Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  She hesitated, considering. It'd been a good tour. By the time they'd reached London, she'd played fourteen concerts in twelve cities. Each had gone very well, but more than that . . . "It's odd that you ask, because I remember just before going on in London I felt as if I could face anything." She stopped. "Now that I think about it, I guess my confidence had been growing to that point over the past couple of years. I felt the same way in Warsaw."

  He nodded to himself. "That fits the pattern. And just before you play, how do you feel?"

  She smiled. "Wonderful. As if I'm ready to soar. As if everything in the world is right, and that I'm doing exactly what I was meant to do. Does that make sense?"

  "Perfect sense, dear Julia. And that is probably why your sight returned just before you were about to play both in Warsaw and London. Your confidence was at a high point. You were not just comfortable with yourself but happy about it, which means you had reached the stage where your psychological good health overpowered your conversion disorder. Simply put, you had healed yourself."

  She took a deep breath, letting his words sink in. "Does the passage of time do that?"

  "Not always. But you lived in the warm bath of your mother's love. You were doing work that fulfilled you. And you were no longer fighting your blindness. Yes?"

  She nodded vigorously. "Exactly! I remember thinking that even though I was blind, my world sparkled with sight, smell, textures, and music!" She paused. "But what about my grandfather's ring? Do you think I'm right that it triggered the return of my blindness?"

  "That I cannot say for certain, but we will see what we can discover tonight."

  She'd hoped for some kind of guarantee. "Tell me what we're going to do."

  He adjusted in his chair, settling in for however long Julia wanted to work. "In naturalistic hypnosis I am simply a guide who helps you along a path you would be strolling anyway. I help to joggle you into a gallop, you might say. Other therapies encourage the patient to be dependent and then build to independence. Naturalistic hypnosis is more collaborative. We like to think of it as noninvasive. Respectful. You and I will work together. Partners." He studied her. She was dwarfed in the overlarge chair. He'd bought it because it would give certain patients a sense of safety, of being symbolically in the womb.

  Her voice was suddenly strained. "I think something happened the night of my debut that made me wake up the next morning blind. It couldn't have been just the audience. None of my relatives remembers anything. I need to know what happened. I'd like to find out now. You said naturalistic hypnosis can be fast—"

  He said, "That is true. Great headway can be made if the patient is on the verge of breakthrough. Since you have spontaneously been able to see twice, I would say you are ready for progress. Perhaps tremendous progress. But we do not know what kind. In fact, we do not know whether anything will happen at all here tonight. You must not put the pressure on yourself. If not now, then eventually you will move to wherever it is you must go next."

  "I understand." But the hard set of her oval face shouted impatience. Her golden brown hair spilled around her like a cloud, and for an unguarded moment she looked to him like the angel he remembered from his mother's Christmas tree back in Athens.

  "Let us begin." His voice softened. "Make yourself as comfortable as you can. Know that this is a time to relax yourself, and nothing is more important than relaxing. Let your body sink into your chair and relax—"

  "Wait." She was irritated. "I thought we were going to do hypnosis. That you were going to put me into a trance." Again she remembered the old movies in which she'd seen gold watches swinging before patients'—and victims'—eyes in eerily dark rooms. She grimaced, realizing she had a lousy attitude about hypnosis. No wonder she'd never pursued it. Suddenly she was uneasy. Being here might be a mistake.

  He smiled inwardly. "Sometimes people think hypnosis happens only when the hypnotist puts the 'subject' to 'sleep' and gives 'suggestions.' Or the hypnotist orders the person to look at flickering candlelight, and then he declares the eyelids are getting heavy, the body is getting drowsy, and soon the poor sap will fall asleep and start clucking like a chicken." He gave a little chuckle. "But such methods are unnecessary. Perhaps even harmful. Naturalistic hypnosis is based on the simple act of relaxing. That way you are aware and a collaborator, and I am no Svengali telling you what to think or feel."

  As the muscles on her face relented, he realized she'd been apprehensive not only about what she might discover about herself but also about simply being here.

