“Can I hold your hand?”
For a moment, I don’t respond. It was as if his voice even became Tom’s voice for a moment, a full octave higher. A sweeter, lighter voice. Finally I say, “Of course you can hold my hand. Feel it in yours?” I’ve not actually touched him, but I can sense his relaxation at imagining it. “All right. Now . . . let’s go inside.”
“Okay.”
I give it a second or two. “What do we see?”
“Boots.”
“Boots?”
“By the door. Boots and shoes. And jackets hanging. My red winter jacket.”
“Right, it’s winter. Is it snowing outside?”
On the bed, Michael gives a little shake of his head. “Not right now.”
I consider it. It had snowed the night of David Bishop’s murder, one of the first of the season. But it had been later, hours after he’d gotten home. And while visible footprints leading to and from the side door were part of the initial police report, those tracks had melted in the morning sun.
They weren’t hard evidence. They were one piece of a mystery. One I can remember desperate police scrambling to solve.
They seemed to have it in for the wife . . .
But these thoughts are galloping ahead of where I need to be.
“Okay. So all the boots and jackets are there inside the door. What’s next? What’s going on in the kitchen?”
Michael doesn’t respond.
“Michael?”
His hand twitches. Then his head — a minor jerking motion, like someone dreaming.
“Michael? Did you fall asleep?”
“No.” A child’s answer. Nooo. Then: “There’s nothing going on in the kitchen. The clocks are ticking.”
“The clocks . . . Are there lots of clocks?”
“Yes.” His words are dreamy, slightly slurred. “They go up the stairs.”
“That’s right. The clocks are on the wall going up the stairs. Let’s go up there together.”
He utters a kind of moan, like he’s reluctant.
“What do you say, Michael? Can you show me your room?” I want to call him Tom, but he’s responding to Michael fine. No need to push.
“Okay,” he says, after a pause. “We’re in my room.”
“Good. Very good. Can you tell me about your room?”
He describes the way it was set up. The toys, the posters on the wall, the Pokémon game. I haven’t even specified to when we were returning, only that we needed to go back in time, to some point. Michael has selected this. The boots and thick coats point to winter, which could be any winter — but based on Michael’s mannerisms, his voice, and the description of his room, he most certainly seems to have chosen the time near his father’s murder.
Maybe this very night, in his memory.
It is more than I expected, more than I would have hoped for, in a first session. Honestly, the whole thing raises my suspicion that Michael is faking it.
If so, he’s convincing as ever. Or I’m gullible. But I don’t think so. And there’s no better alternative to seeing it through, anyway.
I listen as he continues to tell me about his belongings — now it’s his cherished Harry Potter books on the shelves beside his bed — and yet I’m slightly distracted, knowing that Sean and Joni and Paul are all downstairs right now, surely talking about this. Each of them knows a little something, but so far their knowledge has been disparate. Now, together, they’re going to be able to form a more complete picture.
There’s nothing more I can do to stop that from happening. The cat is pretty much out of the bag. I could have refused to do the treatment with Michael, could have insisted he wait for my colleague’s opening, could have made excuses about needing to update my hypnotherapy license, but I didn’t.
Because I have to know.
Even if it’s a charade, I have to find out.
Not just whether Michael is Tom — I need to know what he believes truly happened that night.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Tom?”
It’s been a few seconds since I’ve given him any direction, having gotten lost in my own thoughts. I’ve said “Tom” instead of “Michael” without intending.
“Yes?”
But he’s answered.
“It’s time for bed,” I say.
“I don’t want to go to bed.”
“Well, you’ve had a long day. I think—”
“I don’t want to!” he shouts. On the bed, Michael’s eyes remain closed, but his forehead is lined with a scowl, his hands closed into fists.
So much for easygoing Tom, I think. But then I remind myself: The Tom of fifteen years ago is not the same as the Tom — or Michael — in my son’s bed.
Though Michael has brought us back to a time just prior to his father’s death, the boy who experienced that murder, who saw it take its gruesome place, is already layered in. The frustrated, sad and angry boy who came to see me — he’s here.
Plus, I screwed up. Now that we’re here, I’ve been trying to fast forward to the moment he witnessed the crime, but Michael’s mind isn’t video playback. It’s too much too soon for him, hence the mini-tantrum.
“Okay, Tom. It’s okay . . . how about we read a bedtime story instead?”
He settles. His fists relax and his forehead smooths. “All right,” he intones. “I’ll pick one.”
We get back to it. First, he makes an elaborate show of choosing a book. I marvel that he can remember so many titles. But he spent a significant portion of his childhood in this room and has a vivid picture of this time in his life.
“How about Harry Potter?” I ask, when time has passed.
He doesn’t respond.
“Tom? Can we pick a book?” I feign a yawn. “I’m getting tired.”
“There’s someone,” he whispers.
“What?” I edge closer, feeling the hairs on my arms stiffening. “Someone where?”
“There’s someone outside.”
It’s so convincing, so compelling, that I stand up.
“Can you see them?” Even though I realize Michael is talking about the past, I move to the windows. The rain hits the lake at an angle, frothing it white. I hear the boats thumping in the boathouse.
“I can see him,” Michael says.
My blood runs cold. “What is he doing?”
“He’s sitting in a car. I think he’s watching.”
The words chill me. “You think he’s watching?” I ease back toward the chair, recommitting to Michael’s memory. His world.
“He’s sitting there. Smoking.”
Another flash in my mind: two cigarette butts in the street. Cops had found them and bagged them. Along with the tracks in the snow, it was early evidence of an intruder. That theory held for six months, although no one was ever arrested.
But Tom told police he saw his mother.
Right?
“Tom? What’s the man outside doing now?”
“I want to read.”
“Is he still there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you see him?”
Tom never told me this. Not that I remember. I’ll have to go back through my case notes to be sure, but this is all new to me.
“Tom? Can you still see the man?”
“I’m done. I need to leave here.” Michael’s gruffer tone suggests he’s reverting to his present, older self. Trying to come back.
I sit down quickly. “Wait now, Tom. Let’s stay in your room. I’ll read you a book, and then we can go to sleep.”