As expected, Tabitha did not respond to this immediately. It was a tall order, even for the subconscious. Dr. Porter repeated his command, periodically spaced, several times. Thirty minutes elapsed before Tabitha raised her “yes” finger.
Now her entire history was not a sequence of events in her subconscious, but a single entity. Aside from himself, she was the first person he had done this with, and he was certain he was the first to try it with anybody.
Dr. Porter said, “Now that your entire history is one thing, I want you to separate from it. Make your history one separate thing and your current experience another separate thing.”
Again, this was no small task for the subconscious. It took Tabitha another thirty minutes. When she finally did signal that it was done, Dr. Porter thought of how she wasn’t even aware that she had signaled. In fact, had he been talking to just her, where her experience was, she wouldn’t have had access to the learning that told her how to signal with her finger or even what a finger was. But he was talking to her subconscious, where that learning was still intact, just separated from her experience.
Tabitha was now three separate things. She was the physical being, relaxed on the bed beside him, all of her history, and her current experience. And where was Tabitha’s current experience? It was in a place completely uncontaminated by anything in her environment or history, completely separate from knowledge. She was at the very base of her subconscious.
He let her stay there for about fifteen minutes, before he said, “Now I want the subconscious to tell me what Tabitha sees.” Again, it wasn’t the part that Tabitha was experiencing that he was talking to. That part would not be able to answer. But, from her subconscious, she said, “Dark.”
With that, Dr. Porter was satisfied for now. He wouldn’t take her as far as he’d gone yet. He wanted her to practice going to where she was at for right now. He had the weekend to do that. He brought her up.
***
The drum roll echoed from the gymnasium above. A voice of someone, probably one of the senior players, shouted something to the crowd of students, bringing back cheers. Down below, in the locker room, Toby Pollard sat on a bench, choking down the least repulsive part of his diet, a Vanilla Ensure.
All food tasted bad to him. Meat made him puke. Some vegetables stayed down if he didn’t eat them too fast or in too big of doses. Ensure was gross, but, requiring no chewing, was quick and easy to swallow.
Because the season opener was a non-conference road game, way downstate, and the team had to leave right after school, Toby had to skip the pep rally in order to get things ready. This being his fourth year as manager, he knew what needed to go and how to pack it, so it hadn’t taken long. Now he could take time to force down his Ensure alone, with no one commenting on the disgusted looks he gave, or asking how “that shit” tasted.
Toby didn’t really feel like he was missing the pep rally. He could feel its energy, which excited him. He would have rather been a player. He would rather have been a lot of things. But he’d take what he could get. This would be his most exciting year as manager. His brother was starting at quarterback, which made the team, and his job, all the more personal.
The pep rally was almost over, and he was almost finished with his Ensure, when someone else came down into the locker room, the worst possible person.
Matt Craven appeared in the doorway. The big senior had a look on his face that was half disgust and half mischief. Randy had lied to their dad about Matt. He had said that Matt liked the end position, but it was clear to a lot of people that Matt was bitter.
Matt had been second-string quarterback the year before. He had assumed he would start at quarterback this year. He hadn’t so much as voiced his irritation at losing his position to Randy, but that irritation revealed itself in his new sulking manner. He had further made it clear at practice the day before, when he took it out on an easier target than Randy Pollard, Randy’s older, but much smaller, brother.
The team had been near the end zone, practicing extra points. Toby had been retrieving the kicked balls. Matt pointed out to the team how Toby disappeared when he went behind the goal post, bringing out smatterings of laughter every time Toby crossed it.
Randy hadn’t said anything, but by the look on his face, had wanted to. Toby knew his brother had resisted because he didn’t want to bring strife to the team the day before the first game, and Toby was glad to be spared the further shame of having his younger brother defend him.
Now Toby was alone with Matt, who, since he’d come to Pious four years ago, had been indifferent to his thin classmate. But Matt would ignore Toby no more, because now he had a reason to notice the skinny freak.
