Walk-in

by T. L. Hart

  “Excuse me Dr. Carey. Andrew?” They turned at my interruption. “I think I’m understanding way too much of this argument to be Jennifer. So why don’t we go on the assumption that somehow Cotton Claymore is running my train—my brain, that is. How the hell is that possible?”

  “It isn’t possible,” Dr. Carey said flatly. “Jennifer, I think this whole session was a huge mistake on my part. I think it would benefit us more to go back to solid principles and try to establish the roots of this delusion. Cotton Claymore is dead.”

  “Come on, Dr. Carey,” I said. “Do you really think we can just ignore my new imaginary friend and find a reasonable explanation for all of this?”

  “I think we have no rational alternative. This is a potentially dangerous experiment. I think you need to know that.”

  “Consider me warned. I’ll take full responsibility. Do you want me to sign a release or something?”

  “Of course not,” she said, sharply. “I just don’t want to base your treatment on an untried experiment. Anything could happen.”

  Andrew sat silently, listening to the two of us. He wasn’t going to interfere with Dr. Carey’s treatment plan. Old school protocol. But he didn’t agree with her; I could see it in his eyes.

  Well, I wasn’t about to sit here and be a passive spectator while Dr. Carey made me over in Jennifer Strickland’s oh-so-boring image. I’d rather take a leap of faith into the unknown. Ending up in the straitjacket life I’d been leading was far worse than anything else I could imagine. Of course, there was always the danger that I could end up in a literal straitjacket and it wouldn’t be Prada.

  “Andrew, will you help me? I don’t know how this is happening, but I think you can tell me.”

  “There is an explanation, but without Ronnie’s consent and cooperation, it wouldn’t be proper for me to go any further.”

  “I don’t give a good damn about what’s proper!” I raised my voice to one decibel below hysteria, rather liking the effect it had on them—complete silent attention. “Dr. Carey, you started my therapy, but if you force me into it, I’ll get Andrew or someone else, if I must, to take over from here. Please don’t make me do that. I trust you. I need you.”

  “This could be a serious mistake. One with consequences we can’t even start to fathom.” She was a bit less emphatic than before. “Won’t you give it a little more time to—”

  “Time to what?” I interrupted. “Time to pretend I’m going to wake up tomorrow and be good little Jennifer Strickland? Time to waste trying to get back a life that may have some meaning to me? My God, I can’t keep treading water forever. I’m drowning here and you don’t seem to care.”

  “I care,” she said softly. “More than I should, probably. I care about you enough to let Andrew at least explain his theory. Then, if you decide to continue, I’ll be here for you.”

  “Fair enough.” I turned to Andrew. “Will you help me?”

  He studied my face for a long moment before turning to Dr. Carey. She didn’t look overjoyed, but nodded her consent. Andrew took his glasses from the end of his nose, folded them neatly and put them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Only then did he say, with conviction, “Yes, my dear. I will help you.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” Andrew said. “However…”

  He smoothed his gray-streaked beard and contemplated heaven knows what inner muse. He was quiet for so long it made me nervous, but I wasn’t going to say anything to break his concentration.

  At last he began in a tone straight out of that old television show where the announcer warns you not to change the channel, they have now taken control of your set. You know, the one that scares the bejesus out of you. Yes, he had that part down to an art.

  “Sometimes things happen that don’t fit any of the rules of science most people consider to be normal.” He paused, not helping my goose bumps. “Have you ever heard the term ‘walk-in’?”

  “Walk-in?” I pondered the word. No bells, no whistles, no clue. “Not other than trying to get a haircut from the best stylist in town without an appointment,” I said. “And I’ll bet that’s not even warm.”

  “Equally improbable,” he allowed with a twitch of a smile, “but in the same virtual range of possibility. Tell me. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say I believe in it. As a theory I like the idea of recycling souls, but I’m not sure I have a really strong spiritual opinion, either way.”

