During puzzle play, patient chose family dinner scene. Patient noticeably leaves sister/daughter out of puzzle. Why did you leave out the sister, Ben? She’s not there. Where is she, Ben? In school. Why is she in school when her brother’s home? She’s swimming up at the lake. Without her family? She went on a playdate.
* * *
—
What are you girls looking at?”
The librarian had walked into the room where I was sitting with Father Krakow and eight-year-old Ben.
What was she doing here?
Looking over our shoulders. It was as if I’d suddenly been sucked back through a time portal, from that room in the St. Luke’s Center where a therapist/priest was wondering what’s up with this screwed-up eight-year-old—not that different from the screwed-up twenty-year-old who enjoyed posting half-page sentences on Facebook—and I was back in the present day. Where a flash drive was noticeably sticking out of the USB port of the library’s computer.
“School research,” Tabs said, her hand strategically curled around it.
The librarian hesitated—trying to peek past our bodies.
“Okay.”
“We’re cramming for a test,” she added. “A humongous one.”
The librarian nodded as if she could relate to humongous tests, even though the last one she might’ve taken would’ve been with a quill pen.
She shuffled off.
“Whew,” Tabs said, fake-wiping the sweat off her forehead.
“Maybe we should shut it down,” I said.
I was hoping she’d say, Good idea, pull that little black drive out of the USB, and then the both of us would bounce. It was that feeling again—that I was going to see something I wasn’t meant to. That I was being bad and there was going to be hell to pay. I was going to be put back into the punishment room and never, ever let out.
“Don’t be a pussy,” Tabs said. “She’s blind as a bat. Say . . . why are we looking up Ben anyway?”
Because in Pennebaker’s last message, he’d said I have questions about your son. About Ben. Because in a house that’d been warm and welcoming before warm and welcoming started to turn creepy, Ben was the cold spot. Because my faceless Facebook friend had told me to find out where Laurie and Jake had committed him twelve years ago.
Ask them where they sent their son.
Because.
“I need to know why everyone’s playing pretend. To understand what happened back then. I think it’s got to do with him.”
“Ben? He was eight.”
“The day I showed up—that night—he went past my door and he laughed. Like, I know you’re not who you’re saying you are. I know you’re not Jenny.”
“So? You’re not Jenny.”
“How did he know that? I mean for sure? That was before I fucked up and forgot to log out of his memorial page. How did he know that first day? Why was he so sure?”
“I repeat. You’re not his sister. And she’d been like dead for twelve years. It must’ve seemed impossible.”
“He knew.”
* * *
—
Ben’s second session was even more unproductive than the first.
The patient was uncommunicative, unresponsive, uncooperative. One big un. Ben apparently sat with his hands in his lap staring out the window.
Don’t you like it here, Ben?
(No response)
Wouldn’t you like to play with something, Ben?
(No response)
What would you like to do, Ben?
(No response)
The patient was reacting to exterior displacement, according to Krakow’s notes—a fancy way of saying he’d been dumped in a Catholic hospital for wacko kids and left there. The ward nurse noted signs of agitation, emotional distress, and possible night sweats. I could relate. I myself had tried screaming that first morning when I woke up in a strange bed. I had the lip scars to prove it.
Ben had it a lot easier. He just had to hang with an understanding therapist who kept begging him to play with blocks.
(Need to promote an empathetic, inquisitive, trusting, and therapeutic alliance with patient.)
The patient wasn’t jonesing for alliances.
Then or now. I remembered him marooned on that orange love seat on my first night home.
Okay, Ben, we can just sit here and not talk if that’s what you’d like. That’s perfectly okay. We can just sit here quietly together. Sound good?
It must’ve sounded good enough, because that’s what Ben did.
No further communication with patient today, Krakow wrote at the end of the session.
* * *
—
There were a lot more where that came from.
A bunch of sessions where nothing much happened except Father Krakow asking questions and Ben not answering them. A lot of them about that dream of his—locked in a burning closet with a bunch of snakes. Ben kept up his mute act—he wasn’t talking.
By this time, Krakow had ventured a diagnosis—Ben was suffering from childhood traumatic grief.
Avoidance of talking about the deceased (or missing) person, or doing things associated with that person (i.e., refusal to touch the horse figures). Disruption of learning (i.e., acting out in class—paint incident). Numbing (i.e., noncommunication and withdrawal). Increased arousal (i.e., destruction of bed, fighting with classmates). Nightmares (specific and recurrent).
He ticked them off like one of those checklists Karen Greer’s mom used to put together before family outings. Snacks. Tissues. Bug repellent. Fruit juice. Handi Wipes. Except we Greers were generally going somewhere fun like the Oky-Doky Amusement Park, which had a ten-story water slide, while Ben was basically going off the deep end.
EMDR . . . ?
Krakow wrote in capital letters. Then typed it again farther down, this time leaving out the question mark.
I googled it.
“Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.”
“Well, that clears it up,” Tabs whispered.
