The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) (10 page)

Dr. Kohler nodded, scratching his pen upon the notebook, a
deliberate effort at hiding his hesitation. “Ellen, would you entertain the
possibility that the reason Jack is suffering in your dreams is that he’s
served his purpose; that you’re supposed to let him go? It is your persistence
in maintaining him, of forcing his continued existence in your mind, that’s
causing his decay. He no longer has a function in your life, but because you persist
in keeping him with you, he is being slowly and systematically destroyed. It’s
your mind’s way of forcing you to let go of that part of your past, of making
you get on with living in the real world now that you’re able to accept it for
what it is.”

“Why should I accept this world? Jack’s the only part of my
past that I remember, the only part that seems real.”

“Short-term memory loss is not uncommon after undergoing EC
treatment,” he pointed out.

“But not
long
-term,” she countered. She was aware of the
side effects. Frankly, she doubted she had even undergone the procedure; it
seemed more like a reality invented by the Cast Out, Reginald Hyde; one
designed to torment her. It was too contrived that the thing she had no
concrete memory of was the very thing that would take her memory away. But it
was more than that. She had no memory of the hospital at all. There was nothing
past her initial moments in the padded cell. She remembered being strapped in a
straitjacket, remembered Dr. Chaulmers explaining how he was going to help her
with drugs and shock treatment, remembered vomiting. And then she remembered
the train coming, the strange conductor with the mirrored bow-tie and eyes like
kaleidoscope wheels, the one who lifted her up and took her away to the
Sanity’s Edge Saloon. But before that sketchy moment in the hospital, there was
almost nothing. Like some character in a play, the director providing only a
brief suggestion of her motivation.
And action!

And her life began from that moment forward.

“True, your case is a good deal more complex. I would surmise
that your inability to remember your own past stems from a psychological block
of your own devising. On a sub-conscious level, you don’t
want
to
remember your past. I think your brain has effectively walled it away until
it’s ready to deal with a trauma you’re repressing.” He paused, a carefully
contrived gesture. “You know, there is one way I can help you remember this
moment and deal with it, maybe even help you regain the rest of your memory.
Are you familiar with hypno-regressive therapy?”

She stiffened. “Hypnosis?”

“I assure you its nothing like what you’ve seen on television
or heard about in nightclubs.” He offered a pompous smirk. “All
hypno-regressive therapy does is place you in a highly relaxed state so that
you can better focus upon the details of your memory. Nothing more. There’s no
way it can make you do anything you don’t want to do. We can even do it right
here in the office. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Right here?” In her head, siren-bursts drowned out the
words.

“Once you confront the trauma in your past, your nightmares
should go away along with your amnesia. This fabricated reality of yours wants
to be let go; all you need is a past to associate yourself with, and this
fantasy that you’ve been clinging to will become unnecessary, and retreat of
its own accord.”

No, she wouldn’t allow it. Not here, not trapped in Kohler’s
quiet little office, no one around to watch him or stop him, not even herself.
He would stop playing doctor, dispense with the masks he hid behind, and reveal
his true face, the predatory eyes, the weasel’s teeth. He would peel away her
mind and penetrate her dreams as he moved past head-games to more substantive playgrounds.

Ellen pressed her hands tightly to her legs to keep them from
trembling.

“We’re almost out of time. We can talk more about this on
Friday.” Then he was up from his chair and back towards his desk, eyes skimming
across her as he moved. He retrieved a script from his desk drawer, tore off
the top slip and scribbled on it. “I’m writing a prescription for you. This
should help you sleep. It will also help alleviate some of your anxieties, keep
you from feeling depressed. You’ll probably notice yourself feeling a little
groggy at first. That’s normal. If you find yourself becoming easily confused,
experience tremors or difficulty speaking, I want you to discontinue them and
call me at once.” Kohler’s pen, an expensive, monogrammed stylus, scratched
deliberately at the paper, his directions scrawling in blue fountain ink across
the naked white of the sheet. He did not notice the look on her face, the
tightening of her fingers, the stiffening of her limbs. “This will also
suppress the nightmares; make it easier to sleep. It’s not a permanent
solution, understand. I just want to help you gain some balance.”

