Too weak to sit up in bed. Fluids dripped into my veins, too weak to eat or drink except clear sweet liquids through a straw.

“Violet? It will help if you look up, dear. Try to keep your eyes open, and in focus . . .”

No. No. Can’t.

Amnesia was a balm. Amnesia is the great balm of life. Wept with gratitude for all that I did not remember which was confused (in observers’ eyes) with what I might be remembering.

The shock of it is, what was intimate and secret becomes public. What occurred without words becomes a matter of (others’) words.

Sexual abuse of a minor. Abduction. False imprisonment.

In that deep sleep, in which my heart had barely continued to beat, at the very bottom of the marble coffin, I had been protected, safe. Almost I would think that Mr. Sandman’s arms had embraced me.

Vio-let Rue! Vio-let Rue!

You know, I love you.

He had never uttered these words to me, I was sure. Yet often I heard them, confused with voices at a distance. Muffled laughter.

“. . . what that terrible man did to you. Try to . . .”

But I did not remember. And Mr. Sandman was my friend. No one else was my friend.

Aunt Irma staring at me, disbelieving. Uncle Oscar, with repugnance.

For I would not testify against the abuser. My eyes were heavy-lidded, my voice was slow, slurred, insolent.

No. You can’t make me. I’ve said—I don’t remember.

There was a female police officer, questioning me. But I knew better than to make that mistake again.

A (female) gynecologist who would report no evidence of vaginal or anal penetration, no (physical) evidence of sexual abuse. A (female) therapist who would report probable extreme trauma, dissociation. Ms. Herne from the Children’s Protective Services.

It would be held against me that I was uncooperative with authorities who were trying to establish a case of repeated and sustained sexual abuse against Mr. Sandman unless it might be argued that I was a victim, mentally ill, unable to testify against the teacher who’d drugged and abused me for a period of approximately seven months.

Mr. Sandman had been careful, fastidious. My clothes had been laundered—no DNA. (Except an incriminating trace would be discovered on one of my sneakers. Just that trace would be enough to convict.)

If you don’t help to convict this terrible man he will hurt other girls, they told me.

I thought—Other girls will be hurt whether Mr. Sandman is in prison or not. That is our punishment.

“VIOLET. NO ONE IS PUTTING PRESSURE ON YOU . . .”

You are all putting pressure on me.

“. . . but you must tell us, you must take your time and tell us, all that you can remember. When did that man first . . .”