Death Theory

by John Mimms

  A broad crescent shaped smile expanded under his thick mustache. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you running around acting like a chicken every time someone snapped their fingers.”

  Debbie giggled.

  “We are going to try memory association to see if it helps bring your memory to the surface. Would you like to hear a little joke before I explain it?”

  “Sure.”

  Dr. Staples leaned forward as far as his girth would allow and started his joke.

  Two elderly couples were enjoying friendly conversation when one of the men asked the other,

  “Fred, how was the memory clinic you went to last month?”

  "Outstanding,” Fred replied. “They taught us all the latest psychological techniques - visualization, association - it made a dramatic difference for me."

  "Great! What was the name of the clinic?” Fred went blank. He thought and thought, but couldn't remember. Then a smile broke across his face and he asked,” What do you call that red flower with the long stem and thorns?"

  "’You mean a rose?"

  "Yes, that's it!” He turned to his wife,” Rose, what was the name of the clinic?"

  Debbie laughed even though the joke was not very funny, but Dr. Staples's comical ‘jolly old elf' delivery intensified the humor. She started to feel more comfortable, not relaxed. She was still a long way from relaxed.

  Dr. Staples sank back into his chair with a broad smile. “Now let me explain how we intend to proceed,” he said as he picked up his notebook and clutched it against his chest.

  “Repression is one of the most haunting concepts in psychology. Something shocking happens, and the mind pushes the experience into some inaccessible corner of the subconscious. Later, the memory may rise and emerge into consciousness. Most of the time, it manifests in flashbacks or dreams. Repression is one of the major foundation stones on which the structure of psychoanalysis rests. There is a recent rise in reports of repressed memories. The most common is reported claims of childhood sexual abuse which were repressed for many years.”

  Debbie’s eyes widened and her lips pressed together.

  “Are you saying you think I was sexually abused?”

  “I’m not saying anything at this point. It would be inappropriate for me to rush to any kind of judgment before we have even started our sessions. I am only stating it is one commonality with repressed memories. Another cause is witnessing or participating in a horrific event. And yet another could be related to some sort of physical trauma.”

  Dr. Staples paused for a few moments to collect his thoughts. He then pointed to the sofa. “I won’t bore you with all the technical jargon, but suffice to say ... relaxation makes it easier to bring these memories forward.”

  “So, you want me to lie down on the couch, so I can’t see you, and then talk about my dream?”

  “Yes, I will ask questions to focus you on the memory so it can be brought to the surface.”

  Debbie glanced around awkwardly.

  “Do I lie down now?”

  “If you are ready.”

  Debbie forced a smile, slipped off her shoes, and then swung her legs onto the couch. She rested her head on an over-sized, plaid pillow, and then took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Dr. Staples cleared his throat.

  “I would like you to tell me about your parents, starting with your father.”

  Debbie’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. This was not a subject she wanted to explore, especially not right out of the gate. She took so long to answer, Dr. Staples was about to ask again.

  “They’re dead,” she said.

  “May I ask how?” Dr. Staples inquired delicately.

  Debbie sighed.

  “My dad was killed during a military exercise in the late 90’s. He was a Marine.”

  “I see,” Dr. Staples said. “I take it you were about three or four years old when this occurred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any memory of him?”

  “Just images, like snapshots. They are all good.”

  “I see,” Dr. Staples said, making notes on his steno pad. “And your mother?”

  Debbie’s heart sank even lower. She did have memories of her mom. Debbie was young when she died. Those memories had both comforted and haunted her for the last twenty years.

  Although her mother had died of ovarian cancer, she had no memory of her mother’s illness or her funeral.

  “My mom died of cancer when I was five.”

  “Were you close to her?”

  “Yes, I have only good memories of her.”

  “Do you remember her death?”

  A tear streaked down Debbie’s cheek and she closed her eyes tight.

  “No, I don’t even remember her being sick,” she replied with a faint sniffle.