  He continued, "I believe naturalistic hypnosis is a more powerful approach, since we work with what is already inside you. Everything arises from you—whatever it is you need to look at and talk about. And especially the will to change. Together we will venture into the fascinating terrain that is Julia Austrian. You can feel safe because I will say nothing and do nothing to interfere with who you are, and I won't impose any ideas onto you. So. We will start with some basic relaxation exercises and an invitation for you to go with it. It is very easy. It is something you can do for yourself. Shall we start over?"

  Down on the first floor of the building, Maya Stern's face was neutral, but inside she raged. Julia Austrian was not as easily managed as she'd been led to believe. She stood in the Austrians' swank maisonette, leaning on her knuckles over the desk, and glowering down at the telephone. She'd punched out the number to the secret, scrambled line that arced electronically around the world and eventually rang on Creighton Redmond's cellular telephone.

  But he hadn't answered. He carried the cell phone inside his jacket next to his heart, the sound always turned off. He'd feel the vibrations, and if he were in a situation where he felt he could talk privately, he'd answer.

  She fumed. She stalked around the room, glaring at the awards, certificates, and statues that testified to the Austrian woman's piano skill. She wanted to smash them all. She picked up the telephone and punched the redial.

  As Orion Grapolis talked, Julia found herself floating on the gentle lake of his soothing voice. With sudden insight, she realized she'd always instinctively trusted him, and that was another reason she'd come to him now.

  His voice was an invitation. "Feel free to relax as much as possible. To enjoy the comfort of your chair and the quietness of this room. Let yourself be aware of your breathing, and when you are ready, focus on an exhalation. . . ."

  He continued speaking, his voice growing more quiet and calming, indicating metaphorically his suggestion to relax. He watched her carefully, gauging her reactions. At the most basic level, a therapist's goal was to help alter behavior, sensory response, and consciousness. To extend the range of experience and open new ways of thinking, feeling, and behaving. When it worked—and it usually did if the patient stuck with it—Orion himself was transported to another dimension in which humanity proved its potential and hope. This was important to Orion.

  He said," . . . Now every part of your body, every muscle feels warm and relaxed. Enjoy the feeling of peace and silence within. . . ." He slowed the pace of his words again. His husky voice was just above a whisper. "Enjoy your inner strength. With that you can find your center of gravity. It is perhaps at your solar plexus. . . . Feel that centering place within you. . . . It is indestructible . . . pure . . . primordial. . . your own personal center. . . ."

  As he murmured on, he watched her eyes close and her shoulders loosen against the big chair's cushions. Hypnosis was communication. Eventually he'd ask her to spontaneously change behavior. But since no one could respond spontaneously and at the same time be following directions, hypnosis posed a paradox.

  To bridge it, he'd begun by asking her to do something voluntarily—sit in a comfortable position and relax. The second step was to ask her to respond with involuntary—or spontaneous—behavior. But he didn't know when that would be, or what it would be. Or whether it would work. That part was the big gamble, and as always he would have to rely on his skill and intuition.

  If lu
ck and timing were with them, his suggestion might eventually yield the answer she sought—what had caused her blindness.

  He said, ". . . You are feeling centered. Enjoy being within. With this interior focus begin to scan your body. What are you aware of?" He thought it might be her eyes. Her blindness had been the shaping event of a large part of her life.

  "My finger!" Her left hand grasped the ring finger on the right.

  "Um-hmm. Stay with that feeling."

  "It's where I wore the ring my grandfather Austrian gave me. The one the killer stole. I can feel exactly where it was." She flexed the hand and massaged the finger.

  He watched her grimace. "To stay with this is a brave and honest act."

  She was quiet. "My eyes bum." She blinked, still massaging her ring finger.

  "It is good to find out these things." He noted her contorted, angelic face, the pain that was emerging as if from deep fissures in the earth.

  "As soon as you said 'good,' my finger quit hurting so much."

