Flashback

by Gary Braver

  “Every time I go down into the cellar, I get hit with bad visions. Maybe I’m cracking up.”

  “You’re not cracking up, Mr. Koryan. You’re having some kind of seizures.”

  “What about my muttering Armenian phrases in a woman’s voice? I don’t even know the language.”

  “Did you recognize the words?”

  “Not the exact translation, but they’re words of endearment you’d say to children.”

  “Maybe your relatives spoke to you in Armenian and you just forgot.”

  “From thirty years ago?”

  “It’s possible. Your deep recall is remarkable. Perhaps you were just pronouncing them from rote memory—maybe from your aunt or other relatives.”

  “Then how do you explain the image of some misshapen creature with a witch hat and a large animal with the bashed-in head? Those were as real to me as you are now.”

  “I’m not a psychologist, but I think you’re making some kind of association. Tell me about the visions.”

  Relaxing a bit into the gentleness of her manner, Jack described them. Their occurrences weren’t predictable or even restricted to bedtime: Daymares that would strike while he’d be taking a shower or out for a walk or sitting on the porch having a beer. But the bad flashes were always violent and thematically consistent—a darkened figure with a pointed head coming for him, then suddenly attacking another figure with some sort of bludgeon to the brutal sound of skull bone cracking. And always the flashes were perceived from the same point of view—by a window, about chest high, and through some obstruction, as if from the inside of a cage of some sort. And the banging sounds and flickering lights. What baffled Jack was that the location was deeply familiar. And although it lacked none of the non-Euclidean geometry characteristic of ordinary dreams, recognition eluded him.

  “Simple nightmares.”

  She had a cleanly rational explanation for things that didn’t feel clean and rational but alien and clammy. “But it felt like real time, like I was reliving it.”

  She nodded and jotted something on her pad. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve had vivid recollections.”

  “No, but these are different.”

  “How are they different?”

  He explained that these were not pleasant periodic flashes from his youth—warm vignettes of childhood play in the schoolyard or in the neighborhood park with friends, or interludes with girls he liked. What had distinguished them from daydreams or ordinary recollections was that they were violent and exquisitely vivid.

  “Dreams often feel very vivid.”

  “What about the possibility that it was the toxin?”

  “It’s possible.” She flipped open a folder of his medical charts. “According to your most recent blood test, there are negligible traces of the toxin in your system from the original attack.” She looked back at him. “But a more likely possibility is that the massive amount that entered your system has permanently enchanced the physiology of the memory centers of your brain and, as a result, you may be experiencing memory-related nightmares. But that will require running tests on you, which you’ve refused.”

  He was still not interested, but her words sent an uneasy ripple through him. “What I don’t understand is why the same violent scene.”

  Dr. Heller studied Jack for a moment as she absorbed his words. “Do you recognize the figure?”

  “No. But I can see its form.”

  “Do you recognize the victim?”

  “No.”

  “And how long have you been having these spells?”

  “The bad ones, since I’ve been out of Greenwood—since I moved into the house.”

  “Do you recognize where the violence takes place?”

  “I have a sense of being near the ocean, but I also recall a swimming pool smell.”

  “A swimming pool smell?”

  “Yeah, chemicals—chlorine, I guess.”

  Dr. Heller folded her hands. “Mr. Koryan, I’m a neurologist, not a psychologist, but I know some very good people I’d like to refer you to.” She pulled out her pad and scribbled down a name and held it out to him. “He’s very good.”

  Jack took the paper and laid it on her desk. “I’m sure. But I really don’t like the idea of some specialist shrinking me back to my toilet training then giving me a prescription to the same stuff you could write.”

  Dr. Heller stared at him for a long moment parsing his comments and her own possible responses. “It might be wiser to try to get to the source.”

  Maybe I don’t want to. The thought just popped up. He said nothing.

  “Have you ever been physically attacked or assaulted?”

  He’d had a few tussles in high school and college but nothing to produce recollections like this. “Not that I remember.”

  “Have you ever been in a severe accident?”

  “No.”

  “Were you in the military or in any disaster—fire, earthquake, anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “What about traumatic childhood experiences? Any frightening events?”

  Jack heard a slight hum in the back of his mind but shook it away. His uncle Kirk had died of cancer when Jack was twelve, his aunt Nancy when he was a sophomore in college. Their deaths were sad, of course, but not traumatizing. “No.”

  “Well, it sounds to me as if you’re having intrusive recollections or some kind of dissociative episodes that leave you with a sense of having relived some disturbing experience, yet you say you can’t recall any such event.”

  Jack wanted to leave.

  “Let me just ask if any of these episodes are associated with your drinking alcohol.”

  “No.”

  “Are you drinking much?”

  “A beer once in a while.” He checked his watch. The hum had begun to buzz through his limbs. He wanted to be out of there.

  “Do you find yourself avoiding particular thoughts or feelings, people, or places?”

  “Uh-uh.” God, he wished she’d end the session.

  “What about feelings of detachment or estrangement from other people?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I mean in the extreme?”

  “No.”

