A CRY FROM THE DEEP (10 page)

       “Mama,” yelled Alex. She came running out from behind the table and gave her mother a big hug. “Close your eyes. I want to show you what Grandma gave me.”

Catherine smiled. “I will, but let me sit down first, okay?”

Alex’s eyes crinkled as she giggled. “Of course. What was I thinking?” She rushed back to her seat as Catherine settled into a chair across from Richard.

“Were you waiting long?”

“No,” said Richard. “We just got here ourselves.” He had taken off his tie, and his blue oxford shirt made his eyes bluer.

It felt good, the three of them together again. It was almost like old times. She turned to Alex and shut her eyes. “Okay, I’m closing my eyes. What’s the big surprise?”

“You can open them now.” Alex held up an old-fashioned china doll in a cream ruffled dress with a bonnet to match. “Grandma said it was hers when she was a little girl. She said to take good care of it, because they don’t make them like this anymore.”

“Ah, dolly’s so sweet,” said Catherine, taking the doll from Alex. “Does she have a name?”

“No. Grandma never named her.” Alex said this with the widest of eyes, as if this was some kind of sacrilege. “I’m going to call her Mathilda.”

“That’s a nice name. Mathilda, it is.” Catherine handed the doll back and then said to Richard, “How is your mother?”

“Spirited, as usual. She asked about you.”

Catherine pursed her lips. “I don’t know when I’m going to be able to see her.”

“Don’t worry about it. She knows you’re busy.”

“That’s good.” She picked up the menu. “I guess we should order.”

~~~

After dinner, they walked through Washington Square Park, where Alex ran off to climb on the bars. Catherine and Richard sat down on a bench overlooking the play area. It was there she told him about her vision. “She looked so old fashioned, as if she’d stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. I even tried to take a photo.”

“How did it turn out?”

“Nothing. All I got was a blur. I don’t know if it was because she wasn’t there or because I was too nervous to keep still.”

“It’s unusual, having a hallucination—”

“Why are you calling it a hallucination?” She was beginning to regret telling him anything.

“You know why. When people see things when they’re awake, that’s what they’re called.”

“Oh, Richard, I know that,” she said irritably. “But this seemed more than that. I’m not crazy.”

“Calm down,” he said gently. “No one said you were.”

She bit her tongue. Should she say more? Since she’d already opened the door to her seemingly ghostly encounters, she might as well tell him the rest. Catherine sighed, and said, “There was this man, too. He was hanging in the dark behind her. It seemed he wanted her to go with him, but she couldn’t move.”

“What did she look like?”

She grimaced. “A bit like me.” She turned to see his reaction, but she couldn’t read his face. “Maybe I’m daydreaming. It was me, or I thought it was. Now I don’t know. I couldn’t really get a good look at her when I was diving. I tried, but her long hair hid the side of her face.”

“It’s probably your imagination working overtime. This is a big thing you’re doing. Jumping in the water after all this time.”

“I know, but it still doesn’t make sense. If she’d been wearing a scuba outfit, okay, but a bridal dress? 

Richard stretched his long legs. “The woman in your nightmare is fighting for her life, right? Seems logical your fears would manifest themselves in your dreams. We try to solve problems we can’t solve when we’re awake.”

“But she was also there in the daytime. Doesn’t that refute your argument? If it’s about problem-solving, why did she show up today?” 

“Anxiety is complex, you know that.”

She looked over at Alex, who was talking to another little girl. “It may sound absurd to you, but I feel as if I’m being haunted. I get this feeling she’s from another era.”

“I had a patient who came to me with stories from the Arabian nights. She was sure she’d been some silk trader in the fourteenth century.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Frankly, I didn’t know what to say. She acted normal in every other way.”

“What happened to her?’

“I don’t know. She told me she was going to try a hypnotist who did past-life regression.”

“That was bold of her telling you that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m not as close-minded as you think.”

She regarded him with renewed interest. She’d judged him as this rigid and arrogant shrink, but here he was, saying things she didn’t expect, proving her wrong. “I would never have guessed you’d be open to that.”

“I gather you like that.”

“Ha.” They exchanged smiles and watched Alex on the gym again.

Richard said, “You’ve done a good job raising her.”

“Thanks.” She turned to him, surprised yet again. “I thought you’d never forgive me for moving away.”

“Well, that thought did cross my mind.” He grinned as he said it.

“You’re full of surprises. Getting back to that patient of yours, what do you really think about past-life regression?”

“Truthfully? I think it’s nuts.”

“Hmm. And yet so many religions believe in reincarnation.”

He shrugged. “Why do some people believe in aliens, or that Elvis Presley is still alive?” He turned to her. “Do yourself a favor and see a therapist.”

Alex came running back, shouting, “Swing me.” Richard and Catherine each grabbed one of her hands and swung her like they used to.

NINE

When Catherine showed up at the
Imagine
mosaic in Central Park, the one dedicated to the memory of John Lennon, Lindsey was already there. She hadn’t changed much; she still looked kooky. She wore a loose grey gauze top over white filmy wide-legged pants and red Converse high-top sneakers. Her hair was short and feathered, and the bright blue accents on her black bangs advertised a rebellious spirit. While Catherine had gone off and married a shrink, Lindsey had graduated with a fine arts degree and had gone through several musicians. She was now on her fifth.

After hugging and squealing with delight, they stood quietly for a few moments and watched tourists snap photos of the mosaic. They then walked past Strawberry Fields, and by the lake, talking mainly about the difficulty of selling art. They didn’t touch on the men in their lives, which was just as well since they both had little good to say on the subject.

After they climbed the Great Hill, they sat down at a wooden table overlooking a large grassy area, where a few young men were throwing a Frisbee around and some families were picnicking. There, Catherine told Lindsey about her dreams.

“Of course, you’re going to have nightmares,” said Lindsey, wiping the moisture off the table top with a tissue she’d taken out of her striped bag. “Who wouldn’t?”

“I’m worried it might be more than that. The woman was floundering. I’m scared she’s going to follow me to Ireland.”

“What does Richard say?”

“He thinks I should see somebody.”

“Huh.” Lindsey rummaged in her bag and pulled out a packet of gum. “And …?”

“There is no and.”

“So, what’s stopping you?”

Catherine made a face. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember the last time I saw someone? Richard ended up talking to my shrink. The two of them ganged up on me.”

“I remember. Want some gum?” When Catherine shook her head, Lindsey popped a stick in her mouth and chewed for a few moments before saying, “You know, this would be different from introspection. Sounds like you might have a spirit to dispel.”

“You may be right. I should find an exorcist.”

Lindsey laughed. “Do they still have those?”

“Probably.” They paused to watch the young men throw their Frisbee. It soared past one of the guys and landed near a toddler. The father yelled at the men, forcing them to move further away.

“At least that man cares about his kid,” said Lindsey.

“Yeah.” Catherine knew Lindsey was referring to her own childhood. Lindsey’s father had deserted when she was only two, and after that, a series of stepfathers had left their mark.

“The therapist I’m seeing would probably be good for you.”

“Is she a psychiatrist?”

“No, a psychologist. She’s very intuitive. Almost psychic.”

“How did you find her?”

“In one of those New Age newspapers.”

Catherine groaned. “Those papers are full of weirdos. How do you know she’s not some kind of quack?”

“I don’t, but I like the way she doesn’t have an answer for everything. She helps me figure things out for myself.”

“Does she have a long waiting list?”

Lindsey shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Catherine ran her fingers through her hair. “Everyone in New York is seeing a therapist. It’s almost impossible to get one.”

“I could talk to her. I’ll tell her you’re pinched for time, that you have to leave soon.”

“Thanks. If you can get me in, I guess it’s worth a try.” Catherine wiped the seat of her pants with her hands as she stood. “I hope she’s got a crystal ball.”