If Dr. Kohler had any idea of the impact of what he was
saying, he would have torn the slip into pieces and lit them on fire. Instead,
he held it out like some strange kind of reward, allowance for a child, a
prostitute’s payment.

“Ellen, are you all right? You look pale.”

A grin tugged at his lips—she was certain—but was instantly
concealed behind Kohler’s complex layer of masks, this one labeled
sympathetic
understanding
.

“What will they … what are those … what…?” But nothing was
completing itself in her mind. She knew a host of drugs that could do what he
suggested; memories from that long-ago time before, the vague, gray shadowy
land of her sort-of past. She’d had no use for downers or dream suppressors;
what point was there in sleeping through your existence if you weren’t dreaming
of a better one while you did it? All she knew was that the piece of paper he
was holding would take away her dreams;
take away Jack!

“Everything will be fine, Ellen. I’m sure you’ll start to
feel better once you get started on these.”

“I don’t want …
whatever
those are.”

“Now, Ellen, listen to me,” Dr. Kohler said sternly. “I’m your
doctor. I want you to get better. I think you want to get better, too. But I
need you to trust me. The substance of your nightmares indicates a real chance
at a breakthrough. Your mind is finally ready to start letting go of these
fantasies that are holding you back. Now I want you to get this filled on your
way home tonight, and I want you to start on them immediately. On Friday, we’ll
see how you’re feeling and go from there.”

Ellen rose unsteadily. She knew by his tone what he was
really saying:
refuse and you’ll be back in the hospital—that euphemism for
the asylum—or even back in jail
. Freedom was contingent upon his say-so,
and he could rescind it at a moment’s notice. Either she succumbed to him,
played the part of the good little patient taking all his pretty little pills—
is
that your hand on my knee, doctor?
—or relinquish it all and re-enter the
hallowed halls of permanent madness, no chance at release, no way to get free.
Daddy had let her out last time because he thought Kohler could keep her well
away.
Crazy and out of the picture beats crazy and underfoot.
But if
Kohler put her back, her father would wash his hands of it.
Let her have her
dope on the government’s nickel. Let her lie about on their beds and eat their
food and have them wash her backside. I’m done. Let her soul wither and die,
let her mind shrivel to paste, her body rot down to dust. So what? We were
never that close, anyway
. Day after day wearing pajamas and slippers,
ingesting Thorazine while anxiously awaiting Tuesdays when they served
chocolate pudding for lunch. She would forget herself. She would forget Jack.
She would waste away and die, and Jack would, too. And that would probably suit
everyone just fine, and she knew it.

And Dr. Kohler knew it.

“Okay. Friday.” She reached for the prescription, her fingers
numb. Did he know the very idea of what he was suggesting made her blood run
cold? She thought maybe he did. And she thought he probably loved that, too.

“I’m right,” Kohler said gently. “You’ll see. Accepting
treatment is one of the first steps in getting well.”

She murmured something, some semi-verbal acquiescence, as she
turned to leave, squeezing the prescription down into her fist until her
fingers went white, her knuckles aching, pain better than the sensation of
nothingness. Her other hand closed too quickly around the doorknob—
don’t let
him see your fingers shake; don’t let him know
—and Dr. Kohler added: “Don’t
forget to bring the book next time. I want to read it.”

Liar! You want to take it! Destroy it! Destroy me! Destroy
Jack! Destroy everything!

She nodded, but could not make eye contact—
he’ll see your
lies; you’ll see his
—and left, walking out of the office and the empty
waiting room, the empty receptionist’s desk, the empty stairway down to the
street.

She waited for the bus in the rain. It should have made her
feel better, feel clean, but it didn’t. It washed away nothing: not Kohler or
his prescription, not his eagerness to dig into her dreams or his eyes roving
across her skin, his efforts to destroy Jack, to destroy her! Climbing aboard
the bus, the rain granted her only one favor: no one assumed her face was wet
for any other reason than the weather.

