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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 topursue 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. Moveyour 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!”