Authors: Laurie Plissner
What about ponytail girl? Jules said she’s all over you
. Ben didn’t seem like the man-whore type, but our time apart felt like a century to me, so for a boy it must be forever.
“We’re just friends. Nothing more. She’s on the track team. We work out together.” In my overactive imagination, Ben and the model had been doing way more than running wind sprints after school.
Oh, tall, blonde, and gorgeous isn’t your type?
I found that hard to believe.
“No, you’re my type, I’m afraid. Baggy clothes, bad attitude and all.”
Thanks … I think
.
He still liked me, in that way. He still wanted to kiss me, to touch me.
“That didn’t come out right. What I mean is, I find you more physically attractive than Aubrey—that’s ponytail girl’s name. She
is
very beautiful, but she just doesn’t do it for me. Maybe I have weird taste.”
Thanks again. You sure know how to make a girl feel special
.
Maybe he would kiss me, just to show me. I held my breath, standing as close to him as I possibly could, praying he would be unable to resist.
“You know what I mean. You’re beautiful, I haven’t touched another girl, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. Now I have to go.” With a casual wave, as if the last thirty minutes of blood and fear hadn’t happened, he jumped into his car and drove away down the gravel drive, leaving me aching and alone.
As I stepped over the threshold of 7 Seashell Lane for the first time in more than four years, I was nearly knocked over by a wave of sense memories. The way the afternoon light dappled the Oriental rug in the entryway, the smell of wood smoke from hundreds of fires. Not feeling at all self-conscious, I sat down on the soft wool carpet and closed my eyes. In my mind I could see the dining room—creamy white wainscoting and cranberry walls. A bronze turkey glowed in the light of a dozen candles in pewter candlesticks scattered across the table. It was perfect. But was it real, had it really happened, or had I just conjured up some idealized Norman Rockwell scene? Flipping through the photo album of my memory as Mrs. Fisher stood silently in the corner, I realized that most of the pages were blank, and the images that did exist were painfully generic—blowing out birthday candles, a day at the beach, riding on a carousel. Perhaps I had unconsciously fabricated them all to fill in the Swiss cheese holes of my memory. Like the flawless scenes in the photographs that came in picture frames, displaying model families engaged in idyllic activities, maybe my memories were merely suggestions of a life I wanted but had never actually lived.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Fisher’s voice broke into my reverie and I stood up, shaking off my brief foray into my possible past. I nodded.
“Please feel free to walk around. I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re ready.” Lightly touching my cheek, Ben’s mother left me alone.
At the top of the stairs, I turned right. The room at the end of the hallway was mine. That much I remembered. For nearly five minutes I stood there, my hand resting on the doorknob. Did I want to go home again? Each step I took into my past could bring me a step closer to finding that lost piece of myself that, once replaced, would allow me to speak. Or, I feared, I could tread too far down the wrong road, burying that lost piece even further, maybe irretrievably. But I realized I had already chosen my path, and so I turned the handle and stepped into my old life.
The pine bed, corduroy-covered armchair, and rolltop desk were all still there, and as I breathed in, I inhaled my childhood. Closing my eyes, I lay down on the rag rug where I now remembered I had played hour upon hour with Legos. It smelled like crayons and baby powder and beeswax furniture polish. My mother’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Sasha, dinner’s ready in five minutes. Put your blocks away.” “Sasha, we have to leave now, or you’ll be late for school.” “Sasha, Jules is on the phone.” When I opened my eyes, I almost expected to see her standing in front of me—her voice had been so clear in my head. Until that moment, I had forgotten what she sounded like. Suddenly I missed her terribly, this woman who for the last four years had been a hazy figure lurking at the edge of my conscious mind. Now I could hear her laughter, smell her perfume, feel the scratchy wool of her favorite winter sweater as I rested my head on her shoulder.
The pain of my loss was palpable, and I crawled onto the bed—my bed, now Ben’s bed. That was weird. This was the bed I had shared with three baby dolls, where I read my mother’s Judy Blume books under the covers with a flashlight when I was supposed to be sleeping. Now I was curled up on the same patchwork quilt that had always been there, and when I flipped back a corner, there were my flannel sheets dappled with pinecones. Ben’s family had slipped seamlessly into every corner of my life, right down to the linens. If it had been anyone else, I would have been incredibly resentful and kind of creeped out. But since my family could no longer live here, it seemed right that Ben and his family did.
I was as ready as I would ever be. My future was waiting for me in my old kitchen. Gently smoothing the quilt, making sure that everything was in its place, I stood staring at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser, considering my options. It was now or never, and surrounded by the remnants of my childhood, I felt safe as I was about to venture into an indeterminate future. Nothing bad could happen to me under this roof. Of that I was certain.
In the kitchen Mrs. Fisher sat on a stool, reading the newspaper. On the stove, the old copper teakettle began to whistle. Without thinking, I turned off the flame and sat down on another stool.
“So, how was it?”
