‘Well, the thing is, since I’ve been here and really returned to the art, I’ve realized how much what happened influences me. It is the backdrop of my mind. The images are always there. I paint them sometimes, like all the pictures with swirls of red that are meant to look like bloodstains. They encourage that here, to bring what we see in our minds to the paintings.’

‘That sounds like a very healthy approach.’

‘Yes, but… The thing is, I think I need to speak about Carúpano differently. I’ve come to realize that it is harming me not to talk about it more explicitly. In my art. And in my life. I’ve been asked to contribute to an art book about trauma. You know, the experience written about and chronicled in writing on one side of the page, then depicted on the other side. I want to be more explicit in my image-building. I don’t want to just paint blood patterns and frightening foliage forever.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘I can’t move on until I tell you what really happened back there.’

‘Elisabeth, what do you mean? We know what happened. Everyone knows—’

‘Nobody knows.’

‘What? You know, you were there. I know, I was there, too.’

‘You don’t.’

‘I can’t recover those memories, Elisabeth, God knows I’ve tried. I wanted to process them fully to recover but came to understand that accepting I won’t regain full recollection is enough. I live with it now, in peace. But I know what happened.’

‘There are things I never told you. I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘What really happened.’

‘Elisabeth, you’re worrying me. We know what really happened. We’ve been over it endlessly…’

‘But it wasn’t the full story. When I saw you there, in Caracas, in the hospital, that first time, afterward, when I saw how frail and broken you were, and realized that you actually had no recollection of what had just happened, I made the decision to tell the story a certain way. But it wasn’t the whole truth…’

‘Elisabeth, listen to me.’ Kristina’s voice is crystal clear and controlled, and Elisabeth can see how hard she has to work to control the anger and fear running through her. ‘Stop, please stop. Jesus, Elisabeth, please just stop. You have to let it go now; we’re thirty-six years old. Hashing out some minor detail you haven’t told me about isn’t going to help me, or you. What happened has dominated your life for almost twenty years. You have to let it go.’

‘Let it go? That’s surprising advice coming from a psychotherapist, a Doctor of Psychology, especially one who specializes in trauma. Don’t you think I have read about this stuff? Don’t you think I know all about integrating trauma to process it properly?’