  “Any sense of foreboding?”

  He shook his head. His leg was bouncing.

  “Well, can you think of anything that might specifically set off these flashbacks or illusions—internal or external cues that might symbolize or resemble some aspects of the events?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Do you have suicidal thoughts?”

  “Suicidal thoughts? Yeah, sometimes. But it’s more that I just want to escape, not kill myself, if that makes sense.”

  “Tell me the difference.”

  Jack thought for a moment. “I don’t feel masochistic, like I want to punish myself. It’s just that I feel like Humpty Dumpty with too many pieces to put back—and a few missing.”

  “I see.”

  “But it’s not all the time, just when I’m feeling sorry for myself. But I’m not braiding a noose.”

  Dr. Heller smiled, then blanked her face as she studied him, looking as she were trying to read a ticker tape across his skull.

  “So what can you give me?”

  She handed him the slip with the name of the neuropsychologist. “Call him. You’re clearly blocking something, and if you still choose not to”—and on her prescription pad she wrote something down—“take this to your pharmacy.” She handed him the second slip. “It’s called Zyprexa—it has sedative effects and has been shown to reduce nightmares associated with PTSD.”

  “PTSD?”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder. But I think you really should see an expert if you want to do something about these episodes. Because what concerns me is that you appear to be blocking something.”

  65

  DR. HELLER WAS RIGHT: HE WAS BLOCKING something, all right.

  And he was avoiding places—the cellar, for instance.
Oh yeah, Nightmare Central, and that had sent him and his laundry to the Scrub-a-Dub coin place in town, convinced the basement was cursed.

  She was also right that maybe in addition to his new PTSD pills he needed a good shrink to get behind all the memory flashes, bad dream scraps, and little pockets of horror his mind would pass through, because they had gotten worse since he’d been out of Greendale. Maybe he should call that name on the script sheet and talk all the vomit from his soul until he got to the bottom.

  Aye, and there’s the rub, sweet prince, because you know as well as I do that you don’t need a shrink, because when you look down those stairs, you know what you see.

  That large stuffed mouse with its head bashed in.

  Maideek Mookie. He’d looked it up. Armenian for mama mouse.

  BECAUSE THE ARCHIVES OF LOCAL NEWSPAPERS from thirty years ago could not be accessed online, Jack rented a car and drove to the Boston Public Library the next day. There, in the basement, he located microfilm for the Boston Globe, New Bedford’s Standard-Times, and the Cape Cod Times for August 22, 1975. One headline blared “Nor’easter Pounds Mass. Coastline. Millions in Damage.”

  The New Bedford paper gave more details of the search-and-rescue attempts for the next several days. There were several different articles covering various aspects of the storm, including one that reported on the damage to coastal homes and boats.

  One mentioned the disappearance of Rose Najarian.

  COAST GUARD SEARCHES FOR MISSING MASS. BOATERA Massachusetts boater has been missing since Friday, when her sailboat was apparently capsized by high winds and choppy seas in the waters off Homer’s Island in the Elizabeth Island chain off the coast of Massachusetts.Coast Guard vessels went into action at daybreak, when a call went out from Falmouth police after island residents discovered the washed-up and damaged remains of an Oday 17 belonging to Rose Najarian of Watertown.

  Seeing his mother’s name listed was like putting his finger in a wall socket. For as long as he could remember, she was simply the biological circumstance of his existence and a label to someone in old photographs. But seeing her name in print had the effect of connecting that existence to a life he knew almost nothing about. What he did know—and it came back to him like a heat-seeking missile—was that she had handmade that stuffed mouse.

  He continued reading:

  According to officials, Mrs. Najarian was apparently attempting to batten down her vessel in anticipation of yesterday’s nor‘easter, characterized by northeast winds of 30 to 40 mph. Police reported that her two-year-old child was found inside a beachfront cottage over a mile from where her boat washed up.It is not known if life a jacket was worn since four were found in or near the boat, adding to official’s theory of why Mrs. Najarian was in the boat. According to a Coast Guard spokesman, even if she had worn a life jacket, exposure for a few hours even in warm water would lead to hypothermia. No sign of Mrs. Najarian has yet been found.Rose Najarian, a widow, was a research biochemist affiliated with MIT. Her two-year-old son, Jack, was found the next morning in the beach cottage in fair condition …The fast-moving storm caused coastal flooding and damage to homes on the islands and to southern Massachusetts …

  Jack made a photocopy of the article, then scanned the next days’ papers. Two days later a second article appeared in the Boston Globe.

  COAST GUARD GIVES UP SEARCH FOR MASS. BOATERThe Coast Guard officially ended its search for a Massachusetts woman, which began Saturday morning after her sailboat capsized off Homer’s Island …Rose Najarian was apparently drowned when trying to secure her boat in anticipation of last week’s storm. The search included a Jayhawk rescue helicopter from Coast Guard Air Station Cape Cod and two rescue boats from Station Pt. Judith, R.I. “The decision to suspend a search is never an easy one,” said Petty Officer James Fagan of the First Coast Guard District Office.“However, we’ve saturated more than 125 square miles with rescue and air assets for 28 hours and, based on that information, we feel that if the victim was on the surface, we would have detected her … .”

