by T. L. Hart
I followed docilely in her expensively scented wake as she swept into the restaurant. As the fawning waiter showed us to our “usual” table, I began planning an imminent relapse. Lunch, a drink or two, then back to the beige cocoon with a sudden, splitting headache. Marybeth would have to take her chances without my legendary fashion expertise.
Maybe the girl at Nordstrom could call the girl at Neiman’s in case of an emergency.
Chapter Three
I’ve marked six months off the calendar. Everyone expects things to be settling in and back to the good old days by now. Don’t I wish! I sympathize with Dorothy—I’m sure I’m not in Kansas anymore either. The tornado blew over, but there’s no sign of Toto or the Tin Man and the only ruby slippers I’ve seen have been in evening shoes at Willowbend Mall.
My concentration is much better and I’ve been watching television and movies. A lot of movies. It’s the strangest thing—I know these stories better than I know my own life B.C.—before the crash. Rhett and Scarlett are old friends. Likewise Thelma and Louise—love ’em.
Who I don’t love is Gregory. In fact, he gives me the heebie-jeebies. The man makes me feel like I’ve wandered into the Twilight Zone, a place where I’d feel more comfortable than this pretty mausoleum I live in now. If I walked into the living room and found a quartet of redheaded Martians playing bridge, they wouldn’t be more alien to me than Gregory is.
Dr. Carey finds the subject endlessly fascinating. Our last session started where they all seem to start lately.
“I hate my husband.”
“And why is that today? What did Gregory do to upset you?”
Dr. Carey uncrossed her legs and made a note on the newest of the yellow legal pads that chronicle my life. I watched as she repositioned her legs, noticing that her calves didn’t squish flat even crossed. Good muscle tone for someone over fifty—a runner, maybe. She was looking at me looking at her legs. Another squiggle on the pad. Uh-oh. “Can you tell me why you’re so angry at Gregory?”
“I’m not angry at him. I said I hate him. Okay, that may be too strong a word—hate. I dislike him. A lot. Whatever he does annoys me. I loathe him.”
I paused, warming up, getting into my rhythm. Dr. Carey nodded, waiting without helping fill in the silent spot, waiting for more fodder to fatten her legal pad.
“Well okay.” I wanted to be fair. “It’s not what he does. He just gets on my nerves. He has a perfect job, a perfect car, eats at the best restaurants. For God’s sake, he’s a Stepford husband, executive model. Makes me seem like an idiot for complaining. The only thing wrong with him is me.”
“That’s an interesting observation.”
“I hate it when you do that shrink thing. If you want to ask me something, just do it. Don’t give me that Jungian-Freudian-Dr. Phil coy ‘isn’t that interesting’ bullshit.”
She smiled, a real-person smile, flashing even white teeth and revealing a killer set of dimples. Who’d have figured the cool Dr. Carey for dimples?
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’ll just ask. What makes you think the problem is with you?”
“Have you been listening to anything at all for the last few months? Read your notes. Head injury. Lala-land. Didn’t even know my hair isn’t naturally blonde until the goddamn roots started showing. Now that was a shock.”
“I’ll bet.” Dimples again. “But, Jennifer, having a head injury and memory impairment doesn’t make everything your problem. Did you ever consider the possibility that you and your husband were having adjustment issues before the accident?”
“Before?” The thought set off a mind explosion. “Before the accident? You mean I didn’t like him then either? That’s too weird; it’s ridiculous. It’s…it couldn’t be. I wouldn’t be living with him if I hadn’t liked him before. Why would anyone live like that?”
“You’d be surprised what people will live with and for what reasons.” Dr. Carey returned to the inquisition. “There are a few things that make me curious.” She looked right into my eyes. “For example, you have made a point of avoiding any questions about your intimate marital relationship.”
“Sex?” My voice squeaked, sliding up half an octave in the one word. “You want to talk about my sex life?”
