by T. L. Hart
“Plans?”
I wasn’t up to plans. I dug my heels in, slowing his progress toward the front door. No way I was going to invite a total stranger, cousin or not, into the house alone.
“I don’t mean to be rude.” I paused, realizing he’d never even told me his name. “What did you say your name was?”
“Right. It’s Dewayne. Your daddy was my daddy’s uncle. We’re second cousins or once removed or some such nonsense.”
“Dewayne what?” All this cousin stuff was beyond Greek to me.
“Winters, of course. Just like your name before you married that Gregory guy.” He curled his lip. “Is he still pretending he didn’t marry you to get Uncle Jack’s money?”
“I beg your pardon?” This guy might be rude and pushy as hell, but the fact that he didn’t like Gregory made him go up a step in my opinion. “You don’t think Greg and I are a good pair?”
“Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Jenny, but this guy isn’t hard to read. Greedy, self-centered. Thought you’d come to your senses and divorce him long before now.” He glanced at the door. “He’s not here now, is he? I don’t want to waste our time if he’s still home.”
“No, but he will be any second.” I lied too easily, grabbing the excuse to get rid of him. Jennifer might love this guy, but I wasn’t feeling it. “Maybe you should call me later.”
“Yeah good idea. I’d rather have you all to myself,” he said. “Just like the old days when—”
“Sorry, Dewayne. The good old days are a lot of work for me right now and I have a doctor’s appointment soon. Gotta shower.” He looked ready to hug me again, so I moved out of his reach and cracked the front door, just enough to make it clear I was going inside. “Call me and we’ll find a time. Do you have my number?”
“Cousin Jennifer, what a question.” He grinned and gave me a little salute. “No way I’d lose your number, honey. We’ve got lots to talk over.”
As he drove away, I hoped Jennifer didn’t have any more long-lost relatives that were going to show up. I also wondered how long it took to have a phone number changed.
* * *
My appointment with Dr. Carey wasn’t until two, so I filled the morning doing something everyone expected of me. I shopped. After my second shower, I dressed, grabbed my keys, the brown envelope, and a purse crammed with cash and a platinum American Express card and headed to the mall. I bypassed the Galleria and ended up at Northpark, a few blocks from the doctor’s office.
I won’t say my legendary love of shopping flamed back to life, but it did feel great to indulge in impulse buying on an epic level. The plastic was smoking by the time I finished. It took three trips to the car to stash huge bags in the trunk before the lust was slaked. Blue jeans—from the Gap, thank you—shirts, ten pairs of running shorts, sweats, sandals, Coach shoulder bags in three colors, a diving watch, half a dozen silver rings. Oh, the goodies were endless.
At noon, I took a break and ate lunch at a little French place where the tables were right out in the wide hall beside a fountain. I drank a double espresso and wondered if I used to smoke, because the thought of a cigarette with the strong, bitter coffee sounded perfect. I people-watched and, for the first time I could remember, I felt totally at peace.
Tired by the day’s frenetic binge, but revved up by the caffeine, I was fried when I arrived at Dr. Carey’s. Her inner door was closed, so I nodded at Donna, the receptionist for the three doctors who shared the office, and took a seat in the waiting area.
I amused myself by looking at all the expensively framed degrees and certificates hanging discreetly on the wall. Dr. Carey had her SMU pedigree prominently displayed—in Dallas going to Southern Methodist University was practically expected of a girl from Highland Park. Summa cum laude, no less. Rah. Rah.
There was a man sitting in another chair, leafing through a sheaf of papers. He had on those little wire reading half-glasses that perched on the end of his nose. He looked up at me and nodded before returning his attention to his reading. Something about him was intriguing, and I studied him when he wasn’t looking.
He was in his late fifties or so and had a full head of longish salt-and-pepper hair and a short, but rather bushy beard. A kind person would say he was plump, but even his expensively tailored business suit couldn’t quite disguise the round belly and broad butt that scarcely fit in the chair. I suppressed a smile when I realized who he reminded me of.