  “Well, for the time being, let’s assume reincarnation is a given. Most of us understand the concept on some level. After one dies, the soul reenters the corporeal world in the form of a newborn, ready to begin another turn of the wheel.” He lifted an eyebrow quizzically. “With me so far? Yes?”

  Dr. Carey and I nodded impatiently. This was hardly breaking news.

  “There is a second method of reincarnating. Sometimes if a person dies suddenly or is violently taken out of an emotional or spiritual situation, they need to return right away—in adult form—to complete a cycle.”

  “So they just hijack some other poor soul’s body and move right in?” I interrupted, torn between indignation and laughter at the notion. “Wouldn’t that run up some serious cosmic debt on their karmic credit card? It would take a few turns of the wheel as a tree frog to pay that off.”

  “Karmic credit card?” He laughed and his stomach did shake like a bowl full of jelly. “No my dear. The deal is made between the soul leaving one body and the person who needs the body to come back. More of a loaner vehicle than a carjacking, if you see the difference.”

  “I do see.” This was an exciting possibility, one that stirred some vague memory of comings and goings in a misty otherworldly place. “I see, but why can’t I remember, if it was such a peaceful transfer? Why don’t I know what I came back for?”

  “First of all,” he said patiently, “not everyone is consciously aware of his or her change of soul location. Maybe due to cell memory interference, maybe as a result of divine purpose. However, those who do so usually recognize their new selves rather gradually and often reject the truth or are talked into rejecting the truth by some of my more traditional colleagues.”

  “I can hear you, Andrew,” Dr. Carey said. “I may be traditional, but I’m not unable to listen to new theories, no matter how outrageous I personally find them.” She snorted, rather inelegantly for her normal demeanor. “Please try not to dismiss my concerns as if they were petty. You know very well this is hardly blessed by the American Board of Psychiatry. She could decompensate and end up—”

  “At the risk of seeming like this is about me, could the two of you discuss this over drinks and dinner later? I want to know more.” Petulance is not a fabulous character trait, but sometimes you have to go with what works. “So what next? Can we just keep doing hypnosis until we get caught up?”

  Their stunned silence was pretty easy to interpret as a double no. Next question.

  “Why not?”

  “Jennifer—”

  “I can’t keep answering to that name, especially with the two of you.”

  “Well, you surely don’t think you can start using the name Cotton Claymore, do you?” Dr. Carey was not above sarcasm herself. “If we went along with that, we’d be writing letters to you in your nice room at the mental hospital. If they let us send mail from wherever they lock up doctors who are crazier than their patients.”

  “Too true.” Andrew laughed, but it wasn’t a totally carefree sound. “You are going to have to take things slowly if we proceed down this path. You are never going to be able to be Cotton Claymore, even if that turns out to be what you believe.”

  “Isn’t that what you believe?”

  “I think it’s a little early in the game to be a believer just yet. Tonight is a start, a first baby step in our investigation. We have to move slowly, let your brain heal inside and your memory fill in missing pieces.” Andrew pointed to Dr. Carey. “Ronnie is right to b
e cautious. It would be easy to convince you of this as the truth, when we have to make sure not to influence you or indulge a mistaken identity. We don’t know anything yet—we only surmise.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  “You do nothing,” he said, folding his hands over his belly and smiling serenely, like Santa doing an impression of the Laughing Buddha.

  “But—” This was not what I wanted to hear. “But shouldn’t I—”

  “You do nothing.” He grinned at my impatience. “You go home. You eat. You sleep. You wait.”

  “But…”

  “Things will begin to come back to you, probably more quickly now that it has begun. Keep a journal and next week we’ll go over it with you and talk about what discoveries you’ve made.”

  “Next week? I’m supposed to keep all this to myself all week?”

  “Jenni—” Dr. Carey caught herself, mid-name. “What are we going to do about this name? It’s even beginning to make me uncomfortable.”

  “It will work itself out,” Andrew soothed. “The right name and the right time to know it will happen. Don’t force it.”

