by Karen White
“Why is that?” he asked, his eyes innocent again.
“I don’t know,” I said softly, focusing on the photograph but thinking about agreeing to Matthew’s suggestion that I try hypnosis. I looked up and met John’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He paused, examining my crutches with a frown. “Do you need help getting out of here?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine.” I studied his face. “Just remember what I said about being your friend. I mean it.”
He tucked his chin into his chest for a moment before looking back at me. Indicating my camera, he said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Our gazes locked until I finally looked away. “Thank you,” I said again as I turned and began to navigate down the paths toward the church, wondering whether John had been speaking about my historical research or something else entirely.
I lay back on the sofa, my head cushioned by two pillows, both feet propped up on the sofa arm on the opposite side. I glanced up as Matthew placed a cassette tape recorder on the low table in front of me.
“You’re really into cutting-edge technology, aren’t you?” I grinned in an attempt to hide my nervousness.
Matthew smiled back and shrugged. “I’ve been using this for years. I guess I could replace it with something more modern, but nobody’s ever complained about it before.” He looked pointedly at me.
“Just trying to help,” I said, crossing my arms to stop myself from shivering.
“Ava,” Matthew said, disengaging my hands from their death grip on my upper arms and taking them into his warm ones. “I know you’re nervous, and that’s okay and certainly normal. I’ve done this hundreds of times in the course of my career, and it’s really helped a lot of people.”
“Did you ever have somebody it didn’t help?”
He avoided my eyes. “I’ve had a few patients who couldn’t be hypnotized for various reasons.”
I felt a twinge of unease. “But have you had anybody that you did hypnotize whose results weren’t what you wanted or expected?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Just once—when I’d just started using hypnosis therapy and I didn’t have a lot of experience yet.” He paused. “The hypnosis took an unexpected turn and we ended up deeper into the patient’s past than we intended. But now I’m aware of how that happened, so I know how to avoid it.” He squeezed my hands. “I firmly believe that any benefit that you will receive from hypnosis will far outweigh any unexpected discoveries.”
I stared into his dark eyes and felt as if I were staring down a well-worn path that led to a familiar yet unnamed place. “Will you let me listen to the tape when we’re done?”
“Of course. I won’t censor anything. But you shouldn’t need it. A lot of my patients say it’s like watching a movie, where you remember pretty much all that happens.”
I closed my eyes briefly, trying to imagine what images might be projected on the wall of my subconscious, and could see only a black screen. “What if I don’t like what I’m seeing?”
He squeezed my hands. “I’ll be here with you, and if you seem to be distressed in any way, I’ll bring you out of it. Okay?”
I nodded. “What if…” I stopped, not capable of forming words to the thoughts that had grabbed hold of me ever since Matthew told me about my X-rays.
“No what-ifs, all right? We’ll take this one step at a time, and deal with it together—whatever happens.”
“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes again as he placed an afghan over me and a warm kiss on my forehead.
Matthew stood and removed a CD from his briefcase, then placed it in the stereo. Soothing New Agey music filled the room, masking the ticking of the old clock and the sound of the refrigerator motor sporadically whirring to life in the kitchen.
“I probably won’t ask you to load that CD onto my iTunes, okay?”
Matthew closed the blinds, then flipped off the lamps before seating himself in the armchair beside me. “Deal,” he said as he leaned forward and picked up a notepad and pencil from the table. He had easily slid into the role of psychologist, and I barely recognized my husband beneath the professional persona.
“I’ve chosen a technique today that will open a crack into your subconscious. In the next few days or weeks, your mind will be allowing more and more memories to come to the surface. I don’t want you to be afraid of anything that’s revealed. I will either be here with you, or only a phone call away. I just want you to remember that whatever it is you recall can only help you along the path of healing.”
I wanted to get off the sofa and leave the room, but I stayed, wanting to prove to him that he was wrong as much as I wanted to prove it to myself. “So what do I do?” I asked.
“I want you to close your eyes and relax. Concentrate only on breathing in and out, and when I speak, I want you to listen only to my voice.” He paused. “Are you ready?”
I nodded and closed my eyes, allowing my head and body to sink further into the sofa; then Matthew began to speak, his deep voice low and comforting.
“In a moment I’m going to relax you more completely.”
Breathe in, breathe out.
“In a moment I’m going to begin counting backward from ten to one. When I say the number ten you will allow your eyelids to remain closed. The minute I say the number ten, you will, in your mind’s eye, see yourself at the top of a small set of stairs.”
There was a brief silence in which I concentrated on the ins and outs of my breathing and pictured a staircase—alone, in a darkened space—with me at the top, illuminated in a bright white light.
He continued. “The moment I say the number nine, and each additional number, you will just move down those stairs, relaxing more completely. At the base of the stairs is a large feather bed, with a comfortable feather pillow. The moment I say the number one you will simply sink into that bed, resting your head on that feather pillow.”
I could see the bed and the feather pillow at the bottom of the staircase, and I felt an urgency to reach it, an unexplainable exhaustion that overcame me as I regarded the pillow, eager to rest my head on it.
