Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (16 page)

A child answers. “Dardens.”

“
Hi, this is Allie Armington. Is
your Mom around?”

The phone clatters in my ear and I wince, hoping
it’s not a harbinger of what’s to come.

Susie’s, “Hello,” is painfully tentative.

“
Hi, yourself. I’ve been thinking
of you all day, so I decided to give you a call. How are
things?”

“
Oh. Fine.” She pauses. “Just
fine. And you?”

“
Fine, too.” I take a deep breath
and say, “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, Suze. Are
you mad at me or something?” The reassuring denial I pray will come
back, doesn’t. Her voice is flat when she says, “It hasn’t been
that long, has it?”

No point in idle chat, so I leap in with, “I just
heard about Paul.”

Dead silence, then a small, “Really?” “Why didn’t
you let me know?”

More silence, broken by children’s gleeful squeals
in the background.

I can’t figure whether I’m confused or angry at her
apathy, so I push. “His lawyer said it was a heroin overdose. Did
you know that?”

Finally, Susie whispers, “We’ve been asked not to
discuss Paul with anyone. Especially not you.”

At that, my heart begins a panicky tango through my
chest. “Who told you not to say anything to me?”

Her next words are fear-filled. “Look, Allie, I’ve
already said too much. You’re my dearest friend and I want you be
around long enough to be in the front row at your namesake’s
wedding.”

Namesake? I struggle to remember a namesake. Nothing
comes and I can’t pursue the issue without revealing the gaping
hole in my life. Before I can answer, I hear Del’s voice in the
background and then the dial tone.

SUSIE’S LAST WORDS sent me through a sleepless
night, quivering in Duncan’s embrace, and this morning I am seated
across from the vain and balding Dr. Solomon.

After briefly relating my conversation with Susie
and the news that I have a child named after me whom I know nothing
about, I plead for his help. “I’ll do anything, take anything, try
anything to get my memory back.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he stares at me until I
look away. Then he speaks. “You want a quick fix. Is that it?”

The man must have iron for brains and Dr. Knight
must be nuts if he thinks Solomon can help me. When I face him, my
impatience is much too obvious. “I said I’ll do anything.”

“
You don’t like me very much, do
you Miss Armington?”

Oh, dear, is it that apparent? I sigh and dish the
truth. “No. Sorry.”

He smiles. “Don’t be. In this business, liking your
therapist helps, but it’s trust that truly matters.”

He opens my file, pulls out the papers and reads
through them while I perch on the edge of my chair, wondering what
comes next. Will he refer me to someone else or struggle along with
me despite my obvious antagonism?

He finally looks up through steepled hands and says,
“Hypnotherapy, and in my opinion that is the best way to deal with
hysterical or retrograde amnesia, not only involves your
willingness to cooperate with me, but it’s my responsibility to get
you to trust me. Sad to say, we have a way to go before that can
happen.”

I don’t have the time to learn to like him. My, “Oh,
I certainly trust you,” sounds as bogus as it is.

“
No matter how desperate you are
to get your memory back, this procedure involves your complete
collaboration, because I cannot and will not hypnotize you until
you are willing to give me complete control.”

I slump back in my chair. Either I get out of here
or I get on the horse and ride. At that, I picture the sign “Mr.
No-Name.”

When Solomon repeats his
lurch-forward-and-seem-interested look of the day before, I beat
him to the punch. “I rode a horse named Mister No-Name.”

“
And?”

I try to picture the horse, or the stable, or
something connected, but nothing follows. “Nothing else.”

“
Try to relax. Take three or four
deep breaths for me, will you?”

What harm can that do? I follow his instructions and
actually feel some of the starch go out of my spine.

His voice breaks my imposed trance. “If you’re
willing, Miss Armington, I would very much like to be the one to
get you through this.”