  “Indeed?” Dr. Staples asked, scribbling more notes on his pad. “Tell me, who raised you after your mother passed?”

  “My grandparents.”

  “Are they still with us?”

  “Grammy Lee is. My grandfather passed away when I was nine.”

  “Do you remember your grandfather’s passing?”

  “Yes, he had lung cancer. He was sick off-and-on for a year before he passed. I held my Grammy’s hand at his funeral.”

  “What has your grandmother told you of your mother’s death?”

  Debbie relayed the details of her mother’s death in the hospital as told by her grandmother.

  When she finished, Dr. Staples made a few notes and asked. “How do you feel about what happened to your mother?”

  Debbie sat bolt upright as if she had a spring in her back

  “How do you think I feel?” she snapped.

  Dr. Staples removed his glasses and gazed at Debbie with kind, gray eyes.

  “Please don’t think my question as insensitive, because it wasn’t intended to be. I told you this process had some unpleasantness, but the ends will far outweigh the means. It is very important that you answer any question I ask you with complete honesty. If it is difficult, take your time and focus on the emotion that is making it difficult. You would be surprised how much you can glean by focusing on your emotions and asking – why do I feel this way?”

  He paused and then asked, “Are you willing to continue, Debbie?”

  “Yes,” she said, before lying back down.

  “I know this is unpleasant, Debbie, but I would like you to take a few moments of silent time. I want you to close your eyes and think of everything relating to your mother’s death. Think how you feel about it now. Think how you felt the first time your grandmother told you what happened. I also want you to think about how you feel about the little girl in your dream.”

  Debbie spent several minutes of torment in silent frustration. She relived the memories as instructed, but no new information presented itself. She felt mentally exhausted and no closer to an answer.

  “How do you feel now, Debbie?” Dr. Staples asked softly.

  “I'm feeling' lower than a snake's belly in a mud rut,” she said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “It will get worse before it gets better, but once it’s over you’ll be glad you did it. Will you come back next week?”

  Debbie thought for a moment, and then nodded.

  “Excellent! I have a little homework assignment for you if you are able in the next week. Do you see your grandmother often?”

  “Every couple of weeks or so.”

  “Do you have a trusting relationship with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. The next time you see her, I would like you to tell her about your problem. Then ask her in a nice way if there is any other information about your mother she hasn’t shared with you. Are you comfortable with doing that?”

  Debbie thought for a couple of moments and then said, “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Good, I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  Debbie left feeling more confused than when she arrived. S
he thought she knew where the doctor was going though. She had no real memory of her mother’s death and this seemed to be the most reasonable place to start searching for repressed memories.

  As Debbie drove away from the clinic, she tried to put everything behind her, at least until she talked to her Grammy. After all, she had a big date tonight.

  Chapter 16

  DEBBIE SPENT THE BETTER part of the afternoon going through her wardrobe. She finally settled on a blue, knee length skirt, which showed some leg, but not too much. This was complimented by a blue and white striped blouse, which showed some cleavage, but not too much. She showered and dressed by five o’clock, and then sat on her bed petting Lily with jittery hands.

  Jeff arrived a few minutes early. Debbie opened the door to see him wearing a long sleeve white Polo shirt, black Dockers slacks, and penny loafers.

  Jeff had one hand behind his back. He gave her a nervous smile as he brought it forward and presented Debbie with a half-dozen red roses. Any doubt as to whether this were a traditional date vanished instantly.

  “I-I was afraid to put them in a vase; I didn’t want them to get smashed in my truck.”

  “They are better than granny’s biscuits!” she exclaimed with the little crinkle in her button nose and a dimple in her chin. Jeff thought he was going to faint from anxiety.

  Before his legs could give way, she grabbed him by the arm and led him inside.

  “Come on in and have a seat while I put these in a vase!”