“Is that a problem for you? Are you uncomfortable discussing sex?” I swear behind her professional exterior, she was enjoying watching me squirm. “Tell me about your feelings,” she pried. “Are you embarrassed because you and Gregory are incompatible in bed? That may be part of your hostility toward—”
“As a matter of fact, we don’t have problems in bed. He sleeps in his and I sleep in mine.” Her pen flew over the notebook, but her eyes were still on me. Oh well, might as well make the rest of the session a triumph for her. “It was a convenience after the accident and it sort of just stayed that way.”
“So you don’t have sex at all?”
“I have great sex sometimes. Gregory just isn’t there when I do it.”
“Oh I see. And Gregory hasn’t complained?” I shrugged, and she pressed on. “What does he do for his needs?”
“Sweet God, I try not to think about Gregory and sex.” I suppressed a shudder. “For all I know, his laptop probably has a special port for sex—he uses it for everything else.”
The choking sound she made might have been a cough.
“And you’re satisfied with things the way they are? You don’t want to reconnect with your husband sexually?”
“Not unless it’s a choice between that and being shot with a small-bore weapon at close range.” I stretched a smile over my face, but it may have still sounded a little hostile. “Look, I hate the man and if I hated him a year ago, you should have been treating me for a long time.” I fidgeted on the sofa. “I’m really bored with this subject. If it has to be discussed at all, I think another time would be better.”
“As you wish, but I think this is a sign of progress. Are you sure?”
“Right. Like I’m sure of anything. I mean, it’s like the dreams. The fog. How many people do you know who have dreams about total strangers? Only about total strangers.”
“Are you still having the same dream?”
“Sort of, but it’s getting more detailed, more real feeling. Pieces here and there are new.”
“Tell me what’s new.”
“It starts in the usual way. I’m walking down a street, talking to the dark-haired woman. We’re laughing, our arms linked. Celebrating our success. Celebrating—I still can’t remember what it is or why we’re so excited.”
“And that’s bothering you?”
“I need to know what’s going on. Who is she? Not one of the people who’d ever fit with Gregory, that’s for sure. It makes me crazy trying to make it fit. Why can’t I remember?”
“What happens next?”
“The fog starts to come in. Sudden. Thick rolling fog. Jo’s afraid.”
“Jo? Is that the dark-haired woman’s name?”
“I…I think…yes. Jo. Jo’s afraid. I try to calm her, but the hair on the back of my neck starts to prickle.” I glance around Dr. Carey’s familiar office, reminding myself of where I am, but I still feel the threat. “Now I’m afraid too. Someone’s in the fog, just behind us, but I can’t see who it is. The fog is heavier, so thick now you can’t see the lights of the bar or the lights on the street.
“Someone’s near. You can hear footsteps now. Jo is there with me one second, then there’s a yank and her hand is gone from mine. She’s gone. No scream, just a muffled gasp of surprise.
“I turn, spin around in the fog. Call her name. Nothing. Then a flash of light. A streak of red, something fast and red heading straight for me. Then nothing. No fog. No Jo. Nothing.”
Dr. Carey stopped writing, her pen hanging in the air above the page. She was watching my face. Without saying a word, she got up and brought me a bottle of cold mineral water from a small refrigerator built into the wall.
“Here, sip on this and take a few deep breath
s. You’re very pale. Are you all right?”
I nodded, but my hand was trembling and my voice wouldn’t work at all. She stood beside me, close enough that the faintest hint of her perfume wafted around me. Something soft and flowery and spicy. I closed my eyes for a second and gave in to the small womanly comfort.
Her fingers were firm and warm against my clammy wrist as she checked my pulse. She gave a slight squeeze before returning to her usual chair. Notebook back in hand, she wrote for a couple of minutes while I sipped my water and tried to hold onto the dream. No use—it was fading, slipping away the more I tried to pin it down.
“This dream is important,” I said, surprised at the solid certainty in my voice. “I don’t know why, but I have to find out. You’ve got to help me.”
