23. Rome, November #2
“How funny, Gus. This is precisely what Oriel used to say! And gosh, you should see how she’s flourishing now, back in Britain.
I’m so proud of her! She’s carved a completely new life for herself.
Unrecognizable. New career path, a brand-new set of friends.
She’s untethered .” I swallowed a stone of envy.
She went on, “We never actually forget, Gus. We just can’t bear to remember.
There’s so much we actively repress, but, in the end, this coping mechanism hinders us.
We’re blocked by it.” Her lips twitched and pressed together.
“If you like, we could try it today? I think you’re ready.
We’ve made such brilliant progress together. ”
There was a pause. As I stared up at the chandelier that hung overhead, I thought about how often Jean described me as blocked .
Then my mind reached toward my earliest memories: There was the soothing separateness of the art block at school, the starched collar of my father’s shirt I wore backward as my painting smock, the first time I held clay.
The memories from home were hazier. Had my mind made it that way?
I conjured images from my childhood bedroom.
The floral pattern of my wallpaper and curtains, a taunting crack of summer evening light beneath it.
Down the hallway, our plastic bathroom, and the jar of bath pearls that I would squeeze between my thumb and index finger until they burst, covering my hand in an exciting, sticky fluid.
My childhood home was a downcast place, subdued with things unspoken.
When I thought of it now, my memories were hazy.
Was that because nothing had happened, or had my mind suppressed other things?
Then I had met Polly. My memories of that moment in Mr. Greening’s office were not hidden—they haunted my waking thoughts.
How often, I asked myself, as I watched the chandelier above reflect flecks of winter sunlight around the room, did those memories flash back?
Too often. Was this the source of my shame?
I wondered. If I went back to that moment now, could it be remolded, or perhaps cut out?
“How do you put me under?” I asked Jean, in a voice which already sounded different from my own. “It doesn’t hurt or anything, does it?”
Jean chuckled. “It actually starts with a massage. Just on the head.” She hesitated, and then she uttered the words which I have played and replayed in my mind ever since.
Jean sought my permission. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”
And because I trusted Jean, I told her: Yes .
Jean made me shimmy down the sofa and lie flat so that my feet were hanging off the other end.
Then I was to shut my eyes and let everything soften.
She knelt behind me and then, for a number of minutes, she ran her fingertips over my scalp.
Right away, I fell into a deep sleep, my head and neck falling slack like a puppet’s. When she shook me awake, I was groggy.
“I’ve dribbled everywhere,” I said, wiping my mouth, grateful to feel my bladder still full.
Jean sighed deeply and went back over to her chair. “Yes, but how do you feel?”
“Dead,” I said. “What time is it?”
I’d slept for over twenty minutes, but Jean assured me that didn’t matter, she had plenty of time. She suggested I stay in that position, with my neck relaxed and my eyes closed. The first game was to walk her through my favorite rooms.
“A guided tour of your happy places,” she said. “Just talk. Don’t think.”
I spoke first about Mary’s bedroom, the cathedral proportions of it, the scenes depicted in pastel blues and pinks on her ceiling frescoes.
Then I mentioned Jean’s own apartment, and how safe I found it here.
My breathing was deep, I noticed, as I described those places.
I was making involuntary sounds, in and out of my nose, as if I wasn’t quite conscious.
When we moved further back in time, to rooms from my childhood, I started speaking without thinking.
I recalled tiny details from the church hall where I’d played during the summer holidays: the blue bean bags I curled up on, the brightly colored Hula-Hoops I spun around my waist, the shelves of tatty books in the corner.
The words were falling fast out of me. It was astonishing, how much detail my mind had preserved, and that Jean was unlocking.
“Keep taking deep breaths,” she instructed. Then in a low, suggestive voice, she asked me to describe my unhappy places. Instantly, there was a slow, sinking feeling. I began to describe Mr. Greening’s study.
“What does it smell like?”
“Dusty Bibles,” I stammered. “And gas, too, I think there’s a gas fire.”
Jean went deeper into the scene. “You’re in uniform, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What does it feel like?” I hesitated. “Is it scratchy?”
“Very,” I said. “Woolen. Too warm. Heavy.”
“And who is next to you now?”
There was a pain in my chest, as though someone were trying to force it open. “My mum,” I heard myself say. “She looks so disappointed. She even asks for help. She says, ‘Is there anything I can do?’?” Tears were racing down my cheeks, the only part of me that moved. My body was paralyzed.
“That’s cruel of her,” Jean whispered. “She’s letting you down. Both of your parents are betraying you in this moment.” I opened my mouth and gulped. No words came. “What would you say to that girl today, Gus? What would you say to yourself?”
My voice choked. “Not to worry.” There was silence. Eventually I tried again, a little louder. “That what you did with Polly was okay. It wasn’t a crime.”
“Good. Again, please.” Jean’s voice seemed to be everywhere.
My jaw clenched. I felt the muscles in my stomach curl inward. “It wasn’t a crime.”
Jean’s voice was kind. “It was love and love is good.” Her tone turned insistent. “Repeat it again, please.”
I hesitated. I opened my eyes. The light was altered now. The room had brightened, and the chandelier crystals were refracting rainbows on the opposite wall. I tried it again. Jean’s eyes were still closed, as if we were praying together.
It wasn’t a crime. We chanted it like a mantra. It was love and love is good .
We went through several rounds of this, before Jean announced that she would be closing the session.
“You see, Gus.” Her voice was louder now, more matter-of-fact. “Our memory functions a bit like a roll of film or my tape recorder here. It’s all in there, we just have to spool backward to the difficult parts.”
There was a pause. I hadn’t noticed her recorder on the side table.
The idea that she had copied any of what I had just uttered tied a knot in my stomach.
Before I could ask her about it, Jean rose and came over to me.
Kneeling by the sofa, she held me in an embrace so close, it brought me back to consciousness.
“Well done,” she whispered, her voice warm in my ear. “It’s hard, but we can’t love unless we release this.”
My mind turned to Mary. I closed my eyes and opened them again, blinking away tears, as Jean cradled me tightly.
“Thank you, Jean,” I said, between gulps.
“Your parents let you down,” Jean said, clasping my head to her lips. “They were cruel.”
“I hate them for it.”
“So let’s rewind the tape, Gus. Who is teaching you love now?” Over her shoulder, the chandelier cast flecks of light: red, yellow, and violet, swerving, dancing around the room.
“You are,” I whispered.