I watch them work in pairs, construct nests with dead branches, pick at their own feet when frustrated, play with acorn caps and sticks. The view of the building from above, a bird expanding its wings like a giant chief crow, might be the reason they gather here.
I discover a nest in the tree in front of my window. I watch a pigeon-like bird lay the first egg. She leaves the nest immediately after and I worry about the egg and what will become of it. The next day she lays another egg, just to abandon both of them. My anxiety heightens with every passing hour, but on the third day she returns and starts incubating the eggs and from then on out she hardly leaves the nest.
Creedmoor is a dinosaur in its own right. It was built in the 1920s, its cutting-edge psychiatric technology mocks the history trapped in its walls after decades of chemically induced seizures and lobotomies. Even electroshock therapy is back in the medical community’s good graces; renamed electroconvulsive therapy and performed under anesthesia without adversely affecting treatment effectiveness.
Creedmoor’s legacy of long-forgotten architecture claims to have sheltered the likes of Sylvia Plath, Edie Sedgwick, and Ed Gein who gained notoriety in the fifties after authorities discovered he had exhumed corpses from local graveyards and constructed keepsakes from their body parts.
The ‘Kirkbride-style’ building is a leftover from the early twentieth century, a relic building style considered an ideal sanctuary for the mentally insane. Kirkbride buildings segregate the patients according to gender and severity of symptoms: male patients in one wing, female patients in the other, each wing subdivided with more severe cases on the lower floors while the better-behaved patients are confined to the upper floors.
Not everyone considers Creedmoor the relic it is. I hear investors once had big plans for the building. A conversion into condominiums was imminent, but the project was shut down since the layout was not suited for individual residences. Its corridors were too long, and its rooms too small.
My room, at least for the time being, is my own; I don’t have a roommate. My bed frame is made of strong metal pipes, and the linens are soft, worn bare from years of laundering in scalding water.
The breakfast bell sounds at seven on weekdays, on Saturdays and Sundays at eight, and the patients descend to the cafeteria at the end of the hallway on the main level. We all have pre-assigned tables. The table next to mine is the gathering place for a flock of anorexic women. Their condition is obvious; instead of eating, they merely rearrange their food, pick over their plates like seagulls over a garbage heap. Their fingers seem dipped in blue ink and their hair is thin and downy like an infant’s, while enamel erosion has claimed their teeth.
My only company during meals is a middle-aged woman, Marge Ruiz. Marge is placid and looks twenty years younger than she is. Her story is similar to mine, I guess one can say; we’re both guilty of not speaking up when we were supposed to. Almost as if missing a deadline has sent both of us to the loony bin. Marge decided to keep the death of her mother a secret until the smell alerted the neighbors. She never told her husband or her children about her mother’s death; she continued to visit her corpse for months, bringing fresh eggs, milk, and bread. I conjure up this vision of a fridge full of egg cartons, loaves of bread, one stacked on top of the other. It seems amusing, one of those crazy and insane stories, but then I catch myself; I straighten my back and shake the implications away. I’m nothing like her, that’s what I tell myself.
Marge’s family visits her every weekend. They invade the visitors’ garden, lounge in lawn chairs on the covered terrace. Marge has five children and twice as many grandchildren. Her family’s consolation prize for Marge is a weekly white paper box filled with sugar-topped croissants – Cuenos de Azucar.
While Marge is surrounded by her family, I spend my time on a lawn chair under a big oak tree in the garden behind the main building. Jack’s in Chicago, being updated frequently on my progress, I’m sure. Legal staffing, billable hours, work expenses and legal outsourcing are his thing; lost memories and therapy sessions and visions of blood, not so much. The memory of how he left me standing in the Creedmoor lobby with my suitcase in hand is nothing I dwell on. I practice the elevator technique obsessively and eventually I feel myself calming down the moment I imagine elevator doors opening.
I carry my journal with me; I write down every word and every image that pops into my head. Images that defy interpretation, I attempt to draw. After a few days pass, I neither recognize the drawings nor am I sure that I even drew them.