Make the hair and beard all white, give him a pipe and a bright red suit, and I swear he could have fooled Mrs. Claus. I was still amusing myself by imagining what kind of lurid neuroses Santa would have to confess in therapy when Donna said the doctor was ready for me.
“How are you feeling today, Jennifer? Yesterday was pretty rough on you.”
Dr. Carey motioned for me to take my usual place on the sofa. She had added a second chair to the room, next to where she always sat.
“Actually, I’m having a really good day. I slept all night without the dreams. I went shopping this morning. Bought tons of things I don’t need and had a fattening lunch. All in all, better than I could have hoped for.”
“That’s good,” she said, but she didn’t seem all that interested in girl talk. “Jennifer, yesterday’s session was quite unusual. I took the liberty of calling an old friend, Andrew Waters. He is not only one of the most gifted psychiatrists I know, but he has some special interest and experience in these matters.”
“These matters? You mean there are actually specialists for my kind of head case?” I was amazed. “How do you look them up? Yellow pages under Missing Minds? Or Multiple Occipital Occupations?”
“Jennifer,” she admonished gently. “This isn’t about labels. Just talk to Dr. Waters. I think he may have ideas that will help you.” She leaned over to press the intercom button. “Are you willing to talk with him? It’s up to you.” I nodded and she asked Donna to send the doctor in.
I should have been expecting it in my strange little world, but I was surprised nonetheless when an Armani-clad Dr. Santa entered the room.
Chapter Seven
“Hello, Ms. Strickland,” the fat man said in response to Dr. Carey’s introduction. “Thank you for allowing me to sit in on your session. I know it’s difficult to throw a new factor into the mix at this stage, but I’ll try not to be too obtrusive.”
Santa—I mean Dr. Waters—had a voice like distant thunder—low, resonant and vaguely ominous. Not scary ominous, but portentous, promising knowledge and with the faintest edge of a first-rate showman. I was prepared to be dazzled, drawn in by his voice and imposing physical presence. He watched me with—what else?—twinkling blue eyes as he settled his considerable girth in the wing chair next to Dr. Carey.
“Hello,” I said, nodding in his direction, uncertain of proper protocol when your shrink had to call in a backup. Was I supposed to start over and go through all the basics again? Was Dr. Carey going to hypnotize me and let him see the dog and pony show firsthand?
“Jennifer, I’ve explained your background—the accident, memory loss, dreams—so that we would all be on the same page today.”
Crisp and efficient as usual, Dr. Carey took over. Why did I waste time worrying with her around? If the people at NASA had a handful of staff as capable, there would be a McDonald’s serving cheeseburgers on the moon by now.
“If you don’t mind,” she continued, “I’ll let Dr. Waters take the lead for now. He has some very interesting theories that may shed light on your hypnosis and the…uh…” She stuttered, showing uncertainty for the first time since I’d known her. “The situation with Cotton Claymore.”
At last, here was my chance to do more than sit like a lump on a log. I fished the manila envelope from my bag and held it in the air. They both watched, saying nothing until the moment stretched uncomfortably long. Feeling like an over-the-top drama queen, I lowered the envelope to my lap.
“It’s research material,” I said in my own defense. “I have printouts of all
the information I could find on Cotton. And even if you both think I’m crazy, the more I find out, the more I remember about her. I do remember.”
“Do you think you’re crazy?” Dr. Waters asked in a quiet tone.
“We don’t do those shrinky questions around here, Dr. Waters,” I answered with bravado. “House rules. Just talk to me like I’m a regular person.”
“Fair enough.” He smiled. “Then let’s drop this Dr. Waters and Ms. Strickland business. Please call me Andrew.”
I shot a surprised glance in Dr. Carey’s direction. She was scribbling, as usual, but her mouth turned up as she wrote.
