8
Nightmares
Sara Caine glared at her mother. "Why can't you just let me stay home?"
"Because it's too late to get a babysitter and you're not old enough to stay home alone," her mother said in an even tone, barely looking at her. Her parents were going to the Howards, and it was the last place she wanted to be on a Thursday night. Dr. Howard was so weird and all he ever talked about were his stupid witches. She bet his wife was a witch. She looked enough like one, she thought crossly. She had no idea why her Dad liked them as much as he did.
"But it's a school night," she whined and saw her father shoot her mother a look.
"Enough, Sara," he said in the voice that made her instantly shut up. "We need to leave and now."
He headed out the door, Sara and her mother right behind him. They all piled into the silver Jaguar without saying another word. Sara sulked out the window as her parent's voices rose in the front seat. She was furious and gritted her teeth as she watched the billboards passing by. She didn't care if they were fighting in the front seat. It served them right, she thought as her father took the exit to Topanga Canyon. Their voices went down to a murmur as the street lamps became more spaced out, and they headed for the wilder parts of the Santa Monica Mountains.
Sara stared out of the window hoping to catch a glimpse of a coyote when she heard her father pump hard on the brakes.
"Shit," he said and Sara turned forward, frowning. Why was her Dad scared?
"What's wrong, James?" Her mother grabbed at his arm.
"The brakes. They're gone," he shouted as he pulled hard on the hand break. Sara saw her father's knuckles turn white, and a blackness seeped into her peripheral vision. She squeezed her eyes shut and heard the screeching of tires on asphalt.
* * *
"Mom! Dad!" Sara screamed and tore at the covers on her bed. She sobbed and crawled over to her nightstand and turned on the light. She'd managed to stave off the familiar nightmare for several weeks, but it was back. She wiped at her face with her sleeve and took several gulps of water from the glass she always kept on the nightstand.
No more sleep for her tonight. She checked the time and was relieved to see it was already four in the morning. Sunrise was only a couple of hours away. Thinking of coffee, she got out of bed and pulled an old cardigan over her pajamas. She'd watch TV until she was ready to leave for work and hoped it would distract her enough to keep away the sound of grating metal and tires on asphalt. She could almost smell the burning rubber.
As she went through her usual morning routine, her mind drifted to Sam Rogers and his own nightmares. Having nightmares every night was torture for her and she couldn't imagine how scared a six-year-old must be to experience the same. She felt guilty for behaving the way she did when she'd first met them, but she had her own fear to contend with. She couldn't imagine being in Mrs. Rogers' position, and watching her son being so tormented. That was the true nightmare, she thought, as the coffee machine dinged, signaling it was done.
She poured herself a cup, took it into the living room, got comfortable on the couch, and pulled her favorite blanket up to her chin. Her mother had given it to her when she was in fifth grade, and it was one of the only things she had left. She turned on the TV and flipped through the channels to find her favorite late night viewing, infomercials.
At this late hour, most of the channels put on paid advertisements. She'd seen many of them before, but one of her favorites was a bunch of has-been celebrities selling face cream. She found it and turned the sound down low. She preferred watching their faces contort into false sincerity in silence than hearing the familiar pitch.
She took a sip of coffee. She should offer to help in some way. So what if he wasn't being haunted by ghosts, he was being haunted by nightmares and that was something she was very familiar with. She could make an excuse to go back to the same location she first met them and stop by to check in on them. With her mind made up, the guilt plaguing her receded into the background.
* * *
"Joan, there you are," Sara said as she stepped over boxes filled with the remnants of the diner set. She had been surprised to find Joan breaking down the set herself. "I thought you'd be at the other location?"
"Are you kidding? Do you know how much these props would cost us if they didn't go back in one piece? My entire budget would be blown on fees," she said and lowered her voice. "They're only good for taping the boxes shut," she said, narrowing her eyes in suspicion at the PAs closing up cardboard boxes.
"I totally understand. Which is why I was looking for you. I wondered if anyone had gone to pick up those lamps at the Venice Bungalow. They're done with that set, aren't they?"