“VERY STRANGE. SOME THINGS I REMEMBER WELL—THE SMELL OF THE FIREPLACE AND CRAYONS AND THE SOUND OF MY MOTHER’S VOICE—BUT OTHER THINGS, LIKE TRIPS TO THE BEACH … I’M NOT SURE WHETHER THOSE REALLY HAPPENED.”
She was so easy to talk to, in spite of her gypsy fortune-teller vibe. I didn’t worry about sounding stupid or crazy, and unlike with Dr. O., I didn’t worry that Mrs. Fisher was analyzing every word I spoke for some deeper, perhaps Freudian meaning.
“That’s a good start. You’re experiencing Proustian memories—the kind Marcel Proust wrote about in
Remembrance of Things Past
when he smelled the madeleines and his childhood came rushing back to him. As the most basic and primeval of our senses, the sense of smell is the one most closely tied to human memory. A single odor is enough to evoke tremendously detailed recollections of one’s past. The power of the human brain is quite extraordinary.” She paused. “Enough of that. I’m a college professor to the core, and I find it hard not to lecture. My apologies.”
“DON’T APOLOGIZE. IT’S REALLY INTERESTING, AND I THINK IT MIGHT MAKE THINGS EASIER IF I LEARNED HOW MY BRAIN ACTUALLY WORKS.”
“Well, I think you’re going to learn all kinds of things, and I’m here to help you. Now, are you ready to explore your subconscious with a little hypnosis?” It sounded perfectly simple and logical when she put it that way. She could have been asking me if I wanted to go to the mall and try on shoes.
“NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN ABLE TO HYPNOTIZE ME. MY PSYCHIATRIST SAYS SOME PEOPLE ARE NATURALLY IMMUNE.” Dr. O. and I had been down this road to nowhere on more than one occasion.
“Resistant, maybe, but I’ve never met anyone who’s totally immune.”
Mrs. Fisher’s smile was so warm and reassuring that I could already envision a pocket watch swinging seductively on a chain and me falling into a deep, and hopefully productive, trance. I suppressed a yawn.
“BUT DR. O’ROURKE IS SUPPOSED TO BE ONE OF THE BEST PSYCHIATRISTS IN NEW YORK, IN THE WHOLE COUNTRY, EVEN. SHE SPECIALIZES IN POSTTRAUMATIC STRESS.”
Mrs. Fisher shrugged her shoulders but looked no less confident. “I suppose there’s an exception to every rule, and of course I could be wrong, but I’m willing to take the chance. How about you? You want to try?”
“NOTHING TO LOSE.”
Sitting in Ben’s kitchen, my kitchen, I was desperate to move forward. Worst case, I would still be mute and Mrs. Fisher might be a little embarrassed. We could both handle that.
“That’s my girl. Drink this, and let’s see where it takes us.”
Mrs. Fisher smiled encouragingly as she filled a mug. The cloudy green liquid smelled like grass clippings and dirt.
“WHAT IS IT?” I wrinkled my nose. My stomach rumbled, protesting what it knew was coming its way.
“It’s a special blend of herbs, mostly
Magnolia dealbata
. Cloudforest magnolia. Native tribes in Mexico used it as a tranquilizer and anticonvulsant for centuries. But I mix it with a few other things to create the desired effect. Think of me as an archaeologist, and this decoction is a mind shovel. We’re going to dig up all the treasures buried deep inside that beautiful, troubled head of yours.”
“IS IT LEGAL? MY AUNT AND UNCLE ARE LAWYERS. IF THEY FOUND OUT I WAS TAKING DRUGS, THEY’D KILL BOTH OF US.” I had visions of Shoreland Police Chief Dodd hauling Mrs. Fisher and me, both wearing bright orange jumpsuits and prison-issue sneakers without laces, off to the single jail cell in the basement of City Hall.
“Technically, some of it is probably not completely legal, but I do have a medical degree, so I’m permitted to prescribe drugs when necessary. And I think your situation definitely requires pharmacological intervention.”
Charlotte would not be happy about this development. She and Stuart were beyond straitlaced: they never smoked, drank decaffeinated coffee, and considered NyQuil a recreational drug. If Charlotte knew Ben’s mother was serving up a steaming cup of hallucinogenic herbal tea, she might not be so interested in getting Ben and me back together.
“IS IT LIKE REGULAR HYPNOSIS? CAN YOU MAKE ME DO WHATEVER YOU WANT?”
I really liked Mrs. Fisher—or should I say Dr. Fisher—but the prospect of losing control in the company of a relative stranger, no matter how kind and honorable she appeared, was slightly unnerving.
“Don’t worry. I won’t make you walk like a chicken.” She pushed the steaming mug across the counter.
“WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME?”
“It should help you relax beyond anything you’ve ever experienced, beyond what you believe possible. Hopefully you’ll open up once the barriers of your conscious mind are broken down. Your free-thinking, unconscious brain will be let out of its cage, so to speak.”