“You don’t need my permission,” she said. “I should have told you Andrew prefers a more casual approach than I.”
“Okay, then. Andrew. You can call me—”
I stopped, baffled by my own uncertainty. This was going to look bad, but damned if I knew what to do. I felt less like Jennifer every day, but asking to be called by a dead woman’s name would probably be pushing me into being measured for a straitjacket in the end.
“Maybe you shouldn’t call me anything,” I murmured. “Just yell, ‘Hey, you!’ if I start to head off into the deep end.”
“You aren’t going to drift off anywhere. Let’s not worry about what to call you for now, shall we? Just humor me and answer the question. Are you crazy?”
“I think we have to consider the possibility.”
“All right, we’ll put that on our list. But just to eliminate a few other choices, can you tell me what makes you think you might be crazy? Do you see visions, for example?”
“No.”
“Good. Do you hear voices when no one is around?”
“No.”
“Any overwhelming urge to harm yourself or anyone else?”
“No, not if you don’t count the fleeting fantasy of putting rat poison in my husband’s Sumatran roast.” I grinned. “Just kidding.”
“I think that falls well within the norm.” He smiled in return.
Andrew stroked his beard and sat for a few seconds, looking at me. Looking at me, not watching me, a distinction that made me feel like a person instead of a case.
“This problem with your head injury complicates things because you can’t tell me much about what you knew before the accident. But if you’ll indulge me and answer a few marginally shrinky questions, I may have a possible explanation for a few of your concerns.”
“Ask away.”
“Tell me what you remember of life before the accident.”
“I’ve tried to come up with a clear memory, but it’s like a blank wall. I have a lot of information from Gregory, from friends, photographs with me in them, stuff like that, but I don’t know if I really remember them or just remember people telling me I know about them.”
“What about your parents? Your childhood?”
“That bothers me a lot. I’ve stared at old pictures of them. Of all of us from the time I was a baby. I look like my father.” I closed my eyes, trying to conjure up feelings of love or hate or sadness. Nothing. Nothing except vague flashes of carefully pasted snapshots.
“They died in a plane crash five years ago. My father was in the oil business and they were on a business trip. Their plane went down over the ocean. I inherited a lot of money and property, according to Gregory, but I truly don’t have any feeling that I knew them at all. Isn’t that strange?”
“You had a very bad injury. Things get rattled.”
“Things don’t usually stay this rattled this long though. Right?”
“Not usually, no. But not unheard of either.” He shifted his bulky body. “So you have no clear memory of anything before the car wreck?” I shook my head, and he continued. “Including your husband or friends?”
“Nothing. Except for waking up in the hospital, and a lot of that has been blurry until the last few weeks.”
“While you were in the hospital, do you know if there was a time when you stopped breathing or had to be resuscitated?”
“Yes. Gregory said I went into some sort of cardiac arrest right after they brought me in. Had to shock my heart back into beating. I don’t recall it though.”
“What hospital were you taken to?”
“I was driving down Inwood, about six blocks from Parkland Hospital, so they took me there. If I hadn’t been so close to their trauma unit, my doctor says I probably wouldn’t have made it because of the amount of blood I’d lost.”
“And this was in January.”
“January eleventh.”
“What time of the day?”
“Around ten that evening. They said I was coming home from a dinner party with friends in the West End.”
“Interesting.” He leaned over and tapped a pudgy finger on the envelope still clutched in my fingers. “May I?”
I let him take it. Dr. Carey and I looked at each other, then watched silently as he opened the flap and pulled out the sheaf of pages I had compiled. He read and shuffled through them, pulling out two pages and putting them on top of the others. He nodded and turned his attention back to me.
“Did you notice the date Cotton Claymore was killed?”
“Not precisely,” I said. “Is it important?”
“I think it is.”
Andrew lowered his chin and crossed his hands over the expanse of his stomach, studying the papers as if they were the Rosetta Stone.