“A psychotherapy treatment that facilitates the accessing and processing of traumatic memories to bring to an adaptive resolution. With successful EMDR therapy, affective distress is relieved, negative beliefs are reformulated, and psychological arousal is reduced. During EMDR therapy, the patient attends to emotionally disturbing material in brief sequential doses while simultaneously focusing on an external stimulus—the most commonly used one being therapist-directed lateral eye movements.”
“Sorry,” Tabs said, “not fluent in Greek.”
No, just Latin.
“I think it’s a kind of hypnosis,” I whispered. “A way to take Ben back.”
“Back . . . to what?”
“To that emotionally disturbing material. To what happened.”
FORTY
This is the way I pictured it.
Noncommunicative Ben shuffling into Father Krakow’s office with his eyes on the floor and his mind who knows where, plopping himself down on a kid’s chair. Or maybe it wasn’t a kid’s chair—it was a perfectly normal-size chair that swallowed up undernourished Ben. The kind of hardwood chair that would make my ass start throbbing in the psych’s office at juvie hall. Fifteen minutes was about all I could take—and maybe that was the point. Fast-food therapy depended on getting us in and out fast.
So, there’s Ben.
And there’s Father Krakow.
I googled him to see if there was a photo, but the only Dr. or Father Krakow in New York with a photo was a dentist on Madison Avenue who specialized in implants. I improvised. Made Krakow a male version of Becky—who when she wasn’t chasing me down the block or trying to barge up the stairs had a sweet and sympathetic face.
Father Krakow told Ben: We’re going to try a little game, Ben.
What kind
of game?
A memory game.
(No response)
I know you don’t remember a lot of what happened when your sister disappeared, Ben.
(No response)
Would you like to play this game so we can remember?
(Patient shakes head no)
See, Ben, I think the reason you don’t remember is because your mind is trying very hard not to.
(No response)
Our minds—I know this might be hard for you to understand, but I’ll try to explain it to you. Our minds are our “friends” most of the time. So, if there’s a bad memory, something that upsets us, that makes us sad, our mind says I’ll just go ahead and block that memory, so it won’t make us sad or anxious or angry anymore. Understand, Ben?
(No response)
But here’s the thing. Sometimes when we sleep, our mind, well . . . it lets down its guard a little bit. Because it’s hard keeping those unpleasant memories locked up like that. Like trying to hold your breath underwater. So it lets things out in dreams—bad dreams sometimes. I know you’ve been having the same bad dream for a while, and I know you haven’t been sleeping well because of it—you’re afraid you’re going to have that nightmare again. And I know you’ve been a little sad and a little angry and you’ve done some things in school and in your house to maybe let your teachers and parents know that. And maybe you don’t really know why you’re so unhappy and so sad and so angry, and that’s why you’re here, Ben. To help us find out. To help you be happier. To be Ben again. Can you understand that? At least, a little?
(No response)
That’s why I want to try this memory game, Ben. To see if we can’t find out what’s upsetting you so much. I know maybe that’s a little scary for you, Ben. I understand that. Have you ever been really sick and needed to go to the doctor for a shot?
(Patient nods yes)
I know shots, well, they aren’t a lot of fun. They’re scary, and sometimes they even hurt a little, and who wants that? But try to remember how that shot made you feel afterward. How it made your fever go away, and your throat stop hurting, and in no time at all, you were better? Do you remember that, Ben?
(Patient nods yes)
Okay. Well, this is a little like that. Like getting a shot. It can be scary looking at things our minds don’t want us to. It can even hurt a little. But after a while, we start feeling better. We’re not sick anymore. Doesn’t that sound like something you’d want, Ben? To not be sick anymore? You’re going to forget a lot of what you say to me during this memory game—I know, forgetting sounds kind of funny for a memory game—but just remembering it here—in this office—will start to make you feel a whole lot better. I promise. Sound good?
(Patient nods yes)
Okay, then. Here’s how we play the game. It’s called Follow My Fingers. I’m going to move my fingers back and forth in front of your face like this, Ben. And you—you just follow them with your eyes—that’s good, great, just like that. See, that’s all you have to do. Just keep following my fingers. That’s the whole game. Think you can keep doing that, Ben?
(Patient nods)
Great. And while I’m moving my fingers back and forth—good, that’s right, keep following them—I’m going to ask you to remember that dream you keep having. We’re going to start there. Okay? And when you remember it, Ben, you’re going to see it just like you saw it while you were dreaming. As if you’re asleep and dreaming it all over again. And you’re going to feel just what you felt then. As if it’s happening right now, okay?
FORTY-ONE
BENJAMIN KRISTAL. FIRST EMDR SESSION.
It’s dark.
Like up at the lake when it’s night and there’s no streetlights or flashlights or nothing.
But I’m not OUTSIDE.
I can tell.
I’m inside someplace.
There are old clothes in here. I can feel them against my face—like they’re covering me. It smells really bad.
Like that stuff Mom rubs on my chest when I get a cold.
Like . . . MOTHBALLS.
Am I in the basement CLOSET? There’s mothballs in there and old clothes and stuff?
I’ve got to get out of here. (mewling noises)
I’m scared.
