“Hang on. So that means I’m only getting hypnotized once every two weeks? That’s not enough!”
“It’s rather aggressive, all things considered. You need to understand something. We’re not trying to reimagine Donald Jessup’s intentions. Those don’t matter. What you remember, those things may not have actually happened. And whether they did or not, it’s letting out the emotion that’s important.”
“May not have actually happened?” I stick my middle finger into a crack and scrape a loose staple. The warm blood comes fast, but I force myself to leave my finger there, bleeding into her couch. Stain on you, Ricker.
“Memory is fragile. Everything you recall is not likely to be correct. Under hypnosis, a person will elaborate, fill in incomplete bits to make a full story. Memory is not like a tape recorder or a video. That said, the reality as perceived by you is what we should concentrate on.”
“The reality as perceived by me. Wow,” I repeat.
“As a rule, the deeper the hypnosis, the less reliable the memory.”
“You remember me waking up on the count of ‘two,’ right?” I yank my finger from the couch and grab my bag. “This was fun. But really, I don’t see the point. If I can go back to the woods any time I feel like it, why do I need you? If my memories are all made up—or partly made up—why bother? I’m going to go enjoy my relaxation now. Until soon, Elaine.”
I blast into the reception room holding up my middle finger so blood won’t drip on the floor. Ricker’s next appointment, my doughy friend with a mole, flips me off behind his cupped hand as he passes into Ricker’s office. I try to deny giving him the finger as he slams the door. The receptionist reaches through the glass with a bouquet of tissues, which I grab, wrapping them around my digit mummy-style. When I turn, everyone ducks their heads over magazines or pulls out their phones. In the elevator, Muzak picks at my nerves, and I realize I forgot my coat, but I cannot go back, not after that performance. I hurry out the exit, chased by the tinkle of bells someone tacked above the door. Ricker’s office is in a bland building sandwiched between a Dunkin’ Donuts and a muscle-head gym. To get to your car you have to cross a tiny patio with a bench in front of a fountain covered by a skin of ice. I sit on the bench and pull out my marbleized notebook and flip through chunks of paper to find a clean page in the back. My butt is freezing, I am freezing, but if I start to have a daymare, a regressive memory, I can control it now. No big whoop.
If Ricker won’t deconstruct my memories, I will.
More Things I Know About Donald Jessup:
- Had two sleeping bags
- Said I was not her
- Gave me a head start
A shadow falls across my lap. I slap my notebook shut.
“Whoa. I didn’t peek, I swear.” Kellan is bundled in a scarf and a hockey sweatshirt over oxford shirttails. He hooks his thumbs (always the thumbs) into his jeans pockets, kicking the air, looking out from under a fringe of ginger lashes. “Finger okay?”
“Fine. How did you know I was here?” I say. Smooth.
Kellan twists his sneaker (always the sneaker). “I may have stopped by your house.”
“Did I forget something again?” I can’t act flattered, because I will humiliate myself. He’s made it clear that I’m just a noteworthy oddity, with my misplaced freckles, ghostly complexion, and freakishly big feet. After transferring from private St. John’s Prep to public Shiverton freshman year (an easy social transition, since he knew half the boys already from regional hockey teams), he could have scored any GIRL. He scored Liv. His latest dalliance, the GIRL with the Apple Face, looks like she should be milking a cow and wearing a skirt embroidered with bric-a-brac trim. What business does he have with an un-GIRL who slips in and out of the present on a daily basis and rocks a black thing in her belly?
Yet he does keep showing up.
“You didn’t forget a thing. I just thought we’d add another episode to the show of your life,” Kellan says, his lip curled into a crooked smile.
“Is it going to get surreal?” I say.
“That depends. Do you consider a picnic dinner outdoors in November surreal?”
“Surreally? Where are we having it?” I ask, slipping off the bench.
“Over”—Kellan grabs my shoulders and faces me toward the gym—“there. But first you need to take this.” A bustle behind me, and then darkness as he yanks his thick hockey sweatshirt over my head. I yelp, flopping the sleeves that spill over my hands, and he pulls me along by the cuff, and I laugh, letting him lead as we wend between parked cars and Dumpsters until we enter a brand-new skate park.
Stretching his arms, he affects a formal, booming voice. “This is the set.”