  "Uh-huh. It is good to know." By repeating 'good,' he hoped to help keep her on track of whatever her body was trying to tell her.

  "Now it's throbbing again."

  "You're doing a good job."

  "Every time you say 'good,' the pain in my finger changes." As she talked about the sensations, she shivered. But she said nothing again about her eyes.

  He continued to listen and repeat her words and feelings back to her. At last it became clear she was trapped in a big conflict—torn by a powerful desire to run away and by an equally powerful desire to stay to fight some vital inner battle.

  He still had no idea what that battle was, but in naturalistic therapy he didn't need to know. When people had a symptom, by definition they were indicating they couldn't help themselves. The behavior was involuntary. And Julia Austrian was now involuntarily acting out her inner war, paralyzed in it, agonizing as she described how the emotions tore her.

  She couldn't run. She couldn't face the unknown monster.

  "My heart is breaking." Her voice caught, tight and anguished.

  At last he understood what she was trying to say. "You have pain in your heart."

  She bit her lower lip. "Yes."

  He forced himself to breathe evenly, calmly, not showing his excitement, because this could be a deciding moment. He was about to ask her to spontaneously change—

  He told her, "In your heart is the word 'and.'"

  If she knew she could both face whatever was tormenting her and still run, she could alter an inner message that was immobilizing her. It might be a small change, but like drilling a hole in a dike, it could have enormous consequences.

  "What?" She was suddenly alert. She couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly. Her body stiffened as if waiting for a blow.

  He studied her. She seemed suspended between the past and the present, rigid with her inability to break free. He must help her.

  He repeated gently, "In your heart is the word 'and.'"

  Her eyebrows raised. "What does that mean?"

  He said, "Your heart is circulating blood through your whole body, not just to a few parts. It doesn't choose sides. The left ventricle over the right. The right foot over the left. Whether to run over whether to stay. Your heart encompasses everything."

  He paused, hoping. The strain in Julia's face seemed to grow brittle. Would this small suggestion work? Could it grow into something significant? Could she change her attitude and understand both feelings were legitimate and even good?

  She was quiet. She had an odd look on her face, as if she'd traveled far away and was only now returning home. Suddenly she breathed deeply and nodded. There was awe in her voice as she said, "Who I am doesn't depend on one decision." As if a great burden had been lifted, she smiled. She could run. She could fight. She could do whatever she needed. All were acceptable.

  Orion Grapolis beamed. These were the moments for which he lived. They seemed so small, but they were the first hole in the dam. He pressed on, scrutinizing her. "Both your statements are true—you want to deal with this enigma, and you want to escape it. The conflict has caused you a lot of anguish. But even though it hurts, pain is good because it is functional. Its absence results in problems. Consider lepers. The reason they get hurt so easily is they lack pain sensors. So your heart accepts your pain as well as your joy—"

  As he went on reassuring and explaining, she could feel more shifts inside her. They buffeted one another until at last something titanic seemed to move. She'd wanted to know what had happened to cause her blindness, but she'd hardly touched upon the night of her debut.

  Now, as that odd, imaginary scent she'd smelled earlier filled her head, she felt free. . . and compelled to talk.

  She opened her mouth and began, not knowing what would come next. It felt as if a barricade had exploded. Memories spilled from her—her performance at Carnegie Hall, the family celebration that followed at Arbor Knoll, her father's restless energy, and her grandfather's gift of the alexandrite ring as the family watched and clapped. It was all graphic, as if it were happening right this instant: The celebration, the conversation, the food, the drink, the family rituals. Her words replayed the evening as if it were a movie, but her usual sense of confused anger about it was gone.

  She said, "The next thing I remember is awaking blind. But I don't know what made me want to never see again."

  "Yes."

  He sat very still, his voice hushed. Across from him, she was silent. Shining. His excitement for her grew. Her body was unmoving, almost as if it'd been transported to another sphere. He'd seen this reaction many times: She'd healed something inside her. There were many mysteries in his work, but he prized most of all the mystery of the first inkling of truth. It was birth, when the old and tired died and the new entered the world, breathing and spitting fire. He couldn't predict what the change was or where it would lead, but he knew she'd changed.