“Have you talked to Gregory about the dream?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Perhaps he could tell you who Jo is. Some old friend you can’t recall yet? Family?”
“This isn’t about Gregory. I’m certain of that in my gut. He and Jo have nothing to do with each other.” Hope flickered in my stomach, a tiny flutter of bright butterfly wings. “Dr. Carey, I don’t have much in life I’m sure of right now, but this is clear beyond all else. Gregory doesn’t know Jo, but I do. I know it. You’ve got to help me get to the bottom of this. You just have to.”
She stared at me, not like I was a bug under a microscope, but as if she were looking inside my muddled head, seeing part of the real me for the first time, knowing how desperate I was.
“I have a suggestion, but you must let me know if the idea frightens you or makes you uncomfortable.” She put down her pen and pad and leaned closer. “There is one possibility I think we should try. Hypnosis.”
Chapter Four
“The whole thing strikes me as pretty extreme.” My husband was his usual charming self this morning, reading the Wall Street Journal as he checked the latest listings on his laptop and drank his second cup of decaf, no sugar, no cream. “What’s the point in rushing into some faddish treatment when all the doctors have said time will probably do as well?”
Gregory was a very busy man, but generous enough of spirit to offer support, between turning pages and clicking down screen, and always willing to share his opinions.
“You’d be better off to let yourself relax and not overthink for the time being. Go to the gym. Shop with your friends. Get a pedicure. You know, just get into your usual routine and let nature take its course.”
“Dr. Carey is hopeful that the hypnosis sessions might speed the process.”
“Dr. Carey this and Dr. Carey that,” he said in a singsong voice. “If I’d known you were going to quote her every other breath, I think I’d have found a therapist for you who was a little less aggressive in her treatments.”
“I think she’s very kind.” I liked Dr. Carey and didn’t want to hear his criticism. “And this is a creative approach, don’t you think?”
“Oh, she’s very creative. I read an article in People magazine last month. She’s written a thriller about urban violence that they reviewed very favorably. Watch out or you might be the subject of her next one.”
“She’s a very good doctor.” I had no idea if that was true or not, but she was the only hope I had. “You did a great job in finding her.”
“She was very highly recommended,” he said as if he had created her expressly for me. “One of my clients had a problem she helped him with. He said she was a miracle worker.”
“I could use a miracle. I think I’m going to give the hypnosis a try.” I hated the defensive tone in my voice, so I said more firmly, “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Whatever you think, but it’s not as if you have anything that urgent to get back to, is it?”
“Excuse me for wanting my fucking life back, pitiful as it obviously seems to you.” It was a good thing that at the moment I was holding a cereal spoon in my hand instead of a knife. “Can you imagine for even a second that I might have something better to do than shop with my boring friends or work the cellulite off my ass?”
The insufferable idiot was looking at me, wrinkling his nose as if he had sniffed a bad bottle of wine and the offensive odor was directly my fault.
“Really, Jennifer. I can’t believe the way you curse lately. What’s come over you? Maybe you’ve had more brain damage than we know.”
He slammed the lid on his computer and then patted it as if in apology. More affection than he’d shown me, not that the sight of those manicured fingers with black hair on the knuckles didn’t make my skin crawl.
“Why ask my opinion if you’ve already made up your mind? Do whatever you want,” he said, heading for the door. “I’m late for a meeting.”
“Gregory?”
He turned and looked back at me with hostility or, to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe it was only indifference.
“Gregory, did we always dislike each other this much?”
He didn’t pretend to not understand me; I’ll give him credit for being honest in his own casually callous way.
“Not always.” He sounded regretful, but his eyes were icy blue and empty of any sorrow, stonily set on a horizon miles away from here. “Just for a very long time.”
He left and I sat at the table for a couple of minutes, stirring my cereal into a high-carb goo, thanking all the gods and goddesses whose names I couldn’t summon that I didn’t have to feel bad anymore for hating the cold bastard’s guts. I left the dishes on the table for the maid and went to get dressed for my appointment with Dr. Carey.
