Mr Wicker

by Maria Alexander

  He waited for her to cross the room and didn’t take a seat until she sat across from him. She noticed Blossom the Powerpuff Girl staring at her angrily with big inky anime eyes. His tie. Great. A cartoon geek. Either that, or a lame attempt to connect with the kids.

  “Why am I here?” She then realized that this was the man she’d told to fuck off a few days ago. He was the one who’d threatened to put her into this god-forsaken lockdown. She had been furious that he’d saved her. Did he interpret her behavior as childish, thus warranting some kind of remedial treatment as punishment?

  “I’m a child psychiatrist,” Dr. Farron replied. “And, although I don’t normally work in the psych unit, I’ve been assigned to your case. I have some expertise that might assist you in your recovery.”

  “Expertise? In what? The Cartoon Network?”

  A thin smile spread on his face—or was that a smirk? “I know you’ve spoken to Denise—or not spoken to Denise, as it were—about your suicide. So, why don’t we instead talk about the person you were speaking to while you were unconscious?”

  She darkened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone named Mr. Wicker.”

  Heat and shock flooded her eyes. The child psychiatrist’s face whitened with surprise. He handed her a box of tissue from his desk, which she hugged in her lap. She noted his unsteady hand as he offered her the box. Something about this was rattling him, as well. He was sensitive. Her heart opened a little to him.

  “Thanks.” She smiled through the deluge and blew her nose before proceeding to recover her composure. “You’re the one I called a bastard, aren’t you?”

  He flashed her a sympathetic smile. “That would be me. Doctor Bastard. And you? Any relation to L. Frank?”

  “Great niece, twice removed,” she said. “Normally I tell people to fuck off when they ask that question.”

  “You’ve already told me to fuck off once. It’s not so bad. I can take another hit.”

  Alicia wiped her face with a fresh tissue. “Voluntary target practice. Not nearly as fun.”

  Dr. Farron seemed to enjoy the joke, but clearly had another agenda and wasn’t going to let her distract them. “What did I just say that was so upsetting?”

  Alicia said nothing, terrified that he was going to tell her she was crazier than she already knew.

  Dr. Farron shifted in his chair. Eons seemed to pass before he spoke. “You know, it’s only fair that I tell you what’s going on. I’m doing a study as part of my research grant. Over the years, I’ve discovered that gravely injured and otherwise abused children talk in their sleep to a character named Mr. Wicker. But when they wake up, they don’t remember him. And they don’t remember their trauma.”

  Stunned, Alicia let the mystery swell within her. Perhaps what had happened was just a phenomenon, but she burned with the discomfort of her corrupt attraction to the broken, disgusting creature. She had always sympathized with the monsters in movies, even as a child. But the reality of this monster challenged that fantasy of compassion for the outsider. He had a power over her. Like having her secret name in a fairy tale, he had the secret that controlled her life. And this made him even uglier.

  The psychologist leaned toward her. “You, however, very likely remember your trauma. And I was wondering if you know anything about that name.”

  A spasm of cold wracked her body as she spoke, and her jaw shuddered. Dr. Farron reached for a knitted throw by the couch and draped it around her shoulders as she broke into a fever. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You’re an author, aren’t you? Is he from a book? Or some movie I’ve missed?” Dr. Farron asked. He seemed puzzled and desperately interested. “Where does this Mr. Wicker character come from?”

  Woman, shut the hell up. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t write about him by chance?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought maybe there was something I should already know that I’m somehow not clued in about.” He paused, as if still dogged by confusion. “Do you have any reason to believe you’re missing a memory?” he asked. “Maybe you don’t remember your trauma after all. Maybe it’s from long ago.”

  She could not speak but instead stared at one of the dolls on the beanbag as it peered at her from glassy green eyes. “There’s a lot from my childhood I don’t remember. I thought that was normal.”

  “It is,” he said. “But is it possible that a significant event took place that you’ve repressed?”

  For the most part, Alicia had a relentless memory that exasperated everyone around her. No one wanted to be reminded of what they really said or did—especially not her ex-husband. But then, as she tried to focus on her sixth year of life, she found only a thick fog. “Anything is possible,” she said. “But not everything is probable.”

  “True,” he replied. “Well, it’s controversial, but I’ve found that hypnotherapy can sometimes be effective at uncovering repressed memories. Do you want to try it?”

  Alicia wanted nothing better than to run away—hard. An icy cataract of dread was now surging inside of her. Did she really want to know what was missing? “What if it doesn’t work? What if this is a colossal waste of time?”

  The gears seemed to spin behind his eyes for a moment. “Maybe it is,” he said at last. He rubbed his neck, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. “In fact, you don’t have to do it. You can walk out of this office and never come back.” He held his hand out toward the door. “It’s up to you.”

  Alicia suspected that the burn of misery in her throat would never cool unless she retrieved that memory, and she had no idea how to return to the Library other than to repeat her bathroom shenanigans. She then felt anchored to the spot. “Do we have to talk about Mr. Wicker?”

  “Not if you don’t want to,” he replied.

  “I’m missing a rose garden. And maybe a lot more.”