  Jeff sat in one of Debbie’s kitchen chairs while she rummaged through cabinets for a vase. She stepped up on a chair to search on a top shelf. His eyes locked on Debbie’s smooth and well-toned calves. He was a gentleman, but he could not help staring. Jeff jumped with surprise when he felt something wet on his hand. He looked down to see a little border collie nuzzling his hand.

  “Well, hello. What’s your name?” he asked.

  “That’s Lily,” Debbie said. “I’m sorry, is she bothering you?”

  “Not at all!” Jeff exclaimed. “I love dogs!”

  He reached down to pet her and she appreciatively accepted a vigorous stroking of her head and neck. “She’s a sweet girl!” Jeff laughed as Lily licked his palm.

  Debbie’s last boyfriend had taken immense pleasure in using Lily as a soccer ball when she was not around. The one prior to him constantly yelled at the poor little pooch. Debbie believed you could tell a lot about a person’s temperament and character by how they treat animals.

  Debbie found a vase, filled it with water, and then added the flowers. She set the arrangement on the kitchen table and gave Jeff a little peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you! They are beautiful!”

  Jeff’s face flushed scarlet. “You’re welcome.”

  “So, where are we goin’?” Debbie asked, rubbing her hands together with anticipation.

  “I thought we might drive down to Branson this evening. Have you ever been to Branson Landing?”

  Debbie raised her eyebrows with mock suspicion. “No, isn’t it a long way?”

  “Only about a forty-five-minute drive, it won’t take long. I made reservations there at the White River Fish House by Bass Pro Shop. It’s supposed to be really good. I was down there a few years ago when they were building it, it seems neat. It’s right on Lake Taneycomo...,” Jeff’s nervous deluge stopped as Debbie grasped his hand and led him to the door.

  “It sounds wonderful!” she said.

  Branson Landing was an outdoor mall on the eastern side of Branson and the western shore of Lake Taneycomo. he mall consisted of shopping, entertainment, luxury hotels, condominiums, and restaurants.

  The trip to Branson was spent in casual conversation about each other’s jobs. Debbie laughed until she cried when Jeff told her about Old-Skunk-Head.

  “Bless his heart! Can’t anyone tell him how silly he looks with a skunk sittin’ on his head?”

  “Not anyone who wants to keep their job,” Jeff said.

  Dinner was a dream. with their lake view table.

  “I’m going to have to do some walking to work this off!” Jeff proclaimed, sitting back and rubbing his well-fed belly.

  “Shopping sounds good to me!” Debbie grinned. Jeff only wanted to go to Bass Pro Shop, but he couldn’t resist her smile.

  “Well, they’ve got plenty of shops here. Where do you want to go?” Jeff asked.

  Debbie peered over her shoulder at the string of stores extending at least a mile down the shore of the lake. She turned to Jeff and suggested, “Let’s just start walking!”

  They visited every store. Jeff found out quickly Debbie’s affinity for shopping. It didn’t matter which store; she perused it with the same enthusiasm. They even made a stop at the Disney Store and Build-A-Bear Workshop. Jeff bought Debbie a bear with Nike tennis shoes and a white sheet with eye-holes for a ghost costume.

  “He’s cuter than a speckled pup in a red wagon!” she exclaimed, lifting the sheet and kissing the stuffed bear on the nose. “He needs a name. Hmmmm...” she said, placing a finger to her lips.

  “Jeff,” she said, peering at him out of the corner of her eye, “what’s your middle name?”

  Jeff gulped; he hated his middle name. He was named for his grandfather and maybe the name sounded cooler in those days, but now it screamed ‘dork’. He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. That didn’t work.

  “Horace,” he whispered and then braced himself for the inevitable laughter.

  However, Debbie did not laugh, instead her eyes lit up like fireworks.

  “That’s a perfect name! Horace it is!” she exclaimed, clutching the bear against her chest.

