False Memory

you obey them?”
    “Will I obey them?”
    Reminding himself of everything he had learned in their previous session at the clinic, Dusty rephrased the question as a statement:
    “Skeet, you will obey all instructions that I give you. Confirm or deny that this is true.”
    “I confirm.”
    “I am Dr. Yen Lo, Skeet.”
    “Yes.”
    “And I am the clear cascades.”
    “Yes.”
    “In the past, I have given you many instructions.”
    “The blue pine needles,” Skeet said.
    “That’s right. Now, Skeet, in a little while, I am going to snap my fingers. When that happens, you will fall into a restful sleep. Confirm or deny that you understand me so far.”
    “Confirm.”
    “And then I will snap my fingers a second time. On that second snap of my fingers, you will wake up, will become entirely conscious, but you will also forget forever all of my previous instructions to you. My control over you will come to an end. I—Dr. Yen Lo, the clear cascades—will never again be able to access you. Skeet, tell me whether or not you understand what I’ve said.”
    “I understand.”
    Dusty sought Martie’s reassurance.
    She nodded.
    Not privy to their plan, Fig leaned forward over the table, rapt, his prune juice forgotten.
    “Although you will forget all my previous instructions, Skeet, you will remember every word of what I am going to tell you now, and you will believe it, and you will act upon it for the rest of your life. Tell me whether you do or do not understand what I’ve just said.”
    “I do.”
    “Skeet, you will never again use illegal drugs. You will have no desire to use them. The only drugs you will use are those that may be prescribed for you by physicians in time of illness.”
    “I understand.”
    “Skeet, from this moment forward, you will understand that you are basically a good man, no more or less flawed than other people. The negative things your father has said about you over all these years, the judgments your mother has passed on you, the criticisms that Derek Lampton has leveled against you—none of those things will affect you, hurt you, or limit you ever again.”
    “I understand.”
    Across the table, tears shone in Martie’s eyes.
    Dusty had to pause and take a deep breath before continuing. “Skeet, you will look back into your childhood and find that time when you believed in the future, when you were full of dreams and hopes. You will believe in the future again. You will believe in yourself. You will have hope, Skeet, and you will never, never again lose hope.”
    “I understand.”
    Skeet staring into infinity. Fig riveted. Good Valet watching somberly. Martie blotting her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse.
    Dusty put thumb to middle finger.
    Hesitated. Thinking of all the things that might go wrong, and wondering about the unintended consequences of good intentions.
    Snap.
    Skeet’s eyes slipped shut, and he slumped in his chair, sound asleep. His chin came to rest on his chest.
    Overwhelmed by the responsibility that he’d just assumed, Dusty got up from the table, stood indecisively for a moment, and then went into the kitchen. At the sink, he twisted the COLD faucet, cupped his hands under the flow, and repeatedly splashed his face with water.
    Martie came to him. “It’ll be all right, baby.”
    The water might have concealed his tears, but he couldn’t hide the emotion that wrenched his voice. “What if somehow I’ve screwed him up worse than he was?”
    “You haven’t,” she said with conviction.
    He shook his head. “You can’t know. The mind is so delicate. One of the big things wrong with this world is... so many people want to screw with other people’s minds, and they cause so much damage. So much damage. You can’t know about this, neither of us can.”
    “I can know,” she insisted gently, putting one hand to his damp face. “Because what you just did in there was done out of pure love, pure perfect love for your brother, and nothing bad can ever come of that.”
    “Yeah. And the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
    “So is the road to Heaven, don’t you think?”
    Shuddering, swallowing a hard lump in his throat, he put an even deeper fear into words: “I’m afraid of what might happen if it works... but even more afraid that it won’t work. How crazy is that? What if I snap my fingers, and who wakes up is the old Skeet, still full of self-loathing, still confused, still the poor sweet feeb? This is his last chance, and I want so much to believe it’s going to work, but what if I snap my fingers, and