* * *
“Are you comfortable?”
“I guess so.” I wiggled my toes, aware that they weren’t pedicured to the proper degree for North Dallas standards, glad they were covered by the lightweight afghan Dr. Carey had provided. I felt strangely naked and ill at ease taking off my shoes in her office. “I am kind of nervous.”
“Don’t be.”
Dr. Carey could have a second career as a marine drill sergeant. She didn’t quite snap at me, but I recognized her air of authority as she picked up the yellow pad and dimmed the lights.
“Relax.” It was a direct order and I obeyed like a well-trained soldier, giving up my fear to her command. “That’s the point of hypnotism. It’s a simple technique, a deep state of relaxation.”
“What if I can’t be hypnotized? They say some people can’t. What if I’m one of those?” I was stalling and she wasn’t having any of it.
“Not likely. It’s not as if I’ll be putting you into a coma. I’ll count backward from ten to one, then we’ll wake you up by counting up to three. You’ll feel refreshed afterward and remember what happened during the session. I’ll also run a tape recorder as well so there’s a durable record.”
“Aren’t there some people it doesn’t work on?” Nothing else was working properly in my head these days. It would be embarrassing to be a failure at relaxing. I sat up, intent on calling the whole thing off. “Maybe Gregory was right and I should wait for this to—”
“Hold on Jennifer. You’re quoting your husband?” Dr. Carey stopped my flight before I got airborne on the winds of doubt. “Since when has Gregory done one thing you thought was right?” There was that dimpled smile again, although it seemed to appear against her will. “The worst thing that can happen is that nothing will happen. If you don’t remember, you just don’t.”
“I’m sort of an expert at not remembering, so what’s to lose?” I sank back into the deep leather cushions and flexed my toes for emphasis. “Let’s just do it.”
* * *
“Five…Four…You are very relaxed. Very safe.”
I feel very safe. It’s nice here.
“Three…We’re going back to the time when you are six years old…”
Six is good. I liked being six.
“Two…Almost there. When I say one, you will keep your eyes closed and be able to remember and to talk. You can see the world around you. Like wat
ching yourself in a movie. You feel very safe.”
Nice and safe. And movies. I like it.
“One.”
The woman’s voice is low and rumbly. Not fast and funny, like mama’s. Nice though. Real safe.
“You are very comfortable, and you remember this time very well.”
“I have a ’markable memory. Daddy says it all the time.”
“And a very good vocabulary, it seems.”
“Yes, it’s ’markable too.”
“Indeed.”
“I can read The Pokey Little Puppy all by myself.”
“That’s wonderful,” the lady with the nice voice said. “But let me ask you a few questions. Can you tell me where you are?”
“Uh-uh. I’m hiding.”
“You don’t have to hide from me. You’re safe here.”
“Course I’m safe here. That’s why I’m hiding.”
“Who are you hiding from?”
“Nana Jean.”
“Nana Jean? Why do you need to hide from Nana Jean? Does she hurt you?”
“Course not. She’s my Nana. I’m hiding ’cause I’m not gonna wear that dress.”
“Nana Jean is making you wear a dress?”
“Uh-huh. Mamma says it’s polite to wear it ’cause it’s a present, but I’m not gonna wear a dress.”
“I see. It’s all right. You don’t have to wear it right now. Let’s just talk a little. Is that okay?”
“Okay.”
“Where do you live? Do you know?”
“I live in Dallas, ’cause Daddy works at the school, and Mamma has to be at the jail all the time.”
“Your mother is in jail?”
“Uh-huh. All the time.”
“And does that make you afraid or sad?”
“Uh-uh. Mamma helps the ’pressed people at the jail.”
“Oh, she’s a lawyer then?”
“Uh-huh. Lots of people are poor and get ’pressed by a system. Mamma helps them go home. She—”
“Jennifer. Slow down.”
“Cotton.”
“Excuse me? What about cotton?”
