Bound by Suggestion

by L.L. Bartlett

  “Do you mind if we try something now?” Krista asked, and fumbled with her purse, taking out a deck of Rhine’s cards—the universal, stereotypical test for psychics—made up of five different shapes: square, circle, wavy line, cross, and star.

  “No, please.”

  “I just want to prove to myself that you can’t read me. Will you humor me?”

  I glanced around the nearly empty bar. “These aren’t laboratory conditions. You’ll never get it in a journal, if that’s what you hope.”

  “I’ll look at the card and try to transmit to you what it is I see.”

  I leaned back in my chair, trying to quell my anger.

  Krista cupped the first card in her hand, held it to her forehead and closed her eyes. “What shape am I thinking about.”

  I stared at the table in front of me. Saw condensation on my beer glass. Felt like an asshole.

  “I’m not getting anything, and I wish you’d put them away. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Nonplused, she shrugged, put the card back in the pack. “It was a triangle.” She returned them to her purse and took out a photograph, her steady gaze assessing me. “Will you let Grace try?”

  She handed me a color snapshot. The girl—young woman, I had to remind myself—looked about fourteen. Her thin, twisted limbs and the tilt of her chin gave the impression of many sharp angles. Short-cropped dark hair framed her acne-scarred face, but there was a brightness in her eyes that invited compassion. The more I thought about her, the more I anticipated her aura. Like a child, she’d enjoy playing the card game, which would help to break the ice.

  “Okay,” I muttered. “I’ll meet her.”

  Krista’s smile was enigmatic. “Thank you.”

  I handed back the photo.

  Krista picked up her glass and sipped her wine. “So, tell me more about yourself.”

  “I’d rather hear about you.”

  “Personal or professional?”

  “Both.”

  “I’ll show you my diplomas on Tuesday. They impress the hell out my patients.”

  “How’d you end up in Buffalo?” I asked.

  “Kismet. I also have relatives in the city. When the opportunity arose I thought, why not relocate.”

  “You an only child?”

  “Yes,” she leaned forward, giving me an excellent view of her décolletage. “The center of my parents’ universe.”

  I’d never been the center of anyone’s universe.

  “Who’s the center of your universe?” she asked.

  I looked away. Now that Maggie was gone . . . .

  “Richard, I guess. For most of my life, I’ve been—” An ironic smile tugged at my lips. “A satellite in his universe. He’s a dynamic individual.”

  “Yes. He is. You admire him, don’t you?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “But you’ve never measured up to him.”

  Her cool, assessing stare bothered me.

  “He’s a doctor. I’m a bartender.”

  “You’re letting your occupation define who you are.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  She blinked, startled. “With what you can do, there’s obviously a lot more to you than pouring beers and mixing drinks.”

  “Not to society at large.”

  “How about to yourself?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe I’m a victim of circumstance, but victimhood leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Then do something about it. Take charge of your life.”

  “How? My headaches leave me useless a couple of days a week.”

  “A negative attitude can be just as crippling.”

  “You ever have a migraine?”

  “All through college.”

  Bluff called.

  She leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you that your pain could be psychosomatic?”

  “It’s real.”

  “What triggers it?”

  “Usually flashes of insight.”

  “But not always?”

  “No.”

  “Have you charted it? Tried to figure out?”

  “Richard and I have been through this so many times—”

  “Richard isn’t a psychiatrist.”

  I took a breath, trying to squelch another burst of anger. “My problem is not psychological in origin. I had my head caved in with a baseball bat.”

  “The medication doesn’t help much, does it?”

  “No.”

  “Richard said you’ve had some relief through hypnosis.”

  “At first. It hasn’t done much lately.”

  “What about the rest of your physical health? Were you always this trim?”

  “I lost weight back in the hospital. I never gained it back.”

  “How do you feel most of the time?”

  “Lousy.”

  “Physically or mentally?”

  “I can’t tell anymore.”

  “Depression?”

  I met her gaze. “You’re treading dangerously close to playing therapist. And I already told you, I don’t want one.”

  “An occupational hazard.” She sat back, took another sip of her wine. “But I think I can help you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve had some luck treating patients with chronic pain using a combination of biofeedback and hypnotism. You game to try?”

  “Been there, done that. Usually it’s only time that helps those skullpounders fade.”

  “Are you willing to try?” she asked again.

  I felt cornered, but tempted. “My health insurance won’t cover—”

  “You don’t need a therapist, remember.”

  “Then you’d be doing this as—”

  “A friend.”

  I felt a cautious smile tug at my lips. “I’m game to try friendship.”

  Chapter 4

  Krista Marsh’s newly opened practice occupied the front of her frame home. I stood in the doorway. I arrived early; Grace was late.

  Krista gave me the tour of the premises while we waited. High ceilings, hardwood floors, gumwood trim. Soothing pastels and comfortable furniture. Signed lithographs decorated the walls. From the look of her manicured nails, I couldn’t imagine Krista investing a moment of her time in sweat equity. But then doctors always made good money. Better than insurance investigators, anyway. Much better than bartenders.

  “Nice place,” I commented.

  Krista took in the newly restored woodwork. “It’ll do. For a couple of years.”