What does the world care for one life, anyway? Just tears
in the rain.

Dr. Kohler was attuned to Ellen’s body language as she left:
the crease between her brow, the lowered head, the bowed shoulders. She didn’t like
the direction of her therapy.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. Sometimes it was necessary to
tear down before you could rebuild.

He heard the door close behind her, heard the lock click. He was
alone, his receptionist having already left for the night. He closed the door
to his office and turned the inside lock. Then he turned off the light and went
to the window.

Ellen was standing in the rain; he knew it even before he
looked. The bus came at 5:15, but she wouldn’t wait in his office or even the
stairwell, and she would never wait inside the terminal adjacent to the bus
stop, rain or shine. During a previous session, he asked her why not.

“They have vending machines in the terminal. Do you know
how the food gets into those machines?”

“Usually the owner of the establishment has a food service
contract,” he answered. “The machines are filled routinely by a delivery
person.”

Ellen Monroe laughed, a short humorless sound. “Yeah, that’s
what I used to think, too.”

Classic paranoid delusion.

He picked up his recorder from the desk, thumbed the record
button, and began dictating his notes on the session.

“Tried a more aggressive approach combined with reasoning. Thought
it might shock Ellen into accepting a more positive method of treatment. She’s
keeping secrets that are holding up her progress, and she’s no closer to
relinquishing her escapist fantasy than when she began therapy with me two
months ago. She complained of nightmares; the images she described suggest that
she’s already trying to break down her own delusion on a subconscious level.
She appeared anxious. Prescribed Lithium. Should help her sleep and level her
moods. This might stop the nightmares as well. Will follow up Friday.”

He looked out the window and saw Ellen, her hair wet from the
afternoon rain, her dress clinging to her skin. With the light off, she
wouldn’t see him. Observation was a valid tool with a patient reluctant to be
forthright.

“I believe the book is the key. She’s very protective of it;
she doesn’t want me to read it. I think she believes it will break down under
scrutiny. I’d like to try and separate her from it, even temporarily. It may be
the first step in breaking her delusion.”

Ellen turned her gaze down the street, looking for the bus,
her expression lost.

“Suggested hypno-regressive therapy for the next session. The
incident with Leonard Tucker appears to have been a catalyst, but I’ll need to
figure out what drove her to that point and why? Her history of drug-use
suggests a long-standing problem. I can’t rule out the possibility of
schizophrenia mitigated by manic depression. I’ve contacted her father
regarding any possible family history of mental illness, but don’t expect a lot
of cooperation. Mr. Monroe did provide me with a photo album pursuant to my
suggestion that this might help with Ellen’s amnesia.”

The rain pasted Ellen’s dress to her skin, the contours of
her body revealed beneath the wet fabric. He could see the outline of her bra.
Her underwear was another matter; he couldn’t be sure she was even wearing any.

But she was too clever for that.

“I believe there was some kind of trauma preceding the
incident with Leonard Tucker. Drugs appear to have provided a temporary escape,
but Ellen was clearly looking for a more permanent solution. I think she found
that in the book, and has woven the details of the story into a facsimile of
reality within her mind. This new reality has allowed her to repress her entire
past, supplanting it with this new construct. The book’s constant presence
reinforces the details of this fantasy. It’s critical to her continued
treatment that the Jack Lantirn fantasy and everything about it be eliminated.
So long as this safety net exists, and the details remain available only to
her, she will continue to resist treatment.”

Still looking out the window, Dr. Kohler thumbed off the
recorder, his other hand slowly working open the zipper of his trousers,
fingers finding their way inside, penis throbbing, bone-hard. Yes, she was
definitely too clever to distract him with something like not wearing
underwear.
Too bad, huh, Freddy? Yeah, too bad. But if he pushed her hard
enough, provoked her just right, she might try something …
desperate.

She might pretend it was a mistake.
I can’t believe I
forgot to wear underwear today; I keep forgetting things. Do we have to talk
about the book? Maybe we could end the session a little early?