  Jack wrote down the officer’s name, although he didn’t need to. The details of the articles stuck to his mind like frost.

  WHEN HE REACHED HOME LATER THAT day, Jack called the Massachusetts Coast Guard Station at Woods Hole and explained that he was investigating the disappearance of his mother some years ago. After two holds, he was connected to a public information officer who asked if he were a policeman on a cold case. Jack was tempted to say he was, only to avoid the obvious questions: Why do you want to know? And why now?

  “I’m sorry, we don’t keep records from that far back.”

  Jack then called Vince and explained that he needed a contact at the Coast Guard. In vague terms Jack explained that he was interested in how, exactly, his mother had died, and that he had time on his hands. Vince didn’t know what to make of Jack’s explanation, but half an hour later he called back with a name: Fred Barboza.

  Two hours later, Jack reached Lieutenant Fred Barboza, who said that it could not be done over the phone, that Jack would have to come to the CG Falmouth office in person. And tomorrow was not a good day.

  ON FRIDAY HE DROVE HIS RENTAL to Falmouth for an eleven A.M. appointment.

  The Coast Guard station was located on the southwest shore of Little Harbor in Woods Hole. The administration building was a long, narrow, two-story cinder-block-and-brick structure that sat in the middle of a long dock along which several CG vessels were docked. Jack checked in at the security desk, and after a brief wait a man in a uniform appeared and introduced himself as Fred Barboza. He led Jack to a small office.

  “It’s an unusual request—something police or other investigative agencies pursue when they’ve got a cold case involving foul play.”

  Foul play.

  “May I ask why you’re doing this?”

  He wanted to say, Remember the story of the princess and the pea? Something poking me under all the layers. “Just that she was never found, and I’m wondering if I can learn anything about the circumstances of her disappearance.” He showed Barboza the photocopies of the news clippings.

  “It says that a storm was forecast and small craft warnings had been issued.”

  “Yes.”

  Barboza looked at him with a flat, uncomprehending stare. “Mr. Koryan, it’s been thirty years. We don’t keep records going back that far. Besides, this seems to tell it all. She got lost in a storm trying to tie down her boat.”

  He was right, of course. But he also could have told him that over the phone and spared him the three-hour round-trip. “Maybe you can tell me about the kind of efforts that went into finding her.”

  “I’m sure they gave it their all. The article says two search-and-rescue boats and a chopper.” Then he added, “Maybe it’s better to leave the dead in peace.”

  It’s not the dead who need the peace. “Do you know where I might find James Fagan? He was a petty officer at the time.”

  “No.”

  “But you didn’t even look.”

  “He retired ten years ago.”

  “And you have no records where he may have retired to? Nobody here who keeps up contact—old friends, guys who still keep in touch, retired officers’ clubs, reunion parties?”

  Barboza had irritation scored across his brow. But he glanced at the wall clock, then pushed himself up and crossed the floor to a file drawer and ferreted through a thick batch of folders until he found one. He slouched back to his desk and ripped off the top sheet of his pad, then jotted something down and handed it to Jack.

  A telephone number with a Massachusetts area code.

  JACK HAD NO IDEA IF HE was chasing white rabbits, but he called Fagan and explained his request for a meeting. Fagan was either a generous man or desperate for something to do. Whatever the motivation, he agreed to meet the next day in the parking lot of Grasso’s, an Italian restaurant just off the Rockland exit of Route 3 South.

  Jack said he’d be dressed in jeans and a black shi
rt and carrying a cane. Fagan met him at the door. He was a compact man about sixty with a ruddy broad face, and he was wearing a Red Sox cap.

  The hostess led them to a table with a view of the parking lot. After some small talk about baseball, Jack showed him the photocopy of the newspaper article about the failed search operation. When Fagan finished reading it he asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, why after all these years are you looking into this?”

  Again Jack anticipated how weak his reason sounded. “Because she was never found, and I’m wondering what efforts went into finding her.”

  Fagan nodded and sipped his beer.

  “The article doesn’t say anything about divers being sent out.”

  “You’re talking thirty years ago. I don’t think the Coast Guard even had a scuba-ready search-and-rescue unit like today. Even if they did, where would you send them? It’s a big ocean, and there were ten or twelve hours before you had sunlight, and given the turbulence from the storm the visibility would be nil for days.”

  “Sure. Do you remember searching for her?”

  “Yeah, vaguely, but only because it was a new cutter, and one of my first search-and-rescue operations. We patrolled the coastline for a couple days—maybe two other boats out and a spotter plane. The thing is that the storm was a nor’easter, which didn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well, the storm came from the northeast, which means the winds were onshore and, like the article said, with strong gusts. Under those conditions, drowning victims almost always wash up. And when they don’t, it’s because of offshore winds or the currents—which weren’t the conditions that night. I don’t mean to be graphic, but drowning victims are floaters—they eventually come to the surface.”