The thought of my son temporarily derails me. “Okay, let’s keep breathing, keep relaxing . . .”
I struggle to find my place again. I think about Joni, hiking up the mountain with her friends, leaving us with the space to do this. Kids are so much more accepting these days. Nothing surprises this generation.
“Michael? Can you hear me?”
His voice is monotone, slightly slurred: “Yes, I can hear you.” His eyes remain closed, his fingers folded over his stomach. He took his shoes off to lie down — for a moment, I’m distracted, thinking he’s wearing Sean’s socks.
Stop it. Stay focused.
“You’ve come a long way, Michael. We’ve done a lot of work already. I want you to feel all of the space you’ve created. Can you feel it?”
“Yes.”
“Look around you right now. What do you see?”
“My house.”
“Your house. You mean your house as a boy?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe it to me?”
He describes the house on Pondfield Road with even more clarity and detail.
“Michael, I want you to go to a mirror. Can you find a mirror?”
“Yes.”
“Now, feeling all of the space you’ve created, all of the air breezing through, I want you to look in the mirror.”
“I’m looking.”
“And what do you see?”
“I see me.”
“Are you a boy?”
“Yes, I’m a boy.”
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“Okay. Good. And . . . what’s your name?”
He starts to say Michael, starts to form the “M” sound, but the sound elongates and becomes, “My name is Tom.”
“Very good,” I say, feeling that little rush of adrenaline. We’re back. Locked in. Michael’s voice has taken on that higher, youthful pitch again. From there, we go through the evening. It’s as before. He remembers his mother’s cold, distant stare at dinner. Drinking her wine. Sending him up to his room. He recalls lying in bed and reading.
He also recalls the car outside, parked but running, smoke issuing from the tailpipe.
His mother and father argue. His mother goes upstairs.
“Then what do you hear?” I ask.
“Nothing. I fall asleep.”
“But something awakens you.” I don’t mean to be pushy or to guide him, but I can’t help it. I have to know.
“Yes. Something wakes me up. The door.”
The door to the kitchen. Someone has left, or someone is here. Tom thinks to check the car in the road, now empty. His father speaks loudly in the kitchen below. What are you doing? Are you fucking crazy?
Then there’s fighting. David Bishop fearfully threatens to call the police. Tom makes his way down the stairs . . .
“Your mother’s bedroom,” I interrupt. “Is the door open?”
“It was closed.”
David shouts for the intruder — or Laura, if it’s her — to put something away. It must be the hammer he or she is wielding.
It’s not Laura.
No. Michael made that clear in our last session. He hears more of the bad fighting and then a body drops to the floor — his father — before he sees a man flee out the door.
“Is it a man?”
“Yes. It’s a man.”
“I need you to see him, Tom. I need you to freeze this picture right now. Like a movie. Press pause.”
Michael’s voice is high, whispery: “Okay . . .”
“Did you freeze it?”
“Yes.”
“Now zoom in. You know how to zoom in?”
“Yes.”
“Really get a close look. What color hair does the man have?”
Michael says nothing. His brow has furrowed. His lips work against each other, as if struggling to form the word: “Brown.”
“Brown hair. What is he wearing?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“You told me you were ready. You are ready. You’re ready to remember.”
“He has a black coat. A little snow on it.”
“What about any part of his face? Can you see — does he have pale skin? Or darker? Is he tall? Short?”
I might be pressing too hard — Michael sits up on the couch. But his eyes are shut tight, his scowl deepening. He’s straining to see inside his memory. “The reflection in the door,” he says.
“Yes?”
“I can see his face in the reflection of the door.”
“You can see him . . .” Gooseflesh erupts across my arms, along the back of my neck, like I’ve just touched a low-voltage live circuit.
“I can see his face in the reflection. The glass that’s in the door. He’s looking at me . . .”
Michael’s face contorts in fear. He wraps his arms around himself. I break from protocol — I’ve violated a million rules already, why not — and move beside him and take him in my arms, rub his shoulders. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you. This is just a picture. But listen to me now. I want you to keep that picture. I want you to imagine you can print it out. Okay? You know what a printer is. I want you to print it out in full color. And then I want you to imagine putting it in your book bag. Like your school book bag.”
“Okay . . .”
I pause only briefly, knowing that the mind works fast in these situations, like in a dream. “Okay? You got it?”
“I got it.”
“Now, put it in your backpack. I’m going to bring you out, bring you back here with me now, and you’re going to take that backpack with you, okay?”
“Okay . . .”
I ease Michael back down into a supine position and return to my chair. Then, slowly, so he doesn’t rise too fast, I talk him out of his deep regressive state. I describe the yurt and the woods and remind him of Joni and his life here. After about twenty minutes being under, Michael blinks open his eyes. He slowly sits up on the couch. He looks around, then at me, and he smiles.
“Michael,” I say, having a little trouble speaking. “Did you bring the picture with you?”
He just stares a moment, then nods and taps the side of his head. “I got it.”
I let out a held breath. As I do, I take my phone out of my pocket. There’s no service here, but a call isn’t what I’m after. It’s the picture I saved. Two of them, actually. The older Doug Wiseman and the younger version. I hold up the younger one in front of Michael.
“Is it this man?”
Michael looks at it, squints, then shakes his head. “No.”
I hold my breath a moment. Then: “Are you sure? Look again.”
He does, but it’s clear he’s not recognizing the face in the picture. “He must look at least familiar to you.” I flip to the older version. “Here, how about now?”
“Oh,” Michael says. “Okay. I think I remember him.”
“From that night?”
Michael shakes his head. “No. Not from that night. It’s not him.”
“Michael, your mother was involved with this man. His name is Doug Wiseman. He’s the man in the image.”
Michael continues shaking his head. “It’s not him. He looks familiar — I think I met him once, before Mom went to prison, but that’s—”
“Listen to me,” I say. “We’re going to try again. You might need to take a second look at that reflection. Michael? Are you listening?”
Michael has stopped looking at me. His gaze is set over my shoulder. And he begins to look worried. Even scared.
“Michael? What is it?”
“Behind you,” he says.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Paul is standing there, breathing hard, sweat beading his brow.