"Yes, please." I am such a coward.
"Nonsense." Will moved his arm from around me and took my hand. Then, addressing his father, "She seemed fine at first. Then as there was more and more noise and activity, she stopped responding when I spoke to her. She started shaking, her breathing became rapid and shallow, and she finally closed her eyes and kept them closed. I insisted that we leave." Will turned to me, "Do you want me to go on?" I nodded. "How much more do you want me to tell him?" Now he was grinning at me with an undeniable twinkle in his eyes, and I realized that he was thinking of how very much more happened between us after we left the game.
I nudged him with my elbow. "Not too much." Certainly Dr. Stuart hadn't missed the gist of this interchange. How embarrassing!
Will continued, addressing his father, "Once we got away from the game, she was fine after a little while."
To me, "In fact, very fine―in so many ways." I stifled a gasp. He had heard me!
Then, in a tone of pretended innocence, "Not too much?"
I was tempted to stick my tongue out at him a la Melinda, or some such thing, but I didn't want to do it in front of Dr. Stuart. So I settled for frowning at him. He winked at me.
His father continued as if completely unaware of what was going on between me and his son. "You know, Cassie, panic or anxiety attacks and disorders aren't as uncommon as a lot of people think." Meaning, I wasn't as dysfunctional as I thought I was? But he did not yet know what caused them. (And I wasn't planning to tell him.) "And there are different techniques and even medications that can help alleviate the symptoms." Medication didn't sound so good, even though the techniques I had been taught hadn't worked very well. "But the key is to pinpoint the underlying cause of the attacks." Uh–oh. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Will must have felt me tense up, because he put his arm back around me, gave me a quick squeeze and whispered, "Don't worry. Just listen."
Dr. Stuart continued, "I can't imagine that you would feel comfortable enough with me right now to share a lot of personal information. Perhaps it would be helpful if I share some information with you. For example, I would like to tell you about a girl I worked with a few years ago. She experienced some challenges very similar to yours. May I?"
That sounded pretty harmless. Maybe I was off the hook―for the moment, at least. "Yes." Will shifted behind me so he could more easily hold one of my hands with his arm still around me. His hand felt cooler than usual, I noticed. Did that mean he was nervous about something?
"A few years into my career, I became interested in working with individuals who faced unusual mental health challenges―challenges that lay outside the standard realm of psychiatric practice. One of my med school professors―Alan Wilson―told me about an organization called Paladin Associates. He had recently become their Executive Director. The purpose of this group was to research certain human abilities outside what is considered normal, as well as to provide support for the individuals who possessed these abilities. Toward that end, they established a school for children and adolescents.
"Are you familiar with the term 'paranormal'?"
"I've heard it."
"Well, so-called 'paranormal' abilities have long been the subject of public interest. But there has been a dearth of legitimate research on them. I visited Paladin and found the staff to be serious clinicians and researchers devoted to the pursuit of verifiable, scientific investigation into these reported phenomena. Dr. Wilson offered me the position of Director of Clinical Services―the therapeutic support part of the school. And I accepted.
"Does this make sense so far, Cassie?"
"Yes." But what did it have to do with me?
"Having given you that as background," he went on, now speaking very slowly and distinctly, "I'll tell you about the girl like you."
He paused.
At that instant―well, I couldn't really say. It was probably nothing.
Dr. Stuart continued, "A couple contacted us about their daughter, who was exhibiting some unusual abilities. She was four at the time, a very bright little girl. Quite good-natured, but quiet and withdrawn. Her parents were having trouble getting her to even go out of the house with them." Mark and Gina had that same problem with me when I first came to live with them. Actually, they still had that problem with me.
"She would tell them that voices outside were hurting her head, or that people were angry and it scared her, or other general comments about the mental or emotional state of people around her. By the time they came to us, she had apparently refined her perceptions to the point where she would describe an individual across the street, for example, and tell her parents what that person was thinking and feeling." Could that be what I was like when I was young?
"Her parents tried some informal experiments with family and friends, and she was able to repeat this feat so consistently and accurately that they were convinced she was unusually gifted. But this gift appeared to be causing her a lot of stress. Anxiety symptomology―including panic attacks―had started to appear." This was sounding more and more familiar, and I wasn't sure I liked it.
"They were, of course, very concerned for her well-being. They tried to get help from her pediatrician, mental health therapists, and, in short, checked out every option available to them. But nothing helped. In fact, a lot of the professionals they contacted had a difficult time even considering the possibility that this little girl's abilities were real and, therefore, the true source of her symptoms. Fortunately, they found our website on the internet and, after evaluation, we determined she was an appropriate candidate for our school and accepted her as a student."
Something was happening to me. As Dr. Stuart talked about this little girl, pictures started flashing in my mind. Pictures of a man and a woman, and me with them―being carried by the man, sitting on the lap of the woman―when I was little. And feelings started coming―fun, happy, being loved; and, in contrast, strange, overwhelming confusion. But, whatever I was feeling, the man and woman were always there. And I knew that, whatever happened, they would keep me safe.
Was I finally remembering my parents?
Why now?
