Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

thought. Surely it wasn’t natural to have no curiosity about my grandparents, aunts, uncles—Good God, I didn’t even know if I had any aunts or uncles.
    I felt as if some part of me was waking from a long sleep.
    Theo watched me with a kind, steady gaze. “Is this why you came to see me? To ask me these questions?”
    Helen and Sophia crowded onto my lap, jostling each other and muttering resentfully. I stroked them and tried to speak in a calm and reasonable tone. “I want answers. About my family, my childhood. I don’t think Mother’s ever going to tell me any more than she already has. Theo, I can’t remember my father at all. Or our lives before he died. I want to remember what happened to me right after he died.”
    I saw him flinch and draw back, his fingers tightening on the chair arms. I hurried on, before he had a chance to deflect my questions. “Was I really in such a bad state that Mother thought about putting me in a mental hospital?”
    “Oh—” He hesitated, a crease cut between his full white brows. “She would never have done it, Rachel. She knew the three of you needed to be together.”
    “Then it’s true?” My voice wavered. “I had some kind of breakdown?”
    “Not a breakdown. I wouldn’t use that term at all. You were very hard-hit by the loss of your father. But you were perfectly functional. You did well in school. Your mother made certain the headmistress and teachers understood the situation. They went out of their way to help you.”
    The faces and names came up on cue, the wonderful staff at McLean Country Day School, where I’d attended classes in a sheltered, privileged atmosphere. I remembered the headmistress and teachers, and I recalled myself in the later grades, but the first couple of grades were a blank.
    “Was I difficult? Did I—fly into rages, or what?”
    Theo laughed gently and shook his head. “Rages? That’s a very harsh word. You had occasional outbursts, yes, early on. Completely understandable. But for the most part, whenever I saw you during that time, you were withdrawn, very quiet. Grieving, as I said. But eventually you healed, as much as any child can heal from such a loss. You have your mother’s patience and love to thank for that. It turned out she knew what was best.”
    “How—What—” My lips felt numb, and I stumbled over my words. “What was that? What was best? Did I see a doctor? A child psychiatrist?” Somebody who might still have records.
    “No. I urged her to place you in therapy with a specialist, but Judith was determined to get you through it by herself. Frankly, at the time I thought it was a bad idea, not only because you’re her daughter, but because she was in a terrible state of grief herself. She believed it would be a healing process for both of you. And she was right, I must admit.”
    “What did she do? Did we talk, have therapy sessions?”
    “Talk, yes. Hypnosis, also, on occasion. You were always receptive to hypnosis, but of course you know that.”
    I nodded. Mother had hypnotized me, and Michelle, many times. To calm pre-exam jitters, to cure Michelle of her fear of thunderstorms, to relieve anxiety about any big upcoming event. I’d been a willing subject until the nightmares and inexplicable visions started when I was fifteen. After that I’d refused Mother’s help, however much I wanted or needed it, for fear that I would inadvertently allow her a glimpse of the crazy things going on in my head.
    I sat silent for a moment, sifting through Theo’s words, Mother’s words, layer on layer. “Why don’t I remember grieving over my father’s death?”
    “I don’t know, Rachel.”
    “I’m blocking it out—I’m blocking him out—for some reason.”
    Theo’s voice was quiet. “There’s a reason for everything the mind does.” 
    I was sitting but I felt like I was falling, tumbling through empty space. I gripped the sofa cushion on either side of me. Unsure what I was asking of him, I asked anyway. “Theo, will you help me?”
    He leaned forward and stretched out a hand. His twisted fingers had little strength, but they were warm and gentle.
    “Of course I will,” he said. “If I can.”

Chapter Six
    During dinner that night my gaze stole toward Mother again and again, furtively studying her, seeing her anew. What did I know about her, really? She was the parent who’d raised me, but in many ways she was as much of a mystery as my dead father.
    My head ached. I couldn’t eat.