  “And then?”

  She smiled. “I’ll step up to something a little . . . nicer.”

  A car door slammed.

  “That must be the Medivan with Grace. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” Krista closed the pocket doors of her consulting room, shutting me inside.

  I looked out through the lace sheers as a heavyset, bearded man in a uniform maneuvered a wheelchair onto the van’s ramp. Krista met him on the sidewalk.

  Turning from the window, my gaze came to rest on Krista’s diplomas and certificates. University of Virginia School of Medicine, American Board of Hypnosis, just to name two. I had an associates degree from the Borough of Manhattan Community College. Big deal.

  At loose ends, I wondered if I should sit or be on my feet when Grace arrived. Better to stand, I figured, and made a nervous circuit around the room. Another pair of oak pocket doors took up most of the north end of the room. On impulse, I tried them: locked. They probably hid part of Krista’s personal living quarters.

  I paced the room, coming to stop before the doors to the foyer. What the hell was I doing here meeting a young woman who’d be terrified of me? And why not? I was just another scum-sucking man. Did Grace look at all men as users because of the pigs who’d abused her?

  As the doors rolled opened, I wiped damp palms on the back of my jeans.

  Krista pushed the wheelchair forward. “Grace, this is Jeff.”

  Emerald eyes found mine, searched th
em, looked away.

  Grace’s like-new sneakers rested on the chair’s chrome and rubber foot rests. A faded sweatshirt and dark sweatpants covered her thin limbs. The unzipped, purple backpack slung on the back of the chair was jammed to bursting with a water bottle, tissues, hand cream, a self-help book on relationships, and God knows what else. Some kind of stuffed toy hung from the zipper’s pull.

  I stared at her for a moment, then remembered my manners and shoved my right hand forward. “Hello, Grace.”

  She looked up at me, suspicion coloring her expression, and took it tentatively. My fingers curled round her palm. Like a sponge soaking up water, waves of her fear swept through me. I ground my teeth, struggling to keep a grimace from my face. Drawing in a ragged breath, I pulled back my hand.

  “Sit,” Krista encouraged me.

  Rattled, I nearly fell onto the brown leather recliner. Krista pushed Grace’s wheelchair forward.

  “Do I have to sit so close to him?” Grace asked.

  “We’re here to work together,” Krista reminded Grace, then turned her attention to me. “What did you feel when you touched Grace?”

  Ugly, naked fear.

  “She’s afraid of me.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  Like a monster.

  “Lousy. Like this might not be a good idea.”

  Grace’s chin jutted out. She glared at me.

  “Nonsense,” Krista said. “You just need to get to know each other. Jeff, you go first.”

  I told Grace about the mugging and how I’d lost my job. How I was now considered handicapped, except that my particular disability didn’t rate a good parking space.

  She wasn’t amused.

  I cleared my throat. “What about you?”

  “My Dad and I were going to the mall. It was only seven o’clock, but some drunk hit us head-on. Killed Dad instantly. My mom died when I was ten.” Her chilly monotone unnerved me.

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  Grace shook her head. “You?”

  “An older brother. He took me in when I got hurt last year. I also have a half-sister, ten years younger than me.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, her green eyes intent.

  I felt my face flush. “Not right now.”

  Silence descended.

  “Why don’t you tell Grace about your gift,” Krista said.

  I gave her a sour look. “It’s not exactly a gift.” I turned to Grace. “Sometimes I can sense things about people.”

  “Does it work with everyone?” Grace asked.

  “No.”

  Her gaze shifted. “Can you tell what Dr. Marsh is thinking?”

  “I don’t read minds. I sense feelings. Then, sometimes I know stuff. And I usually get a terrible headache.” I wanted her to know I wasn’t thrilled with this little experiment, either.

  “Why don’t you get a job at one of those psychic hot lines?” Grace asked. “You could probably make a lot of money.”

  “I don’t think they’re legitimate. Besides, I don’t get stuff over the phone. At least, I haven’t so far.”

  Quiet again.

  Krista finally broke it. “Living in fear is a terrible way to exist, Grace. I asked Jeff to join us because he’s a genuinely nice man—”

  Glad someone thought so.

  “and there’re lots of nice people—men—who’ll respect you as a person. You don’t have to fear all strangers. Together, we’ll work on helping you learn to trust again. What do you think?”

  Grace’s gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I . . . don’t want to be alone forever. I’d like to meet someone who’d love me . . . just the way I am.”

  “It could happen,” Krista said, “if you let it.”

  I couldn’t envision some hunk taking on a woman in a wheelchair—and an unattractive one at that. But I did feel sorry for Grace. She looked so small huddled amongst all that chrome, more child than woman. She was the same age as my ex-wife Shelley when I’d first met her. Frail and vulnerable, whereas vibrant Shelley had oozed sex appeal.

  “Grace, we’ve already discussed how uncomfortable you’d feel touching Jeff, but it’s the only way he can help you. It would also be very painful for him to experience everything you feel without some kind of emotional buffer.” Krista paused, looking from Grace to me. “I propose we use hypnotism as part of this therapy. It’s a relaxed state of being that you’ve both experienced in the past. You’ll know everything that’s happening. You’ll remember everything we talk about, but it won’t be so emotionally charged. This way we can work without drugs, which you’ve both mentioned an aversion to. Are you willing to try?”

