by Merry Jones
I stopped seeing Dr. Schroeder at our next session. He wasn’t happy about it. Said he was concerned that I was stopping therapy so suddenly, just as my memories were beginning to surface.
“I can’t insist that you continue, of course.” He frowned, crossed his legs. “But we’ve just begun making real progress. We’ve uncovered the trauma that triggered a major incidence of your amnesia. You remember that you witnessed the murder of your husband by his brother. That you held Charlie as he died. Your ability to recollect those events is most significant.”
He held his fingertips together, his thoughtful pose. “But I’m convinced that there’s much more to do. You also had amnesia regarding the death of Somerset Bradley. Which implies that there may be other events that you don’t remember.”
He paused, letting me think about what he’d said. I wondered if it were true. Because if it was, I wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t remember.
“As we’ve discussed, localized amnesia like yours is a defense mechanism. But it’s also a symptom of a dissociation disorder. I think we can surmise that you’ve buried other memories. We haven’t uncovered them yet. Nor have we examined why you protect yourself from traumas in this manner. Nor have we satisfactorily treated your dissociative pattern of separating yourself from your surroundings by ‘pulling an Elle.’”
No, we hadn’t done those things. “But I do feel much better. I don’t ‘pull Elles’ nearly as often. And I remembered what happened to Charlie. Which is what I came here to do. I’m satisfied. I think I’m done here. Really.”
He exhaled. Uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Speaking directly. “Elle, given that your localized amnesia occurred at least twice in a short time period and that you are beginning to recall the triggering events, I have to warn you. Other repressed traumatic memories might surface. Unexpectedly. Out of nowhere. Suddenly. You should be prepared for—”
Dr. Schroeder warned me about memories that might pop out at me like jacks in the box. Or was it jack in the boxes? Jacks in the boxes? Who knew? I saw myself bundled in a parka. Coming home from school early due to the snow. Skidding and sliding on the roads, then wading through knee-deep snow to the door. Water was running upstairs. How fabulous. Charlie was home! Taking a shower? Perfect. We’d start up the fireplace, open a bottle of wine. Make love on the sofa. Or the rug. I ran up the steps, straight to the bathroom, still holding my school-bag. Calling to him, telling him I was home. Flinging the bathroom door open.
“—and you might very well need support.” Dr. Schroeder looked concerned. “These memories will no doubt be unsettling. There were, after all, reasons your mind refused them.”
Finding Charlie in the shower.
Washing Sherry McBride.
Wow. Dr. Schroeder was right. The memories could arise suddenly, out of nowhere. Charlie must have wondered why I kept asking him about her as if I had no idea they’d been involved. As if the shower incident had never occurred. He must have assumed I remembered it. That I was playing some bizarre guilt game.
She had a single red rose tattooed on her butt.
They hadn’t seen me. I scooted into the closet as they emerged, dripping. Heard her moaning and cooing. Reached into my schoolbag, retrieved my scissors, ready to take them by surprise. Kill them both.
“Have you had any other disturbing memories? Because we should talk about them.”
“No.” I answered too fast, dismissing Sherry McBride’s ample naked parts from my mind. “No, no others.”
He stopped talking, watched me. One eyebrow raised. I looked away.
Saw the remains of Charlie’s hand-tailored, thousand-dollar suits piled beside me on the closet floor. Cut to pieces. A cuff in my hand. A sleeve on my lap. Lapels, flies, chunks of material everywhere. Sherry McBride’s voice no longer oozed through the door. The bedroom was silent. I replaced my scissors in the schoolbag, went downstairs to make dinner.
Dr. Schroeder told me to call him if I changed my mind. Not to hesitate. He reminded me that avoiding him wouldn’t mean I could avoid my memories. And that he was there to support me anytime.
I felt guilty about it, as if I was letting him down. But I didn’t want to continue. Already, I drifted less frequently and, mostly, only when I wanted to. And I decided that I didn’t need to be helped. My mind knew what it was doing. Carrying me away to keep me safe. Burying memories that would hurt. There was no reason for further treatment. Maybe my “disorder” was a gift.
Days passed. The press found other people to hound, other stories to attract eyeballs. My headaches eased. The lump on my temple shrunk. My bruises faded. The cut on my hand, allowed to rest unmolested, finally began to heal.
Susan invited me to stay with her family again, but I passed. As soon as the police allowed me to return home, I did. The cleaning crew and carpet installers came the same day, removing final remnants of Ted and Derek. I didn’t even have to see any of it.
Becky came by every day after school; Jen every morning after hot yoga or Pilates or spinning class. Susan called at least twice a day, sometimes more. Mostly, I was alone.
I looked and listened for Charlie. I called out to him. Talked to him. Asked questions. But he didn’t reply. Maybe he was gone. Maybe he’d only been hanging around to avenge his murder. Lord. At first, Charlie had thought I was the one who’d killed him. If he hadn’t found out about Ted, what would he have done? Shot me? Often, I relived Ted’s death. Saw the gun at his head. Heard him beg and whine, pleading for his life, and then, the ear-shattering bang. Ted’s head exploding. Where was amnesia when I wanted it?
I slept a lot. And when I was awake, I fought my memories. Not to rediscover them; to quell them. Dr. Schroeder was right. I’d hidden away more than just two painful incidents. There were others, beginning with childhood. And they ambushed me unpredictably. As I bathed. As I ate. As I folded laundry. As I tried to sleep. I struggled, trying to erase them as they surfaced. Searched for the mental mechanism that had wiped them away before. Had no luck.
I stopped taking the pills. Took long walks through Fair-mount Park. Along Boathouse Row. And finally, it occurred to me that, if I wanted to stop dwelling on the past, I needed to be busier in the present. It was time to go back to work.