Joan gave her a big smile. "That's why I like you, Caine. We will have to work together again. And yes, that was going to be on my list for pickup today. Would you really go do that for me?"
"I don't see why not. I don't need to be at the Rose Street location for another couple of hours. I still have the boxes in my car as well. That's what made me think of them."
"I love you girl, seriously," Joan said, her attention already back to one of the PAs. "Be careful with that!" she yelled at him and pushed past Sara. That was easy enough, Sara thought and left without another word.
* * *
After loading the lamps back into the boxes and lugging them into the back of the Volvo, Sara drove over to the Rogers residence instead of going through the back alley. It'd be too weird to show up unannounced in their backyard.
She pulled the Volvo behind Mrs. Rogers Honda Civic and wiped her palms off on her jeans. She hadn't realized how nervous she was until she felt her palms go all wet. Why was this a good idea, she asked herself.
There was no way she could help Sam. No one who had tried to help her succeeded. Even Father Luken couldn't chase the nightmares away. She forced herself out of the car and saw the curtain move in the living room window. Figuring Mrs. Rogers must have seen her and feeling like a first-class idiot, she knocked on the door. She didn't have to wait long for the door to open.
"Ms. Caine, I'm so surprised to see you. What are you doing here?" Mrs. Rogers asked, confusion wrinkling her forehead.
"I... I'm not sure. I mean, I suffer from nightmares as well. About my parent's death and I was thinking of Sam and how hard that must be to have them almost every night and I wanted to come and offer my help," Sara blurted out.
Mrs. Rogers shook her head and let out a small sigh. "How could you help, Ms. Caine?"
"I don't know. It always made me feel better to know that others were dealing with the same issues," Sara said and from the look on Mrs. Rogers' face knew she'd said the wrong thing.
"You having nightmares is not the same thing as what's happening to my son, Ms. Caine. I'm sorry I ever got you involved in this. We're seeing proper medical professionals and don't need or want your help. Please, forget you ever met us. We'll be fine," she said and closed the door on Sara.
Sara fought back tears as she rushed to her car. That was a stupid idea, she thought. She shouldn't have come especially when she was such an exposed nerve. The moment the car door shut behind her, the first sob ripped through her body and she doubled over, trying to catch her breath. She was such an idiot. When would she ever learn, she thought as the stress and tears coalesced into brutal gasping sobs.
* * *
Cait Rogers peeked through the curtains to the Volvo and the sobbing girl in the front seat. She hadn't meant to be so rude, and felt bad for taking her frustration out on the girl. Cait should have known who she was dealing with. Cait had mistaken her fragile state as awareness and sensitivity to the invisible world, similar to what the wise women in her village had. Sara Caine was not a wise woman but more of a troubled, broken girl. Cait bit her lip. Maybe she should go out there and apologize, she wondered when she heard soft footsteps come up behind her. She turned to find Sam standing in the middle of the room.
"Are you taking me to see more Doctors?" he asked and Cait saw the look
in his eyes that scared the hell out of her. He wasn't her little boy anymore. She took a small step back and stopped herself. She would not be afraid of her son.
"It's a talking doctor, Sam. She won't give you any tests. She'll just listen to you and hopefully help you with the nightmares."
"I'm not sick, Mom. I don't know how many ways I can prove that to you," he said, his eyes flashing.
"I'm going to make this right, Sam. Let me make this right," she said and turned away from him. She watched as Sara Caine pulled out of her driveway and let her own tears go. She tried to keep them as silent as she could until she heard her son's footsteps move down the hall.
9
The Session
Dr. Amy Jones tamped down her anticipation in meeting Sam Rogers and focused instead on transcribing her notes from her previous session, a young boy with a pronounced anxiety disorder. The parents' lack of boundaries with the child was the problem, but she couldn't get the parents to see that and not without a lack of trying at the last three sessions. Parents never wanted to take responsibility for the destruction they created in their children's lives.
