“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Do you remember the patient I told you about three years ago?” Frankie asked. “He was involved in an attempted mugging in Los Angeles. He had a concealed handgun, which he used to shoot the assailant. Then he tried to give CPR, but the mugger died of the gunshot wound. The man was tormented by what he’d done, regardless of the justification. He came to me because he wanted his memory of the event completely erased.”
“I remember,” Jason said.
“Two months after our treatment, he began to have seizures. The doctors thought it was epilepsy, but there were no abnormalities in his EEG. They sent him back to me, and I realized his brain was rebelling against what we’d done. The actual memory of the event was gone, but the underlying trauma was still there. It took a much longer series of traditional treatments to work his way through it.”
Jason didn’t ask why she was telling him this.
“Heights have never bothered me before,” she went on, “but do you know what I see when I look down now?”
“What?”
“I see my father at the base of the cliff. That’s strange because I wasn’t there. I was at our campsite when he went hiking. I never saw my father’s body. I was never on the cliff, and I never looked over the edge. The rangers found him. And yet I can see it in my head, Jason. I can see him lying there.”
“What do you want me to say?” her husband asked.
“I want you to admit what you did to me. You changed my memory of that weekend, didn’t you? All along, I thought that I’d blocked it out. All I could see were images. Snapshots. But they were images you planted there, right? You erased what really happened. You erased what I saw.”
Jason stood in front of her, his face a mask. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked me to,” he said.
Frankie closed her eyes. He wasn’t lying. She’d already realized what the truth had to be. This was something she’d chosen.
“Was any of it real?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Did he really say he was proud of me?”
Jason didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “Why go down this road, Frankie? There’s a reason you wanted to forget it.”
“I want to know,” she snapped. “Tell me.”
“No, your father never said that.”
“You lied to me. You planted a lie in my head.”
“A lie? Get over yourself. It’s no different than what you do with patients every day. You take away bad memories, and you replace them with better memories. Don’t blame me if you don’t like your own medicine.”
He was right about that, too. She looked into a mirror, and she didn’t like what she saw. What Jason had done to her was exactly what she did to her own patients. She left her fingerprints inside their brains. She played God. Now, for the first time, she knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end. She wondered how many of the people she’d tried to help found themselves riddled with doubts after it was over. How many of them felt as if they were staring into a well where they couldn’t see the bottom? How many wished they could know the truth again, after the truth had been swept away?
“What really happened out there?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “It’s wrong for me to tell you. You didn’t want to remember.”
“Look, if you don’t tell me, I’ll just go downstairs and ask Pam. She knows what you did, right?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me,” Frankie said.
“What do you remember?” Jason asked.
“Nothing. I remember nothing. Just the image of him where he fell. How his body looked. His blood on the rocks.” She stopped, because the image began to get clearer in her brain. The blood was a new detail. She hadn’t seen it before in her flashbacks.
“If I tell you, it might make it worse,” he pointed out. “Sometimes the memories come back more intensely and more painful than before.”
“I’ll take that risk. Right now, I have to know.”
Jason laced his fingers on top of his head, and he grimaced, as if he were on a jury, deciding someone’s guilt or innocence. “Your father didn’t fall. He jumped.”
Frankie’s knees quivered. She felt dizzy, and she pitched forward, and Jason caught her. He helped her to the bed, and then he went to the bathroom and prepared a warm, damp towel, which he dabbed against her face. He sat down next to her, their legs touching.
“I saw it?” she asked.
“You went hiking with him that morning, the way you usually did. He was ahead of you on the cliff trail. You saw what he was about to do, and you shouted for him to stop, but he simply fell. And then you ran to the edge and saw him on the beach below. You couldn’t deal with it. You went back to the campsite. You stayed in your tent for hours, and then finally, you went to find the rangers, and you told them your father was missing.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “For God’s sake, why did he do it? Did I say something? Did we argue?”
“You know he had bouts of depression. He’d talked about suicide before.”
“Yes, but he was the supreme narcissist. It was just talk. I can’t believe he actually did it.”
“Sometimes people act in a split second,” Jason said. “One moment he’s on the cliff, and an impulse takes him, and he’s in the air. At that point, it’s too late to go back and stop.”
Frankie closed her eyes. She tried to summon tears, but she couldn’t.
“Do you remember it now?” Jason asked finally.
She stared into her brain and tried to draw a picture of that last morning. Even knowing what had happened, she saw nothing, and thinking harder didn’t change anything. She dipped a brush into paint, but with each stroke she applied, the canvas stayed blank. Everything Jason had told her was no more real to her than a story that had happened to someone else.
It made her think of the theme her father had chosen for their discussions that last weekend. Risk.
She’d taken a risk. Just like the patients who came to her took a risk. You can take away your pain, but once it’s done, it’s done. You’re in the air. It’s too late to go back and stop.
Their memories—those little proteins that made up a life—were gone.
“No,” she said. “I don’t remember anything at all.”
Frost awoke to music. He shifted on the sofa, which disturbed Shack, who hopped down to the carpet. Disoriented, he realized that the music was a Jefferson Airplane song. “White Rabbit.” He lay on his back, listening to Grace Slick’s angry, erotic voice before he realized that the music was coming from his phone.
He’d chosen “White Rabbit” as the ringtone for Herb, who’d partied with the San Francisco group as a nineteen-year-old in 1967. He’d seen a photo of Herb with Grace Slick and Marty Balin at the Monterey festival that June. Sometimes, his friend told stories from that summer, and Frost realized that, even back then, Herb was at the center of everything that went on in the city.
Frost rolled off the sofa and stumbled to the dining room table, where he’d left his phone. “Herb, what time is it?”
“Almost two. I’m sorry to wake you up.”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s going on?”
“Street Twitter came through.”
Frost was instantly awake. “What did you find out? Did someone see Lucy?”
“No, but a guy wearing that creepy mask gave twenty bucks to a homeless vet to pass along a message.”
“What message?” Frost asked.
His friend hesitated, didn’t answer.
“Herb? Come on, what was the message?”
“It may be nothing. This guy may just be playing games with you.”
“Tell me.”
“He said if you want to find what you’re looking for, ask Katie.”
Frost’s fist clenched. He breathed in and out. “I have to go,” he told Herb.
“Listen to me. He’s just getting inside your head. That’s what he’s trying to do.”
“I have to go,” Frost repeated. “Thanks, Herb. Really.”
He hung up the phone, and he stood in the nighttime chill of the house. If the Night Bird wanted to get inside Frost’s head, he’d succeeded. Frost knew exactly where to look for Lucy.