Monday morning, a month and three days after Charlie’s murder, I was up and dressed by five thirty a.m. Ready to go. Eager. Nervous. Would the kids be happy to see me? Would they have become too attached to the substitute, disappointed that she was gone? Would she have kept up with the lesson plan? Would I have the energy to make it through the day?
I couldn’t wait to see them. Their shining eyes and open faces. I prepared myself for direct questions and comments. Mrs. Harrison, did you hear what happened to Romeo and Juliet? Someone stole them! Is it true your husband’s dead? My mother went to the funeral, did you see her? We sent you cards, did you get them?
There would be a lot of questions. Lots of time getting reacquainted. I paced. Sat. Stood. Made coffee. Checked myself in the mirror. Changed my outfit from pants to a skirt. Then back to pants. Checked the mirror again. Did I look pale? I was more nervous than I’d been for a date. Oops, damn. Pictured my last date. Joel. My stomach twisted, just thinking of him. Of all the dates I’d turned down after my marriage fell apart, I’d finally accepted one. With the Official Pedophile Travel Club Tour Guide and Club President? Didn’t want to think about him or my judgment or dating or pedophilia. Wanted to get back to work. To the kids. I could almost smell the classroom—that unmistakable mixture of bagged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, paste, soap, kid sweat, squirminess, curiosity.
I went downstairs, took out two mugs. Sweetener. Lowfat creamer. Looked at the clock. Paced.
Finally, the doorbell rang. Becky, arriving with scones.
Don’t answer it, Elf.
I froze, smiling—Charlie was back. God help me, despite everything, I was glad. “Where’ve you been?”
I’m dead. Where do you think?
I ha
d no idea. “You stopped talking to me.”
I wasn’t far, just waiting for you to cool down. I knew you were mad.
I was. Beyond mad. “You were right.”
I was wrong to blame you for killing me. I’m sorry. I was wrong. But if anyone had motive to kill me, it was you. I gave you cause after cause.
No argument there. “So now what?”
I’m back, Elle. For as long as you want.
“As long as I want?” Did I want?
It’s up to you. Your choice. But you need to decide now.
Now? Really? “Why now?”
Elle. I can’t explain. Just know that I love you. I’m here for you if you want me.
The bell rang again.
I hesitated. Yelled, “Coming!” Reminded myself that Charlie wasn’t really there, that I didn’t really have to decide anything right then or ever. Obviously, I was conjuring him again, creating an imaginary companion to ease my loneliness and grief. “Look, Charlie. I can’t ask you to stay. It would be wrong. You’re gone. You’re not supposed to keep me company. You’re supposed to—to be dead. And I’m supposed to go to work—” I started for the door.
Wait, he sounded tired. Be honest, Elf. Tell me what you want. You need to say it out loud.
“Charlie, don’t you see? I can’t say it.” Besides, it didn’t matter what I said or didn’t say. He wasn’t really asking, wasn’t really there. Was just my imagination. “This is your time to rest in peace.” I sounded like an obituary. “It would be selfish to make you hang around just because I want you to—”
But you do want me to?
Did I? God help me, I did. Even though I remembered him washing Sherry McBride’s butt, I still loved him. “Yes, okay. Selfishly, in a way, I do. Yes. I do.” My voice was choked.
And I had to let Becky in. “Give me a second—I’ll ask Becky to wait while we talk.”
The doorbell again. This time twice in a row. Wow. Becky was in a snit.
I hesitated, picturing the empty plot waiting for me in the cemetery. What had I just done? I’d just asked a dead man to stay with me. I ran a hand through my hair and closed my eyes, collecting myself. Then I stopped and turned back to the voice. “No. I’m sorry. This is wrong. I have to let go, Charlie.” My eyes filled up, already missing him. Wanting to change my mind. “It’s okay. I mean it. You can move on.”
“Elf, wait—”
“No, Charlie. It’s fine. We’ll be together when it’s time.”
Blinking away tears, biting my lip, I hurried to open the door.
But it wasn’t Becky.
Becky, in fact, was just getting out of her car, parked right in front of the house. Grinning, she held a paper bag from Saxby’s. “Look at the lucky spot I got. A van just pulled out.”
A van? I stepped onto the porch. Looked down.
She hurried up the sidewalk. “You’re nuts, coming back to work, Elle. If it was me, I’d milk it and stay out for—” She stopped, following my gaze. “Whoa. What’s that?”
I didn’t answer. She could see what it was as well as I could.
“Great idea,” she was impressed. “Wonderful. They were so upset about the guinea pigs—”
“They were hamsters.” I didn’t look up. Couldn’t take my eyes off the thing.
“Whatever. What a great way to come back—they’ll love her—or is it a him?”
I had no idea. I felt sick just looking at it, recalling when we’d met.
“She’s so white. Hi there, pretty.” Becky knelt, cooing to the thing. “So who knew you could get pets delivered to your door?”
I didn’t move. Heard the blood rush from my head. Looked up the street, down. Saw nobody who looked like Joel. Of course I didn’t. He’d driven away in the van. Vanished.
Becky carried the cage into the house. Set it in the foyer. Brought the scones into the kitchen. “Come on,” she called. “They’re still warm.”
I stared at the rabbit. Watched its nose quiver. How had Joel gotten hold of it? Had he taken it when he’d escaped? I didn’t remember if the police had found it in the van, had been too upset even to think of the rabbit. But why had he left it with me? And why now? To scare me? Should I call the police?
“Elle?” Becky called. “You coming?”
I moved away from the cage. Stepped into the kitchen. Poured coffee. Brought the mugs to the table.
I was shaken, not thinking anymore about Charlie. But then, on the counter by the coffee pot, I saw the rose.