Matt strolled in slowly, whistling a slow, unfamiliar tune. He didn’t make eye contact as he walked by Toby to the water fountain. Toby hoped Matt would just get a drink and leave, but he wasn’t so lucky. After his drink, Matt came over and sat next to Toby on the bench.
Toby stiffened with fear. Though he was occasionally made fun of, his frail appearance also brought pity. No one had ever wanted the inevitable soiled reputation that would come with whipping up on a harmless weakling. But Matt’s reputation was already somewhat tarnished, being a senior who had lost his prized position to a freshman. Would Matt really care if his reputation got worse?
“Toby Pollard,” Matt said out loud, as if beginning some kind of biographical speech.
Toby nodded as casually as he could, trying to act as if there was no friction between Matt and him. He even tried to think of something to say, but with his frightened mind, nothing would come.
Matt reached over and patted Toby across his narrow back. The pat was hard enough to hurt, but not so hard that Matt couldn’t deny that offence was intended.
“Toby Pollard,” Matt repeated and then patted Toby again, this time nearly knocking him off the bench.
At this point, Toby wanted to run, but he doubted he would get away if Matt didn’t want him to.
“Toby fucking Pollard,” Matt said and then laughed wickedly. “Our manager. Got his job because his step dad is the superintendent.”
Matt paused as if waiting for reaction, but Toby had no reaction for him. Then Matt said, “Just like his brother got to be starting quarterback because his real dad is the superintendent.”
Toby knew that only part of what Matt said was untrue. He was right about Toby. Their dad had asked the coach personally if Toby could work for the team. But Matt was the only person who would claim Superintendent Pollard had anything to do with Randy being quarterback. The proof was in the pudding. Randy had shown up to two-a-days throwing further and more accurately than Matt. Randy was faster and an all-round better athlete, and the team seemed to respect his leadership more than Matt’s. Players and onlookers had been saying it should happen before Couch Tibbs decided to move Randy into the starting position.
Anger mixed in with Toby’s fear. Matt didn’t have the guts to say this to Randy, so he was saying it to Randy’s weakling brother. But what could Toby do? The only thing he could threaten Matt with was politics. His brother was the starting quarterback and quickly becoming the most popular kid in school. His dad was the superintendent and possibly the most respected member of the community. Toby could have used those things to his advantage, but he wouldn’t. He just hoped Matt would leave him alone soon.
But then a hero appeared in the doorway. Randy walked in and right up to them. He looked down at Matt. “Saw you leave, Matt. Didn’t come down here to mess with my brother, did you?”
Matt responded by standing up. Randy made no buts about what he was willing to do. He pulled his hips back and fists up. They were squared off, Randy taller but Matt with at least thirty pounds on him.
Their dad had boxed while in the Marines. He had passed his knowledge of the sport on to Randy. Toby didn’t doubt that Randy could throttle the older kid. But Toby didn’t want that to happen, not with the season about to start, not because of him. He stood up between the two
boys, facing his brother.
“No, Randy. It’s not like that. We were just talking.”
By the expression on his face, Randy knew he had just heard a lie, but he still put his hands down.
“Yeah,” Matt said, his voice a little provocative, but a little shaken too. “We were just talking.”
After a few seconds, Randy said, “Fine then.”
“All right,” Matt said and then left.
Toby stood alone with his brother. In a few minutes, the rest of the team would come down and start to load up.
As if sensing Toby didn’t want to talk about what just happened, Randy said, “They say it might rain tonight. You might want to pack extra hand towels.”
“Taken care of,” Toby replied.
Randy smiled. “What would we do without you?”
***
“I can’t believe it,” Richard Powell said from the couch. “For the first time in over thirty years, I feel good.”
Richard Powell was a 52-year-old veteran of the Vietnam War. He was also a veteran of an arm amputation, post-traumatic stress disorder and concomitant depression, all products of that war. Dr. Porter had done everything but bring the arm back.