  “Okay. But there is something very important for you both to keep in mind.” Dr. Carey sounded ominous. “I don’t want a word of this outside of the three of us. Not a whisper.”

  “I wasn’t planning on a rebirth announcement in the country club newsletter, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” It felt good to laugh at our seriousness. “And I certainly wasn’t going to discuss it over coffee with Gregory.”

  “I want you to listen to me. I want both of you to remember one thing.” She paused, waiting for us to stop smiling. “If you are, somehow, Cotton Claymore, don’t forget this fact for one second. Cotton was murdered once. If her killer gets the tiniest hint of this possibility, it could happen again.”

  Chapter Ten

  I spent the whole week thinking about Dr. Carey’s warning.

  In all my confusion and delight at finding an identity in Cotton, I had kind of overlooked the nasty fact that she/I had been killed. Not just killed, that sounded too neutral. Brutally murdered. Violently beaten to death with a blunt instrument.

  That kind of up-close-and-personal, hands-on murder spoke volumes. Someone hated Cotton. Personally wanted her dead, wanted to see her smashed and bleeding, wanted to watch her die.

  That person was still out there. According to the newspaper reports, the police had never made an arrest, although there were rumors that a jealous ex-husband or lover of one of the women she helped had been responsible. Cotton had founded Outreach Oaklawn, a shelter and haven for abused women and children. Her outspoken advocacy and public fundraising as the face for the Outreach made her a target for vilification and a thick stack of death threats—so many threats the police hadn’t been able to narrow it down to one person they could link the murder to.

  There was also a hint, veiled and not quite overt, that one of the other women in Cotton’s life could have led to her death. In addition to being a social activist in a very conservative city and a vigorous defender of women against poverty and abuse, she was identified with the modern-day scarlet letter—a capital L. The letter didn’t stand for Liberal or Left-wing, which would have been scandalous enough. Oh no—it was far worse. Cotton Claymore, for all her good works, was a Lesbian.

  And horrifying as that was, the situation was more dire. She was out. Proudly out, marching in the Razzle-Dazzle-Dallas-parade out, pink-triangle out. Unrepentant and without a scrap of shame.

  In a city with more Hard Shell Baptists than hard-core feminists, it was an ugly issue. For the first couple of her years in the public spotlight, it was a slur that made her a social pariah, but after all the civic awards and the interview on 60 Minutes, it became more of an honorary title. Her Lesbian Activist, her Royal Gay Psychologist, and finally Our Local Protector and Defender of Gay Rights, Cotton Claymore.

  It didn’t hurt that she was photogenic, tomboyishly gorgeous, and sported a tough-cookie charm that worked on anyone who talked to her for more than two minutes—at least according to Inside Edition. Photos of her grinning into the cameras like a modern version of Kate Hepburn made me wish I had that easy bravado instead of Jennifer Strickland’s pale and ordinary demeanor. But people in Dallas loved a winner more than they hated a queer, so she had gained grudging tolerance, if not outright acceptance in Big D.

  But there were those rumors, whispered, insinuated. Cotton had lady friends, many of whom had ex-husbands or boyfriends who weren’t big fans of the whole Lesbian Chic movement. One of these jealous men allegedly played a key role in the team of detectives working the murder case. No one came out and said that was a factor in the case being unsolved, but the idea crawled around town, nonetheless.

  Finding out I am a lesbian was a mixed blessing. While it made me giddy to know there was a reason Gregory gave me the creeps and that I never had to worry about sleeping with him, it was also daunting. I don’t remember being a lesbian, especially a lesbian with a reputation for being a great womanizer. How am I supposed to work that into my list of things to relearn? Let’s see now: take makeup lessons, reestablish my counseling career without any credentials (Jennifer’s art history degree didn’t count), avoid lurking killer, learn how to pick up chicks. And do that with a head injury so bad I still am not sure I’m crazy or just a lost reincarnated walk-in looking for a few clues to find my way back to some semblance of my old life.