Matthew’s voice continued slowly and steadily, bringing me down each step of the staircase, my level of relaxation increasing with each step until I stood on the bottom one.
“One,” he said. “Now you’re sinking into that feather bed; let every muscle go limp and loose as you sink into a calmer, more peaceful state of relaxation. I want you to imagine that you’re just an observer of your own mind, drifting slowly down through your levels of consciousness.”
His voice became the only sound in the room as it brought me slowly through my levels of consciousness, like being on an elevator where the upper level was where I was aware of everything, and the lower levels my subconscious mind. I could see myself on this elevator, could even imagine peeking through the crack in the doors as it descended through each level. I could almost feel the subtle jolt of the elevator stopping when I reached the bottom floor. I waited, staring at the closed doors.
“This is the part of your mind where secret memories from a long time ago are stored, memories that are sometimes so secret that even you have no conscious knowledge of them.” He paused, and I saw the doors of the elevator slide open.
“Now I want you to imagine that you’re at the end of a long corridor, a corridor so long that you can’t see the end of it, but it’s completely empty except for you. You begin walking down it and you notice that there are closed doors set in the walls on either side of the corridor. You stop in front of a door with a sign on it that reads ‘Secrets.’ It’s locked, and there’s a big brass key in the keyhole, and you know that this is the room where your secret memories are kept.”
I stared at the key, my hand hovering over it as I continued to listen to Matthew’s words.
“Your subconscious mind has locked things up in here to protect you from things that once hurt you or upset you or frightened you in some way. They’re all memories f
rom a very long time ago, and they can no longer hurt you. Your subconscious doesn’t know this, and will continue to try to protect you until you face them with your conscious mind and let them go.”
He paused again, and I watched as my hand hovered over the key.
“Just turn the key in the lock and open the door a little bit. In the next few days you’ll start to recall these old memories, sometimes when you’re awake and sometimes during your dreams, and each memory recalled will make you feel a little lighter, a little happier.”
I felt the cold brass beneath my fingers, the latch giving way easily as I turned the key, the door opening without my having to pull on the doorknob. A triangle of brilliant white light spilled from the opening, and although I was listening to Matthew’s voice, I found myself mesmerized by the light, moving toward it, resisting Matthew’s directions to return down the corridor to the elevator.
I felt a presence beside me, urging me forward, and I reached out my arm and pushed the door open wider, so that I was completely swallowed by the bright light. I stepped through the door, feeling led by someone I couldn’t see. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I was outside, under a startling blue sky and smelling salt air. Sand sank between my toes as I stared out at the ocean as if in expectation.
“Ava?” Matthew’s voice called from very far away. “Ava? Where are you?”
“I’m on the beach,” I said, hearing the surprise in my voice as I saw the black skimmers with their broad wings and jet-black caps, and heard the slap of the surf against the shore. Glancing down, I saw that my feet were bare, but I wore a long skirt that blew against my legs in the wind. Hair whipped across my face, and I noticed with the calmness of an uninterested bystander that my hair was no longer blond but a dark brown.
Matthew paused. Then: “Are you afraid of the water?”
“No,” I said, feeling no other emotion except the surety of those words.
“What do you see?”
I told him about my feet and my hair as if I were describing somebody else.
Again, he paused. “What is your name?”
I didn’t hesitate, knowing the answer in the same way I knew that my favorite color was red or that mosquitoes never bothered me. I lifted my chin to follow the flight of one of the skimmers, watching it spread its wings and soar above the crashing waves. I licked my lips, as they had suddenly become very dry, and said simply, “Pamela.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Pamela
ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA
AUGUST 30, 1812
The three of us stretched out in the sand on the old quilt I had found in the bottom of a chest in the attic, the vintage of both items unknown. The attic was a treasure trove of family artifacts, a portal into the past, one into which I could not resist sticking my hand and pulling something into the present.
Geoffrey rested on his back with his eyes closed, his dark lashes curled at the tips, almost like a woman’s. But there was nothing feminine in his face of tight angles and squared jaw. Even his blue eyes did nothing to diminish the strength and masculinity of his features. I knew this face, even in the darkness, like the image of a candle’s flame that remains in the mind’s eye long after it is extinguished.
A small smile drifted to my lips as I thought of the miniature portraits I had commissioned from a traveling artist. I had given the artist peppermint tea for a severe case of dyspepsia, and he was so relieved that he offered as payment the two miniatures of Geoffrey and myself. He had made a quick sketch of Geoffrey and me and promised he would have the paintings completed by the next time he came to St. Simons. It had been more than a year, but I had not yet given up hope that I would have my beloved’s face preserved forever in oil paint.
Geoffrey’s eyes opened and we watched each other for a long moment before he smiled that smile that made me think of the rising sun over the marsh. “What are you looking at?”
“You,” I said. “I was thinking how lucky I am to have such a handsome husband.”
“No.” He reached up and twirled a long dark lock of my hair with his finger. “I am the lucky one.”
I frowned. “Will you still say that when I am old and gray?”