“SO YOU’RE SURE I WON’T ACT LIKE AN ANIMAL? I DON’T WANT TO MAKE A FOOL OF MYSELF.” I was three sips from getting emotionally naked in front of Ben’s mother, and I was starting to feel uncomfortably warm.
“Sweet girl, don’t worry. I won’t let anything bad happen, and I promise that whatever does happen, it will remain between you and me. Ben will never hear about it.”
She crossed her heart and blew me a kiss. How did she know that was what I was worried about?
“WILL THIS STUFF MAKE ME TALK?”
Maybe today would be my day. What would I say to Ben when he walked through the door?
I’ve fallen in love with you? Will you marry me?
Probably a tad much for my first words. Maybe just,
I’ve missed you
.
“You might, if your trauma doesn’t extend to your unconscious mind. But different people react differently. I can’t say for sure what will happen to you. We’ll never know unless we try, however.
L’chaim
. Drink up.” She tapped her cup, which was filled with coffee, against mine.
“OKAY, YOU’RE THE DOCTOR.”
I raised the mug to my lips. It was like drinking my front lawn. I held my nose and chugged.
“Just relax and let it take effect. You might feel a little buzzed. Do you drink at all? Do you know what that feels like?”
“I’VE NEVER DRUNK ENOUGH TO GET BUZZED. WHAT HAPPENS?”
Jules was always telling me that drinking would relax me, and that I definitely needed to chill out. But beer tasted like shit, and I was too much of a coward to raid Stuart’s liquor cabinet.
“For me it’s kind of a dizzy feeling.” Mrs. Fisher closed her eyes and wiggled her fingers in front of her face.
“THAT DOESN’T SOUND GOOD.” How embarrassing would it be to open my mouth and have something come out besides words. Maybe I should ask for a bag, just in case.
“A relaxed, delicious, dizzy feeling, not room-spinning, nauseated dizzy. Tipsy. It’s fine. You’ll see.”
We stood on opposite sides of the island, watching each other, waiting for something to happen. After a few minutes, I began to feel lightheaded and looked down to make sure my feet were still touching the floor. I held on tight to the marble countertop, just to make sure I didn’t float away.
“Maybe you should sit down. I think it’s working.” Mrs. Fisher took my hand and led me into the living room, settling me in an oversized chair by the fireplace. “Close your eyes.” Her voice hovered in the air next to my ear. “Breathe deeply—go back in time, to your earliest memory. What do you see?”
Impossibly tiny pink Converse sneakers. Impossibly tiny hands with sparkly blue nail polish. Tongue out with the effort.
“That’s it. The rabbit goes around the tree and in the hole. Pull it tight. You did it, Sasha.” My father kissed my head and swept me up onto his shoulders. “Let’s go show Mommy.”
“Giddyup, Daddy.” My laughter tinkled like wind chimes as I gripped my father’s ears and we galloped into the kitchen.
“Look, Mommy, how many three-year-olds do you know who can tie their shoelaces?”
“Not many. How about a cookie to celebrate?” The smell of brown sugar filled the air, and I could taste the chocolate melting on my tongue.
“Thank you, Mommy. Yummy.”
I was licking the chocolate off my fingers and then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the images behind my eyes faded, like a movie screen going dark. I tried to open my eyes, but they were glued shut, and I shook my head in frustration.
Mrs. Fisher put her hand on my arm. “That’s very good. Now you’re a little older, what do you remember?”
“Mommy, where are you?”
Panic rising, heart hammering. It was Christmastime. We were at the toy store, making a list for Santa, so he would know exactly what I wanted. The shelves were filled with baby dolls, and I couldn’t decide whether I liked Sophie or Samantha. I had to cuddle them both, to see which one wanted me for a mommy. But where was
my
mommy? Clutching Sophie—she was definitely the right baby—I tried to hold back the tears. I didn’t want to frighten my baby, and Mommy would never forget about me, would never leave me behind, would she? Was I supposed to stay put or go to the cash register? Which one did Mommy tell me to do if I ever got lost?
Think Sasha, this is important
. Closing my eyes, trying to remember what I was supposed to do, whispering to Sophie, “It’s okay, we’ll find her.”
“Sasha, are you ready to go? Is that the baby you like?” My mother knelt down and patted Sophie’s bald plastic head, and I burst into tears. “What’s the matter, muffin? What happened?”
“I couldn’t see you, I thought I lost you, I thought you forgot about me.” I huffed and puffed as I tried to catch my breath.
“I’m so sorry. I was standing right there, looking at a game for Liz, and I didn’t realize you didn’t know where I was. Poor baby. I would never leave you behind, ever. Mommy will always be here. Always.” She held out her arms and I fell into them, still clutching my doll.
Suddenly it was thirteen-year-old me standing in the toy store, holding the doll in a death grip, screaming at my mother, who was nowhere in sight. “You said you would always be here, but you left me behind!”