  Her eyes closed, Alicia went limp and her head fell forward as she breathed deeply. Steadily. Down, down, down went the elevator of her psyche under the gentle and authoritative voice of Dr. Farron.

  “Very good. Now, fully relaxed and aware, allow your mind to return to the experiences of your childhood. The memories are in your unconscious mind and can be remembered as I direct you back to them.”

  Unlike the bramble of Mr. Wicker’s voice, the doctor’s voice was soothing as it invited her into a familiar corridor lined with doors. Each doorway was a memory of her childhood, and at the end of the hallway was the door to the missing memory. She remembered being very young and wandering down the dark hallway of her parents’ house toward the bathroom with the dim nightlight. The hallway created by her psyche contained several more doors than her old house in Los Feliz. Her grandmother once showed her pictures of the classic California bungalow her parents had bought when they first married. There was that one of her and her mother standing outside on Easter, and she was wearing some ridiculous yellow dress with angel wing sleeves as she clutched a stuffed white rabbit. A cowlick teased her hair into a rebellious curl on top of her head, and her missing front tooth gaped in the photograph. That morning her mother had stroked her hair and told her, Someday, you’ll be a rose, honey. Just not now.

  Someday.

  Alicia reached for one of the burnished brass doorknobs. Her tiny hand touched the cool surface.

  “So, how’s the painting, Sam?”

  Her father’s voice. Grownup Alicia could not place the name “Sam.” Who was he?

  The walls hugged her shoulders, and her entire body folded into a tight, dark space. There was a presence in the darkness. Comforting. Loving. Feet touching...

  The scene outside in the living room was familiar. It was the last time she had ever heard her father’s voice in that house.

  “Where are you?” Dr. Farron asked from somewhere outside.

  “I’m hiding,” she whispered in her little girl voice. “I’m at my gramma and granpa’s house in Simi Valley.”


  Outside in the living room, her handsome father sat on her grandparents’ golden crushed velvet couch in his black wool Yves St. Laurent suit. An expensive watch shined on his wrist as he gestured, a sleek ponytail gathered at the back of his neck. He leaned forward as he spoke with her grandfather, both smoking cigars. The smell turned her stomach. Her grandfather was just as she remembered him: big hands and bolo ties, an old cowboy. A bottle of seltzer water, a crystal whisky decanter, and two drained tumblers rested on the glass coffee table.

  “Can’t complain. Got a show comin’ up in Pasadena next month.”

  Her grandfather’s voice. Sam? She’d never known that was his name. Or, rather, she’d forgotten.

  Cowboy boots. Leather. Paint thinner.

  “Oh, yeah? How’d the last one go? Pretty good?” Her father again, his voice tense, the way it always is with her grandfather.

  “S’alright. Sold some of the still lifes and one of the portraits of our little rose.”

  “That’s terrific! Well, speaking of our little rose.” She sensed the impending separation in her father’s tone.

  “Are you leavin’ so soon, son?” her grandfather asked.

  “Yeah. I better hit the road. I have to get over the Grapevine before nightfall.”

  About then, Alicia’s grandmother entered.

  “You’re not leaving already, are you?” There was a clinking noise as her grandmother set down a tray on the coffee table. “Stay and have some lunch with us!”

  “Have more scotch, son,” her grandfather implored.

  “No, I better get going. I’m supposed to be at Lisa’s in Capitola by ten.”

  “Sounds like things are pretty serious.” Her grandmother’s words sounded more like condemnation than congratulation.

  “Yeah. I guess so,” her father replied. A pause.

  Her grandfather called out, “Your daddy’s leaving!” No response. “Stubborn as always,” he said.

  Her father spoke up. “It’s all right. I know what to do.” He called out: “Marco...!”

  Timidly Alicia responded: “Polo!”

  “Marco!”

  His voice drew near to her in the cramped darkness.

  “Polo!”

  “What’s happening?” Dr. Farron asked.

  “He’s leaving,” Alicia replied.

  “Where is he going?”

  “Away. Forever.”

  The black wall slid back to cool air and sunlight. Alicia blinked in the brightness. Her father’s handsome face loomed in the opening as he smiled sheepishly, guilt creasing his tanned forehead. The cowboy boots of Alicia’s grandfather strode toward her, and he crouched down behind her father. “In the bar?” her father asked.

  “Yup,” her grandfather replied.

  Her father took her hand. “I’m going away for a bit. I’ll see you in a few days, okay?”

  “Why do you have to go away?”

  “Because I have to. Now, be good for Grandma and Grandpa, okay?”

  Alicia withdrew her hand from his. Pressing it hard against the bar panel, she slid it back in place, plunging herself—and the presence—into darkness.

  “Where is your mother?”

  “Gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alicia was silent.

  “I want you to go to another door, the one before this one you just opened. I want to know what happened before your father left you with your grandparents.” Dr. Farron’s voice was calm and patient. He spoke both to the little girl hiding in her grandparents’ bar and the woman wandering the corridor of her psyche.