“You see, Cotton Claymore was taken to Parkland Emergency on January eleventh too. Her injuries were so extensive, it was a wonder she was still alive when they got her to the hospital.” He leaned forward and placed a warm hand on my arm. “Cotton was pronounced dead at the very time you were being shocked back to life.”
Chapter Eight
Fog. Coming and going. Secrets told. Presto chango!
“Wait! I remember something.” My voice was a scratchy whisper, pulled from a mouth suddenly bone dry. “Something…Strange. Somewhere foggy with lots of people—well, not exactly people I could see—but they were there, I know. In the fog.”
“Good. Good,” Andrew soothed, still patting my arm. “Don’t try to make it make sense. Tell us what you remember.”
“I don’t remember, exactly. But I was lost, gone, gone…somewhere. Then something changed and I came back. I came back and Jennifer didn’t.”
The silence in the room must have lasted for only a few seconds, but it seemed to go on for ages. I watched the two people sitting across from me, seeing the expressions on their faces flicker and change as they watched what I supposed were similar reactions on my own. Dr. Carey went from shocked disbelief to shocked possibility to logical scientific disbelief. Consistent even in chaos.
Andrew was harder to read. He managed to avoid the stunned denial I saw in Dr. Carey, looking more like a long-hoped-for gift had been laid in his lap and he didn’t know quite what to do with the bounty.
I was more surprised and confused than the two of them put together and doubled again for good measure. At least they had the vantage point of being outsiders, uncertain of whether this was some magical occurrence or an intriguing, detailed delusion. Unless I had lost my mind—a possibility that was becoming more likely with each passing moment—I was Cotton Claymore, in spirit, if not in body.
How this sea change came about and what it meant, I had no idea. The knowledge of who I was didn’t suddenly open the hidden floodgates of my brain. Cotton’s life wasn’t any clearer to me than Jennifer’s had been. The past was fuzzier than ever, a mishmash of the woman I and everyone else had believed me to be and foggy wisps of an entirely different life.
“Let me ask you something, Andrew.” When I found I could speak again, my voice had lost the parched croak of initial shock. “Now are you ready to reconsider the possibility that I am crazy? Maybe there are no cars between my engine and my caboose.”
He grinned. Giving my hand a squeeze, he withdrew his comforting touch and retrieved the stack of printouts I had given him.
“You have plenty of ca
rs, I’d bet. They’ve only been temporarily derailed by your head injury.”
“You really think so?” I asked, relieved to hear him so positive. “Got any clues as to who’s running the train?”
“Engineer Claymore, it seems, for the moment.”
“Excuse me.” Dr. Carey spoke for the first time in a while. “I think I’m the only one here who still has a foot in reality. All this talk of trains is clever, but I think we should try to find some rational explanation for Jennifer’s persistent dissociative state without jumping to conclusions that are essentially unsupported psychobabble.”
“I resent the labeling, Ronnie.” Andrew never raised his voice, but the force of conviction behind it was evident. “If you don’t have any faith in my research or methodology, why did you ask me to sit in?”
“To tell the truth, because I felt I had no other option,” she said bluntly. “But right now, I’m not sure that I can let Jennifer proceed in what may be a very dangerous and ethically unreliable direction without some empirical data to rely on. I don’t want to trigger a deeper level of delusion and have her end up in a hospital for God knows how long.”
“There is research supporting this possibility,” he replied. “If this were the first case on record, I’d be skeptical myself. However, I’ve spent the past ten years traveling the world and studying too many cases to dismiss the unusual as impossible.”
For once all my attention was focused on something besides my problems. It was fascinating to listen to the Titans challenging each other. Strangely, I—who had only weeks before been confused by anything more complicated than brushing my teeth—had no trouble at all following the disagreement between the two of them. In fact, I found the discussion of dissociative states and empirical evidence easier to follow than directions for applying makeup.