  “You make it sound too easy,” I said. “Can either of us back out if we feel it’s not working?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I glanced at Grace. “Then it’s up to you.”

  Everything about her—facial expression, body language—said she didn’t want to do this. She wanted to bolt, but she was a prisoner of her body, the chair—and the whims of her shrink. To gain an independent life, she really had no choice.

  “Okay,” Grace said, her voice small, frightened.

  “Great,” said Krista. “Then let’s get started.”

  After a stressful day of phone calls and hastily scheduled meetings with prospective donors, Richard’s bed called to him like a siren song. It had been almost two years since he’d had to charm deep pockets out of their money. He hadn’t lost his touch, but it was nerve racking now that the stakes were now personal. More than ready to slip between the cool sheets and turn off his brain, he switched off the bathroom light as Brenda drew back the quilted silk bedspread.

  “Did you tell Jeff?” Richard asked as he crossed the room.

  “Not yet,” she replied, getting into bed. She looked sexy as hell in that tight-fitting, filmy nightgown. Soon her expanding belly would strain against the seams.

  Richard switched off the beside lamp and climbed in beside her. “Why not?”

  “Because.” No one else would have noticed the strain in her voice.

  “Because it’s week forty?” he asked gently.

  Brenda’s mouth tightened, and she nodded. Their first child would have been born right about now. Brenda had lost that baby just after Thanksgiving.

  He snaked a hand down to rest on her abdomen. Despite moonlight coming through the bank of windows on the opposite wall, he couldn’t see her expression in the darkened room. “Have you told anyone about this baby?”

  “I don’t want to. Not for a while yet.” Her eyes glinted in the scant light. “Why are you asking?”

  He pursed his lips. “Because, I have. Talking about it won’t jinx us. We will have this child.”

  “I know,” she said and sighed.

  Richard snuggled close to Brenda, who lay there stiffly, staring at the ceiling. “Something else is bothering you,” he whispered, and nuzzled her ear. “Tell me.”

  A long moment passed before she answered. “It’s . . . the money.”

  His fists clenched. He pulled away to lay back and stare at the ceiling, too. “We’ve talked about this a hundred times.”

  “Yes, and I agree. Give it away. It’s your money. I don’t care what you do with it. I just question the timing.”

  “It’s a helluva tax write off, and a damn good cause.”

  “There are lots of other good causes that could use some of that money. Why not give the Foundation half now, and half next year? Spread it around.”

  “On what?”

  “You already know what my pet project would be.”

  He sighed. A community garden. Where low-income people could learn to grow their own vegetables, and the surplus could be donated to local food cupboards. It was like Brenda to seek long-term solutions to the world’s problems.

  “It’s too late, at least for this year. We’ll make it happen next spring. I promise.”

  “It’s a cheap shot,” she continued, ignoring his last rem
arks. “Like you’re trying to buy the Foundation’s most important committee chair.”

  A calculated risk, he silently agreed, that could blow up in his face. Yet either way the Foundation would get the money and patients would benefit from it.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said to placate her. “Meanwhile, you should tell Jeff about the baby. He’s the only family we’ve got right now.”

  “He already knows.”

  “Has he said anything to you?”

  “He doesn’t need to.”

  Was that another reminder that the two of them shared some kind of unspoken—what, mind set, rapport . . . relationship?—on a level he could never comprehend or be a part of?

  I am not jealous.

  His hand caressed her belly possessively. “Hey, lady. I love you.”

  Brenda rolled over to lie next to him, kissed him tenderly. “Love you, too, crazy man.” She pulled back and smiled playfully, her eyes glittering in the silver moonlight. “Wanna play doctor with me?”

  “Every day,” he breathed and found her mouth.

  Boundless darkness engulfed me. An ebony pit—like the universe before God noticed the absence of light and hit the first lamp switch.

  Yeah, light would be good, because the muddle of sensations kneading my mind and body left me feeling lost, weak, and helpless. A sing-song cadence of pleasant sensation lulled me—the promise of more to come. Best to go with the flow, it suggested.

  enjoy the ride . . .

  ride the tide . . .

  A feather-light touch brushed my bare skin, causing a glow of warmth to radiate through me. Tentative, almost clumsy at first, slowly gaining confidence.

  I sank deeper into the myriad of enchanting sensations, longing for more. The motion stopped as I reached out, accepting the fumbling invitation.

  A burst of pure fear, like a slap, snapped me from distraction, the sting of rejection burning my soul. The door to my mind slammed shut, and I shrank back, huddled in the womb of darkness. Waiting, waiting for safety.

  Another portal slowly swung open. Tendrils of desire teased me, offered to play nice, promised not to wound.

  Fingers of the voice stroked the edges of my mind. ‘Give in to the sensual,’ it coaxed with gentle authority.

  Fool me once . . . shame on me. Fool me twice . . . . Yet the pull to give in was strong. My body ached for that familiar shiver of excitement.