  Alicia reached for another knob, one no higher than her chin. Light spilled out from under the door, over the toes of her pink bunny slippers. A draft ruffled under her nightgown. She no longer stood in the corridor, but at the door adjoining the family garage, the one her father had built so that no one would have to go into the rain to get into the Mercedes. A gruesome bellowing had awakened her from sleep; she’d slipped out of bed to pad down the hall. Beyond the closed door, a man wailed like an animal. She curled her toes inside the big floppy slippers and pushed open the door.

  The odor of urine and feces flooded the doorway, gagging Alicia. Her father stood on the car hood with his shoulders hunched in a grotesque embrace around something she could not see, as if dancing with someone on the car. His hands worked with a fever, arms straining to reach the rafters, oblivious to Alicia’s presence in the doorway. Her father’s knee twisted, unable to keep his balance on the car as the hood buckled under his weight. Her mother’s distorted face spun toward her. Tongue bloated and obscene, an electrical cord cut into her throat and one ashen cheek. A dark puddle of bodily fluids stained the concrete floor beside the car, a rivulet running down the slope of the garage floor. Alicia stood spellbound in the doorway as she watched her father wretchedly try to loosen his wife’s dead body. Then, he caught sight of his tiny daughter, and he howled again with heart-piercing horror.

  Alicia collapsed in the corridor and everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Rains. My name’s Jimmy. May I help you with your bags today?”

  The barrel-chested bellboy from Fremont greeted the elderly woman as he’d been instructed by his manager, who seemed kind of afraid of her and wanted her placated at any cost. The bellboy tackled her ten-ton Prada bags, and with a rakish grin, assured her that she packed lighter than most ladies. She bustled past him to the room, even though she knew nothing of the hotel’s halls.

  “I hate these hotels. I half expect to find a chunk of moldy cheese at the end!”

  Streams of verbal bile showered the bellboy’s ears as she continued to mutter under her breath. She had no fondness for anyone or anything that the bellboy could tell. He half listened, as he was thinking about his Nietzsche paper that was due for class. As she continued her diatribe against humanity, he told her which way to turn at each junction and her talk slid beneath the clever philosophizing in his brain.

  Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself, Nietzsche once said. What did she want to conceal?

  When they reached the room, he slipped a hand between her and the lock, slid the keycard into the slot, and jostled open the door. The sun shone through the white sheers, warming the bed. As he pressed into the room from behind the old woman, the white whiskers of her hair bristled around her head. Pursing her pink-smeared lips and squinting her bloodshot blue eyes, she whirled around and nearly skewered his nose on her wrinkled fingertip. The bangles on her wrist jangled like wind chimes.

  “And don’t you think I have ever forgotten any of their ill treatment!”

  The bellboy’s eyebrows drew up into a fuzzy brown arch over his widening eyes. He’d tuned her out more than he thought! What was she going on about? He lowered the heavy bags to the floor, noting the Burbank Airport luggage tags. Of course she was from Los Angeles. While Bay Area folk could be snobbish and New Yorkers brusque, the most abusive people came from SoCal—particularly Los Angeles. So many pompous producers, directors, and studio executives came up north for either business or brief family visits. Hey! Maybe this cranky old woman was in the film industry! She could be one of those nasty-tempered old producers. This piqued his interest as he’d recently been toying with the idea of acting. Why not? He was a good-looking Asian dude. There weren’t nearly enough of those in movies. And he had a more-than-decent memory for lines. He’d memorized those Nietzsche quotes for his paper. That was something!

  Perhaps he should give the old woman an extra dose of service. He’d keep track of her as long as she stayed. This might well be the sign that he’d needed to make a firm decision about his future career. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Rains? Anything at all?” He hoped that last bit didn’t sound too groveling.

  She flicked her wrist at him dismissively, shaking her head as her frail hand rummaged in her purse. Then: “Do you have a girl?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”
/>   “I said, do you have a girl?”

  “You mean a girlfriend? No, ma’am. I don’t.”

  “Well, I’d set you up with my granddaughter, but she’s in the hospital.”

  She retrieved a rolled up five-dollar bill and handed it to him like a piece of trash she wanted him to dispose of. He took it.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Will she be all right?”

  “As long as she doesn’t try to kill herself again.”

  It is always consoling to think of suicide: in that way one gets through many a bad night, Nietzsche once said.

  An uncomfortable silence squatted between them.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rains. Have a good stay.”

  Chapter 7

  This attraction, Dr. Farron thought, was what they called in the world of therapy A Bad Thing.

  A fire crackled in his belly at the thought of her, but he cooled his passions with a cold handful of objective professional concern. While this attraction was potentially lethal to the therapeutic process, he could not imagine turning her over to someone who would not know the significance of Mr. Wicker. So they didn’t find the rose garden per se in that first session—so what? They did explore some of the horrific family history that created a template for self-destructive behavior in her adult life. It made sense. Together they covered far more ground than either had anticipated—far more than Denise, her intake therapist, who had a talent for getting people to open up.

  Alicia was to enter her first group therapy session since she had arrived and Dr. Farron was hellbent on observing the session. The trick was to get there early enough so that he could secure a seat in the observation room, the area secured behind the one-way mirror for training purposes. He wanted to see the way she walked, her affect, body language. Would she participate willingly in other aspects of the program now that she had his ear?