By Jenny Milchman
When I was nine years old, I went on a walk into town with my younger brother. It was the age of free roam children, and our suburban enclave held a lot of delights. A Breyer’s ice cream parlor—cones cost thirty-five cents—no fewer than four bookstores, a toy shop.
On that day, we were headed to the Pet & Hobby. The hobby stuff interested us less—although the miniature trains were fun—than the fish tanks we stared into for hours, the hamsters we cuddled, the turtles we dreamed of buying.
Before we got there, while walking along the sidewalk, I felt something from behind. A hand where it should not have been on my body.
Women and girls live in a very different world than do men and boys. Trans and nonbinary individuals live at the intersection of these issues and find their rights under constant threat. These things have been at the forefront of my mind lately.
I think it has to do with my new novel, which will be published this fall. The book features a psychologist named Arles Shepherd who survived childhood abuse and goes on to help traumatized children and families. Until the day she encounters a man more demon than human being and her whole career—her whole life—is thrown into chaos.
On that day when I was just nine, I felt the hand on me, and I reached sideways to grab my brother. He was so young, though, and had no idea what was happening. Had no way of helping. I was so young, come to think of it. I didn’t really know what was happening either.
But I knew something felt very, very wrong. Whoever was behind me continued to trail along at our heels. Not letting himself be seen. And not letting go.
The Pet & Hobby appeared to one side. Still clutching my brother’s hand, I banged open the door—a jangle of bells, I remember that, I’m almost sure I do, though the memory has also gotten jangled, by time—and I yanked us both inside.
The man followed.
He trailed us up and down the aisles, so I headed to the counter where there was a clerk.
There was a clerk. Thank Someone there was a clerk there.
The man left the store.
I waited for a long time. My brother and I did our pet store thing. Fish. Hamsters. Turtles.
Here’s the thing though. I walked back home. Side by side with my brother. It didn’t occur to me that the man could be lying in wait. We had to leave sometime, right? Two kids. Probably didn’t have much money. Couldn’t buy every kissing gurami in the store. The man might very well have been hiding out.
But he wasn’t. My brother and I made it home and I told my parents who called the police.
I remember driving around in a cop car, although we never saw the man. I didn’t recall what he looked like well enough to give a reliable report.
I now realize how lucky I am in many ways.
That this man didn’t do anything worse—though what a strange concept that is, that “all” I had to experience was an unwanted touch. Though I know it to be true. I know that many people have to survive much worse.
That I had parents I could tell, who would believe and not blame me.
That enlisting law enforcement was an option for us.
Still, this memory lives on, decades later, as poison. It’s a there-but-for-the-grace-go-I memory for me. I think of those who have faced encounters that didn’t end so well. That’s maybe why I wrote my book. I wrote myself into it and what could’ve been if it hadn’t turned out as it did.
At the same time, what am I doing describing this violation as a good outcome, relatively speaking? What does ‘relatively’ mean when it comes to our bodies, our souls, and our sense of safety? Our ability to stay securely tethered to our lives?
I believe there’s a spectrum of abuse and assault. It’s rare that I meet another woman who, after we’ve gotten to know one another well enough to talk on a deep level, hasn’t experienced something along this spectrum.
In my new novel, I wanted to shine a light on these different forms of abuse, which work to silence girls and women. Fear is a great silencer and to some extent, I think we all live in fear. How many of us would walk into an empty underground parking garage at night without thinking twice? Or leave a drink unattended at a bar or party? How many of us, if we did do those things, and something bad happened that we survived, wouldn’t then fear being blamed for our actions? Maybe to the extent that we wouldn’t report what took place?
Silencing can take on as many forms as abuse.
Arles is a character who’s good at amplifying the voices of her clients, but struggles with speaking up for herself. It’s a daily battle for her, but one she intends to win. So she fights. Every day. And when the biggest danger of all appears, at the end of the story, she is ready.
Arles had to fight bigger battles than I did, if such rankings should even be a thing. I admire her greatly for what she survived, just as I admire every survivor out there. And I think we all can play a role in encouraging each other to speak up.
In banding together so that the fear no longer has to tamp down our voices.
The fear no longer has to win.
ABOUT THE BOOK: Child psychologist Arles Shepherd treats troubled children, but with each case, her traumatic past begins to unravel– much of which she’s lost to the shadows of memory. Having just set up a new treatment center in the remote Adirondack wilderness, Arles becomes invested in one patient in particular: a ten-year-old boy who has never spoken a word– or so his mother, Louise, believes. Hundreds of miles away, Cass Monroe is living a parent’s worst nightmare: his twelve-year-old daughter has vanished on her way home from school. No clues, no witnesses, and no trail, police are at a dead end. Fighting against a heart condition and struggling to keep his marriage alive, Cass desperately turns to a pair of true-crime podcasters for help. Arles, Louise, and Cass will soon find their lives entangled in ways none of them could have anticipated. And when the collision occurs, a quarter-century-old secret will be forced out of hiding. Because nothing screams louder than silence.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jenny Milchman is the Mary Higgins Clark Award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of the psychological thrillers ‘Cover of Snow’, ‘Ruin Falls’, ‘As Night Falls’, ‘Wicked River’, and ‘The Second Mother’. Her work has received praise from the New York Times, earned spots on Top 10 lists, and garnered starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, Library Journal, and more. She lives in the Catskill Mountains with her family. For more information, visit www.jennymilchman.com