  She grasped Jeff’s hand and led him across the small street to an outdoor amphitheater. A tribute band was playing hits from Bryan Adams. They listened for a while as the nighttime chill of early fall began to descend across the Ozarks.

  A cool breeze started to blow and Debbie scooted closer to Jeff. As if it had a mind of its own, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned closer.

  Jeff brought Debbie home around one in the morning. Walking her to the front door, he said, “Thank you for going to dinner with me. I had a wonderful time!”

  Debbie was in disbelief. No one had ever thanked her for going out with them. Most of the guys she had dated acted as if it was her privilege to be in their company.

  Jeff was about to shake, or maybe kiss her hand, he wasn’t sure yet, when it happened. As much as her smile and good humor had been a siren song to Jeff, his courteous and humble nature had the same effect on her.

  Without a thought, Debbie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. Jeff instinctively embraced her waist. They gazed in each other’s eyes for a couple of seconds, which seemed like an eternity of bliss. Then slowly their lips met. As their mouths and bodies pressed closer together, the more the world seemed to melt away. The only two things in existence were Jeff Granger and Debbie Gillerson.

  Reality rudely pushed the moment aside when an oversized truck with an illegal glass pack blew by the apartment. They jumped in surprise, laughing when the driver yelled, “Git you some!”

  “I bet his family tree has only one branch!” Debbie snickered.

  “Good night, Debbie,” Jeff said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I hope we can do this again soon.”

  “Good night, Jeff,” she said, squeezing his hand, “I would like that very much.”

  Jeff reluctantly released her hand and started up the walk to his truck. He couldn’t help sneaking several peeks over his shoulder. Each time their eyes met, they exchanged silly grins. Debbie went back inside and locked the door when Jeff started his truck. He headed home and reckoned his first order of business upon arrival was a cold shower. Debbie let her anxious pup out to take care of business, and then got ready for bed.

  When Debbie awoke three hours later, any joy she had felt was gone. Her nightmare had returned. Debbie cried until she ran out of tears.

  “Why tonight?” she th
ought.

  A few hours ago, she had been happier than she had been in a long time. Now the dream had bullied itself back in, denying her any joy.

  She would go and see her grandmother today and ask questions. She knew something was not right. Something was hidden from her childhood, and it had taken another long stab at her through the veil of the subconscious mind.

  One good thing came out of this nightmare, Debbie remembered a little more. There was no doubt about the identity of the little girl. It was her.

  Chapter 17

  PAC WOKE UP IN A GOOD mood; he did not have to go to work today. He bounced out of bed and started singing “Bad” by Michael Jackson. He danced about the house voicing high-pitched shrieks and performing an occasional pelvic thrust and crotch grab. Why this song was in his head, he did not know. He had not heard it in years, but he sang with the same enthusiasm as if it were blasting on his stereo. He tossed a sausage biscuit in the microwave, slamming the door with a King of Pop spin move.

  Pac was in a good mood because he had a very productive visit at his mother’s. He felt a new day dawning, as if a weight lifted from his shoulders. He decided he would do a little singing. A corner had been turned in his relationship with his family and he felt good about it.

  “What should I do today?” Pac asked aloud after finishing a terrible moonwalk to his kitchen table.

  He sat down and peeled back the plastic on his steaming microwave biscuit. After giving it a couple of cooling blows, he took a large bite; savoring the greasy goodness. He paused when an idea struck him.

  “I’ll go into work today and get caught up for next week!”

  A mere twenty-four hours ago, the thought of going into work on his day off would have been sacrilege, but today it seemed like the obvious answer. Pac felt like the proverbial monkey was off his back and this energized him, making him feel free and on top of the world. Newfound euphoria tends to make people forget one simple truth. Just because the monkey is off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.

  Pac did want to manage his own store and he thought perhaps going in on a Sunday would rack up points with the boss. However, given his previous work ethic, the boss would be wondering - “Who are you and what have you done with Michael Pacheco?”