The Faithful

by S. M. Freedman

  Free!

  For those few precious moments, my body became one with the horse.

  We were united, flesh upon flesh. And then we weren’t.

  The horse shied left, and I took flight, spinning free. But I didn’t fall. Instead I flew. Up and up to the trees and beyond them to the watchful mountains. They were darkly beautiful and full of secrets, and I flew toward them, arms outstretched on the wind. They reached to embrace me with their shadows, but at that moment, ropy arms wrapped around my waist with urgent strength. They were demanding of me and loving me at the same time. My eyes closed over hot tears and I succumbed to the kiss. It was fervent, passionate, and desperate for more.

  Although no longer a child, I was barely a woman. He tasted of salt and fear. I could smell hay and horse and sweet oats. His hand was hot against the firm swell of my abdomen, trying to possess what lay within. In response I felt the first butterfly tickle from inside, as though his touch had brought forth life and promise within me.

  We were united, flesh upon flesh. And then we weren’t.

  He was demanding what could never be. I was weeping, grieving for the death of desire. Mourning for the life that was ending at the beginning.

  I pulled away, and then I was floating, small and weightless on the breeze. The boy had sorrowful blue eyes. He was blond and beautiful, like an angel without wings. But I had wings, and it was time to fly. I tried to smile, to reassure him all would be well, but it seemed I could not lie.

  So instead I turned to the shadow of the mountains, and let the wind blow me in their direction. The heat of the sun baked my shoulders and the top of my head. I closed my eyes and whispered my good-bye.

  “Sumner . . .”

  Her voice woke me. It was honeyed, sad, and peaceful at the same time. She touched my cheek in farewell, and was gone.

  What had she said? That it was summer?

  With bleary eyes, I focused on the ceiling. She had faded back into the ether along with her dream, but had left behind a tidal wave of sorrow that threatened to drown me if not released.

  Hot rivers of tears coursed down my cheeks, and my nose clogged. Rolling onto my side, I curled into a ball, trying to protect what was inside me. But my abdomen was flat and empty. I could still feel that butterfly promise, but there was no swelling of life there.

  My body shook with sobs and I succumbed, unable to control this grief that was not my own. It had to run its course. Eventually it did, and I lay on the couch, wounded and wiped clean.

  On the TV, the morning news anchor was telling the latest tale of tragedy and woe through her plastic smile. The empty tub of rocky road was lying under the coffee table, leaking brown sludge onto the floor. The harsh morning light wedged daggers through the gaps in the blinds.

  My head pounded, and my sinuses felt clogged with tears. Groaning, I eased myself upright. My right hip was still throbbing from my fall in the bathroom, and I added that to the list of gripes, along with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch.

  I rose unsteadily and stumbled to the bathroom. The coolness of the damp cloth brought instant relief to my puffy eyes, but I made sure to step away from the mirror before removing it.

  While a double-strength pot of coffee brewed, I cleaned up the ice-cream mess in the living room. I filled my MIT mug with coffee and popped two Advil.

  There were two new e-mails in my in-box. One was from the Illinois Department of Public Health, confirming that my request for new documents was being processed. The other was from Dan, asking how I was doing. I told him I was feeling better and would see him at work that evening. There was no point in dragging him further into my mess.

  It was almost nine in the morning, which was the time I would normally be hitting the pillow. My sleep schedule had been turned on its head, for which I would pay the price later. In the meantime, I would take advantage of being awake during daylight hours, and hope to catch a nap before work.

  I showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, tying my wet hair into a ponytail before I grabbed my purse and headed out into the stark daylight. The glare made me squint, and my temples pounded. I hoped the Advil would kick in quickly.

  The address corresponded to a small office building near St. Paul’s Methodist Church. It was surrounded by a dusty, half-empty parking lot.

  If the directory was up to date, at least half of the offices were vacant. There was a small sign with a phone number to call if I was interested in renting office space. Several doctors were listed, as well as a few dentists and small law firms and a private detective agency.

  Kahina Dokubo-Asari had an office on the second floor. I took the stairs, which smelled of someone else’s breakfast. The second floor was dim. Half the fluorescent lights were burned out, leaving the others buzzing in indignation.

  I expected a reception area, so instead of knocking, I simply opened the door and walked in.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” I sputtered, retreating from the enormous denim backside protruding from underneath the coffee table. I had practically kicked her in the rear.

  She wiggled out, exposing a broad back and then a head of black curls. The woman turned and plopped down with an indelicate grunt.

  “Oh! I wasn’t expecting anyone!” She placed her hands on the floor and pushed herself up, then dusted off her meaty thighs. She was almost six feet tall, towering over my five-foot-two frame. She was older than in her website picture, her dark curls laced with gray. “Do we have an appointment?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to book one. I thought I’d just stop by . . . I can come back later.”