"Cassie, are you alright?" asked Will. I realized that I had gotten lost in what I was seeing inside my own head, almost like a dream. Should I tell him now, or wait a bit to see if it went away?
"Yes. I think so." I hesitated. Last night I had requested his forgiveness because I hadn't trusted him enough to be open with him. I didn't want to have to do it again. So I told him. "Pictures were coming into my head. While your dad was talking about this little girl, I think I started remembering my parents. I was pretty young, and I was with them. They were doing things with me―playing with me, taking care of me.
"But I don't know if I'm remembering it or imagining it. I don't know how to tell, Will. This hasn't happened before. All those times the therapists tried to get me to remember and I couldn't. Why is this happening now?
"Is it real? How can I be sure?"
I became more and more agitated as I spoke. By the time I stopped, I had moved so I was sitting with my legs angled toward Will, and was grasping his hand tightly with both of mine. He should have looked surprised or concerned, or something. But he didn't. He looked calm. Decidedly, deliberately calm.
And it dawned on me: Will knew. He knew about me, about my lost past. He knew me. He had known me. We didn't meet by accident last Saturday. It was planned. And what about this whole last week? Was any of it real, or was it all planned? All fake? Was all of it acting, leading me on? Using me?
I let go of Will's hand. And I could tell that he now knew that I knew. Tears were developing . . . .
Who was he? Why was he here? Why was I here with him? Why was he doing this to me?
What is going on?! I shouted to myself.
I started shaking. I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't be here any longer. Things were looking distorted, starting to swirl. My eyes closed, tears falling everywhere. And it didn't ma
tter.
My limit had just been exceeded in record time.
This isn't right. There's something very wrong. I have to go! I've got to get out of here!
I felt myself stand. And sway. And collapse.
It was a first for me. But it wasn't dark and quiet like people said it was when you fainted. My brain didn't stop. It was like watching movie clips racing in front of my eyes, one not finished before being interrupted by the next. There was no way I could keep up with them, and I didn't even have the desire to try. It just went on and on . . . one after another, after another. And it felt like I should know them all―the people, the places, the events. Maybe I did; maybe I didn't. Right then, I didn't believe that I really knew anything―or anyone―anymore.
And I didn't want to care.
How long it went on I had no way of telling. But, ultimately, mercifully, it stopped.
And then, finally, came the dark and quiet. It was perfect. Silent. Empty. Nothing to think or feel or say or do. Nothing to figure out or control or survive. Nothing. And I wanted it to stay that way.
It didn't.
The first thing I heard was his voice inside me. Every so often he would call my name, "Cassie?" I didn’t answer. I didn't want to answer. I had trusted him. I shouldn't have trusted him. I wasn't going to trust him again.
Then I heard his other voice. "Dad, shouldn't she be conscious by now?"
And his father's voice, "Not necessarily. When I terminated the hypnotic lock on her memories, there was no way to control how quickly they would come back to her. Her mind is understandably overwhelmed at the moment, and it will take time for all the old memories to be processed and integrated with the newer ones. But that part will be fine." There was a pause. "I'm more concerned about her emotional responses, Will. She's going through an emotional tsunami right now. There will be immediate reactions, then aftershocks to deal with.
"Her internal world has just spun around a few times, and landed upside down. She'll be questioning, doubting everything." Then, with emphasis, "And everyone, Will." Another pause. "Are you sure you can handle this?"
Silence. For several seconds. "I have to, Dad. I can't quit on her now. Not after all this time. I can't let her down." A shorter silence. "I love her."
Did he know that I could hear him? Was this true, or all a fiction played out for my benefit? How could I tell? How could I ever again tell what was true, or real? I just didn't know anything anymore. Except that I had to get out of there.
I have to leave.
"She's coming around," Will's anxious voice advised. "She wants to leave."
"Let her, Son. She needs to know she is in control, and that we aren't trying to harm or manipulate her in any way. You had better keep an eye on her, at a considerate distance. She's not going to be herself quite yet―physically or emotionally. Make sure she's safe."
"I understand. I will," he responded firmly.
At some point during this conversation my eyes had opened, and the first thing I saw was Will's face. He looked worried, and sad. It struck me as ironic that, even then and with the poor shape I was in, I felt compassion for him. But could I trust feeling anything for him? My emotional compass was broken, and I couldn't trust anything―or anyone―to show me which way was which.
I could tell that I was lying down on the sofa, and decided to try and sit up, slowly. As I managed to do that, Will moved from kneeling on the floor next to me, and sat on the sofa a foot or so away. Was that a "considerate distance"? It seemed so far away―for us. Would we ever be close again? Did I want to be?
Bad questions. Painful subject.
I have to leave.
"You can stay. You are safe here."
I don't know if I can feel that way anymore.
"You will."
I stood up, wobbly. Will reached out as if to catch me. But I didn't fall.
"I'll be available whenever you're ready, Cassie," Dr. Stuart offered in a kind voice.
"What if I'm never ready?" I challenged him.
"You will be. Perhaps sooner than you think possible right now. I know you, Cassie," he concluded confidently, reassuringly.
