And her life began from that moment forward.
“True, your case is a good deal more complex. I would surmise that your inability to remember your own past stems from a psychological block of your own devising. On a sub-conscious level, you don’t want to remember your past. I think your brain has effectively walled it away until it’s ready to deal with a trauma you’re repressing.” He paused, a carefully contrived gesture. “You know, there is one way I can help you remember this moment and deal with it, maybe even help you regain the rest of your memory. Are you familiar with hypno-regressive therapy?”
She stiffened. “Hypnosis?”
“I assure you its nothing like what you’ve seen on television or heard about in nightclubs.” He offered a pompous smirk. “All hypno-regressive therapy does is place you in a highly relaxed state so that you can better focus upon the details of your memory. Nothing more. There’s no way it can make you do anything you don’t want to do. We can even do it right here in the office. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
“Right here?” In her head, siren-bursts drowned out the words.
“Once you confront the trauma in your past, your nightmares should go away along with your amnesia. This fabricated reality of yours wants to be let go; all you need is a past to associate yourself with, and this fantasy that you’ve been clinging to will become unnecessary, and retreat of its own accord.”
No, she wouldn’t allow it. Not here, not trapped in Kohler’s quiet little office, no one around to watch him or stop him, not even herself. He would stop playing doctor, dispense with the masks he hid behind, and reveal his true face, the predatory eyes, the weasel’s teeth. He would peel away her mind and penetrate her dreams as he moved past head-games to more substantive playgrounds.
Ellen pressed her hands tightly to her legs to keep them from trembling.
“We’re almost out of time. We can talk more about this on Friday.” Then he was up from his chair and back towards his desk, eyes skimming across her as he moved. He retrieved a script from his desk drawer, tore off the top slip and scribbled on it. “I’m writing a prescription for you. This should help you sleep. It will also help alleviate some of your anxieties, keep you from feeling depressed. You’ll probably notice yourself feeling a little groggy at first. That’s normal. If you find yourself becoming easily confused, experience tremors or difficulty speaking, I want you to discontinue them and call me at once.” Kohler’s pen, an expensive, monogrammed stylus, scratched deliberately at the paper, his directions scrawling in blue fountain ink across the naked white of the sheet. He did not notice the look on her face, the tightening of her fingers, the stiffening of her limbs. “This will also suppress the nightmares; make it easier to sleep. It’s not a permanent solution, understand. I just want to help you gain some balance.”
If Dr. Kohler had any idea of the impact of what he was saying, he would have torn the slip into pieces and lit them on fire. Instead, he held it out like some strange kind of reward, allowance for a child, a prostitute’s payment.
“Ellen, are you all right? You look pale.”
A grin tugged at his lips—she was certain—but was instantly concealed behind Kohler’s complex layer of masks, this one labeled sympathetic understanding.
“What will they … what are those … what…?” But nothing was completing itself in her mind. She knew a host of drugs that could do what he suggested; memories from that long-ago time before, the vague, gray shadowy land of her sort-of past. She’d had no use for downers or dream suppressors; what point was there in sleeping through your existence if you weren’t dreaming of a better one while you did it? All she knew was that the piece of paper he was holding would take away her dreams; take away Jack!
“Everything will be fine, Ellen. I’m sure you’ll start to feel better once you get started on these.”
“I don’t want … whatever those are.”
“Now, Ellen, listen to me,” Dr. Kohler said sternly. “I’m your doctor. I want you to get better. I think you want to get better, too. But I need you to trust me. The substance of your nightmares indicates a real chance at a breakthrough. Your mind is finally ready to start letting go of these fantasies that are holding you back. Now I want you to get this filled on your way home tonight, and I want you to start on them immediately. On Friday, we’ll see how you’re feeling and go from there.”
Ellen rose unsteadily. She knew by his tone what he was really saying: refuse and you’ll be back in the hospital—that euphemism for the asylum—or even back in jail. Freedom was contingent upon his say-so, and he could rescind it at a moment’s notice. Either she succumbed to him, played the part of the good little patient taking all his pretty little pills—is that your hand on my knee, doctor? —or relinquish it all and re-enter the hallowed halls of permanent madness, no chance at release, no way to get free. Daddy had let her out last time because he thought Kohler could keep her well away. Crazy and out of the picture beats crazy and underfoot. But if Kohler put her back, her father would wash his hands of it. Let her have her dope on the government’s nickel. Let her lie about on their beds and eat their food and have them wash her backside. I’m done. Let her soul wither and die, let her mind shrivel to paste, her body rot down to dust. So what? We were never that close, anyway. Day after day wearing pajamas and slippers, ingesting Thorazine while anxiously awaiting Tuesdays when they served chocolate pudding for lunch. She would forget herself. She would forget Jack. She would waste away and die, and Jack would, too. And that would probably suit everyone just fine, and she knew it.
And Dr. Kohler knew it.
“Okay. Friday.” She reached for the prescription, her fingers numb. Did he know the very idea of what he was suggesting made her blood run cold? She thought maybe he did. And she thought he probably loved that, too.