Dr Ari had handed me the journal during our first session.
‘As many details as possible,’ he had said, ‘even if it seems trivial. It may turn out to be significant in the long run. Write down thoughts, images, even your dreams. The patterns and recurring themes speak volumes about what’s attempting to resurface. Everything is important. Everything.’
I draw random squares in my journal. Four corners, then I go over the outline again and again until the lines fill the entire square. Those are the black boxes that contain the past. By writing and drawing in my journal, I try to force my hands to materialize a thought, to force that black box open. I descend into a state of relaxation and I allow my thoughts to wander, without borders and restraints. I see images, yet I don’t know their meaning. The sun, moon, and stars are ever-present heavenly bodies; they never change.
Sometimes, when I sit under the oak in the visitors’ garden, I catch a glimpse, a flash of an image. I know it’s there, right below the surface. The image floats by me like a cloud, a duplicate of a thought I once had – I’m not sure what else to call it – during which I catch the distorted image of some sort of replica, a copy of a copy if you will, and I try to latch on to it like a fish to hooked bait. A theme emerges. Fruit. An abundance of fruit. Baskets overflowing; fruit, ripe and fragrant, bursting open. I want to be the fruit, want to will the fruit to deny its breaking point. Their insides luscious, their skins bouncing back as I poke at them. Eventually they burst open and I try to force the fruit – with some sort of mind control – to withstand.
Dr Ari is somewhat of a legend at Creedmoor. Countless framed official documents grace his office walls: undergraduate degree, medical school, residency, and finally Creedmoor’s President and Psychiatrist in Chief. I wonder if he has a wife, a family. There are no photographs, no children’s arts-and-crafts projects on his desk. No hint of his private life.
He speaks at length about the brain and it being ‘the most complex object in the universe’ and he seems to have an affection for the philosophy of his profession. ‘We can only operate with the data we are consciously aware of. Everything’s there, just covered in a layer of dust. Gaining access to what lies beneath is what it’s all about.’
I like to think of him as a magician unearthing skeletons and bringing them back to life. He smiled when I told him and said, ‘Thank you. It’s not quite as glamorous as excavating vessels from antiquity, but I envy your point of view. Most skeletons refuse to be uncovered. Makes for hard work.’
He told me he specializes in RMT – Recovered Memory Therapy. That RMT sometimes, ‘depending on the case,’ includes psychotherapy methods like hypnosis, even sedative-hypnotic drugs, age regression, and guided visualization. And that RMT is not considered formal psychotherapy, nor is it used in mainstream psychiatry.
I assume that he stumbled upon the crime-solving part at some point in his career. There’s the egg woman and there’s Marge, one of his other patients, ‘may or may not have killed her mother,’ according to Oliver, one of the orderlies. Maybe my case will be another cornerstone of Dr Ari’s already legendary status.
During the second week, Dr Ari talks a lot about how memory serves us. ‘Memory is nothing more than a concept that explains the process of remembering. Imagine you are trying to locate a parked car in a crowded parking lot. You were present at the act of parking the car, yet you’re unable to recall its exact location. Your subconscious mind knows its precise position a
nd RMT will allow you to go back to the moment you parked the car.’
More than anything, I’m surprised the DA allowed this experiment. But neither the state of New York, the DA, or the Medical Board of Psychiatry has anything to lose. It seems like they’ve agreed to ignore scientific integrity and allow junk science to give it a whirl. I am well aware that Dr Ari is operating on the fringes of science and my constant jokes about RMT standing for ‘Rogue Medical Tests’ have made him smile but haven’t cracked his shell of professionalism.
On Tuesday, I arrive early for our session and, when I reach his office, the door is ajar. I enter unprompted and uninvited. I’m immediately aware of his disapproving demeanor. The digital recorder, usually on top of his desk, is still tucked away in a drawer. His white coat is still unbuttoned. I have walked in without his permission, and I have not only breached regulations, but also etiquette and, more importantly, his rules.