“A few months ago, when you said what we were going to do, I didn’t think it had the slightest chance of working. Do you know how many people I’ve seen and how many medications I’ve taken to overcome this?”
Dr. Porter didn’t answer the rhetorical question. But he did know how much treatment Richard had received. He had a thick file on the man. PTSD in war veterans was often resistant to conventional treatments. But, of course, Dr. Porter did not use conventional treatments. And now he spoke to this.
“Sometimes when something terrible happens to us, something that destroys our subconscious assumption that the world is a safe and harmonious place, our mind locks us in that time.”
“I know,” Richard politely interrupted. “That’s why I had the dreams. That’s why so many things I saw and heard took me back to that time and made me have flashbacks.”
Dr. Porter didn’t mind the interruption. He wasn’t trying to teach Richard anything now. As he did with all of his clients, he’d educated Richard on the subconscious’s role in his disorder. That was why Richard could speak intelligently about it now. At this point, with Richard’s treatment finished and this a rap up session, Dr. Porter was merely thinking out loud.
“Yes, Richard. In an attempt at self-preservation, your subconscious was reminding you of the traumas you faced, so you would avoid them. But sometimes our subconscious is overzealous and causes us to freeze up.”
Richard laughed. “It’s funny how fear can be both a healthy and unhealthy thing. But you taught my subconscious to focus on the time before the war, when people weren’t dying all around me, when I wasn’t killing people, and people weren’t trying to kill me.”
“That’s right, Richard,” Dr. Porter calmly said. In many cases of PTSD, something less could have been done. People could be cured without hypnosis. In many treatments the client was simply asked to imagine the time of his or her trauma over and over again. Soon, when the imagined reliving of the events didn’t bring about the trauma itself, the subconscious was satisfied of its safety and moved on, confident the horrors would not recur.
These treatments were very effective with many trauma victims. With veterans, on the other hand, PTSD was more complex, because, in their case, the symptoms didn’t arise from a single event. They arose from many horrific events faced day after day and night after night in combat situations. And the many traumas fed upon each other, forming a barrier that could not be cracked. That barrier stood in a particular time, which the client’s subconscious continuously returned to.
What Dr. Porter did was train the subconscious to remember a time before the war and focus there, where the barrier did not exist. Soon, the subconscious was satisfied that the person’s current life need not be focused on protecting from the events that occurred in those months or years when the person was at war and allowed the person to move on.
But, sitting there on this Friday night, with a client whom conventional wisdom had no means of curing, but whom Dr. Porter’s methods had cured, Dr. Porter could not help but go back to his obsession, the few clients he had tried with and not helped. In their entire lives, he was not able to find a place to take them where their dilemmas could be solved. He did not understand the barriers that stood in their way. He thought he soon would.
***
Saturday at Morgan’s Pub was as hopping as always. The usual upper crest stopped in to get carried away and tip well. Because blue laws made it illegal to sell alcohol on Sunday, the pub closed at midnight.
With the customers cleared out, the staff enjoyed a few drinks as they cleaned up and got the place ready for when it would reopen Monday afternoon. At 1:30, a half-baked crew decided on whose house they would retreat to for the rest of the night. This week they decided on the home of Tiffany, who managed the pub.
Seven of them went to Tiffany’s, where they drank more and got high. Celeste loved these after-work parties. She felt very comfortable around this group, made up of her coworkers, who were also about her only friends. Everybody here knew and understood a lot about Celeste, except for Scott, who if he stuck around, would probably come to understand Celeste as well as the others. As a rule, those who didn’t accept the rest of the staff would not fit in and end up leaving within a few weeks of starting.
Around 3AM, the party became temporarily segregated by gender. Paul, the bartender, sat on the couch having a discussion with Scott. The five women stood a few feet away in a circle, gossiping about one of the regular customers.