His fingers gently worked the sensitive skin as he confided
to himself the things about Ellen Monroe he should never record.
I bet Ellen
could be real nice if she wanted to, if she thought it would get her something.
He’d find out on Friday. Find out how badly she wanted to keep her book
secret; wanted to keep her special world safe.
She might be more agreeable
than you think, Freddy. Your pusher doesn’t try to rape you unless your willing
to put out for your drugs in the first place, does he? I mean, she had money.
No need to take it out in trade unless she offered.

He looked back at his desk, his office, but all that he saw
was the picture of Cassie at his graduation.
Girls will put out for drugs.
Isn’t that right, Freddy?

Why was she back in his head now? Gone for twenty years, dead
and buried, and now she was back, caught in his mind like a song that had
gotten stuck, playing over and over without relief or respite. Cassie. Eight
weeks ago, the picture sat on the bookshelf like an afterthought. Now it sat on
his desk, a memory of the only piece of his childhood past he didn’t want to
forget.

You started treating Ellen eight weeks ago.

Funny, he never made the connection, Ellen and Cassie. Both
shared an expression that was innocent and knowing and, on occasion, haunted
with their own private demons; demons not so dissimilar. The picture on his
desk was from the time before things went bad. Cassie was still clear-eyed,
still his little cousin, still the only member of his entire family he ever
really loved. They were both smiling, both genuinely happy. His arm was around
her shoulders, fingers touching the bare skin of her arm.

Cassie had demons just like Ellen. So much alike. So very much
alike. I wonder if maybe Ellen would like to…

Outside, Ellen stood revealed in the rain. What would it be
like to have her on his couch, living in her alternate world, dreaming of her
fantasy lover while he plied her secrets like the buttons on her dress, nearly invisible
panties, small and thin and dangerously revealed, sliding down her thighs,
balled up on the floor?

Maybe Friday, maybe, Lithium-drunk and hypnotized and prone,
maybe then, Freddy, maybe something … desperate.

The bus arrived and Ellen left. Maybe it was for the best;
reality would only ruin it.

Ellen’s dreams would open up to him, naked and tantalizing,
breathing heavy, frightened and excited, her hidden secrets revealed, swollen
with eager possibilities, sensitive skin trembling, engorged, eager to know and
be known. He thought of running his hands across that smooth skin, pressing his
lips against the flat of her belly, feeling her heat, the small shudder of her
flesh as she responded to his voice, calling her name …

Cassie!

Excuse me?

We in the trade call that a Freudian slip. So Freddy, tell
me the first thing that comes to mind when I say,
kissing cousin
?

The first mind-erasing spasms jolted through him, exploding
from his groin like a blast epicenter, eradicating everything in its wake. His
fist tightened down upon himself, the crushing grip strangling, pleasure killed
by excruciating pain. His entire body stiffened in the wash of agony and
ecstasy, pleasures unrealized, unreleased, denied. And secretly, Dr. Frederick
T. Kohler relished the pain, the sense of emptiness, the exquisite agony of
longing unfulfilled. Just as he loathed it; loathed himself. The guilt was all
that remained when it was done, like the voice of consternation he had never
heard from anyone, his crimes a guarded secret lost even to himself. Until now.
What’s wrong with you? Jerking off like a schoolboy hiding under the covers
with the latest panties section of the JCPenney’s catalog. She’s a patient. Not
only is it unethical, but thoughts like this about your cousin—

What?!?

—
patient!
What did I say? Cousin? No, that would go
beyond unethical. Compared to that, sleeping with a patient is small potatoes,
a relationship between consenting adults, frowned upon professionally, but otherwise
…

Not like … not like …

You
remember, don’t you? That hot July afternoon … the feeling … so smooth…

He zipped
up, hands shaking, legs unsteady, off balance by where these thoughts were
leading him, a path not traveled since time out of mind towards doors closed
and left behind long ago.

There was
a reason he scheduled Ellen Monroe’s appointments for the end of the day.