Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  “Isn’t she supposed to be your best friend? Didn’t you tell me you two used to talk on a regular basis?”

  I want him to stop this. The pain behind my eyes is almost as bad as it was when Knight kept shining that damn light.

  “I’ve given Susie’s silence a lot of thought. But for some reason I can’t make myself pick up the phone, either. Maybe we had a fight.”

  Duncan puts the telephone on the couch next to me. “Then why don’t you make the first move? You don’t have to tell her you can’t remember anything. Just say you’ve been busy with a new job and a fiancé that demands all your waking hours.”

  A child answers. “Dardens.”

  “Hi, this is Allie Armington. Is your Mom around?”

  The phone clatters in my ear and I wince, hoping it’s not a harbinger of what’s to come.

  Susie’s, “Hello,” is painfully tentative.

  “Hi, yourself. I’ve been thinking of you all day, so I decided to give you a call. How are things?”

  “Oh. Fine.” She pauses. “Just fine. And you?”

  “Fine, too.” I take a deep breath and say, “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, Suze. Are you mad at me or something?” The reassuring denial I pray will come back, doesn’t. Her voice is flat when she says, “It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  No point in idle chat, so I leap in with, “I just heard about Paul.”

  Dead silence, then a small, “Really?” “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  More silence, broken by children’s gleeful squeals in the background.

  I can’t figure whether I’m confused or angry at her apathy, so I push. “His lawyer said it was a heroin overdose. Did you know that?”

  Finally, Susie whispers, “We’ve been asked not to discuss Paul with anyone. Especially not you.”

  At that, my heart begins a panicky tango through my chest. “Who told you not to say anything to me?”

  Her next words are fear-filled. “Look, Allie, I’ve already said too much. You’re my dearest friend and I want you be around long enough to be in the front row at your namesake’s wedding.”

  Namesake? I struggle to remember a namesake. Nothing comes and I can’t pursue the issue without revealing the gaping hole in my life. Before I can answer, I hear Del’s voice in the background and then the dial tone.

  Chapter 20

  SUSIE’S LAST WORDS sent me through a sleepless night, quivering in Duncan’s embrace, and this morning I am seated across from the vain and balding Dr. Solomon.

  After briefly relating my conversation with Susie and the news that I have a child named after me whom I know nothing about, I plead for his help. “I’ll do anything, take anything, try anything to get my memory back.”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he stares at me until I look away. Then he speaks. “You want a quick fix. Is that it?”

  The man must have iron for brains and Dr. Knight must be nuts if he thinks Solomon can help me. When I face him, my impatience is much too obvious. “I said I’ll do anything.”

  “You don’t like me very much, do you Miss Armington?”

  Oh, dear, is it that apparent? I sigh and dish the truth. “No. Sorry.”

  He smiles. “Don’t be. In this business, liking your therapist helps, but it’s trust that truly matters.”

  He opens my file, pulls out the papers and reads through them while I perch on the edge of my chair, wondering what comes next. Will he refer me to someone else or struggle along with me despite my obvious antagonism?

  He finally looks up through steepled hands and says, “Hypnotherapy, and in my opinion that is the best way to deal with hysterical or retrograde amnesia, not only involves your willingness to cooperate with me, but it’s my responsibility to get you to trust me. Sad to say, we have a way to go before that can happen.”

  I don’t have the time to learn to like him. My, “Oh, I certainly trust you,” sounds as bogus as it is.

  “No matter how desperate you are to get your memory back, this procedure involves your complete collaboration, because I cannot and will not hypnotize you until you are willing to give me complete control.”

  I slump back in my chair. Either I get out of here or I get on the horse and ride. At that, I picture the sign “Mr. No-Name.”

  When Solomon repeats his lurch-forward-and-seem-interested look of the day before, I beat him to the punch. “I rode a horse named Mister No-Name.”

  “And?”