He smiles. “Here’s my proposition. As best I can
tell, your hysteria is due to one or more traumatic experiences
connected to your trips to Uvalde. I think we can work through your
memory loss with a series of thirty- to sixty-minute sessions. You
can make the decision whether we should meet several times a week
or less.”

“
How long will it
take?”

“
If you decide on using a more
aggressive approach, that is, several sessions a week, my best
guess is somewhere within five to fifteen weeks.”

Not exactly music to my ears, but as the man says,
I’m desperate. “I’d like to try the aggressive route, but I do have
a job.”

“
Not a problem. I often see
patients after business hours.”

I stand to go, but he motions me back to my chair.
“I have a few assignments for you. This is a two-person job, you
know.”

“
Assign away. I’m game for almost
anything.”

He pulls out a small spiral pad and hands it to me.
“First, I want you to record anything you might remember about the
period covering your memory loss. A word, a feeling, even a period
of unease. Describe what you think triggers it, and if possible
write down the time of day that each flash occurs.”

“
That seems easy enough,” I say
and start to rise. “There’s one more thing...”

Down I go, again.

He pulls out several sheets of paper stapled
together. “Secondly, it is imperative that you immediately begin a
daily regimen of self-relaxation. Try these techniques at least
once, until you find the one that works best for you. Then practice
that technique at least three times a day, in your home, at your
office, and if possible in a public place.”

I take the pages and quickly leaf through them.
“There are almost twenty here,” I protest.

“
That’s right, and if none of
those work, there are twenty more.” He stands and extends his hand.
“I’m looking forward to a successful endeavor with you Miss... may
I call you Allie?”

I extend mine and we shake hands. He has a nice firm
grip and a warm, dry hand. If he’d just do something about the side
swipe of hair on top of his head.

“
You can call me anything you
want, except incurable.”

THANKSGIVING IS HARD UPON US and after almost five
weeks my little notebook is still blank. In the beginning, I
wondered what Solomon and I were going to discuss after I got my
relaxation technique down pat.

It didn’t take long to realize his series of rather
gently probing questions were part of his trust-building procedure,
so I easily breezed through years three to eighteen in the first
couple of sessions.

Straight A’s in school. Boyfriends? Not really, just
a gang of good buddies who hung out together. Angela was the one
who dealt with the string of swains.

Lots of “I sees” from Solomon. Not much else. Today
it’s Texas. UT. The orange tower.

I take my place on the couch and do my relaxation
technique, which consists of deep breathing and counting backward
from one hundred until I almost fall asleep. I’m surprised to find
that I actually look forward to getting into this Zen-like
state.

Solomon’s voice comes strained through cotton. “Did
you enjoy your time at the University?”

My response is a dreamy, “Oh, yes.”

I visualize the place where I spent my first year.
Mrs. MacFalls, known to its tenants as Big Mac’s, was a large,
white, three-story house with wide porches across the front on the
first and second floors. Rooms varied greatly in size and were
meted out on longevity. Freshmen, unless they had a mentor, were
relegated to the chopped-up rabbit-warren on the third floor. But
thanks to my sister’s camp roommate, who was in her final year, I
occupied the other bed in a large, airy space with access to the
second-story porch.

“
So it was a pleasant
experience?”

“
Three of the best years of my
life, thanks to Reena Harper.” “Your friend?”

“
She, Susie Baxter, and I were
known as the Tri Delt Trio. Though neither Susie nor I could figure
out what a beauty like Reena was doing with a couple of turkeys
like us.”

“
Don’t you consider yourself
attractive?”

“
Attractive? I suppose. But
attractive isn’t stunning. My sister is stunning.”

“
And you’re not?”

I try to bury the rush of envy I feel every time I
think of Angela. “Never was. I miss stunning by millimeters. Luck
of the gene pool, I guess. You know, nose just a smidge too long,
eyes just a bit too small, and hair just a tad too curly.”

“
Just like me and my brother,”
Solomon says. “He’s ten years older and still has a full head of
hair.”