“I’m right,” Kohler said gently. “You’ll see. Accepting treatment is one of the first steps in getting well.”
She murmured something, some semi-verbal acquiescence, as she turned to leave, squeezing the prescription down into her fist until her fingers went white, her knuckles aching, pain better than the sensation of nothingness. Her other hand closed too quickly around the doorknob—don’t let him see your fingers shake; don’t let him know—and Dr. Kohler added: “Don’t forget to bring the book next time. I want to read it.”
Liar! You want to take it! Destroy it! Destroy me! Destroy Jack! Destroy everything!
She nodded, but could not make eye contact—he’ll see your lies; you’ll see his—and left, walking out of the office and the empty waiting room, the empty receptionist’s desk, the empty stairway down to the street.
She waited for the bus in the rain. It should have made her feel better, feel clean, but it didn’t. It washed away nothing: not Kohler or his prescription, not his eagerness to dig into her dreams or his eyes roving across her skin, his efforts to destroy Jack, to destroy her! Climbing aboard the bus, the rain granted her only one favor: no one assumed her face was wet for any other reason than the weather.
What does the world care for one life, anyway? Just tears in the rain.
EVERY TUESDAY AND FRIDAY
Dr. Kohler was attuned to Ellen’s body language as she left: the crease between her brow, the lowered head, the bowed shoulders. She didn’t like the direction of her therapy.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Sometimes it was necessary to tear down before you could rebuild.
He heard the door close behind her, heard the lock click. He was alone, his receptionist having already left for the night. He closed the door to his office and turned the inside lock. Then he turned off the light and went to the window.
Ellen was standing in the rain; he knew it even before he looked. The bus came at 5:15, but she wouldn’t wait in his office or even the stairwell, and she would never wait inside the terminal adjacent to the bus stop, rain or shine. During a previous session, he asked her why not.
“They have vending machines in the terminal. Do you know how
the food gets into those machines?”
“Usually the owner of the establishment has a food service contract,” he answered. “The machines are filled routinely by a delivery person.”
Ellen Monroe laughed, a short humorless sound. “Yeah, that’s what I used to think, too.”
Classic paranoid delusion.
He picked up his recorder from the desk, thumbed the record button, and began dictating his notes on the session.
“Tried a more aggressive approach combined with reasoning. Thought it might shock Ellen into accepting a more positive method of treatment. She’s keeping secrets that are holding up her progress, and she’s no closer to relinquishing her escapist fantasy than when she began therapy with me two months ago. She complained of nightmares; the images she described suggest that she’s already trying to break down her own delusion on a subconscious level. She appeared anxious. Prescribed Lithium. Should help her sleep and level her moods. This might stop the nightmares as well. Will follow up Friday.”
He looked out the window and saw Ellen, her hair wet from the afternoon rain, her dress clinging to her skin. With the light off, she wouldn’t see him. Observation was a valid tool with a patient reluctant to be forthright.
“I believe the book is the key. She’s very protective of it; she doesn’t want me to read it. I think she believes it will break down under scrutiny. I’d like to try and separate her from it, even temporarily. It may be the first step in breaking her delusion.”
Ellen turned her gaze down the street, looking for the bus, her expression lost.
“Suggested hypno-regressive therapy for the next session. The incident with Leonard Tucker appears to have been a catalyst, but I’ll need to figure out what drove her to that point and why? Her history of drug-use suggests a long-standing problem. I can’t rule out the possibility of schizophrenia mitigated by manic depression. I’ve contacted her father regarding any possible family history of mental illness, but don’t expect a lot of cooperation. Mr. Monroe did provide me with a photo album pursuant to my suggestion that this might help with Ellen’s amnesia.”
The rain pasted Ellen’s dress to her skin, the contours of her body revealed beneath the wet fabric. He could see the outline of her bra. Her underwear was another matter; he couldn’t be sure she was even wearing any.
But she was too clever for that.
“I believe there was some kind of trauma preceding the incident with Leonard Tucker. Drugs appear to have provided a temporary escape, but Ellen was clearly looking for a more permanent solution. I think she found that in the book, and has woven the details of the story into a facsimile of reality within her mind. This new reality has allowed her to repress her entire past, supplanting it with this new construct. The book’s constant presence reinforces the details of this fantasy. It’s critical to her continued treatment that the Jack Lantirn fantasy and everything about it be eliminated. So long as this safety net exists, and the details remain available only to her, she will continue to resist treatment.”
Still looking out the window, Dr. Kohler thumbed off the recorder, his other hand slowly working open the zipper of his trousers, fingers finding their way inside, penis throbbing, bone-hard. Yes, she was definitely too clever to distract him with something like not wearing underwear. Too bad, huh, Freddy? Yeah, too bad. But if he pushed her hard enough, provoked her just right, she might try something … desperate.
She might pretend it was a mistake. I can’t believe I forgot to wear underwear today; I keep forgetting things. Do we have to talk about the book? Maybe we could end the session a little early?