  I try to picture the horse, or the stable, or something connected, but nothing follows. “Nothing else.”

  “Try to relax. Take three or four deep breaths for me, will you?”

  What harm can that do? I follow his instructions and actually feel some of the starch go out of my spine.

  His voice breaks my imposed trance. “If you’re willing, Miss Armington, I would very much like to be the one to get you through this.”

  He smiles. “Here’s my proposition. As best I can tell, your hysteria is due to one or more traumatic experiences connected to your trips to Uvalde. I think we can work through your memory loss with a series of thirty- to sixty-minute sessions. You can make the decision whether we should meet several times a week or less.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “If you decide on using a more aggressive approach, that is, several sessions a week, my best guess is somewhere within five to fifteen weeks.”

  Not exactly music to my ears, but as the man says, I’m desperate. “I’d like to try the aggressive route, but I do have a job.”

  “Not a problem. I often see patients after business hours.”

  I stand to go, but he motions me back to my chair. “I have a few assignments for you. This is a two-person job, you know.”

  “Assign away. I’m game for almost anything.”

  He pulls out a small spiral pad and hands it to me. “First, I want you to record anything you might remember about the period covering your memory loss. A word, a feeling, even a period of unease. Describe what you think triggers it, and if possible write down the time of day that each flash occurs.”

  “That seems easy enough,” I say and start to rise. “There’s one more thing...”

  Down I go, again.

  He pulls out several sheets of paper stapled together. “Secondly, it is imperative that you immediately begin a daily regimen of self-relaxation. Try these techniques at least once, until you find the one that works best for you. Then practice that technique at least three times a day, in your home, at your office, and if possible in a public place.”

  I take the pages and quickly leaf through them. “There are almost twenty here,” I protest.

  “That’s right, and if none of those work, there are twenty more.” He stands and extends his hand. “I’m looking forward to a successful endeavor with you Miss... may I call you Allie?”

  I extend mine and we shake hands. He has a nice firm grip and a warm, dry hand. If he’d just do something about the side swipe of hair on top of his head.

  “You can call me anything you want, except incurable.”

  Chapter 21

  THANKSGIVING IS HARD UPON US and after almost five weeks my little notebook is still blank. In the beginning, I wondered what Solomon and I were going to discuss after I got my relaxation technique down pat.

  It didn’t take long to realize his series of rather gently probing questions were part of his trust-building procedure, so I easily breezed through years three to eighteen in the first couple of sessions.

  Straight A’s in school. Boyfriends? Not really, just a gang of good buddies who hung out together. Angela was the one who dealt with the string of swains.

  Lots of “I sees” from Solomon. Not much else. Today it’s Texas. UT. The orange tower.

  I take my place on the couch and do my relaxation technique, which consists of deep breathing and counting backward from one hundred until I almost fall asleep. I’m surprised to find that I actually look forward to getting into this Z
en-like state.

  Solomon’s voice comes strained through cotton. “Did you enjoy your time at the University?”

  My response is a dreamy, “Oh, yes.”

  I visualize the place where I spent my first year. Mrs. MacFalls, known to its tenants as Big Mac’s, was a large, white, three-story house with wide porches across the front on the first and second floors. Rooms varied greatly in size and were meted out on longevity. Freshmen, unless they had a mentor, were relegated to the chopped-up rabbit-warren on the third floor. But thanks to my sister’s camp roommate, who was in her final year, I occupied the other bed in a large, airy space with access to the second-story porch.

  “So it was a pleasant experience?”

  “Three of the best years of my life, thanks to Reena Harper.” “Your friend?”

  “She, Susie Baxter, and I were known as the Tri Delt Trio. Though neither Susie nor I could figure out what a beauty like Reena was doing with a couple of turkeys like us.”

  “Don’t you consider yourself attractive?”

  “Attractive? I suppose. But attractive isn’t stunning. My sister is stunning.”

  “And you’re not?”

