Her body ached, particularly her stomach, which looked a bit swollen. She felt exhausted, as if she had been through some colossal physical undertaking, like running a marathon. Suddenly she became terrified. Nothing made any sense. It was as though she had gone to sleep in her bed at home in Philadelphia and woken in another time and place. How could that happen?
Panic set in. She opened her suitcase and rummaged through it, looking for clues. She recognized every piece of clothing, every toilet article. Under the hunting jacket, inside a shirt pocket she found a large sum of cash—in U.S. dollars. She didn’t count it but just a quick flip through told her there was a lot more money than she had ever had in one shot in her life. She searched her shoulder bag and discovered her passport. At least I haven’t lost all of my memory, she thought. She recognized her name and the photo and her home address. The date stamped inside indicated she’d arrived in Paris—an arrival she did not remember. A quick look at a newspaper told her about nine months had elapsed from when she had supposedly entered France until now. Nine months. Long enough to have a baby. Why did I think that, she wondered, and suddenly, inexplicably, tears flooded her eyes and washed down her cheeks.
“Dearie, are you all right?”
A soft-faced old woman bent over her.
“No. No, I’m not all right,” Carol sobbed. “I don’t know where I am or how I got here.”
“Why, you’re in Portsmouth, of course. At the ferry dock. You arrived on that very boat out there—I was on the same one.”
The woman handed Carol a tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes. “I can’t remember getting on the boat.”
“That’s not surprising. You were so tired you could hardly keep to your feet. Your friend helped you on board, he did. Sat with you until the boat left.”
“Friend?”
“Yes. Frenchman, by the look of him. Not bad looking. Him and the couple with the baby.”
Carol shook her head rapidly, as if trying to deny something, but what? She burst into tears. “I don’t remember any of that. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
By the time security arrived, Carol was out of control.
An ambulance took her to a local hospital where lithium carbonate was pumped into her continually for nearly a week. Different people asked her a lot of questions: about the money; about having given birth recently; about a relative in the U.S. who might be contacted. She had no answers for the first two questions, but for the last she told them to phone Rob.
During her second week at the hospital, the fog she floated in began to lift enough that she got a grip on where she was and why she was there.
One morning she sat across the desk from a psychiatrist, who introduced himself as Dr. Stanton—his name-tag confirmed that. He said, “Apparently you’ve recently given birth, yet you have no memory of that experience. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I don’t know that I’ve given birth,” she told him.
He looked at her seriously. “You’ve been examined, Miss Robins. There’s no doubt about it.”
Carol’s hands trembled and clasped together.
“It appears was born out of wedlock, perhaps stillborn, or died after birth?”
Carol felt panic well up. “I-I don’t know.”
“Did you sell the baby?”
She felt too horrified to react. “Have you phoned Rob? My ex-husband?”
“I telephoned yesterday. You realize, of course, that he died last May.”
Carol looked at him dumbly. “Rob’s dead? No, I didn’t know.”
“A Mr. Phillip Mullins assured me he wrote you a letter through American Express informing you of the death. The hotel it was forwarded to verified that the letter was picked up.”
Carol said nothing.
“He also told me you telephoned him from Paris four months ago where he gave you the same information. And that at that time, you sounded desperate.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Repressing unpleasant memories is common, particularly when guilt is part of the equation. You were found with a rather substantial amount of cash—ninety thousand pounds or thereabouts. About forty-five thousand U.S. dollars.”
Carol didn’t know how to respond. She just didn’t remember. This was like the time she had undergone anesthetics for dental surgery. One minute she was counting backwards from ten and had reached eight, and the next second she was awake. Not only was there no memory of the two hours during which the surgery took place, but it was as though that time span did not exist. She hadn’t even dreamed. Her brain had simply shut down and time ceased to be. But this was worse, far worse. Nine months of her life was missing. Rob was dead. Apparently she had given birth to a child and acquired a large sum of money, in France, a country she had no recall about visiting.
“Miss Robins, I can’t help you. First off, you’re not my patient and hence cannot stay in this hospital. Secondly, you are a visitor to Britain. This is neither the time nor the place to undergo an extended period of therapy. I strongly suggest to you that you return to Philadelphia and seek psychiatric help there. I can provide you with the name of a competent therapist trained in memory retrieval. I don’t believe any more can be accomplished from here, and it would certainly benefit you to be in familiar and no doubt comforting surroundings.”
Carol had another week to think about it before the hospital released her. The week after that she was on a plane for Philadelphia. But the lack of feeling about France or what might have occurred there held the same space in her heart as would a memory itself. Her body was returning to the United States, but the rest of her had not left Europe.
Part III
“We are all in the gutter, but some
of us are looking at the stars.”
