“Okay.”
“Things from my past. From my childhood. I try to reach back, and it’s like everything is there except the one thing I’m trying to remember.”
“That’s not unusual. Our memories are protective that way.”
“It’s important that I remember this period.”
“Why?”
“Is this confidential? Doctor-patient?”
Faith Gray was a psychologist. During his tenure as sheriff of Tamarack County, Cork had brought her on as a consultant to work on psychological assessments of new hires and to help establish guidelines and regulations concerning such things as treatment for deputies involved in officer-related shootings. He liked her. More important, he trusted her.
“I’ll consider it so,” she replied. “And I’ll bill you for this session. I ought to warn you, I charge overtime.” In response to his blank stare, she offered a smile. “That’s a joke, Cork.”
On the street outside, a car went past, and the sound of tires on the wet pavement was a long, heavy sigh. Faith Gray waited.
Cork gathered himself and said, “It’s about the Vanishings.”
He didn’t tell her everything. He left out the parts that might incriminate anyone, and focused on those elements that were about his family, particularly Borkman’s accusation concerning his father’s infidelity. As evidence that there were things hidden, he also told her about the missing journal pages. He asked if she could maybe hypnotize him in order to help him remember what happened in the late, fateful part of the summer of 1964.
“I don’t hypnotize people, Cork. But what I can do is guide you through some relaxation techniques that may help you retrieve the memories yourself.”
“What do we do?”
“Why don’t you start by lying down?”
They exchanged places, and Cork, once he’d laid himself on the sofa, could smell the hot chamomile tea in the cup on the end table.
“Close your eyes, and listen to my voice. What I’m going to do is offer you some suggestions meant to help your body and your mind relax. They’ll all be very simple and very safe, all right?”
“I’m ready,” Cork said.
She began in a soft voice and had him focus on his toes, on being aware of each of them. Gradually she moved up his body, toward the top of his head, but as she was leading him ever so gently through the relaxation of his eyes, Cork suddenly found himself in the middle of the nightmare, watching his father fall to his death.
He jerked awake.
“What is it?” Gray asked.
“Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“I was dreaming. A nightmare.”
“Want to talk about it?”
He sat up and shook his head. “It was just a normal nightmare.”
“One you’ve had before?”
“Yes.”
“Often?”
“They began a little over a year ago.”
“Is it the same nightmare every time?”
“Not exactly.”
She sat patiently. Outside the window, rain dripped off the roof and hit the leaves of her yard plants with steady little slaps. Finally Cork told her. About how, when his father fell, it was in different ways, and how the nightmare repeated itself, and how, the second time around, he stood outside and watched himself push his father to his death.
“Just a normal nightmare?” she said. “Cork, dreaming that you had a hand in killing your father isn’t exactly your usual thing-that-goes-bump-in-the-night nightmare.”
“All right, what is it?”
“What kind of relationship did you have with your father?”
“He was a terrific father. I loved him.”
“Yet time and again you push him to his death.”
“Not because I didn’t love him.”
“Why then?”
“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”
“Any conflicts with him?”
“Not that I remember. Although people I talk to lately tell me differently.”
“What do they tell you?”
“That I was kind of a shit toward him.”
“But you don’t remember that?”
“No. It’s part of all that stuff I can’t recall.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Thirteen.”
“It could be Oedipal,” she said.
“What? I wanted him out of the way so that I could sleep with my mother? Right.”
She shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of Freudian interpretations either.”
“So what else?”
“How did he die?”
Cork explained the shoot-out at the bank and the vigil at the hospital.
“You were with him when he died?”
“Yes. My mother was there, too. Praying her heart out.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you praying your heart out?”
He shook his head and realized the headache he’d had most of the day was coming back, big-time. “I knew it was hopeless.”
“Why?”
“Because the doctor said so.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Probably not. I wasn’t happy with God at that point.”
“Oh?”
“Didn’t believe him.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I’ve always thought it was my age.”
“Do you think it might have made a difference if you’d prayed?”
“Maybe. I suppose I’ve always wished I had.”
“So do you think it’s possible the root of the nightmare might be that you interpret not praying as pushing your father into his death?”
“I don’t need a nightmare to tell me that. I’ve always felt guilty and always wondered if I’d prayed like my mother would it have made a difference. I thought nightmares were about things you didn’t want to know about consciously.”
“Nightmares can be complicated and about more than a single thing. Our minds are pretty complex, and connections can be intricate. You told me that the nightmares began a little over a year ago. That would be shortly after your wife died, yes?”
“Yes.”
