Authors: Michele Kallio
“I suppose we have to.”
“It might not be so bad, you know, to find out what’s causing your dream,” Dan said, attempting to make conversation as they walked down King Street. “Hypnosis has been used successfully for years to control phobias and to help people quit smoking.”
“Since when did you become an expert on hypnosis?” Lydia asked as they turned on to Germain Street. Sensing Dan’s anger, Lydia changed the subject. “Early summer is such a lovely time of year. The trees are dusted with a hundred shades of green and smell those lilacs,” Lydia continued non-stop as they walked to number 4235.
“Lydia,” Dan started.
“No, Dan, you’re right. I can’t go on like this. It is just…”
Dan embraced her on the doorstep. “I know darling. I really do. I have tried to keep our life together separate from the pain of your childhood. I know there are unanswered questions, and there are places you would rather not go, but perhaps hypnosis may give you the answers you seek. Maybe…” He leaned forward to kiss her forehead.
During their drive to the University, Dan once again broached the subject of hypnosis. “Alan dropped off some journal articles which made very interesting reading. There are one or two articles you might enjoy reading.” He reached his hand across to stroke Lydia’s thigh. “Can we make peace now? I love you, Lydia, and you know I can’t take this silent treatment.”
She turned to him, tears glistening in her eyes, taking his hand in hers. She whispered, “I’m scared.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of. He is an expert in the study of dreams. Relax. Everything is going to be fine. Here we are. I’ll just park over there.”
“I hope so,” Lydia whispered as she watched Dan drive away. She felt light-headed, her palms were sweaty, her heart pounded, her stomach soured as she approached Hazen Hall. Then, mustering her resolve, Lydia forged into the building. Checking her wristwatch, she descended to the lower level.
Lydia recognized Stokes from Dan’s description of him. ‘Good looking fellow,’ she thought, ‘but too blonde for my taste’. She allowed Stokes to usher her into his office. The scent of sandalwood incense and the soft tonal notes of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ pleased her. The hint of cherry pipe tobacco reminded Lydia of her father. Indeed the whole office did; from the book-lined walls to the battered oak desk with its over-flowing glass ashtray. Lydia felt completely relaxed. She marveled at the similarity of the two windowless University offices. She liked this fellow and his cluttered office. Maybe he could help.
Alan Stokes stood with his hand extended in the doorway of his office. She was bewitching. His gaze scanned her body from her long shapely legs to the perky set of her breasts beneath the gauzy sundress she wore. He ushered her into his office to the smooth leather chair facing his desk. He was distracted by her loveliness as he seated himself behind the desk.
“Now, Lydia,” he began, “I am not sure how much Dan has told you about me, so let me introduce myself. My name is Alan Stokes. I am a graduate of the University of Edinburgh in Scotland with a Masters in Abnormal Psychology and my Doctorate is in The Psychology of Dreams. I have written articles for journals like
The New England Journal of Medicine
and
The Harvard Journal of Medicine
, to name a few. I have been published in several trade magazines and beside my classes here I teach workshops in stress reduction. There now. Tell me a little about yourself. Do you mind if I turn the tape recorder on?”
Lydia nodded her assent and asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Where you went to school? What your interests and hobbies are? I am sure that Dan told me that you grew up in Halifax. Were you born in Nova Scotia?”
“Actually, no, I was born in Totnes, in Devon, in England, but my father and I moved to Nova Scotia when I was very young.” Lydia paused.
Seeing her hesitation Stokes spoke. “I want you to know that anything you say here is in confidence. You can rest assured that your privacy will be protected.”
Lydia heaved a sigh of relief and nodding her head urged him to continue.
“Tell me about your parents.”
“My parents were estranged. I grew up believing my mother had died when I was five or six. My father would not speak of her and I learned not to ask questions.” It felt good to be able to talk to someone. She felt she could trust him; tell him all the things she couldn’t tell Dan.
“Is your father still living?” Stokes asked, as he scribbled on a pad of paper before him.
Lydia hesitated. “No, he died in a car accident in October of last year.”
“I am sorry,” Stokes said. In the momentary silence that followed, Stokes appraised the woman seated opposite; her lovely face and straight blonde hair. ‘Maybe 5’3,”’ he estimated. His gaze was drawn to her eyes, held fast by the incredible sadness in her china blue eyes. He cleared his throat and said, “Please go on.”
The color drained from Lydia’s face; her voice became somber as she said “So many lies. He told me so many lies.”
“What do you mean when you say, ‘so many lies’?”
“My father had always told me that he had rescued me from an abusive mother. He never gave details and, I guess, I never asked for them. When I went through his papers after his death, I found numerous letters from my mother begging him to bring me home to England, letters that were written long after she was supposed to have died. The letters were addressed to someplace in England and forwarded on to Halifax. There were other letters, as well as Court papers. It seems that after we came to Canada my father had our names changed.”
Stokes picked up a pencil; then laid it down again. His notes could wait. “Why do you suppose he did that?”
“I don’t know. He never mentioned it. I had assumed Hamilton was the family name. I had no reason to question it, but the reason became obvious when I read the letters from Devon. He was trying to hide me from my mother.” Exasperated, Lydia cried, “My name is not even Lydia, it is Olivia, Olivia Hays-Morely!”
“When did you find that out?”
