Part 20 (2/2)
She shook her head. ”Not really.” She put on the kettle and reached for a canister of chamomile tea, which she claims has soothing properties. ”I've been going over and over what happened that night.”
”The night Sanjay--”
”Yes, that night,” she said quickly. She gave a helpless little shrug. I had the feeling she couldn't even bring herself to say the word ”murder.” Or ”death.”
”Have the police contacted you again?”
”They've tried to. Nick put me in touch with a lawyer, Sebastian Martin. He won't let me talk to the cops unless he's there with me.” She carefully measured out the shredded chamomile into a little silver tea ball. It looked like catnip. ”I'm a person of interest. But he said the cops are putting together a mountain of evidence, and depending on how they spin the facts, it could get a lot worse for me.” Her eyes filled with tears.
I nodded. ”I know. What did he tell you to do? Did he have any suggestions?”
”Just to try to remember everything I could about that night. I told him I've gone over it a hundred times, but I think I have a mental block.”
”A mental block?” I immediately thought of suppressed memories--one of Freud's cla.s.sic defense mechanisms. Had something happened that night, something so traumatic that Lark had unconsciously pushed it deep into her psyche? Of course, she had been blindsided by Sanjay's clumsy attempt at seduction, but was there more to the story? Was there some key detail we had all overlooked?
Apparently Mom's mind was running along the same track. Mom loves pop psychology and buys every self-help book on the market. ”A mental block? I know how to fix that.” She arranged some Lorna Doones on a plate to go with the tea.
I stared at her, trying not to smile. ”You know how to fix a mental block?”
”Yes, dear, I do. Perhaps you're forgetting that I played Dr. Ivana Romanoff on Whispers. My character was an expert at hypnosis, and she used it quite successfully on her patients.”
I remembered Whispers, all right. It was an afternoon soap that ran on a cable channel. It had overwritten dialogue and improbable plots and lasted only fifteen episodes.
”Mom, that was a soap opera character. You're an actress, not a shrink. You don't have any training in how to induce a trance.”
”I think you're forgetting something. My character was a Russian psychoa.n.a.lyst.” She sat down at the kitchen table, her expression serious. ”We had a psychologist as an adviser on the set. She told me how to play the character believably, and she even taught me the art of self-hypnosis.” She looked aggrieved. ”I know more about psychoa.n.a.lysis than you think I do.”
Lark and I exchanged a look. ”We could give it a try.” Her voice was tentative.
”You're kidding. Are you sure you really want to do this?”
”If it will help me remember some important detail about that night, why not?” She turned to Mom. ”Where do you want me to sit? Or do I have to lie down?”
”No, sitting up is fine, but we have to get you in a comfortable chair.” Mom was bustling around, pleased to be reprising her role as the intrepid Dr. Romanoff. ”How about the Barcalounger? That looks comfy.”
Lark nodded and, taking her mug of tea with her, sat down in the plush lounge chair. Mom pulled up a kitchen chair very close to her. ”I want you to close your eyes,” Mom said in a stagey monotone. ”I want you to completely relax, and feel all the tension in your body drain away. Take three big breaths and let them out slowly.”
”Okay,” Lark murmured. She set her cup of tea on the end table and closed her eyes. She sank back into the cus.h.i.+on and wriggled until she was comfortable.
”Are you feeling relaxed? Or do we need to do a visualization exercise?”
”No, I'm relaxed,” Lark a.s.sured her. I remembered that Lark was into mediation and relaxation techniques.
”Okay, Lark, I want you to tune out any distractions and just listen to the sound of my voice. Do you think you can do that?” Mom's voice was slow and languid, the words dropping softly, like cherry blossoms in the spring.
”I think so.” Lark seemed to be matching Mom's slow cadence. I pulled up a chair and watched, impressed. I was surprised at Mom's hidden talent. Maybe she did know something about hypnosis and trance states after all.
”I want to take you back to the night that you visited Sanjay.”
A frown flitted across Lark's face, and Mom hurried to rea.s.sure her. ”Don't worry, Lark; nothing bad is going to happen. There's nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about. We're just going to drift back in time to the evening when you visited Sanjay in his hotel room. You are completely safe.” She paused. ”Can we go on?”
”Yes,” Lark said softly. ”I'm not afraid. I can go back there, if you want me to.”
”Good girl. Now, I want you to see yourself in the Seabreeze, walking up the stairs--did you walk up the stairs or take the elevator?”
”I walked up the stairs. The carpeting is brown and burgundy with a diamond pattern on it, and it's a little frayed around the edges.”
Mom looked over at me. Lark was getting into this. Some people are very good candidates for hypnosis, and some aren't. Usually people who are creative and have a vivid imagination can be hypnotized and go into a trance state quite easily.
”You are walking down the hall looking at the doorways until you come to number . . .”
”Sixteen.”
”Sixteen. Now you are knocking on the door. Can you see yourself doing that?”
”Yes,” Lark said, her voice dreamy and distant. It sounded as though she was drifting away.
I shot Mom a worried look, and she whispered to me, ”It's okay; she's going into a deep trance state. Look at her hands; they're completely limp, with the palms up.” I nodded, not wanting to interrupt the process.
”You're knocking on the door. What's happening?”
”I'm tapping very lightly. I feel shy. I don't want to disturb Sanjay. What if he's meditating or something?”
I roll my eyes and Mom ignores me. ”But he's not meditating, is he? He answers the door.”
”Yes.” Lark's voice is so low and m.u.f.fled, it sounds as though she's underwater. I notice she's slumped a little farther into the Barcalounger, her arms hanging limply at her sides.
”And then what happens?”
Dead silence.
”Lark, stay with the image,” Mom said. ”You are in the hallway, and Sanjay opens the door. He invites you in. You walk in the room . . .”
”I walk in the room.” Lark's voice was robotic, as if she'd been drugged. ”Sanjay shuts the door behind me.”
”Good, good. Now look around the room. What do you see?”
Silence.
”What do you see, Lark?” Mom raised her voice slightly. Lark is slumped in the chair, very still, her breathing light and shallow. ”Don't be afraid, Lark. Take a mental picture of the room and tell me what you see.”
”I see . . . I see . . .”
”Yes? What do you see?” Mom's voice ratcheted up another notch. She looked at me and shrugged. Lark's reaction seemed to be unexpected, but since I had no experience in trance states, I decided not to b.u.t.t in.
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