Oscar Wilde
(Lady Windermere’s Fan)
Chapter Nineteen
“Carol, I want you to focus on this gold pendulum. Watch how the light flickers off the metal. Your mind is relaxing, your eye lids are growing heavy. Let them close. That’s it, continue to breathe easily and naturally. Picture in your mind the Ocean. The Atlantic. Calm. Eternal.”
The tranquil voice of Rene Curtis blended with the serene image of the ocean Carol had just formed in her mind. The same image she had created weekly over the last eight years of therapy during sessions with Dr. Curtis.
“Good. You’re relaxed and safe. Tell me where you see the ocean from. Where are you now?”
Carol looked out the window at the grey water. “I’m in the room. In the house.”
“The house in France?”
“Yes.”
“Where in France is that house located?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Describe the room, as you have before.”
Carol saw herself turn. She related the colors of the two-sectioned room. The fireplace. The furniture. The bed. Suddenly she felt nervous.
“All right, just relax. Breathe deeply. You’re safe. I’m here with you. Tell me about the bed.”
“It’s large. A brass bed. The sheets and duvet are floral.”
“You have slept in this bed.”
“Yes.”
“And had sex in this bed.”
Again Carol felt nervous. “I-I had sex in this bed.” This was all ground she had covered before, remnants of memories revived after years of hard work.
“With who?”
“I-I don’t remember.” She felt frightened and just wanted to get away.
“Alright. Take in deep breaths, through your nose and out your mouth. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. Tell me what else you remember about this bed.”
Carol, in her mind, stood and stared at the bed. “It’s mine,” she said, but she still didn’t know why she felt that.
“I want you to walk over to the bed and run your hands over the sheets. Will you do that for me?”
Carol nodded. She moved towards the bed and her finger tips touched soft cotton percale for the hundredth time.
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“Sit down on the bed.”
Carol sat. The mattress sagged a little beneath her. All this felt very familiar.
“Carol, lie down on top of the bed.”
That sour fear again, rising from her stomach.
“You’re perfectly safe. We’re just remembering, as we did the other times. Lie down.”
Tentatively Carol lay on top of the comforter. She stared up at the textured pastel ceiling. The mattress beneath her felt firm. It held her up. She did not immediately fall through space as she had on other occasions when Rene had brought her back here through the power of hypnosis.
“Good. How do you feel?”
“Afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Him.”
“Who?”
Carol shook her head. She ran her hands along the sheets and under the soft pillows until she touched the cool metal bedstead. The moment her fingers reacted to the cold, she reacted emotionally. Her breathing quickened. “He chained me here. To this bed. He kept me a prisoner and used me!”
“Yes, you’ve remembered that before. Did anything else happen in this bed?”
She gasped for air, feeling like a fish out of water, unable to breathe, unable to swallow. The room spun into darkness. A black hole sucked at her, drawing her, spinning her like water swirling down a drain.
“Carol, stay with me! What else happened here?”
She screamed.
“Carol. Carol! Listen to me. You’re with me, in my office. Open your eyes.”
The moment she opened her eyes she felt safe again. Sweat glued her blouse to her body and her hair to her neck and forehead. Her heart beat was too fast. But she remembered.
She turned to Rene Curtis. “I had a baby in that bed.”
Rene nodded. “A boy or a girl?”
“A boy, I think. I don’t know why I think that.”
“It’s alright. We’ll go with your intuition. What happened to the baby?”
Carol shook her head.
“Was the baby born dead?”
“No.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the baby die later?”
She shook her head again.
“Do you remember where that house is located?”
Carol cried, overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness. “No. No I don’t. I’ll never remember.”
Rene Curtis rubbed her arm gently and smoothed her hair back, then picked up the ever-present ‘Fifty-is-Killing-Me’ mug filled with icy liquid and sipped. “You’ll remember. You’ve come a long way. Eight years ago you didn’t even recall going to France and now you’ve put quite a few pieces of the puzzle together. It just takes time. We’re dealing with major trauma.”
“Time,” Carol said bleakly. She felt, for some reason, that time was running out.
She thought back over the eight years since she’d returned to Philadelphia and all the things she’d had to cope with; Rob’s death, and, just after her return, Phillip’s. And then the death of her mother. Psychotic breaks meant she couldn’t work in any high stress position. She’d found a job at the Emerald Theater, doing sets and props for plays before they went to Broadway, or just as they left for a tour. With Rene’s help she’d invested the forty thousand dollars that remained at a good return rate. The interest paid for the therapy, which had progressed slowly, at least from Carol’s perspective. It had taken her a long time to trust Rene—to trust anyone. What memories they’d managed to retrieve had begun coming back over the last three years, and those fragments unearthed only through gargantuan efforts.
She lived a quiet, uneventful life, at least in the real world. No close friends. All her non-working time was spent doing therapy or reading. Every night when the sun set an inexplicable terror climbed over her and clung to her body until the sun rose. And in this room she faced demons and terrors on a weekly basis that no human being should have to encounter. Without Rene she knew she couldn’t have done it.