“When I read the Court papers, he changed our names less than a year after we arrived in Nova Scotia. He kept his own first name, Charles, but changed his last name from Hammond to Hamilton. And my name was changed completely. My birth name was Olivia Hays-Morely. My legal name now is Lydia Hamilton. I am so confused and angry, so very angry that he would lie to me this way.”
“You mention letters from Devon. Were there others as well? What were they about?”
“Most were from my mother begging my father to bring me home. The letters were all postmarked from Devon. My mother’s letters were addressed to my father care of a post office box in Sussex and were forwarded to my father in Canada by his cousin. I actually went to visit her when I was thirteen. I stayed with her and her family on a visit to London for a couple of weeks. The latest one from Devon was dated April 12
th
of this year. I received it May 3
rd
. My father’s cousin sent it directly to me. She said in her note that since my father had died she guessed it wasn’t necessary to keep the letters secret any longer.”
Lydia’s voice faltered. She took a deep breath and continued, “It was written by my mother’s uncle telling my father that my mother had died after a lengthy battle with ovarian cancer. He deeply regretted my father’s obstinacy in not allowing my mother to see me. It’s all so twisted, so very twisted. He told so many lies. Why did he tell so many lies?”
“Have you contacted your family in England yet?”
“No, I am afraid to. What can I possibly say to them?”
“Have you told Dan all this?”
“No, I haven’t. I have told him about finding the Court papers and I did tell him that my father had changed our last name but I haven’t told him the rest.”
Alan shifted in his chair, picked up his pipe, and began to fill it. “Why haven’t you told him?”
“He would only ask questions I can’t answer.”
“So, do you think your dreams have to do with your father’s death?”
“No, not at all. My dreams …” Lydia was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.
Stokes muttered a curse, turned off the recorder, and answered the telephone. “But I am with someone,” she heard him say into the receiver. “Yes, yes, of course I know it’s an important meeting, but this is important too. Money! It always comes down to money. All right! I said all right! I’ll be up in a few minutes.” He replaced the receiver on its cradle. Turning to Lydia, he reached to straighten his tie. “I’m sorry, Lydia. There is an emergency meeting I must attend. The Faculty has approached the Provincial Government for funding for a pet project of mine and the Deputy Minister responsible has arrived, unannounced, to discuss the details. I am sorry, but I must go. Can we meet again soon?”
“I guess so. Do you really think the dreams have something to do with my father?”
“Or perhaps your mother,” Stokes replied. “Now please excuse me. I really must get going. It does not do to keep important people waiting, especially those you want money from.” He chuckled as he slipped on his sport coat. “So, we will meet again soon,” he called as he hurried off down the corridor. He looked back once to see her closing the door of his office. ‘Such an interesting case study and such a lovely subject,’ Stokes thought as he took the stairs two at a time. He would have to check his schedule and get her back in soon. By the time he reached the second floor of Hazen Hall, Stokes had forgotten about the beautiful and mysterious Lydia Hamilton.
***
Dan was restless. He moved the car several times in the parking lot. He was unable to settle his mind to the task of reading the journal articles he had brought with him. He picked up and tossed aside the current issue of
The Journal of the Canadian Medical Association
. Dan had wanted to read the latest article on the AIDS epidemic in Africa. As always, when he thought of the devastating virus, he was thankful he didn’t have any AIDS patients in his medical practice. ‘What would I do? How would I react should a patient present with AIDS?’ Dan wondered, asking questions he had asked himself many times before. ‘I hope I would rise above my fears, but who knows how one will react.’ Dan thought as he fingered the magazine in his lap.
Dan arched his back and shifted his weight to find a more comfortable position. ‘What is happening in there?’ he asked himself. He watched as a blue Ford Ranger pulled out of its parking space in front of Hazen Hall. He turned the key and started the Camry. With his foot on the brake he hesitated, deciding not to move the car again. His thoughts turned again to Lydia and then her father. ‘Never liked that man,’ Dan remembered, ‘and he never liked me.’ Dan felt a sneer wrinkle his upper lip. ‘He was much too secretive for my liking. I remember when I asked him where he came from. “Just England,” he had said and refused to say where exactly. What kind of a man won’t tell you his hometown?’ Dan shook his head.
Picking up the magazine in his lap, he flipped unseeingly through the pages. ‘When the old man died,’ Dan thought, ‘Lydia was devastated to find that her name wasn’t even her own. I can’t imagine denying your child her true heritage. There have been Taylors in Berry Hill for four generations.’ Dan rubbed his large hand across his tanned face, shaking his head again. Maybe he would feel better if he got out and went for a walk. Dan’s uneasiness about Stokes returned and he wished he hadn’t forced Lydia into meeting Alan.
Crossing the parking lot, he walked to the lower level where he could see the Saint John Regional Hospital. As a family doctor in Saint John he had admitting privileges at both city hospitals, though he much preferred Saint Joseph’s Hospital, which he considered to be the heart of the city.
Dan stood on the high hill overlooking the hospital’s new Emergency Department. He gazed at the glass and steel maze of buildings before him. He felt it was too large, too impersonal. Divided as it was into four buildings bound together with tunnel-shaped umbilical cords, it assailed Dan’s sense of flow. He much preferred the older hospital downtown. Dan turned back towards Hazen Hall, his mind drifting to the old farm house in Berry Hill, Nova Scotia. He remembered how he hated the constant weeding of the strawberry plants. “Sixty-five acres,” he said aloud. “Sixty-five acres of back- breaking work.”