  “Oh, not to worry! I’m not doing anything other than searching for my darn glasses. Again!” She fanned herself with one hand. “Getting old is such a bitch!”

  “Um, are those your glasses?” I asked, pointing to the top of her head.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She pulled them out of the tangle of hair. “How embarrassing! You must be wondering what kind of psychic I am!”

  “Not at all,” I said politely, although that was exactly what I was thinking.

  “Well, thankfully one can be a psychic and a complete scatterbrain at the same time. I’m living proof!” She laughed, and I had to smile. She was charming and self-deprecating, and instinctively I liked her.

  “I’m Kahina. What’s your name, dear?”

  “Rowan Wilson.”

  “Rowan, as in witchwood? Interesting. Did you know the wood from a rowan tree was used to ward off witches? Why don’t you have a seat?”

  I waited while she cleared a pile of papers from a red vinyl recliner, and then did as she suggested. She pulled the lid off one of the tins on the coffee table and took out a pinch of fragrant tea leaves, which she sprinkled into a pink mug. She poured steaming water on top and handed it to me.

  “It’s good for headaches.” She sat across from me in one of those fake-leather desk chairs on wheels, and waved off my look of surprise.

  “Anyone with moderate observational skills could see you have a headache. Your eyes are pinched and puffy-looking. You’ve either been crying a lot, or you have a hangover. Or maybe both.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and took a sip. It was hot and tasted of mint, ginger, and something bitter I couldn’t place. I set the mug on the coffee table to wait for it to cool.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I saw on your website you work with people to retrieve their repressed memories?”

  “That’s right. It’s called recovered memory therapy. It’s controversial, not considered part of mainstream practice. Most of the concern in the medical community is about false memory syndrome. There have been a number of cases where people reported childhood sexual abuse that was later disproved. I’m very careful when using this therapy, of course. It does no good for my clients to come up with memories that are untrue.”<
br />
  “How do you avoid that?”

  “Studies have shown false memories can be implanted by a therapist using a technique called familial informant false narrative procedure. In other words, the therapist enforces a memory by explaining that a family member or some other trusted person has confirmed the false memory is true.

  “So it’s pretty simple, really. I don’t overstep my boundaries. While I have a subject under hypnosis, I make sure they take the lead. Any questions I pose will be to help clarify, and I never push a subject in any direction. I let them tell the story.”

  “Are you a psychologist?”

  She nodded. “I got my degree from Stanford. Most of my colleagues wouldn’t be quite so generous as to call me that, though. They’re more likely to call me a New Age nutbar.” She grinned, and I smiled in return.

  “It’s true that most of what I practice is outside the mainstream of psychology, but I went into the field with hopes of answering questions about myself I couldn’t seem to find answers to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like why I knew things others didn’t. Why I saw things no one else could see. Why my dreams often predicted future events.

  “Unfortunately, a doctorate in psychology didn’t help answer those questions. For a long time, I was very disappointed. Eventually I realized that to truly help people, to practice therapy that would be genuinely effective, I needed to combine my book knowledge with my God-given talents.” She shrugged. “And so here I am.”

  “So, do you believe false memories can be implanted?”

  “Most certainly. I’ve helped numerous patients overcome false memory syndrome and get to the truth.”

  “Do you think it’s also possible to erase real memories?”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “I’d imagine so. The brain has an amazing capacity to forget. Under the right circumstances and with a patient in a suggestible state, I’d say that would absolutely be possible.”

  There was a moment of silence while I digested this information, and then she asked, “So, what does this have to do with you?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Some strange things have been happening, and I don’t know what it all means.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. But I think I might have been implanted with false memories of my childhood.”

  “Are you talking about abuse? Or traumatic events?”

  “No, not like that. I, um, think my whole childhood might have been a false memory.”

  “What?” she blinked at me. “Your whole childhood?”

  I nodded.

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Well, I don’t really remember anymore.”

  She leaned back in her chair and looked at me. After a long moment of contemplation, she said, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “It’s a long story, and very confusing.”

  “I have time.”

  “All right.” I took a long swallow of tea. “Until yesterday, I remembered being raised in Chicago by my dad, who died of congestive heart failure when I was eighteen. I had millions of memories of a normal childhood. A couple of nights ago I was at work, which is out on the White Sands Missile Range, and I received a card. It said ‘Ricordare, Ritornare,’ which means ‘Remember, Return’ in Italian. I understood it, even though I’ve never studied Italian.”

  “That’s odd,” she said, and I nodded.

  “Right. It scared me. I actually passed out, which I’ve never done before . . . I don’t think.” I shook my head. “Anyway, at that moment, it’s like some kind of switch got flipped inside me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My life before college has become a big black hole. I remember that my dad died when I was eighteen. But it’s just a piece of information, like if I told you two plus two was four. I don’t have any real memory of him, or of his death. I don’t have any emotion about it, although I’m sure I once did.”