  * * *

  When I went to my next therapy meeting, Andrew was pleased with my progress. If he had been making a list and checking it twice, I had no doubt I’d have been on the nice side of the page.

  “You have no idea how much confidence you’ve gained since the last time we met. And judging from the entries in your diary, I think you are making huge strides in regaining your memory.”

  “Either I’m beginning to recall my world as Cotton Claymore, or I may have to take up writing fictional resumes for brain-impaired patients. It seems more and more real to me. More memories every day.”

  “That’s pretty much what happens. A trickle of memories at first, then a whole ocean.” He was thumbing through my journal. “Some of this is pretty detailed—foods you like, favorite restaurants, perfume…Interesting.”

  “Yeah, but I do have a question.”

  Andrew and Dr. Carey both looked at me and nodded. I almost laughed aloud because they were both doing the therapist head-bob, as if synchronized. Maybe it was a required skill in the profession, something one had to master before moving on to saying, ‘And how does that make you feel?’

  “What if none of these memories are real? I mean, they feel genuine to me, but what if I am just thinking things at random and writing them down? It’s not like there’s anyone around to prove I’m wrong.”

  “That’s true,” Andrew said reasonably.

  “And I’ve spent a lot of time online, reading old news clippings, studying Cotton’s life. That could account for some of the information I think I recall.”

  “An absolute possibility,” he admitted.

  “It would make more scientific sense than this metaphysical supposition.” Dr. Carey had to get in her incisive skepticism. “Cotton’s life had an amazing amount of press coverage. It would be easy to speculate.”

  “So how do I know if these are real or only an active imagination processing information and writing a script?”

  “You don’t,” Andrew said. “At least not yet. I think it might be helpful to get out into the neighborhood where Cotton Claymore lived and see if you get any flashes,” he said. “Visit the shops and stroll around. Often sights and smells trigger spontaneous memory.”

  “Oh, Andrew. I’m not sure she’s ready for that.” Dr. Carey sounded very doubtful. “And, if—I’m saying if—any of this walk-in theory is true, I’m not sure she should be all alone and have a rush of memories. I don’t want her alone if she recalls something confusing. She could misinterpret it without one of us to guide her.”

>   “I don’t think that’s likely, Ronnie,” Andrew said, giving her a puzzled look. “She seems to be handling this situation better than I’d actually expected.”

  “She’s had too many changes in a very short time.” Dr. Carey was unyielding. “Being alone could be overwhelming. That’s a good way to trigger a full-blown panic attack.”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” I said. “I want to go down to the area anyhow. That’s where Outreach Oaklawn is. I’ve been feeling like I want to see it.” Watching Dr. Carey’s expressive face, I could see she was about to expand on her objections, so I hurried on. “I’m prone to memory lapses, not panic attacks. Besides, I’ve got both your numbers on speed dial, so if I start panting or going gaga I’ll call right away.”

  Andrew laughed, but Dr. Carey just shook her head and made notes on her yellow pad.

  “Don’t encourage her, Andrew. I think she should be far less impulsive and a good deal more cautious.”

  “I’m not suggesting rash or dangerous behavior, Ronnie. But I don’t think a couple of hours downtown is likely to send her over the edge.” He turned to me. “Would you like me to go with you? If you have worries about being by yourself I don’t want to minimize Ronnie’s concerns.”

  “Thanks, but no. I need to do this on my own. I’ll be fine.” I was beginning to feel like a teenager negotiating curfew. “I’m ready to start getting back into the world. And, speaking of that, I’ve made a decision I think you need to know about.”

  They looked at me with polite interest.

  “I’m thinking about finding my own place.” A leap to listening intently. “And I’m leaving Gregory.”

  Speechless shock from a duo of shrinks. Now that’s what I call bringing down the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gregory wasn’t the soul of understanding when I told him I wanted a divorce, although the horrified expression on his face eased considerably when I told him I was the one who would be moving out. In all fairness, he turned his laptop off and took several minutes of his valuable time to discuss things with me.