“And even beyond.” He used his hold on my hair to bend my head closer for a kiss. “Why such maudlin thoughts on a beautiful day?”
The wind had changed, fighting with the shorebirds, and the waves danced in response. “If I should die, who would you have raise Robbie?” The question had sat motionless in my mind since the day of Georgina’s wedding, waiting for a day such as this, when none of life’s pressures could interfere with calm thoughts.
“I would, of course. And Jemma. She loves him like a sister would.”
“Not Georgina and Nathaniel? They are our only surviving relatives.”
“No,” he said, closing his eyes against me, knowing I could read them and see what he did not wish me to see.
I lifted my face to the wind, my hair whipping my cheeks, as if I could find the courage I sought in the salty air. “Why did you choose me over her?”
His eyes opened in surprise. “You do not know? She has never told you?”
I shook my head, feeling like a child, curious over the contents of a wrapped present.
“And you are sure you want to know.”
I nodded, not sure at all, but like taking calomel to cure an illness, to hear the truth was important to my well-being.
His eyes were soft as they regarded me. “I found her with Nathaniel. They were both unclothed. I did not witness any more than that, but it was enough for me to know that I could not marry her.”
“But Nathaniel…?”
“He wanted to marry her, but she would not.”
His eyes were shuttered, but I pressed forward, needing to know. “Why not?”
He did not look away as he answered. “She wanted only me, she claimed, although I believed her actions showed otherwise, and told her as much.”
I felt faintly sick and turned away. “And that is the only reason you did not marry her?”
He pulled me down so that our faces were nearly touching. “I thank God every day that I found them. Because then I met you, and no doubts remained.” He kissed me softly, then brought me down next to him, and I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the memory of the look on Georgina’s face when I told her that I was marrying Geoffrey. I had not asked for her forgiveness, yet still, despite what I now knew, I wondered whether I should have, for her sake if not for my own. Yet I was with Geoffrey and Georgina was with Nathaniel, and all was as it was meant to be.
We rested for a long while, although I would not sleep and leave Robbie unattended if he should awaken. Instead, I nestled against Geoffrey and watched Robbie’s back rise and fall as he slept. I placed my palm there, never tiring of the miracle of him.
“He is not going anywhere, Pamela.”
I turned my face toward Geoffrey and nestled my head beneath his chin. “I would not put it past him, even in sleep. I did not know that a boy could be quite so fast and quite so full of energy all of the time.”
Geoffrey’s chest rumbled beneath my ear. “And to think you wanted a dozen.”
“I still do,” I said, thinking of all the babies I had helped bring into the world for other mothers, when all I wanted was just one more for myself.
I felt his lips on the top of my head. “But you are safe, and it comforts me to know that you will not die in childbed like Nathaniel’s first wife. Although I am fairly sure that Nathaniel would like to fill his new house with many children.”
I nodded, thinking of what Georgina had told me about her being barren, and the new house Nathaniel had built for them. It was enormous, with five bedrooms and an extraordinary flower garden that rivaled Anna Matilda King’s at Retreat Plantation. Every time I saw it, I could not help but wonder whether the garden was a nod to our mother’s memory, or a reminder to me of why I had an herb garden full of useful plants.
It was a warm day, but
cooler on the beach with the ocean breeze and an overcast sky. We had finally received news of our country’s declaration of war on Britain. Delivery of the National Intelligencer was slow here on the island, so our news was always delayed. Still, it was a surprise to know that our fledgling nation had been at war for nearly two months already, yet the view from our island remained the same.
The surf crept nearer, covering the tracks etched by the skimmers and temporarily sheltering the small creatures that burrowed in the sand. Foamy bubbles reflected the pewter sky, the image perfectly round and clear until the ocean pulled them back again. When we were children Georgina would tell me that the bubbles were like mirrors through which you could see through to another time, and if you followed them out to sea, they would take you to that place. I hadn’t believed her, but there were times, like now, when I felt the ocean’s magic, knew that the salt and foam that formed the ocean had nourished me in my mother’s womb, marking me as a child of the sea to which I would always return.
“Do you think we will see any hostilities this far south?” I asked Geoffrey, my eyes still focused on the horizon, where the sea and sky met, the gray hues of both melding as if smudged by God’s finger.
“They will want to blockade our busiest ports in Charleston and New Orleans, I am sure. Whether our navy will allow it is another matter.”
“But what of us here, on St. Simons?”
“I think we are too small for them to notice. I am a farmer and not a soldier, but I cannot think why the British would want to come here.” He held me tightly, and for a moment all I could hear was the symphony created by the soft sound of our son’s breathing, Geoffrey’s heartbeat, and the slow riffling of the surf. I clung to the peacefulness of it, memorizing all the notes, to be recalled if needed.
He continued. “Mr. Gould at the new lighthouse has promised to keep watch for British ships and to send an alert if they are spotted. We are in good hands, Pamela.”
“I am glad.” I thought of the stories of the atrocities of the British and their Indian allies in settlements up north, and I shuddered to think those same marauders would invade my home.