Kendra got the circle’s attention. “Look at them over there. They look kind of serious.”
Loud music drowned out the conversation of the two guys, but Kendra was right; they did look kind of serious.
“We should do something about that,” said Tiffany, who at thirty-five, was the oldest person in the place. “On three.”
Kendra nodded.
Tiffany counted, “One. Two. Three.” Then she, Kendra, and Chelsea, a college student and part-time server, lifted up their shirts so that their bras showed.
It took a few seconds for the guys on the couch to notice they were being flashed. Scott, who had worked in the pub scene before coming to Morgan’s a few weeks ago, didn’t look overly shocked by the exhibition.
“That’s enough to distract me,” Paul shouted. “But not enough to hold my attention.”
“Attend to this,” Kendra yelled as she flipped the cups of her bra up. Scott still didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed. Paul, as usual, went for more.
“That’s a little better.”
Tiffany brought up her bra and so did Chelsea. Julie, another college student and part timer at the pub, only stood by and laughed, probably because she was starting to get serious with the guy she was dating and wasn’t sure he would appreciate her tities on display.
Paul looked pleased. Scott looked mildly amused, but not overly excited. It was Celeste who was able to shock him. In one swoop, she whipped her shirt and DD bra up.
Four male eyes focused on her revealed breasts. Paul, who had seen her breasts before, still stared at what were obviously his favorites in the group, the two he knew he’d never be able to touch, but still salivated over. Scott’s eyes grew and his mouth dropped open a little. Celeste shook her beautiful breasts for the pleasantly disturbed men and then put them away.
About an hour later, the rest of the group outside, Celeste sat alone on Tiffany’s couch with the new guy.
“You really surprised me a while ago,” Scott said.
“Oh,” Celeste said, pretending to be naive. “Did you not know I had tits?”
“Well, yeah. It’s just. . .”
Celeste finished for him. “It’s just that you heard I hate sex.”
“Well, yeah.”
“And I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of my
body.”
Scott nodded, but Celeste saw disbelief in his expression. She decided that since the others had broken him in on her condition, she could fill in the gaps of his understanding. “Look, I’m not like your run-of-the-mill prude. I’m not shy or embarrassed about my appearance. It’s just that once the touching starts, I start feeling a little grossed out.”
Scott’s face looked a little less confused. He started to speak but then stopped.
“It’s all right,” Celeste said. “Ask.”
“Well, isn’t that something you could get help with?”
“Yes,” Celeste responded. She didn’t feel defensive. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was Scott. He was patient and respectful, not going anywhere uninvited.
“I’ve taken meds, seen a sex therapist, even went to a hypnotist.”
“A hypnotist. That sounds interesting.”
“Oh yeah. It was. And it was helpful, in a way. It didn’t cure my problem, but the hypnotist said something that put it in a little better perspective.”
“What was that?” Scott asked, looking truly interested. Celeste liked that, and she thought he might fit into the group.
“Well, he said that he used hypnotism to take people into their past. There they could find the source of their problem and kind of uproot it, or they could find a better time to go to, when they had what they lack now, and just sort of bring it back.”
Celeste paused to look at Scott, trying to gauge if he was following her. He was either a really good faker or he was attending. She finished. “He said he couldn’t find anything in my subconscious to help me.”
Scott appeared to ponder that. Then he finally said, “Which makes it easier for you to accept. Because if there isn’t a part of you that has ever been interested in sex, then you don’t have to spend your life fretting about recovering something that was never there in the first place.”
Awe washed over her. He had nailed it. That probably meant a lot of things about him. Most important, it meant he had been listening, and not just listening with his ears, but truly taking in what she said, feeling what she conveyed, so he could understand it enough to understand her. That was a lot of work for a guy to put into a girl he knew he didn’t have a chance of scoring with.
Scribner Horror Bundle: Four Horror Novels by Joshua Scribner Page 30