~~~

Lindsey’s therapist worked out of a brownstone on the Upper East side, suggesting she was either wealthy and owned the place, or she had a lucrative practice which covered the rent. Either way, Catherine hoped she wasn’t making a mistake by going to someone who—despite the location of her office—could be flaky for all she knew.

The first thing Catherine looked for when she walked into the waiting room was evidence of a professional practice. Instead of the usual row of visitor chairs, there were a couple of well-worn sofas and a wicker wing chair. The walls were painted apricot and the round coffee table in the center was covered with yoga magazines and poetry journals. A bulletin board near the entrance advertised Pilates instruction, a meditation workshop, and various household items for sale.

When the therapist came out to greet her, Catherine was struck by her casual appearance. She was a middle-aged woman dressed in a paisley caftan and sandals that’d seen better days. Her long salt-and-pepper hair was frizzy and pulled back in a low-hanging pony-tail. She looked like a leftover hippie from the sixties.

“Catherine Fitzgerald?” said the therapist in a husky voice as she came forward to shake hands.

“Yes.”

“I’m Barbara Lawrence.”

Catherine followed Barbara into a sitting room, where the lighting was soft and the window shades overlooking the tiny back-yard were half closed to block the sun. Barbara plopped herself on one of the side chairs and Catherine sat across from her on a low cushioned couch. Catherine glanced around the room, settling on a wall with a number of framed degrees. She was relieved to see one of them was a Ph.D. in clinical psychology from Stanford.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

Barbara smiled. “No problem.”

After Barbara reviewed the form Catherine had filled out, she mentioned that she’d have to notify the authorities if Catherine revealed any risk to herself or others. It was the law, she said.

Relieved to find that Barbara followed standard practice, Catherine relaxed. Maybe Lindsey’s therapist knew what she was doing after all.

With the preliminaries out of the way, Barbara said, “So, what brings you here?” Her eyes were gentle but inquiring.

“I’ve been bothered by a recurring nightmare.”

“Tell me about it.”

As Catherine shared her story, Barbara took notes. When Catherine finished, Barbara asked, “When did this all start?”

“Shortly after I came to New York. It may have even been that first night.”

“Was there anything unusual that day, anything that could’ve triggered that dream?”

“Nothing that I can think of. Like my ex said, it may be just my mind dealing with that accident I had eight years ago.”

“So, you think by going on this dive, you’ll be stronger and less afraid in your life.”

“I hope so. Not that I thought I was afraid before. But maybe my going to Provence with my daughter was running away. Maybe I’m still running. Maybe it’s more about that than seeing if I can manage diving again.”

Barbara wrote something down and then looked up. “There could be many reasons you’re dreaming what you’re dreaming. I agree our dreams are our mind’s attempts to solve some problems we’re grappling with, but sometimes it’s more than that.”

Catherine tensed at the words
it’s more than that
, even though that was exactly what she’d been thinking. She looked down and noticed that her Claddagh ring was crooked. She straightened it.