by Glenn Meade
He leaned down, kissed her on the forehead. “You have Jan’s child to think about. Just be glad you didn’t die, too, or lose your baby.”
She was silent.
“Will you stay tonight?” he asked.
“I wanted to come to this place he loved so much and stay here in memory of him. But now I don’t know, Paul.”
“Please stay. And don’t be angry with me, Carla. I’m trying to do what’s best. To keep us all safe and avoid another tragedy like Jan’s death.”
She stared at him, hard. “And what about doing what’s right?”
His mouth tightened, and he was grim-faced.
“I’ve made up Jan’s bed in the old part of the house. The one he had as a kid and when he lived here for a time after college. He always slept in that room whenever he came back here to prepare before a concert. He called it his Arizona office. I thought you’d want to sleep there tonight.”
He bent to pick up his empty coffee cup. “Maybe you’d like to have some of his personal things from his room? I think he would have wanted that.”
11
* * *
It was a simple room. Sand-colored walls, a single bed, and a beige carpet.
The window looked out onto the back of the house, toward the mountains and the desert. Carla sat there, taking it all in.
White-painted bookcases were built into the walls either side of the window. Boys’ adventure stories, sheet music, books on the piano and musical instruments.
A stack of old videotapes and DVDs, of the movies he’d loved as a kid: Home Alone, The Addams Family, and The Lion King. And the ones Jan liked when he grew older: Casablanca, Cinema Paradiso, The Mission, Legends of the Fall.
On a shelf was a model aircraft, and some polished stones he had picked up in the desert. On another was a pair of hand-painted plaster-cast lizards.
Buried behind some books on the shelves, some photographs were pinned with thumbtacks to a corkboard. She removed the books.
On the board was a photograph of Jan, aged about ten, sitting solemn-faced on the back porch of the house. Another of him all smiles, making sand castles on a beach.
A photograph with the school baseball team, a little older, smiling and happy. There were snapshots with his aunt and uncle and Paul at Disneyland, soon after they’d arrived in the United States. A few more of him as a young musician, and in concert.
One of the images was different, and looked as if it had been cut out of a book or magazine.
It showed lines of women and children wearing disheveled clothes, some piled onto tractors, but most of them walking, carrying their belongings on their backs as they filed past the camera. Armed Serb soldiers lining their route looked on with cold indifference.
Carla realized it was a photograph of the victims of the ethnic cleansing.
There were no tears on the faces, just gaunt despair. The kind of despair that comes when all hope is gone and prayers go unanswered.
Among the victims was a mother with a small boy and a girl wearing shabby clothes. They stared out at the camera, their wide, innocent eyes full of fear. The stark fear that only children can show when they sense danger. The mother looked fraught, her face desolate.
Carla couldn’t explain it, but something about the image of the mother and her two small children made her heart stutter. The image spoke to her.
It was as if she could feel their hopelessness, their fear, their terror. The photograph reminded her of the haunting images of Nazi death camp victims.
She shook her head in dismay.
What kind of men could do this to innocent women and children?
What kind of men could massacre thousands of fathers and brothers and sons and mothers and daughters in cold blood and call it a justified act of war?
No wonder Jan had wanted to track down these killers.
Her fists clenched angrily as she stared at the armed men in the photograph. They were the same kind who had murdered the gentle man she had married.
And she saw him again, walking across the campus, his fringe blowing in the wind, that lopsided smile on his face. Kind, gentle Jan, who loved her and always put others first. Who had a secret in his heart she never knew about.
When she felt her eyes become wet, when she could bear it no longer, she rose and left the room, quietly closing the door after her.
• • •
“I’d like to take something from Jan’s room.”
Paul was sitting in the living room reading a book when she went in.
“Of course, what is it?”
“One of the photographs.”
He gave a tight, sad smile. “The one on the beach?”
“No, the one of the women and children fleeing the war.”
He paled visibly. “Why that?”
“I want to be reminded of what Jan did.”
His hand was shaking a little as he held on to his book. “Sure. Whatever you want, Carla.”
“I’ll leave early tomorrow. Apologize to Kim and the girls. Give them my love.”
And she turned and went back into the bedroom.
• • •
That night she lay on Jan’s bed.
She used her cell phone to connect to the Internet and read more about what Paul told her of the war, and the Serb mafia.
She saw more photographs, some of them deeply disturbing: of families executed, and victims of the Serb concentration camps.
But every now and then she looked over at the photograph of the lines of fleeing families, at the mother and two small children with terror in their faces.
She couldn’t keep her eyes off their image.
When she switched off her cell and undressed and lay down to sleep it still haunted her, and combined with fragments of her nightmares as the same disjointed film played out in her mind: the face of a small, emaciated boy staring up at her with huge, sad eyes; a woman’s frail hand, outstretched toward her; the bright electric light swinging in a dark room. Snowflakes falling on woods on a winter’s night.