I did so because I am afraid. Last Friday, after I described to him the day my daughter Mia disappeared, he alluded to a new direction in our approach to my therapy. His eyes seemed restless that day, and I have a feeling that today we’ll dig deeper, we’ll do more than just gently brush away the sand from a shard of an ancient vase. Today we might lift the entire vase out of its sandy grave and, like archeologists, we will proceed with caution, so as not to break the object into a million pieces.
I sit across from Dr Ari, who, as a matter of retaliation, ignores me for quite some time. I don’t apologize for my impulsive entry; he is not the kind of man who expects an apology. Eventually we exchange a few banalities and he distractedly flips the pages of my journal. I have a feeling something that I’m not prepared for is about to happen. He seems to be rushing along today, his whole demeanor reeks of urgency. The official charge by the DA’s office is less than two months away. He does not want me to be a nut he failed to crack. I wonder what he has left, what else he has tucked away in his pocket. Is there a magic trick that will clear the clouds in my head?
His voice jerks me out of my thoughts.
‘Do you remember the conversations we had regarding forgetting and the reasons why we forget?’
During my research hours I read up on memory and how our brain copes with the loss of it. I actually find the entire memory business fascinating. I’m also trying to show off, I want him to know that I’m committed, even after our sessions end.
‘I recall the decay theory and the interference theory. Memory retrieval – let’s assume that the memories made it all the way into long-term memory – fails because the memories have decayed over time or have been subjected to interference.’
‘Your memory loss is quite peculiar. There’s no physical evidence of brain damage and therefore I cannot say with certainty why you don’t remember. If and when we’re able to retrieve your memories, we will figure out the reason why. Not before then. There is no pill I can give you, no blood test or MRI that will tell us what causes you not to recollect the past. But there’s something we can do.’
I know he’s lying. He can administer sedative-hypnotic drugs to uncover the past stuck in my head, unwilling to budge. He wants the truth to come out organically, unrestricted, because someone might not believe him if he administers drugs. Who would be able to separate the wheat from the chaff, the truth from drug-induced visions?
‘It’s time for a trip to 517 North Dandry.’
I feel as if he’s tossed a brick my way, its heaviness substantial. I want to cradle the memory of the brownstone but its walls seem impenetrable. North Dandry is where Mia disappeared.
My heart rate picks up and my head pounds. My mouth is dry and I’m covered in sweat. My thoughts race, culminating in one predominant message: I can’t go back there. I try to remind myself of how inevitable this pain is. I force my breathing to slow, the image of the elevator an ever-present symbol of composure.
Dr Ari is watching me like a hawk. ‘You seem to be feeling better. Why don’t we—’
‘I can’t do this.’ I fear my voice will start trembling, but I manage to keep it stable.
‘Revisiting the place where it all happened will allow you to recreate memories,’ he says. ‘There’s no need to get upset. Just let me explain what we’re going to do.’
The place where it all happened. Hearing it out loud makes it real. We are going back to the scene of the crime.
‘Memory retrieval is much more likely when we test in the same physical context in which the memory we’re trying to uncover originally occurred. The application to recreate the past when it comes to trauma-related amnesia is frowned upon, yet the concept itself is nothing new. We will make an attempt to recreate the same emotion you felt when the memory was born.’
Memories are born. Do they die, too?
‘You call it “retrieval,” “physical context,” and “recreation,”’ I say and gesture quotation marks every time I use one of the phrases with which he disguises what is really going on. ‘You want me to stand in her room, look at her crib?’
I’m not sure if I can do what he’s asking me to do. The thought of going back to where Mia disappeared fills me with terror. Terror so deep it reaches around my heart like a fist, determined to destroy me. A concept pops into my head, an article I read in one of the medical journals scattered about the many waiting rooms at Creedmoor. Takotsubo. Stress-induced cardiomyopathy. Broken-heart syndrome. Takotsubo are Japanese octopus traps that resemble the shape of the heart in an angiogram. I almost expect the sound of shattering glass and for my heart to explode into pieces.