  Julia was deep inside herself, tentatively feeling a strange inner peace and confidence. She was aware something was missing. It felt like a rusty brake that had been locked in place for years. Now the brake was gone, and—

  She gasped. A cloak seemed to drop from around her brain. It came to life. A thrill rushed through her, because all of a sudden so much made sense—

  Physically her vision was working fine.

  It was just her mind that refused to see.

  First she'd blamed the audience. Then she'd thought she had to find out what had really happened the night of her debut.

  But the truth was . . . she didn't need to know what had caused her blindness . . .

  She didn't need to know anything. . .

  Didn't need. . .

  Her pulse pounded with excitement. In her mind, the strange odor swirled. Inside her, granite blocks creaked and adjusted. Her eyes felt warm, liquid, and a bittersweet joy swept through her a s. . .

  She held her breath, hoping—

  A streak of radiant light fastened itself on the horizon of her gaze, and her eyes suddenly felt vibrant.

  Her heart hammered. She held her breath as the luminous glow gathered around her in a warm, shimmering mist. She was dizzy with the thrill. The cosmos was alight. She didn't need to know how or why, because—

  She could see!

  She inhaled sharply. She saw shapes . . . a desk, chairs, a low table, and a squat man with a mustache and a mounding stomach who was gazing across at her with the kindest face she'd ever seen.

  Her throat was dry. She licked her lips. She smiled. From Orion's alert expression, she knew he'd realized something extraordinary had happened.

  "Yes?" he asked expectantly.

  "I can see," she whispered. Then she shouted from her heart, "I can see!" She jumped up and ran across the room to him.

  Her eyes drank in his silver-gray mustache, his bright pink cheeks, his white shirt with the little blue checks, his stunned blue eyes. He stood up, and she threw her arms around his neck.

  Tears streamed down
her cheeks.

  He hugged her, feeling her heart pound like a just-freed bird against his chest. "Ah, Julia. I am so happy for you. So very happy." A lump caught in his throat. He patted her back.

  She pulled away, radiant. "I didn't need to know why I was blind, did I?"

  "Apparently not. It is that way sometimes. The symptom becomes extraneous."

  "Oh, Orion! I didn't realize you were so handsome!" She gazed at his broad face with the proud aquiline nose. And then she looked around the office at the rich colors and the impeccable Queen Anne furnishings. "I'd forgotten again how bright the world is. I've missed a lot."

  Smiling, she turned back to him. He waited patiently, wondering what she'd do next.

  She cocked her head, and her gaze roamed over his face. She studied him with such intensity and love that he had the feeling he was forever memorized. At the same time, a sense of her painful isolation and loneliness pierced him to the core.

  She surprised him then. She reached up, took his cheeks in her two hands, and cradled his face. "Sighted people always do this," she murmured. "First they look, then they touch. I just acted like a sighted person."

  Fresh joy surged through her. Now she could find her mother's murderer. Quickly she repressed the desire to kill her.

  18

  Shadows filled the maisonette on the first floor in the elegant Manhattan building. Only the desk lamp was alight in the office. Maya Stern hung up the phone, snapped off the light, and strode into the foyer. She picked up her suitcase and swiftly took it into the guest lavatory. She had new orders from Creighton Redmond.

  The blind woman's sense of smell was too keen. Dangerous. The killer washed off her perfume. Standing in front of the mirror, she pulled out the .38 Smith & Wesson pistol she wore in a specially designed canvas holster at the small of her back. The serial numbers had been burned from the weapon. It was untraceable.

  She was dressed now in a severe gray pants suit, with a black silk blouse and flat black Hush Puppies. Her clothes were attractive and conservative, but more important, she could move easily in them. Her makeup matched her simple, tailored outfit—neutral pink lipstick and dark charcoal eye shadow on each eyelid.