When I try to open the door, there’s NO knob. Like nothing’s there.
I can’t push it open either.
I’m locked in.
“LET ME OUT!”
I’m screaming for someone to open the door and get me out of here but no words come out. It’s like I can’t SPEAK.
I hear something moving.
Back in the clothing.
I can’t see what it is. But I know it’s there. I KNOW. I can hear it crawling around in there.
“LET ME OUT! PLEASE . . .” (mewling noises)
I’m screaming my head off—I am—but there’s STILL no sound. Just quiet. Except for what’s in the clothing. Something.
And then I SEE it.
A SNAKE.
Its big head slithers out of the clothing. It’s staring at me.
Its eyes—they’re yellow and glowing. It has this long black tongue it keeps flicking in and out at me.
I’m BANGING on the door.
“PLEASE, MOMMY. DADDY. PLEASE. LET ME OUT. PLEASE . . .”
The snake—it’s crawling out of the clothes. It’s gigantic—like the kind in South America that lives in rivers and can swallow a cow. It drops to the floor of the closet. It begins crawling to me. Its mouth is opening . . . I can see these two huge fangs.
“PLEASE . . . NO . . .”
I hear OTHER sounds now. MORE snakes. Back there in the clothing. Slithering around in there.
“I’M SCARED . . . HELP ME . . . PLEASE . . .”
The snake is wrapping itself around me. Around my neck. Squeezing. It’s cold and slimy and its mouth is wide open and I know it’s going to eat me. It’s going to swallow me all up.
I’m choking. I can’t breathe.
The other snakes. They’re crawling out of the clothes. Dropping to the floor of the closet. Coming at me.
I can’t BREATHE . . . I CAN’T . . . I . . .
There’s this other sound. It sounds like . . .
Someone lighting a MATCH.
I can smell smoke.
The snake’s EYES are on fire.
The closet—it’s burning.
It’s lit on FIRE.
“PUT IT OUT! . . . PLEASE PUT IT OUT . . .” (screams)
Flames are all around me. Burning the snakes up.
Burning ME up.
“It HURTS. It HURTS. HELP . . .”
FORTY-TWO
I can hear him in the house. Ben.
He’s in his bedroom playing something on his iPhone. A spooky riff of electric organ. One of those weird electronica groups.
When we closed our criminal hacking operation down, Tabs slipping the flash drive back into her pocket, the two of us strolling back down past the clueless librarian and out the door, we followed the rules for once and said nothing.
Outside, where the sharp chill seemed to squeeze all the air out of me, Tabs said, “That was some fucked-up dream.”
There was something else fucked-up: The files seemed to stop there, right after that session. We’d had to sit through all the boring ones where pretty much nothing happened, then after Krakow finally puts Ben under with that hypnosis stuff and things get interesting—nothing. A brick wall.
“I have crazy nightmares too,” I said softly. Like I wanted Tabs to hear me and didn’t.
Ben’s dream had hit a nerve.
The locked closet.
Feeling trapped in a closet is a symbolic manifestation of the patient’s powerlessness, Krakow had written. His sister is missing, his family in crisis and his trauma unack
nowledged. He is, in a sense, trapped in a living nightmare, which manifests itself as a sleeping one. Fire is almost always a representation of great anger—anger at his perceived powerlessness. This anger has previously sought its expression in fighting with classmates, destroying his sister’s bed, and now in this very specific and recurrent nightmare.
“Why would the files just stop like that?” I asked. “He said they were going to start with Ben’s dream. Where’s the rest?”
“Fuck yeah—I want my money back. It’s like yanking Netflix episodes midstream.”
We stood for a minute blowing on our hands, our breaths commingling in a single wet cloud, as if we were wordlessly forming a secret pact. A secret pact about secrets.
Keeping them and solving them.
* * *
—
When I opened the door to the basement, I was hit with a musty belowground smell, the kind of stink I associate with dead things.
I descended the steps in slow motion. The light at the top of the stairs was thin and piss-colored, no match for the fathomless black of the basement.
When I made it off the bottom step, something smacked me in the face. A cobweb? Or worse . . . a real spiderweb? Ben might hate snakes—for me it’s spiders. If you’ve ever seen a close-up of a spider’s crazy eyes, you’d understand—like looking in a kaleidoscope where one picture morphs into eight.
I’d run into a light cord—it was swinging back and forth like a metronome.
I pulled on it.
The basement was half-finished.
The floor was faded linoleum, but the walls were gray pockmarked concrete. If it was heated down here, it was hard to tell. I could see my own breath.
Along with other things.
It looked like a garage sale with no customers. For good reason—like who’d buy this stuff? A collapsed Ping-Pong table. Two deflated footballs sitting on top of a torn volleyball net. Mildewed boxes piled high with household crap. Mounds of old clothing.
A big rust-colored boiler emitted deep belching sounds, and a table off in the corner was littered with tools—screwdrivers, hammers, and pliers that seemed to have been untouched in years—like some kind of museum exhibit: SUBURBAN DAD’S WORK TABLE, CIRCA 2000.
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