As if Dr Ari can read my mind, he gets up, walks around his desk, and stands in front of me, half-sitting, half-leaning on his desk. He crosses his arms.
‘Nothing bad will happen to you. Those memories are potent and powerful, but your daughter’s life is at stake, Estelle. We need to try; you need to try.’ His voice is urgent now and so are his eyes.
I want to be cooperative and I want to find the truth, like him. But what I want most of all is not having a breaking point. Like the fruit in my dreams I try not to break open.
The crib.
The locks.
The empty closet.
‘How about guided visualization? Can’t I just pretend I’m there? Isn’t that the same? Maybe we can try that and then …’
He shakes his head and I know I’ve lost the battle.
‘Believe me when I say, in the end, you will be okay. And if you are not okay, we are not at the end. Just trust me. Remember I asked for your trust?’
We are beyond guided visualization. We are beyond chatting and are all about doing. There’s nothing else to say. No sage will emerge and offer me an ancient remedy. No shaman will throw the bones and predict the future; no crystal ball will tell us the truth. I alone hold the truth, but something inside me refuses to give in. I deny the truth’s power, its thrall dark and potent. If I give myself to this process, give my mind and my body, I will find the truth. What if I’m responsible for her death? What if I’m not? What if she’s still alive? If I tilt towards truth and believe in its light, can I illuminate the world around me? Illuminate so we can see the truth? I’m willing to walk on a wire but at the same time I fear I’ll plunge into an abyss.
‘Do you believe in hell?’ I ask.
‘Hell in a religious sense?’
‘No, hell on earth,’ I say.
He thinks about it for a while. His eyes wander, then he looks at me. ‘I’m Muslim,’ he says. ‘We believe that hell is guarded by Maalik, the leader of the angels. He tells the wicked that they must remain in hell forever because they abhorred the truth when the truth was brought to them.’
‘Maalik.’ I repeat the name, testing its power over me. Nothing. I feel cold inside.
‘According to my faith, once the truth is brought to you, don’t deny it. Then you have nothing to worry about,’ he says.
I am not familiar with Islam or any other faith, I barely know how to pray the Rosary. I haven’t been to confession since my firs
t communion. Having faith in the truth is easier said than done, even electroshock therapy seems like a walk in the park compared to his lofty philosophical ideals. His words echo, determined to reach me. Allow the truth to be brought to you and don’t deny it, is what he said. And I won’t have anything to worry about. He must know the truth can be many things and imagining the possibilities makes me shiver.
‘And you believe that?’ I ask, hoping for some additional words of comfort.
‘I believe that, I do. I also believe that we were meant to sit here, like this. And that you will see this through.’
‘Going back is like paying with a pound of flesh then?’ The moment I say it the reference strikes me as familiar, something more than just an allusion to Shakespeare. My hand moves up to my ear, or rather where my ear used to be.
‘When?’ I ask, and hope for weeks.
‘Soon. We still have a lot to talk about before we go, but you’ll be ready. That’s a promise.’
‘I guess,’ I say, and don’t mean it.
He looks at his watch. ‘Tomorrow we’ll continue.’
Continue. Go on. Marge had asked me the other day how I go on. I didn’t answer her, for I don’t think I’m going on at all. I feel incomplete, as if someone made off with part of my body, leaving me an empty, tormented vessel. A vessel forever open-topped, never again capable of holding it all in. Every pain, every feeling magnified a thousand times. I have to find a way to go on, a way of living with this pain.
There’s a knowledge that has manifested itself without my consent, and that knowledge is hard to swallow. I seem to have acquired it like a wooden nickel, by sleight of hand from some evil power. I will never be able to call it the past and bathe in some sunny, brighter future. The past is all there is for me, it’s what my life’s made out of. Just that, and nothing else.
Little Girl Gone Page 12