For the first time, I feel a true kinship with this
man and empathize with his pitiful attempt to cover his balding
pate. Life is not fair.

Solomon intones from above, “Ah, we digress. Let’s
get back to Reena.”

“
Sorry. Reena—Reena was a stunner.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. This fabulous blonde
rushing toward me, dragging a cute, short, dark-haired girl behind
her. I stepped back to let the twosome pass, but the blonde stopped
and pointed at me, then said, ‘I choose you.’”

“
But she picked you out of a large
group of other women. She must have thought you were as attractive
as she.”

“
If you say so.”

“
And your other
friend?”

“
Susie Baxter from Uvalde. She
lived with Reena in a boarding house just up the street from
mine.”

“
You said the first three years
were...” He checks his notes. “Three of the best years of your
life. What happened to change that?”

Don’t go there, a tiny voice says somewhere at the
side of my mind as an almost unbearable sadness overwhelms me. Then
I whisper, “Paul Carpenter happened.”

For the rest of the session I talk about Paul. How I
felt when I first saw him. The first night we slept together. The
four months we spent before Reena got to him. Everything. Even the
abortion.

I suppose I am already weeping by the time I get to
the part about my abortion. But I sob and heave as that sad,
long-ago morning, so carefully locked deep in my soul, comes
spewing forth in clarifying detail. The noise of the electric
suction pump. The feel of a hand in mine and the soothing voice of
the nurse as my baby is pulled from me forever.

Only then do I realize it’s Solomon’s hand and
Solomon’s soothing voice.

He offers me another tissue to add to the ten or
fifteen little damp balls in the wastebasket next to the couch and
says, “What a sad secret you kept. First, losing the love of your
life to a woman you considered a dear friend, then having to
silently grieve for the death of your child.” He pauses, then says,
“Paul never knew?”

“
What was the point?”

“
You must be a very strong person
to have worked through such a devastating experience.”

“
I can’t see how reviving my
pathetic tale is going to help. I mean it’s been eight years since
that happened. I dealt with it. Got on with my life. You know I’m
getting married in March.” I pause. My hands grow clammy and,
opening my eyes, I quickly qualify my announcement. “What I mean
is, we have a church and a hall reserved for March.”

“
That’s wonderful news,
Allie.”

My reaction frightens me. I should be filled with
joy, flushed with anticipation, instead I feel some sort of bleak
emptiness. “Is it?”

Solomon’s smile dies. “Isn’t it?”

I look down at Duncan’s ring and murmur, “I was
counting on being through with our sessions by the end of
January.”

“
I was hoping for that too.”
“But?”

“
Not a ‘but,’ just a new concern.
I’ve noticed the ring on your finger, but until this moment you
never mentioned your fiancé or your approaching marriage. Why do
you suppose that is?”

I shrug and stare back.

“
If this man is going to be part
of your future, don’t you think we should spend a little time
discussing him?”

“
I suppose. That is, if you think
we should.” “Don’t you?”

I capitulate and tick down a list of Duncan’s vital
statistics. “Sounds like a fine young man.”

“
Oh, he is, but...” I search for
an ending to this uncomfortable exercise but nothing
comes.

Solomon saves me by flipping through my thickening
file. After reading the last sheet, he puts it on his “done” stack.
The drill is over.

“
I’m pleased with your ability to
put yourself into a relaxed state so easily. That will be most
helpful when we start the hypnotherapy.”

“
And when will that
be?”

“
When you ask for it.”

Duncan won’t be home until late. He’s tied up with
witness interviews for his latest fraud case. I’m grateful for the
time to sort through my sad past alone. Finally being able to talk
to someone about the abortion has been a great relief.

I have made a hot cup of chamomile tea and am
nestled in bed. I’m a mess. Eyes still red hours later. The session
with Solomon was the worst so far. Dredging up the past only makes
me realize how much I lost and bringing up my future with Duncan
has been very unsettling.