A year ago she had tested positive as an HIV carrier. They told her she might never contract AIDS—but there was no way to be certain. That alone gave time a sharp focus. But there was something else, some other reason why time felt crucial that she couldn’t identify but which kept her pushing ahead. Carol worked intensely in her sessions to break through the solid granite that entombed all that had happened to her in France, in that house on the Atlantic Ocean, with a man she could not remember, other than knowing she was deathly afraid of him. Still, one thing she now knew for certain was what had been confirmed by half a dozen doctors who had examined her: she had birthed a baby during her time in France. And she could confirm that experience herself, through a recaptured memory. But where was that child now?
“I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today,” Rene said.
Carol blew her nose and sat up. “Thanks, Rene. I guess we made a little progress.”
“A big leap, I’d call it.”
Carol headed to the coat rack beside the door and began slipping on her boots.
“If you hold on, I’ll go down with you.”
They took the elevator together to the main floor. Rene, a stylish woman with blonde hair and slim hips in her early fifties, had an easy attitude that Carol admired, even envied; she took good care of herself and seemed to live a happy and charmed life.
“Well, I’m off to dinner with ‘the girls’,” Rene said. “Old college friends, and I do mean ‘old’. God, how time flies. We meet once a year and eat too much and drink too much,” she held up a long brown paper bag, “and never get to talk enough. They’re all looking pretty used, to tell the truth. Not me, of course,” she laughed and winked, the skin at the corner of her eye crinkling.
“What’s in the bag?” Carol asked.
“Wine.” Rene looked at her. “Why?”
“I don’t know. What kind?”
“Red.” She opened the bag and took the bottle out. She read the label and turned it so Carol could see.
It was as though a gust of hot air hit, nearly knocking Carol off her feet; she fell against the mirrored back wall of the elevator.
“Carol, what is it?”
“That’s where the house is!”
Rene looked at the label again. “Bordeaux? Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
Chapter Twenty
Six months after Carol discovered where she had been kept prisoner in France, other memories emerged at an accelerated pace, including—a street that resembled a circus; the Royal Medoc Hotel, where she may have stayed; and something about an old man being murdered, at night, and a lot of blood. When the Emerald Theater closed for the entire month of August, with Rene’s blessing Carol took her first vacation in eight years. She went back to Bordeaux.
As she strolled the streets of the downtown, of the harbor, little almost-memories made her brain itch the way the biting mosquitoes infected her skin. And as she scratched at the recollections, they swelled and become more prominent. So many things looked familiar; déjà vu continually caught her off guard.
She stayed at the Royal Medoc Hotel. Of course, there were no records from eight years before, and few of the staff that had worked there then worked there now. None of those who had recognized Carol.
During her years back in Philadelphia she had studied French, sensing that she would be returning to this country some day; now the language came in handy, although she could speak and read far better than she could understand.
Bordeaux was not on the Atlantic Ocean but near it; she must have been kept outside the city itself, but where? She bought a detailed map of the region and studied it, searching for clues, but none were apparent.
Carol went to police headquarters her second day in the city. It took a while to explain what she wanted once she found the right person, but finally she managed to convey that she needed to research an old case: the murder of a man in Bordeaux approximately eight years ago. At night.
The
word officious had never taken on such a full meaning as when she dealt with French bureaucrats. She knew that without the contact people in high places Rene’s connections had provided, all this would have taken far longer, or been impossible. As it was, it took a week to get permission to search the records, another three days to scan computer records of murders and violent crimes for the time period she was in France, and another four days to muddle through the procedures she must follow to actually handle those records not on computer. And after all of this searching, she came up with nothing.
If she had witnessed a murder, that murder was not recorded in the police records of this city. Either the murder had been committed elsewhere, her tortured psyche had fabricated it or, the most frightening scenario, the files had been expunged. She wanted to speak with any police investigators who had been in charge of homicide that year. Eventually she had an appointment with an Inspector LePage.
They met in an interrogation room, a stark drab setting with only a table and three chairs, and nothing more. The moment Carol saw LePage she remembered him.
“We’ve met before.”
His face and the tone of his voice betrayed nothing. “I could not say, Mademoiselle. In my line of work I meet many people.”
“No, I’m sure I’ve met you.” He had aged but looked essentially the same as the snapshot now restored in her mental photo album. Even his mannerisms were familiar.
He lit a cigarette and watched her through the haze of acrid smoke he blew in her direction. Then finally, in that same impassive voice, said, “I am a busy man. How may I help you, Mademoiselle?”
“Inspector, I was in Bordeaux eight years ago, between April and early January. I believe I witnessed a murder. An old man was killed.”
“Did you report this crime at that time?”
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