  “Do you remember anything about your childhood?”

  I shook my head. “It’s like I was born the day I began college. Everything after that point in my life is clear and normal.”

  “Well, how fascinating!” she exclaimed.

  “I guess you could say that. There’s more, though.” I hesitated, caught by the same reticence that always took hold of me. But she claimed to have the same ability. And maybe she even did.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m also able to see things, and know things, others can’t. I’ve had that ability as long as I can remember—” That stopped me, and I had to laugh. “Well, that means less today than it did a couple of days ago, but still.”

  “You’re psychic?”

  “I’ve never categorized myself that way.”

  “Ah. A closet psychic.”

  I smiled. “I’ve never been very comfortable with it.”

  “In my experience, none of us are. Very few psychics find the will to turn it to their advantage. And even for those of us who do, it’s still more nightmare than gift most of the time.” She rolled toward me, wheels squeaking across the carpet.

  “It might help me gain some insight if I do a reading. Would you mind?” She held her hands out to me. Her palms were pink and callused, and after a moment of hesitation, I placed my hands in hers.

  “Great. Now, close your eyes and take some deep breaths. Don’t worry!” she said as I looked at her with alarm. “I’m not hypnotizing you. I just want to see what I can pick up. The more you relax, the better.”

  At her bidding, I closed my eyes. All I could hear was her breathing. Eventually she pulled back, wheels squeaking, and I opened my eyes.

  She had pulled as far away from me as she could manage, and was looking at me with horror.

  My heart lurched. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything is dead!” She leapt up. The chair spun away and crashed against the far wall.

  “What?”

  “You need to leave!”

  “What? I don’t understand! What did you see?”

  “You walk with death. No, not just death. Annihilation! Extinction!”

  “What! Please, I don’t . . . what do you mean?”

  “You must leave! Please, please you must leave!”

  Tears stung my eyes and burned the back of my throat. I stood up on trembling legs and reached out for her. She shrank away from me as though I were a demon.

  “Please help me! I don’t understand what’s happening to me! I’m so scared . . .”

  “Get out! You have brought evil to my doorstep!”

  “How? I don’t understand! Please, help me to understand?”

  She was shaking her head, hands over her mouth as though she had just witnessed the murder of her entire family, or something equally horrific.

  “You must go! There’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “Kahina, please . . .”

  “Just go!”

  Sobbing, blinded with tears, I turned to the door. Just before I left, I turned back to her. She was on her knees, weeping, her head bowed to her chest.

  “Who is the truth-seeker? Do you know?” I asked.

  She raised her head, piercing me with her red, streaming eyes. She looked like a ghost.

  “What does it matter? He’ll be dead soon, too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I’ve got that information. Where can we meet?” Connie whispered seductively, and Josh rolled his eyes.

  Still, he was eager to get those names, and equally eager to get out of the office. He had spent the last two days at his computer. Getting some fresh air sounded good. He stretched, feeling the satisfying pop of his vertebrae as they realigned.

  “Is it still sunny out there in the real world?”

  Sh
e chuckled. “It is.”

  They agreed to meet in front of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial at 12:15. She offered to bring lunch, and he agreed. Hanging up, he checked his watch. It was 11:00 a.m.; he had plenty of time to get some exercise.

  After locking the door to his office, he changed into sweatpants and a Georgetown sweatshirt. He pulled on his Reeboks, thundered down the stairs, and exploded out into the sunshine with the glee of an escaped convict. He headed west on F Street at a fast clip, relishing the mindless rhythm of his shoes slapping the pavement as his body adjusted to the inertia of forward motion.

  He’d spent the morning submitting the latest DNA samples to the Evidence Control Unit, or ECU. In 2000, the FBI began the National Missing Persons DNA Database, or NMPDD, to assist in the identification of missing persons. The DNA was gathered from hair samples, toothbrushes, or other sources such as saved baby teeth, and sent to the ECU for analysis. The information was then uploaded to CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System.

  Over the past decade, Josh had been gathering DNA samples for the children who had gone missing prior to the inception of the NMPDD. This required tracking down scattered family members to get familial samples, which could be obtained by a cheek swab.

  It sounded simple enough, but since the cases spanned the last five decades, the task was extremely tedious. For accuracy, DNA samples were required from more than one relative. Ideally, a sample could be obtained from the mother and father of the missing child. Samples obtained from siblings were less useful, and as a last resort, a sample from a maternal relative could be used. A sample from a paternal relative was useful only if the missing child was a boy.

  It was a sad fact that many marriages didn’t withstand the grief of losing a child, and divorce was common. This presented a challenge when searching for the biological mother, who had often remarried and changed her name. Finding female siblings presented the same problem.

  With the older cases, the search for the parents often ended in death certificates, and surviving family members were hard to find. Josh had a stack of cases awaiting a second DNA sample so they could be submitted to the ECU.