Caitlyn Rogers didn't appear to be a bad parent, but that didn't necessarily mean much. Often, the worst offenders wore the best masks in public. She checked the time and started her preparatory routine for her next session with a deep breath. She loved the sense of calm that her routine imbued in her.
She got up slowly from her desk and took five measured steps to the door. With each step, she focused all of her attention on how her foot landed on the soft pile of carpet and how the forward motion moved through her foot. The heel hit the ground first and then the rocking motion ended on the ball of her foot before she lifted it again. By the time she opened the door she was ready to hear anything. She smiled at the small, blond haired boy who clutched his mother's hand. Mrs. Rogers gave her a tight smile and pushed the boy forward.
"Sam, this is Dr. Jones. Dr. Jones, Sam," she said. Sam gave her a small nod and pushed himself back into his mother's legs.
"You can both call me Dr. Amy. It's very nice to meet you, Sam," Dr. Amy said. "I have some toys inside you might like to play with," she said, outstretching her hand. Mrs. Rogers pushed Sam forward again, and he reluctantly took Dr. Amy's hand.
"Your mom will be right outside waiting for you. Is that OK?" Dr. Amy looked at Mrs. Rogers who nodded and sat back on the sofa. Getting her implied permission, Dr. Amy pulled Sam inside and closed the door behind them.
"Do you like trains?" she asked and pointed to a painted, wooden train set just to the left of the door. Sam nodded and let go of her hand.
"Can I play with it?" he asked first and Dr. Amy nodded. He systematically investigated each car, observing in minute detail its shape, color, and connections. Dr. Amy sat down next to him and jotted down her initial impressions. He wasn't exhibiting any signs of ADHD or other sorts of hyperactivity disorders, and seemed a well-behaved child.
"Sam, do you know why your Mom brought you to me today?"
"You're a doctor, and she thinks I'm sick," he said and inched the locomotive forward several inches.
"Do you feel sick?" Dr. Amy asked.
He shrugged. "I don't feel sick right now," he said and pushed the locomotive faster, fascinated by the rest of the cars moving.
"Do you remember any thoughts you have before your sickness comes?" Dr. Amy asked, observing the boy's body language. He was perfectly still and composed unlike most of the children she saw. She noted the unusual behavior down.
"What my Mom calls the shakes?" he asked.
"Yes, the seizures."
"I see a bright light, like when Mom shone a flashlight into my eyes by accident." He looked up expectantly at her and Dr. Amy smiled in encouragement.
"That's happened to me before too. It hurts, doesn't it?"
"Not really. It's just bright," he said and scooted forward, locomotive in one hand, balancing himself on the other. He smiled in delight as the train got some traction. He let go of it and watched as it lost speed quickly and came to a halt. "You need a hill to keep the train moving," he told her. She nodded.
"I'm sure I can set it up to have a hill. It would be fun to see it move on its own," she said and noted that Sam wasn't exhibiting the usual amount of imagination she would expect a child his age.
"Sam, do you ever hear voices before or after the bright light?"
"I don't hear voices," he said, the first stubborn note creeping into his voice.
"Your mom mentioned someone named Jimmy? Is he a friend of yours?"
"No," was all he said. He stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. "I want my Mom now."
"We have a couple more minutes left. Would you like to draw instead?"
"No."
"Who is Jimmy, Sam?" Dr. Amy took a chance with a more direct question. She kept her voice soft and made sure to smile reassuringly at him. It worked because he dropped his arms, sat across from her in the chair and met her eyes. She stared at the adult staring back at her, and understood why the mother was so spooked.
"I am Jimmy. Or I was," he said.
"Was?"
"Before, when I was an adult," he said.
"When you were an adult?"
"Before the white light happened."
"The same white light that happens right before you get the shakes?" Dr. Amy said and jotted down dissociative identity disorder with question marks behind it. Could she really have an honest to goodness split personality case?
"No, not that light. Another light," he said and observed her reaction. "You don't believe me do you?"