  I try to bury the rush of envy I feel every time I think of Angela. “Never was. I miss stunning by millimeters. Luck of the gene pool, I guess. You know, nose just a smidge too long, eyes just a bit too small, and hair just a tad too curly.”

  “Just like me and my brother,” Solomon says. “He’s ten years older and still has a full head of hair.”

  For the first time, I feel a true kinship with this man and empathize with his pitiful attempt to cover his balding pate. Life is not fair.

  Solomon intones from above, “Ah, we digress. Let’s get back to Reena.”

  “Sorry. Reena—Reena was a stunner. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. This fabulous blonde rushing toward me, dragging a cute, short, dark-haired girl behind her. I stepped back to let the twosome pass, but the blonde stopped and pointed at me, then said, ‘I choose you.’”

  “But she picked you out of a large group of other women. She must have thought you were as attractive as she.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And your other friend?”

  “Susie Baxter from Uvalde. She lived with Reena in a boarding house just up the street from mine.”

  “You said the first three years were...” He checks his notes. “Three of the best years of your life. What happened to change that?”

  Don’t go there, a tiny voice says somewhere at the side of my mind as an almost unbearable sadness overwhelms me. Then I whisper, “Paul Carpenter happened.”

  For the rest of the session I talk about Paul. How I felt when I first saw him. The first night we slept together. The four months we spent before Reena got to him. Everything. Even the abortion.

  I suppose I am already weeping by the time I get to the part about my abortion. But I sob and heave as that sad, long-ago morning, so carefully locked deep in my soul, comes spewing forth in clarifying detail. The noise of the electric suction pump. The feel of a hand in mine and the soothing voice of the nurse as my baby is pulled from me forever.

  Only then do I realize it’s Solomon’s hand and Solomon’s soothing voice.

  He offers me another tissue to add to the ten or fifteen little damp balls in the wastebasket next to the couch and says, “What a sad secret you kept. First, losing the love of your life to a woman you considered a dear friend, then having to silently grieve for the death of your child.” He pauses, then says, “Paul never knew?”

  “What was the point?”

  “You must be a very strong person to have worked through such a devastating experience.”

  “I can’t see how reviving my pathetic tale is going to help. I mean it’s been eight years since that happened. I dealt with it. Got on with my life. You know I’m getting married in March.” I pause. My hands grow clammy and, opening my eyes, I quickly qualify my announcement. “What I mean is, we have a church and a hall reserved for March.”

  “That’s wonderful news, Allie.”

  My reaction frightens me. I should be filled with joy, flushed with anticipation, instead I feel some sort of bleak emptiness. “Is it?”

  Solomon’s smile dies. “Isn’t it?”

  I look down at Duncan’s ring and murmur, “I was counting on being through with our sessions by the end of January.”

  “I was hoping for that too.” “But?”

  “Not a ‘but,’ just a new concern. I’ve noticed the ring on your finger, but until this moment you never mentioned your fiancé or your approaching marriage. Why do you suppose that is?”

  I shrug and stare back.

  “If this man is going to be part of your future, don’t you think we should spend a little time discussing him?”

  “I suppose. That is, if you think we should.” “Don’t you?”

  I capitulate and tick down a list of Duncan’s vital statistics. “Sounds like a fine young man.”

  “Oh, he is, but...” I search for an ending to this uncomfortable exercise but nothing comes.

  Solomon saves me by flipping through my thickening file. After reading the last sheet, he puts it on his “done” stack. The drill is over.

  “I’m pleased with your ability to put yourself into a relaxed state so easily. That will be most helpful when we start the hypnotherapy.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When you ask for it.”

  Duncan won’t be home until late. He’s tied up with witness interviews for his latest fraud case. I’m grateful for the time to sort through my sad past alone. Finally being able to talk to someone about the abortion has been a great relief.