His fingers gently worked the sensitive skin as he confided to himself the things about Ellen Monroe he should never record. I bet Ellen could be real nice if she wanted to, if she thought it would get her something. He’d find out on Friday. Find out how badly she wanted to keep her book secret; wanted to keep her special world safe. She might be more agreeable than you think, Freddy. Your pusher doesn’t try to rape you unless your willing to put out for your drugs in the first place, does he? I mean, she had money. No need to take it out in trade unless she offered.
He looked back at his desk, his office, but all that he saw was the picture of Cassie at his graduation. Girls will put out for drugs. Isn’t that right, Freddy?
Why was she back in his head now? Gone for twenty years, dead and buried, and now she was back, caught in his mind like a song that had gotten stuck, playing over and over without relief or respite. Cassie. Eight weeks ago, the picture sat on the bookshelf like an afterthought. Now it sat on his desk, a memory of the only piece of his childhood past he didn’t want to forget.
You started treating Ellen eight weeks ago.
Funny, he never made the connection, Ellen and Cassie. Both shared an expression that was innocent and knowing and, on occasion, haunted with their own private demons; demons not so dissimilar. The picture on his desk was from the time before things went bad. Cassie was still clear-eyed, still his little cousin, still the only member of his entire family he ever really loved. They were both smiling, both genuinely happy. His arm was around her shoulders, fingers touching the bare skin of her arm.
Cassie had demons just like Ellen. So much alike. So very much alike. I wonder if maybe Ellen would like to…
Outside, Ellen stood revealed in the rain. What would it be like to have her on his couch, living in her alternate world, dreaming of her fantasy lover while he plied her secrets like the buttons on her dress, nearly invisible panties, small and thin and dangerously revealed, sliding down her thighs, balled up on the floor?
Maybe Friday, maybe, Lithium-drunk and hypnotized and prone, maybe then, Freddy, maybe something … desperate.
The bus arrived and Ellen left. Maybe it was for the best; reality would only ruin it.
Ellen’s dreams would open up to him, naked and tantalizing, breathing heavy, frightened and excited, her hidden secrets revealed, swollen with eager possibilities, sensitive skin trembling, engorged, eager to know and be known. He thought of running his hands across that smooth skin, pressing his lips against the flat of her belly, feeling her heat, the small shudder of her flesh as she responded to his voice, calling her name …
Cassie!
Excuse me?
We in the trade call that a Freudian slip. So Freddy, tell me the first thing that comes to mind when I say, kissing cousin?
The first mind-erasing spasms jolted through him, exploding from his groin like a blast epicenter, eradicating everything in its wake. His fist tightened down upon himself, the crushing grip strangling, pleasure killed by excruciating pain. His entire body stiffened in the wash of agony and ecstasy, pleasures unrealized, unreleased, denied. And secretly, Dr. Frederick T. Kohler relished the pain, the sense of emptiness, the exquisite agony of longing unfulfilled. Just as he loathed it; loathed himself. The guilt was all that remained when it was done, like the voice of consternation he had never heard from anyone, his crimes a guarded secret lost even to himself. Until now. What’s wrong with you? Jerking off like a schoolboy hiding under the covers with the latest panties section of the JCPenney’s catalog. She’s a patient. Not only is it unethical, but thoughts like this about your cousin—
What?!?
—patient! What did I say? Cousin? No, that would go beyond unethical. Compared to that, sleeping with a patient is small potatoes, a relationship between consenting adults, frowned upon professionally, but otherwise …
Not like … not like …
You remember, don’t you? That hot July afternoon … the feeling … so smooth…
He zipped up, hands shaking, legs unsteady, off balance by where these thoughts were leading him, a path not traveled since time out of mind towards doors closed and left behind long ago.
There was a reason he scheduled Ellen Monroe’s appointments for the end of the day.
MOMENTS BEFORE
Jack Lantirn was not a figment of Ellen Monroe’s imagination, not simply some character in a book.
At least, he didn’t think so.
Well … not anymore.
It had been some time since he destroyed the Sanity’s Edge Saloon, since he last saw Ellen Monroe—saw her, not simply dreamed of her. Dreaming was as common as breathing; reality like water on the moon. But how long? That was the question. And the answer kept slipping through his fingers.
Just like everything else.
He was the Caretaker now, had been ever since Ellen left, sent away into that other reality where everything was normal—or nearly normal. He was alone, everything else lost or destroyed in the final confrontation. No more Saloon. No more Wasteland dregs. No more Cast Outs. Everything was gone. He was the last, the uncontested ruler of the Nexus, the dream-to-reality machinery of the universe, that crossroads of all time and space, dimensions and realities ever before and since, Hallelujah!
He was the king of nothing.
There was no telling how much time had passed since she left. Time was different here. Everything was different here. Caught on the edge between dreams and madness, time meant nothing and everything both. Adrift in the present, no past or future to hold him, he was outside of time and space with nothing but himself and the Wasteland and the endless sky to mark the passing of time.
The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) Page 9