“Yes, but I don’t remember those days.”
“Not consciously, but that experience is still there, inside you. Six days in your mother’s arms.” Dr. Statler shifts slightly in his chair and then clears his throat. “I want to try something with you. As you may know, Freud believed there was a way patients could get in touch with repressed memories.”
“You want me to lie down?”
“Yes,” he says. “I think it would be useful. Please, give it a try.”
I look at Dr. Statler’s bed. “Should I take off my shoes?”
“If you’d like.”
I nervously slip off my loafers, set them side by side, and swing my legs onto the bed.
“No, the other way,” Dr. Statler corrects me. “So you’re facing away from me. The idea is to keep the analyst out of sight, to allow greater freedom of thought.” I pivot in the other direction, my head at the foot of the bed, my feet toward the wall. “How do you feel?” he asks.
“Scared,” I admit.
“It’s okay,” Dr. Statler says. “We’re doing this together. You’re safe. Now close your eyes.” I do as he says. “Without thinking, tell me what you feel.”
“My body feels heavy,” I say. “Like I have a stack of bricks on top of me.”
“Where, exactly?”
I touch my chest. “Right here.”
“Okay, I want you to stay with that feeling,” Dr. Statler gently instructs. “Now, begin to pick up the bricks. Slowly, one by one. Set them aside.” I try to do what he says, imagining myself getting closer to my heart. “When you get to the last brick, I want you to lift slowly. Can you tell me what you see underneath?”
“A hospital room?” I whisper. I can make it true if I try. I’m with her, my mother, my chest against hers, my body hardly any bigger than her two hands. Her hair is pulled back off her face. They were right—she’s a child still. Far too young to be a mother. And yet it feels natural here, our hearts beating together, a lullaby on her lips.
“Why did she have to leave me?” I whisper.
“She wasn’t given a choice.”
“Was it me?”
Dr. Statler hesitates. “Was what you?”
“Was it because there’s something wrong with me?” The tears sting my eyes. “She could feel it inside me,” I say. “The darkness. My anger. That’s why she gave me away. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to cry.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold on to her image in my mind, but my father pushes her aside, a look of disgust on his face at seeing me in tears again. “He wouldn’t leave me alone,” I say. “He wouldn’t let me be who I was. I couldn’t feel things.”
“But you did feel things, didn’t you Albert? Like sadness.”
“Yes.”
“And when that wasn’t allowed?”
A sob escapes. “Rage.”
“Yes, that’s right. Rage. And you still feel it sometimes, don’t you? When you’re wronged, the rage comes back easily.”
“Yes, Dr. Statler.” My voice sounds like a child’s.
“Like the night of the storm, and your decision to attack me.”
I open my eyes. Dr. Statler has pushed his chair next to the bed. Just inches away, he has a chilling look on his face, and a steak knife in his hand. “No, Dr. Statler. You had an accident—”
“You were the accident, Albert.” The knife blade glints in his hand as he raises it. “I know what you did. I know you’re the reason I haven’t seen my wife in thirteen days.” Dr. Statler traces the knife along my cheek, catching a tear. “I know you’re the person who broke both my legs.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not true—”
“No more lies, Albert.” Dr. Statler’s voice is stern. “I won’t allow it.”
“I’m not lying,” I whimper. “I didn’t break your legs. I put the casts on so you couldn’t leave.”
Dr. Statler surprises me with a laugh. “Wow, Albert. That is some Annie Wilkes–level crazy.”
“No, it’s not,” I say, offended. “She chopped off Paul Sheldon’s ankles. I just pretended to hurt yours.” I close my eyes again, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” Dr. Statler says. I feel the knife blade press against my cheek. “That’s good to know.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I certainly could, couldn’t I?” He trails the blade along my jaw, to my Adam’s apple. “All I’d have to do is apply some pressure right here . . .” I’m too terrified to move. “It wouldn’t take more than a minute or so for you to choke on your blood. Nobody would blame me, not after everything you’ve done to me. Locking me inside this room. Shoveling those pills into my body. But no.” He removes the knife from my throat. “I’m not going to kill you. At least not yet.”
I open my eyes. “You’re not?”
“No. And do you know why?” he asks. “Because you’re not evil, Albert. You’re wounded. You don’t deserve to die. You deserve a chance to get help.” He settles back into his chair. “There’s one thing we didn’t go over yesterday. The prognosis.”
“The prognosis?”