Chapter 25 #2
“No, it isn’t. And we have to leave. They’ll leave without me. They know I’m underage.”
“So, let’s walk back slowly. Back to the—”
“But he’s here. And he’s angry.”
“Your brother.”
“He’s angry because I didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I see him looking at me. I’m trying to pull up my underwear but they’re wet. I don’t want him to see.”
“Is this still your brother, or someone else?”
“And I still need to be sick. I know Grant’s coming. But Ewan’s trying to protect me. He has to. He will.”
I opened my eyes suddenly, squinting to find a clock, but there was no clock.
Curtis looked up from behind the small desk at the back of the room, where he was scribbling notes with one hand and punching the button of an old-fashioned recording device with the other. The last time I’d looked, he’d been in the armchair opposite mine.
I asked, “Do we need to start over?”
My foot had gone numb from being tucked under one leg, and now I shook it out, wincing at the pins and needles.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said, still writing.
There was nothing to look at. No artwork on the wall. No diplomas. The office packed up, or nearly so. I felt suddenly emotional—abandoned, or about to be. I jammed the heels of my palms against my eyes.
A heavy mechanical thunk echoed from beneath his desk. One of those old-fashioned Dictaphone devices. The last time I saw one was in my father’s office. He’d record memos on the weekend, then bring the tiny cassette tapes to work for his secretary to transcribe.
“I’ve stopped the recording,” he said. “Our time is up. Do you feel refreshed?”
No, I felt soggy and gross and vulnerable, like I’d been dragged along a muddy trail.
“But that was only a couple of minutes.”
He looked at his watch again. “Close to an hour.”
“Did I fall asleep?”
“No,” he said pleasantly. “Did it feel like sleep?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, that was the suggestion we both initiated, when we talked about ‘nap’ versus ‘flow state.’ You elected for the sensation of a nap.”
“So you’re saying I chose not to remember the last hour.”
My stomach cramped. For a second I thought I might actually vomit. I looked around for the teacup, thinking a swig of liquid might settle my stomach, but Curtis had already cleared it away.
“You talked about being nauseated during the hypnosis—something brought on by a memory. I see that sensation has carried over. It’ll pass, if you let it.”
Why wouldn’t I let it? He was saying the nausea was in my head—which I suppose it was. The nausea, and the anxiety, and a feeling of imminent doom.
I said, “I don’t think I did so well. Something went wrong.”
Curtis capped his pen and left the desk, taking the armchair opposite mine. “If you mean that you encountered some stressful memories, that’s normal. We navigated them together, Abby.”
“But I don’t remember the navigating. Most people who get hypnotized have at least a vague recollection, so I’ve read—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, firmly. “Most people. But then there are the other ten percent.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. “I’m going to speak to you not as therapist to client, but as peer to peer. Psychology is a science. But it’s also an art—”
“I missed something, Curtis,” I interrupted, panic rising. “I feel like I was swallowed by the darkness and I missed something.”
“You didn’t miss anything.” His tone sharpened. “If you keep saying that, you’ll come to believe it. You were not unconscious, Abby. We were engaged in a dialogue.”
“But I don’t remember.”
He looked disappointed. “I recorded the session. I’ll transcribe it. You can request a copy.”
I decided to take him at his word. “Yes, I’d like that copy.”
“I’ll get it to you in a few days.” His expression softened. “I’m a lousy typist, remember? But I insist on doing the therapy notes myself. It helps me review and find new ways into the problem.”
“Problem,” I repeated back, hoping he’d explain.
“And anyway, it’s better for you to have a little time to process first, before you read the transcript.”
I didn’t know how I could be expected to process what I couldn’t remember. “You said there was a problem?” I asked again.
“Your guilt around the experience. That night with your brother, near the forest preserve. And the man named Grant. Driving down the road. Picking up the girl. The accident.”
I remembered underwear and shoes, so I knew a girl had been in Grant’s back seat, but I hadn’t seen her.
I found it hard to believe I’d tell Curtis about her, or the accident.
I’d promised Benjamin that a person wouldn’t do something or say something against his own will under hypnosis, but somehow, I had.
I said, “Most of the night was a blackout for me.”
Curtis was studying me intensely.
I said, “Ewan could have helped Grant. At least he could have tried.”
“But you feel guilty, too.”
“I don’t think so.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
I said, “Maybe this was a mistake.” As soon as I said it, I heard Izzy’s voice. Well, this was a mistake.
“I thought we were going to work on cigarette cravings,” I said.
Curtis’s expression didn’t change. I could fill in what he was thinking: Your mind went where it needed to go. But I didn’t believe that. There was no part of me that wanted to think about Ewan and Grant again. No part of me that wanted to tell Curtis about that night.
“I’m not sure what I should tell Benjamin about this process,” I said. “That was the whole point of this. I guess I could tell him it was fine. Strange, but fine.”
“Tell him a lie, in other words, from your perspective?”
“Not exactly.”
“But it’s obvious. You didn’t feel in control of the hypnosis. You claim not to remember everything we talked about. You seem tired, disappointed, anxious. Those aren’t strong endorsements.”
“Maybe I’m just one of those people who can’t, who doesn’t—”
“Nonsense,” he said, with uncharacteristic harshness. “You accepted hypnosis easily. You were almost too suggestible. To me, that suggests PTSD or dissociation. Maybe you’re just regretting the potential consequences of what you shared.”
Consequences?
“But therapy is a confidential space,” he continued. “There’s no reason for me to report anything you recounted—not to law enforcement or anyone else.”
“I don’t understand.”
He pursed his lips.
“No really, what do you mean by that?”
“Let’s forget about this session. I agree that it didn’t go well, and without multiple sessions and a long-term plan, hypnosis is little more than a party trick.”
“I don’t want to forget about it.” I moved to the front of my chair and sat up straighter, trying to clear the fogginess from my head. “I wasn’t trying to be hostile. I’m just confused.”
He pressed the tips of his fingers against his mouth. Like he was thinking. Judging. Deciding.
“Abby,” he said after a moment, with perfect calm.
“Yes.”
“This wasn’t useful.”
He opened a desk drawer, placed his notepad and pen inside it, and closed the drawer firmly.
“Do you still want me to bring Benjamin in again, tomorrow at nine?”
“Of course. I would never forget about my obligation to Benjamin.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Abby.”
I didn’t know what that meant, either.