Livia looked up at the ceiling of Dr. Hunt’s office. Something else about the drug gnawed at her. She put her finger on the page and ran her nail under each letter. K-E-T-A-M-I-N-E.
When it came to her, it came quickly and with little doubt. She hastily reassembled the chart and pushed it across the desk. She tried briefly to find Dr. Hunt, but gave up after a few minutes of wandering the halls. Outside, she climbed into her car and let her phone’s GPS take her to the nearest bookstore. She walked into the Barnes & Noble and, surrounded by the latest titles from popular authors, walked to the nonfiction best sellers display and plucked Megan McDonald’s book from the shelf. Livia skimmed to the middle, where she thought she remembered reading it. It took a few minutes to find it, Megan’s first-person recollection of her time in the hospital after her escape from the bunker. Her memory of that night had been foggy, Megan wrote, and much of what was recorded about her trek along Highway 57 and her reception at the hospital was documented with the help of Mr. Steinman, the man who had found Megan barefoot and bleeding and who had carried her away in his car and brought her to safety.
Livia skimmed the pages, frantic to find a single word, until she found the passage she was looking for. Megan’s memory was altered that night, and she spent the first twelve hours of her hospital stay in a near-comatose state. Part of her trance was blamed on shock and dehydration. But mainly, the doctors determined, it was due to the large amount of sedative found in her system. A drug mostly used by veterinarians. A medication called ketamine.
CHAPTER 23
Megan sat with eyes closed and her legs positioned Indian style on the plush leather chair in Dr. Mattingly’s office. Tonight’s session was an add-on to her typical twice-a-month meetings. One Megan had specifically requested. Since her breakthrough session when she recalled the far-off train whistle as a recurrent noise from her time in the cellar, Megan was anxious to get back to hypnotherapy. She knew other things were buried in her memory, likely suppressed by the amnesic effects of ketamine, the drug that sedated her during those two weeks in captivity.
She believed there was enough there, in her own mind, to make sense out of what she’d been through. And since remembering the train whistle, she’d been up at night with something else that bothered her. Something about the cellar and her captivity that was knocked loose during one of the sessions but was not yet close enough to the surface of her memory to be useful. And since she’d started with Dr. Mattingly, Megan had learned to differentiate the important things from the meaningless. She learned which impressions to pursue and which to let go. Her restless nights were telling her this latest pining—that object her fingertips brushed against but could not grip—needed exploring.
“Describe the room again, Megan. Start with what you know for sure,” Dr. Mattingly said.
The sessions took a familiar path each time, and Megan had learned to navigate this redundant road without protest or resistance.
“My bed is in the corner. Mattress, box spring, and frame. Across from me, against the wall behind which the stairs are located, is a table.”
“This is the table where your food was placed?”
“No,” Megan said with her eyes closed. “That table is closer to the stairs. This other table is against the wall.”
“Go to it, Megan. Walk to that table. See it in your mind. See it three-dimensionally in your mind’s eye.”
“I try,” Megan said. “I want to get there but my chain is not long enough.”
“Don’t force it. Just look, Megan. Look at the table and describe what you see.”
“It’s too dark to see.”
“It’s too dark only on the surface, Megan. Your eyes have adjusted themselves to the darkness. You see better than you believe you can. Look at the table. Take your time and tell me what you see.”
Megan breathed hard through her nose. It took a minute before she answered. “There’s a bottle. The table is empty except for a bottle.”
Dr. Mattingly was quiet.
“It’s a canister.... It’s paint,” Megan finally said. “A bottle of spray paint.”
“Good, Megan. Now, leave that bottle alone. Move your eyes from that table you cannot reach. Go to the other table, Megan. The one where your food is left. What is there, Megan?”
Megan’s crossed legs twitched while she sat in Dr. Mattingly’s overstuffed chair as she walked in her mind as far as her shackles would allow. “There is nothing there. It’s dark and I have to feel if food has been left for me. There is nothing now.”
“Good, Megan. Very good. Now go back to the bed. Lie down there and listen to my voice . . . are you there yet?”
Megan nodded.
“Are you lying down now, Megan?”
Another nod.
“That table is empty, Megan. But sometimes it is full. Sometimes you wake to find your food having been set on that table. What is it that wakes you, Megan? What is the sound that pulls you from sleep?”
Megan shook her head.
“What is it, Megan? What do you hear that wakes you?”
“No . . . I don’t know. The stairs, I guess. The stairs squeak when he walks on them.”
“No guessing, Megan. There’s no need to guess. Everything you need is right here, in this place. Just listen to it all and tell me what you hear.”
“The stairs. I don’t know! The stairs are squeaking. He’s coming!”
“Ignore the squeaking stairs, Megan. Do you hear something else?”
“No. Just the stairs. He’s coming!”
“Okay, Megan. I want you to wake up now. We’re going to wake in three, two, one. And wake.”
Megan’s eyes blinked open and she stared at Dr. Mattingly. She was breathing short, quick breaths.
“Shit,” she said after a few seconds.
“We’ve discussed this, Megan. Not every session will end with a breakthrough.”
“It was right there. That thing I’m looking for.”
“Megan, it’s important at this stage of your treatment for me to protect you. To stop your mind from going too far in these sessions. Eventually, with each session, we’ll go a little further and that will be considered progress. But journeying too far too soon will bring regression. Instead of moving forward, your mind will retreat and our progress will be lost.”
“If I get close again, though, will you just leave me there for a minute longer? I hate it when you take control from me. You said I needed to feel in control for this stuff to work.”
“I’m always considering what’s best for you, Megan. When your body language and voice all coincide with it being the right time to take that next step, we’ll do it. I’ll leave you there. But when you’re hyperventilating and your pulse is racing, your mind is not ready for that step. This takes time, Megan. And since you’ve given yourself to the process, you’ve made great strides. It’s common to want to do too much. But as your physician, I need to keep you healthy throughout the process.”
Megan took a deep breath. “You’re the shrink.”
CHAPTER 24