"But I don't know me!" I almost shouted at him. "Not anymore!" That was rude, I chastised myself. And then I started feeling guilty, on top of everything else.
Enough!
I started walking. I opened the closed doors in my way to get out of the house, but I didn't close them behind me. Knowing Will would follow, was I avoiding additional guilt by being polite and leaving them open instead of closing them in his face, or did I want him to follow me? Did I need to know he was there, no matter what else I did or didn't really know about him?
All questions and no answers. I did not function well that way.
I wanted something solid around me, some privacy, so I headed for the trees. Even with as much adrenalin as I felt pumping through me, I knew I was in no shape to go very far. My goal was the gazebo. There was a gazebo out here, wasn't there? Did I remember right, or was my shorter term memory as unpredictable as the rest?
It was there. Just where I remembered. I stumbled over the edge of the slightly raised floor as I went in, and didn't bother to get up. The bench was right there. I put my arms on it, and my head on my arms, and wept―plentifully and quietly. And I kept weeping until I was all wept out.
My eyes must have been red and swollen because they were sore. But that, at least, was to be expected. Last night. Again today. It seemed that crying my eyes out was fast becoming an everyday event, I observed ruefully.
At that point, some part of my brain must have finished processing something, because a very practical thought came to mind: What time was it? I looked at my wrist to check my watch, but it wasn't there. And I remembered foggily that I had decided I wasn't going to worry about time today. I was going to focus on enjoying myself with Will.
Where was he?
"Will?"
"I'm here." He was sitting against a tree a few feet away from me, holding a leaf in his hand.
Some of the keenest memories apparently restored to me now had coalesced into a clear picture of a boy―the same boy that was in the picture on Will's nightstand. And I now thought I recalled standing next to him with my arms around his waist, looking up at him―just like the girl in the picture. "Who are you?" I asked plaintively. "Are you the boy in the picture on your nightstand?"
"Yes. And you are the girl. It was your seventh birthday." His voice was a little unsteady. He cleared his throat. "You were my best friend."
My mind flew back to his words last night, that he had lost his best friend years before, but now he had his best friend again―in me. Then his father asking him if he could handle this. And his answer that he couldn't quit on me; that he couldn't let me down “after all this time.” That he loved me.
And the pieces almost audibly clicked into place. I remembered. Of course, he wouldn't let me down. I knew that. I knew that! Will had never let me down, and he never would.
"Cassie, it's been so long." Was this remembering his words from last night? No, it was here and now. His voice was inside me once more. The feel of it! There was truth . . . and light . . . and life in it! I had made no mistake about him. Will continued, "I've been so lonely without you. Please don't leave me again."
I left him? "Did I leave you?"
"Yes. But you didn't really have a choice." He crumbled the dried leaf in his hand and let the pieces fall to the ground. "Do you want me to remind you about it?" he asked, looking at me doubtfully, sorrowfully.
"No." I didn't want to face that yet. It sounded . . . hard. And it would surface soon enough. Probably too soon. I had been right to have mixed feelings about remembering the past. But at least some of it was good, and I needed to focus on that for now.
For example, my birth parents loved me and took care of me. That was huge for me after wondering for years if I was so horrible that they had dumped me and run. They hadn't. (What happened to separate me from them would also have to
wait until later.)
Another positive? Well, that was obvious. He was sitting just over there. Patient, sad. Fearful? Yes, I could sense that, too. Sense that? Yes. I could sense him. What had changed? I stood up carefully and faced him.
"I can feel you, Will. I couldn't before."
"I'm letting you in."
"Why?"
"You asked." Did I? And I discovered that I already knew what he meant. Yes, I did―when I asked him who he was. The surest way for me to know was to find out for myself by sensing him, experiencing him, and all that was within him. He was obviously able to keep me out whenever he chose. Some intuition explained that he trusted me implicitly to allow me such complete access to himself. And that he wanted my trust in him to be absolute as well.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." He held his hand out, inviting me to him.
That simple gesture seemed to open a spacious portal as wave after wave of heartwarming illumination showered over me, washing away the last remaining fragments of doubt regarding him. It was impossible to isolate or label the countless experiences and emotions that had inextricably bound us many years before, and continued to bind us now. Quiet moments. Light-heartedness and laughter. Flashes of darkness, even danger, we faced together. And many, many episodes of everything in between.
In short, I now remembered him. And us.
That our bond had now quickly blossomed into an even more complete devotion was no longer astonishing to me. It was inevitable. As inevitable as accepting his invitation to come to him; as instinctive as walking to him and offering him my hand; and, as intrinsic to our very natures as allowing him to draw me close while our spirits embraced each other, twining and intertwining until they were no longer two, but one.
There aren't words to satisfactorily describe the sensory eruption as we joined with one another. We did not feel or sense each other in any limited physical fashion. In the most breathtaking, exquisite way, our entire souls blended into a unique whole. And we came to truly, fully know each other―again.
I finally understood why all those years had been so hard for me. It wasn't all, or even mostly, the missing memories. Or the uncertainties about family. It was because Will was gone. I had missed him sorely, even without realizing it. And not because we were playmates, or confidants, or even the best and closest of friends. We were each other's entire world.
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