“You’re just saying all this because you know I can’t hold you to it.”
“No,” he says. “I’m sayin’ it because I might not get another chance.”
I twist my fingers through his hair, press my lips to his cheek. The words tangle in my throat, being born and dying a thousand times. I love you.
On Thursday I climb out of the haze of hypnosis, and the first thing I see is Dr. Wolfgang’s smirk. My immediate thought is that I’ve just divulged something humiliating, but then I find Alice wringing her hands, eyes wide.
“You guys find something?”
“I always find something,” Wolfgang croaks. “This is the point of using a map.”
That last bit comes off snidely, and his eyes flick to Alice, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She swallows and says. “Thank you, Frederick, we can handle it from here.”
He mumbles something to himself in German but packs up and clears out all the same. When we’re alone, Alice goes to close the door and sits down in her chair, staring at me.
“Well?” I say, uncomfortable and anxious. “Are you going to tell me?”
She grabs the voice recorder off the desk and passes it to me. “Go on.”
It takes me a minute to gather myself. Whatever’s in this recording, once I hear it, there’s no forgetting it. But if it’s the key to getting Grandmother back, I really have no choice. I take a deep breath and press PLAY.
At first, all I hear is my own even breathing, how I imagine I must sound when I’m asleep.
A sharp gasp interrupts the rhythm, as if I’ve been startled awake.
“Mommy?” I hear myself say, only my voice is higher and smaller, somehow younger. “MOMMY!”
I start to scream—the me in the recording—bloodcurdling shrieks.
Suddenly, I’m not just hearing the sound anymore. I’m making it. The me in the room. I’m seeing it. I’m feeling it.
All of it.
I’m not in the office. I’m in the car, strapped into my car seat, as we smash headlong into something and spin sideways, flipping, my stomach looping inside me like we’re on a roller coaster. We hit the ground, the windows shattering on impact. Glass everywhere. Pain. The dark of night. Thunder screeches overhead, but I barely hear it. Silence drapes itself over the whole world, muffling my ears, the sound of my own voice, screaming, “Mommy, Mommy!” as the creek water and rain rush into the car.
“STOP IT,” comes another voice.
Not from my memory. It’s Alice’s voice, and I snap back into the office, mind reeling.
“Wake her up,” Alice is saying from the voice recorder. “Right now, Frederick.”
The recorder turns off as it reaches the end. I look up from the hunk of plastic shaking wildly in my hands to Alice, whose face is ghostly. “My dreams.”
She nods. “They’re not dreams,” she says. “It’s a memory.”
“She fell asleep,” I whimper. “She fell asleep at the wheel, and we wrecked.” Alice’s features remain stony as the memory keeps replaying in my mind, fragmented and dark, cold and wet, panic overtaking me. It shouldn’t be so scary—it was a long time ago. I shouldn’t feel this way, like nothing can make me safe. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I can’t remember how to breathe. I keep inhaling but the air won’t make it to my lungs. My chest aches all the way down through my arm.
“Natalie,” Alice says, her voice rough but somehow comforting in its solidity. “Take deep breaths. Focus on your breathing. It’s all going to be okay, I can promise you that. What you’re experiencing right now is temporary.”
I barely hear her. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. Whatever’s wrapping around me, suffocating me, it’s inescapable.
“Natalie,” Alice says more harshly. She grabs my hand in hers. “Hold on to my hand as tight as you can.”
I’m so dizzy, so lightheaded and empty of breath.
“Grip my hand, Natalie.”
I tighten my fingers around her hand.
“Tighter,” Alice says. “As tight as you can, and inhale. Breathe in.”
I obey, fighting the stuttering of my lungs as I fold my hand over Alice’s.
“Good,” she says. “Now relax and let your breath out. Can you do that?”
I can, and after a few more cycles, the dizziness and pain subside. Alice squeezes my hand lightly and gives me a weak smile. “If it’s too much, we could bring in an EMDR therapist,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to keep feeling this.”
I free my hand from hers. My breath still comes heavy, but the crushing feeling has lightened. “Two more weeks,” I say. “That’s all.”
“If you’re sure,” Alice says, sitting back.
I do my best to keep my mind on this crammed office, my eyes on Alice’s face, my heart rate detached from that memory as I ask, “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“Who, Grandmother?”
“My mom,” I say. “I’ve had this nightmare my entire life. She knows about it. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
Alice sighs and tilts her head. “Natalie, the one time I ever had sex with a man, when I was nineteen, I got pregnant.”