"I believe YOU believe you are experiencing this," Dr. Amy said and forced herself to meet his eyes. A six-year-old would not scare her.
"I want to see my Mom now," he said and hopped off the chair. "And I don't need to believe," he added. "I just am."
"We still have minutes left, Sam. We don't have to talk about this right now," she said, ignoring his cryptic message
"I want my Mom," he said again. Dr. Amy knew then that their session was over.
"I'll go get your mom. I do need to speak with her alone first. Can you stay here for a moment and keep on playing? I'll be right back."
"You're going to say bad things about me?" Sam asked.
"No, honey. Not bad things. She's very worried about you," she explained.
"I didn't do it," he said, his eyes watering. He was back to being a child again. Dr. Amy touched him on the shoulder.
"Do what, Sam?" she asked. "You being here doesn't mean you are in trouble. The shakes aren't healthy, and your mom wants to make you feel better."
He stared at her without saying a word as tears rolled down his cheeks. Dr. Amy plucked a tissue out of the nearest holder and handed it to him. "You don't want your Mom to see you upset, do you?" she asked, guilt just behind her professional wall. She had never tried to manipulate a child before, but she knew it was important that Mrs. Rogers not see her son cry at their very first session.
Dr. Amy felt Mrs. Rogers wasn't sold on the therapy in the first place and worried she would terminate it at any moment. If he really had a dissociative personality disorder, then the boy had been severely abused over a typically long period of time. Dr. Amy had read through the brain scans that the neurologist had sent over and, though she wasn't an expert, she saw nothing abnormal with his brain. If it was split personality then, the abuse couldn't be obvious or the doctors would have reported it immediately.
Sam sniffled several times into the Kleenex and wiped his eyes with it. "I want to see Mom now. I don't want to play anymore," he said again. Dr. Amy nodded and opened the door.
When Sam saw his mom, he rushed out of the room and into her arms. Mrs. Rogers looked equal parts confused and angry. Instead of an angry onslaught from her as Dr. Amy expected, she got a silent Mrs. Rogers.
"This happens often, I'm afraid," Dr. Amy felt obligated to explain. "Could I get a moment with you, alone?" she asked. Mrs. Rogers extricated herself from S
am's grasp and whispered something in his ear. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and climbed onto the couch. Mrs. Rogers hesitated a moment before coming up to her.
"Can we leave the door open? I don't want to leave him alone in his state," she said.
"Of course, I completely understand. We don't have to go far into the office, just enough that we are out of earshot," she said and led Mrs. Rogers several feet into her office. "Do you have a clear view of him?"
"Yes, thank you," Mrs. Rogers replied.
Deciding on being honest from the get go, Dr. Amy plunged in. "I hate to ask, and I know what this is going to sound like but have you seen any sorts of signs of abuse on Sam? Does he have a nanny or does he go to preschool?" Mrs. Rogers stared at her with a look of incomprehension. Dr. Amy had experience with angry parents, nasty parents, and tearful parents but hadn't encountered too many silent parents.
"I'm sorry to be asking such a thing but from my evaluation he isn't ADHD nor does he have any obvious behavioral issues. However, he does show symptoms that typically present with serious continuous abuse."
"Fifteen minutes is enough for that kind of diagnosis?" Mrs. Rogers asked her, her face becoming unreadable.
Dr. Amy kept her face neutral. "I have years of experience in this and I wouldn't ask such a serious question if I didn't see signs indicating abuse."
"And what signs are those?"
"Sam spoke of Jimmy as another persona, another self. That idea of another self comes from a child protecting himself from trauma."
"Another self? What does that even mean?" Mrs. Rogers asked.
"He has developed a way to protect himself by creating this Jimmy to take over when he feels threatened."
"Wait, are you talking about a split personality? Multiple personality disorder? I thought that if that was the case, then the personalities wouldn't know that the other existed." Mrs. Rogers said and took a defensive stance. Dr. Amy had forgotten Mrs. Rogers worked in the medical field.
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