I zip my lips.
Michael says, “You’re right. I’m not sure what happened when I was younger. All my life, people kept it mostly quiet. About my parents. But I always knew something was off. I just figured they were . . . you know, sparing me certain details. Like why I never went to a funeral. I thought maybe their bodies were . . .” He clears his throat again, as if on the edge of emotion.
It triggers my maternal instinct, and I leave the kitchen for the dining room. I sit down between them as he finishes.
“Like their bodies were too badly injured, or something.” After he finishes the thought, he faces me. I can tell it requires effort. “But there are other things. Things I can’t square. I have . . . other memories. They’re blurry. They’re . . . It’s like they’re the memories of someone else. And when you . . . When we talked in the driveway, it touched a nerve. That’s why I just got in the car and left. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I manage. “I understand.”
And then Michael, after glancing at Joni one more time for support, tells me this:
“I’d like to do what you suggested.”
I draw a breath and wait.
“I’d like to try hypnotherapy,” Michael says. “You know, regressive therapy. Whatever it is. And maybe see what’s there. Maybe I’ll get to the truth.”
I exhale and say, “I think that’s a good idea.”
His bright eyes lock on mine.
He says, “But I want you to do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A light rain has started to fall, spitting against the picture window. Our boathouse light reveals white chop on the lake, wind blowing hard on the water.
“There’s no way,” I say to Michael. “It would be a conflict of interest. You’re my future son-in-law, and therapists don’t practice on their own families. And anyway, I can’t help you because I’d have a preconceived idea. I’d be trying to lead you to what I believe is true.”
“But what if you didn’t, though?” Joni asks. She’s enthusiastic. Joni has always liked a bit of drama.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
Michael, who hasn’t said anything since asking me to perform the therapy on him, gets up from the table. He unsnaps his pants.
“Babe?” Joni looks between us, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
He pulls his pants down. He’s wearing red boxer briefs beneath. I can already see it, snaking out the left leg of his underpants: the scar. He rolls back more of the fabric to reveal it all. It has a crescent shape to it, more hooked at one end.
“That?” Joni says. “Why are you showing her that?”
“Because she knew it was there.”
Joni gives me a suspicious look. “She didn’t just see it?”
“No. Look where it is. She knows because she has a file on me somewhere. Is that right, Dr. Lindman?”
“That’s right. Which is why I can’t help you with this. I would only be . . .”
I trail off as Michael steps toward me. “You asked me to help you. Outside, you asked me to help you. Now I’m asking. Please. Let’s just see. Just one time. If I’m not . . . if it doesn’t work or you’re uncomfortable, we’ll stop and I won’t ask again.”
He looks at me, longingly, as the rain picks up outside.
Sean has been so quiet, I’ve almost forgotten he’s here. “I think you should do it, Mom.”
I look around at him. My voice of reason. And then I wonder where Paul is, but then I hear a creak above my head, the sound of running water; at some point, he returned inside and went to the upstairs bathroom.
“All right,” I say. “We’ll sleep on it, and if we all still feel the same way, maybe we can try it tomorrow.”
But Michael is shaking his head. “I think it should be tonight.”
“Michael . . .”
Joni cuts in again: “You’ve already stirred stuff up in him, Mom. He was remembering things, saying things to me in the car. If we sleep, it could cloud it all over. You know that’s exactly what happens with sleep.”
I only stand there, breathing. Watching Michael, seeking the truth in his eyes. Looking at my two children, who seem as anxious for me to get started as Michael is.
Finally, I break. “Okay. But I need to do a few things first.”
The relief in Michael’s eyes is unmistakable.
*
We go through it. I’ve brought Michael into Sean’s room on the second floor. Like Joni’s room, it views the lake. The rain is coming harder and the wind has picked up. Right on cue, like some kind of movie. But a white noise in the background aids the process. Michael is able to relax. He seems to trust me.
Hypnotherapy doesn’t work on everyone; some people are more suggestible than others. It’s hardest for those with high situational awareness, those who have trouble letting go, or who are compulsive or obsessive by nature. Michael actually strikes me as easygoing and has since Joni introduced him. Though Tom Bishop was full of anguish — and full of rage — it was the kind you knew to be righteous. Even if it could be toxic, left unchecked. I knew — or sensed — while working with Tom, that a decent, kind boy was there amid the trauma of what he’d witnessed. A boy in a terrible situation.
“Now, Michael,” I say, leaning forward slightly in my chair, “you’re fully and completely relaxed. You know that you’re safe. That you’re looked after. You know that everything is in its right place. The rain is soothing you, and you feel completely at ease. Completely comfortable.”
He is on the bed, lying down. It’s not necessary to lie down for hypnotherapy — in fact, sometimes it’s discouraged, lest the patient drift off into sleep — but Michael suggested it. I watch his chest rise and fall, evenly, steadily. The light comes from a small lamp on the bedside table. The room is slightly musky, damp from underuse.
The rain drums on the room. It patters against the windows and streaks the glass.
“Michael, I want you to listen to my voice. Everything around you is quiet and dark. Even the rain is fading away. Hear it fade . . . Just my voice is left, the volume of everything else turned down until it’s nothing. Pure tranquil silence. My voice is sort of pulling you along. We’re going to go back in time, Michael, we’re going to go back to your house on Pondfield Road. Can you see that house? Do you remember it?”
Michael, softly: “Yes.”
“Can you describe it to me? What color is it?”
“It’s white. With black around the edges.”
This is major: He’s just described the house in Bronxville, the very one I parked in front of two nights ago. I’m done considering coincidences at this point.
“That’s right. White with black trim. Do you like the color?”
“No. I always wished it was red or blue.” Michael already sounds younger, slightly childlike.
“Let’s go into the house,” I say. “Okay? Let’s you and I go into the front door together.”