In the middle of it all, she saw the small boy float closer, his mouth open in pleading, as if he was begging for her to save him, but no words came. For some reason, the vision felt like a knife in her heart.
She thought for a moment she might be going mad.
She took one of the green pills and swallowed it with a sip of water. She pulled the pillows to her face, her legs drawn up, her hands clasped together between her knees.
A little later the room started to swim, and then the first waves of sleep rolled in.
• • •
The next morning Paul drove her to the airport in his white Mustang.
He waited while she checked in, then escorted her to the boarding gate. “Take care of yourself, Carla. And please, don’t judge me too harshly. What will you do?”
“I’m too angry to think clearly right now. But when things have calmed down I’ll consider my options.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Paul. My life seems upside down at the minute. If it wasn’t for the baby, I’d probably have cracked before now.”
“Are you going to take my advice?”
“I know I’m going to think long and hard about what you said.”
“Maybe we’ll talk again, once we can both think more clearly? So long, Carla.”
He kissed her cheek and Carla filed toward the security barrier.
• • •
She didn’t notice the man leaning against a column in the departures area.
He was fit-looking, stocky and muscular, and he was reading a newspaper as he observed them both, a pair of earphones stuck in his ears, the wires connected to his cell phone.
As Carla passed through security, the man tapped his phone and made the call.
12
* * *
NEW YORK
“Why Dr. Leon?”
Baize’s Chevrolet stop-started in traffic. She hunched forward in the driver’s seat. “Because
he’s caring, someone you’ll feel safe with and can trust. Besides, you’ve met him before.”
“Half a dozen times socially with you over the last twenty years, but otherwise I hardly know the man, so why him in particular?”
“Because he’s also the best. I saw him after your grandfather died. We both knew Dr. Leon as friends for many years. If it hadn’t been for him, I think I would have come apart at the seams when your grandfather died.”
“You did come apart at the seams.”
“Okay, so I did. But it would have been a lot worse without the doctor’s help.”
Baize slapped the brakes at a traffic light.
“So why all the mystery?”
“What mystery, Carla?”
“I get the feeling there’s more to this. That you’re not telling me everything.”
“I’m just a little concerned, that’s all. You know how therapists prod and probe. Sometimes they make you see aspects to yourself that you never knew, sweetheart.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve never been to one before.”
Baize gave her a look, and swung the Chevrolet onto a street full of imposing houses. “Actually, you have, Carla.”
“What?”
“When you were a child, you had therapy with Dr. Leon. But you don’t remember, do you?”
“No. How old was I?”
“Eleven.”
“For . . . how long did I have therapy?”
“Many months. Many long and difficult months.”
“I don’t understand. I ought to remember. But I don’t. Why?”
Baize pulled up outside a big old house. It was built of wood and brick and looked inviting, Norman Rockwell style, the kind of place where you’d feel at ease.
“I’m sure Dr. Leon will explain. It’s best you hear it from him.”
• • •
Dr. Raymond Leon was a tall, elderly man with a graying Van Dyke beard and warm, wrinkled blue eyes.
He looked cheerful, one corner of his mouth raised in a permanent smile, as if he saw the world and its inhabitants with wry humor.
The house was both his home and office. He opened the door into a brightly lit suite and indicated a well worn but cozy leather chair. Carla felt at home, the room familiar, as if she’d been here before.
“It’s been a while, Carla. Take a seat, it’s good to see you again.”
“You, too.”
She expected to see the walls dressed with glass-framed academic qualifications, all stamped with shiny gilt or wax-red seals. Instead she saw a collection of family photographs, a smiling Dr. Leon in many of them, hugging his grandchildren.
On another wall she noticed framed drawings in bright, gaudy colors, some of them with weird shapes and forms, that looked as if they had been sketched by kids.
One of the drawings showed the stick figure of a crying child, the raindrop-shaped tears out of proportion to the figure. In the background lay a mass of what looked like bodies, daubed with splashes of red.
Carla shuddered: for some reason the images made her uneasy.
Dr. Leon picked up a lime-green plastic folder from his desk in the chair opposite, his legs crossed, one of his worn loafers dangling.
“May I ask you a question, Doctor?”
“Sure.”
“Baize just told me I had therapy with you when I was a child. Yet for some reason I have no recollection.”
“What exactly did she tell you?”
“Just that I had therapy. She didn’t explain.”
Dr. Leon placed the folder on the side table. “We’ll talk about that shortly, Carla. But first, let me tell you something about myself professionally that you may not be aware of.”
The doctor sat back, resting his hands on his knees. “I specialize in treating patients who suffer severe psychological trauma. I’m talking about life-changing accidents, postwar stress, childhood abuse, shootings, parental suicides, phobias, emotional upheavals, that sort of thing. The reality is, you suffered huge emotional trauma in your childhood.”