  I have made a hot cup of chamomile tea and am nestled in bed. I’m a mess. Eyes still red hours later. The session with Solomon was the worst so far. Dredging up the past only makes me realize how much I lost and bringing up my future with Duncan has been very unsettling.

  I set my empty teacup on the bedside table, fluff my pillows, and turn off the light. After thirty minutes trickle by, I decide to practice deep breathing and counting backward from one hundred.

  I’m not sure if I’m dreaming, but I hear Paul’s voice as if he were standing next to me. Say there’s a chance for us. Tell me we can begin again. The moments at his hideaway replay with sharp edges. Especially his shock at my refusal to sleep with him while he was still married to Reena.

  A chunk of my memory has just fallen into place.

  I rummage through my purse and pull out the little notebook. Note the time: 9:30p.m. I write that first, then what happened, then Paul’s words.

  For the first time in weeks, I fall asleep alone.

  Chapter 22

  I HAVE MADE PROGRESS with the memory loss, having recalled most of my January visit to Anacacho. The strain between Paul and Del, Susie’s suspicions that Reena and Del reconnected, as well as the fact that Susie was just about to deliver a daughter and name her after me.

  The brown envelope remains with Gibbs because Solomon advised me to leave it in the attorney’s hands until I regain all my memory. I didn’t tell Gibbs about my problem, only that I was involved in a large real estate transaction and was out of the country.

  Sad to say, now that my memory is returning, I have found it increasingly difficult to be intimate with Duncan. I’m able to handle the kisses, but the minute he becomes more familiar, I tense up. The only way I can get through the rest of our love-making is to clench my teeth and wait for the act to be over. That bothers me enormously because, in the beginning, sex with Duncan was the greatest.

  When I told Dr. Solomon about my problem, he suggested I blame my growing aversion to intercourse on that particular stage of my therapy. This has helped dissipate some of the tension between Duncan and me, but I sense a reluctance on his part to have sex unless I take the initiative—and I don’t.

  I must say, good old Dr. Solomon has tried every psychiatric tool to get through that stone wal
l surrounding my second trip to Uvalde, but so far, nothing has worked. And now, it’s show time.

  Today, he’s going to try to hypnotize me. It was my suggestion. It had to be. That was the deal. And I am ready. By that I mean I’m able to drop into the alpha state in only three deep breaths while counting backward from one hundred to ninety-six. It’s amazing how helpful this has been in connection with my work. An issue arises—I spend a few relaxed minutes—the issue seems easier to solve.

  Since it’s Saturday, Dr. Solomon suggested I dress comfortably, and I have chosen a jogging suit and running shoes. I notice he’s done the same, probably relieved to get out of the iron suit and hangman’s tie for a change.

  Before the hypnosis begins we chat for about twenty minutes, reviewing some of my memories of Uvalde. I know he’s gunning for my second visit. Apparently, that’s where the trouble lies.

  Dr. Solomon’s next question is a jolt. “Is it possible you met someone new while you were there?”

  I feel the heat between my legs and redden with embarrassment at my intense and rapid arousal as a fragment of the past replays. I’m on the porch at Anacacho with a man. His body is barely touching mine, but I don’t want to move away. I hope he’ll kiss me. I try to see who it is, but I can’t look up.

  “Are you suggesting I fell in love?” I meet Dr. Solomon’s penetrating stare and know he’s seen the heat in my cheeks. “But, how could that be? You tell me I was there for a little over three days.” “True.” He smiles and shakes a friendly finger in my direction. “But love at first sight is very real.” He motions to the crammed bookcase. “There have been a number of conclusive studies done on the phenomenon, though I prefer to think that the love is probably more a sexual attraction than spiritual.”

  “Wouldn’t I remember such a strong emotion?” “Did you not?”

  I blush and nod.

  “Then, too, your reluctance to be intimate with your fiancé indicates something or someone has entered the picture. The closer we get to hurdling that wall you’ve built, the more you seem to want Duncan out of the way.”