'll spoil her rotten. She'll be fine."
    "Bye, Mommy." Jordan waved.
    Ashley grinned, waved, and pulled away from the curb. When she smiled, she reminded Nan of Gary. Nan hurried inside, edgy about Matt's interactions with Jordan. Not that he and the child were going to be alone together, at least until she had learned a lot more about Repressed Memory Syndrome and was sure about Matt, one way or the other.
    After dinner, at which nobody but Nan seemed uncomfortable, she did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, refusing help. Alone, she tried to sort out what she knew about Matthew Mullen. What she had learned firsthand about him was overwhelmingly positive. The one thing she had been told about him by an outside source was overwhelmingly negative. Should she, on the basis of this accusation, end things between them altogether? Could she bear to lose what had all the makings of a good relationship on the basis of an accusation she could neither prove nor disprove?

CHAPTER TWELVE
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    Knowing he was taking a risk, Matt walked up behind Nan where she stood at the counter and put his hands on her shoulders, very lightly, not trying to turn her around. She kept her back to him and her voice was tight when she said. "What, Matt?"
    "Are you ever going to look at me again?"
    "I don't know."
    "I don't want to lose you," he whispered, thinking how so often life seemed like nothing but taking risks. . "It's been a long