Carla felt a strange fluttering in her chest, accompanied by a sudden feeling of apprehension. “You . . . you mean when my parents died?”
“That was only part of it, but not all.”
“But I don’t remember anything.”
“You’re not meant to, Carla.”
“Why?”
“The human mind has a natural defense mechanism that suppresses unpleasant memories, especially in young people below the age of twelve.”
“Can you explain?”
“People often think you can erase traumatic experiences in child patients with say, hypnotherapy treatment. But hypnotherapy might only make things worse and sometimes there really isn’t any need.”
“Why not?”
“One of the brain’s defenses against the problems caused by trauma in childhood is to either suppress the memory or to ‘split’ into separate personalities, where one part carries the memory and effects of the trauma.”
Dr. Leon sat back, adding, “The other part of the mind is unaware of it and is able to grow up and function fairly normally without any apparent effect. That’s the part that lets us eat, sleep, move and doesn’t recall anything of what happened.”
“You’re saying my childhood mind suppressed the trauma?”
“That was the only way it could deal with it at the time—to obliterate the bad memories, so that you could live a normal life.”
“What bad memories?”
“We’ll come to those. In a way you could say that the brain’s hope is that when you’re older you may be able to handle it better. It’s one of the reasons why flashbacks to childhood traumas can occur in adulthood.”
Dr. Leon sat forward again. “However, the fact you really don’t remember any of it means that your mind did its job correctly. But now we’re also dealing with the more recent trauma of your husband’s death. Baize tells me you’d been having disturbing nightmares.”
“Yes.”
“She also tells me that you’re pregnant.”
Carla nodded.
“What kinds of images present themselves in your nightmares, Carla?”
She explained. “I guess they sound weird?”
“Not really. But sometimes long ago emotional traumas can be retriggered, causing disturbed sleep and nightmares. Tell me what you remember of your childhood.”
“It—it’s kind of a blur, to be honest. I have warm memories of my parents, of what they looked like, even if they’re pretty hazy.”
“Is that all?”
“No, I have vague recollections of some kind of family life, of days on a beach somewhere, vacations together, that sort of thing. I’m certain I felt loved. For some reason, that’s a feeling I’m pretty sure of. But I don’t have any particularly bad memories.”
“For a very good reason. You were in a catatonic state when I first treated you. A kind of selective amnesia had set in to repress the bad memories.”
Dr. Leon made a steeple of his fingers, touched them to his chin. “Repressing memory is not unlike hitting the delete button on your computer to get rid of an unwanted file. Does that make any sense?”
“I . . . I think so.”
“Of course, the erased file may still be in your computer, only you can’t recall it. But now the distress of Jan’s death has upset the applecart.”
“How?”
“It’s allowed your mind to throw up fleeting glimpses from your past. Think of it as a kind of computer glitch. You look uneasy, are you okay?”
“I guess you’ve got me worried now.”
Dr. Leon offered a smile. “I can see all this is a shock, but please, I don’t want you to worry. I’m here to help.”
“What were the events I lived through?”
“First, I really should explain the problem I faced when Baize told me about the nightmares.”
Dr. Leon, his hands still clasped, tapped his forefinger against his lips. “I suppose it’s a kind of Pando
ra’s box situation. The lid of the box is already open a little. The question I have to ask myself is, do we wait to see what crawls out or do we open it the rest of the way ourselves?
“If we do nothing, the problem will likely worsen. So I think intervention is the best course. If the unsettling nightmares continue without some kind of explanation as to why they’re happening—then they may stress you mentally and physically.”
He shook his head. “We really can’t let that happen. I don’t want to risk anything harming your baby.” Dr. Leon smiled reassuringly. “And nothing will.”
Carla felt her stomach drop, and put a hand down to touch it. “Where exactly is this going, Doctor?”
“Whichever way the box is opened, you’re going to be faced with some difficult truths.”
“What truths?”
“You see, you’re not the person you think you are, Carla.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“You had another life before this, a life your mind repressed. That’s why you have no real recollection of your childhood, apart from limited generic memories your own imagination will furnish as it tries to fill in the missing gaps.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Your entire life before the age of eleven has pretty much been suppressed. The reason was your trauma. Your mind needed to shut it out, to cope, to survive. So all your memories from that period, good and bad, are buried deep, so deep you can’t recall them. Perhaps even meeting me may have been all part of that unpleasant experience at the time. A good reason why you didn’t recall your therapy.”
A dazed Carla went to speak, her mouth open.
When no words came, Dr. Leon said, “I believe the way forward is for you to confront the truth and move on from there. Despite Jan’s death you’re in a safer place now than you were twenty years ago. Emotionally, you’re more mature, more rational.”
Leon paused. “I guess the question I have to ask you is this: Do you feel ready to face up to your past? To confront the life you never knew you had?”
