Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

it from her.”
    “Theo—”
    He raised a hand. “Very well, I won’t mention it again.”
    I’d seen suspicion in Mother’s eyes when I told her I’d be with some rehabber friends that afternoon. She could tell I was lying.
    Forget about Mother. You’re doing this for yourself. The moment I formed the thought, a wave of familiar guilt swept over it, as surely as the tide rolls in to knock down a sand castle. 
    “Are you going to try regression?” I said. “Taking me back to a younger age?” The idea scared me.
    Theo shook his head. “No, at least not at the beginning. What I think might work best for you is simple free association. My greatest concern is that you understand the unreliability of memory. Even pleasant memories may contain many distortions. And you aren’t likely to recover whole memories, with every detail intact.”
    “I know.”
    He smiled. “But perhaps you will be able to fill in some of the blanks, and what you learn may not be as terrible as you expect.”
    ***
    I drove the two of us to Theo’s office on K Street. He wanted to conduct the session in a professional setting.
    The elevator rose through a silent, deserted building and released us into a sixth floor corridor that smelled of wax. Theo’s four-footed cane thumped along the gleaming blue tile floor.
    When I stepped inside the office suite, fusty warm air made my throat close up. I coughed.
    Theo flipped on lights and went straight to the thermostat. “Eighty degrees!” He twisted the dial. “I cannot believe that turning up the thermostat for the weekend is cost-efficient in the least. But I always seem to be overruled in the matter.”
    Theo shared quarters with another psychiatrist; two doors opening off the small waiting room bore their nameplates.
    I didn’t want to be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I took a step backward, toward the corridor, the elevator, my car.
    “Come in, come in,” Theo said, pushing open his office door and waving a hand at me.
    I hesitated a second before I followed. Like the man, the office was congenial and welcoming. Bookshelves overflowed, the top of the big oak desk held a clutter of journals and books. An oriental rug, predominantly red and blue, hid most of the beige carpet. In the wide window a pothos, glossy and riotously healthy, trailed from its pot.
    My fear ebbed for a moment. Then I turned and saw the brown leather reclining couch, a classic analyst’s couch, against one wall. Down its center the leather was worn nearly white from the contact of human bodies, and I had the sensation that I was seeing a ghost.
    “Well, now,” Theo said, a hand on the back of his desk chair. “Shall we sit down and talk a bit first?”
    I focused on a single strand of black hair in his white beard, and imagined the young Theo trapped inside that arthritic body, sending out tiny and easily overlooked signals that he was still alive.
    I pulled myself up short. “I’d like to get right to the point.”
    His laugh was a pleasant rumble. “In this office, that would be both unusual and refreshing.”
    When I tried to laugh with him, all that came out was a harsh croak.
    I felt him studying me while I studied a red poppy in the rug’s design. After a moment he swung his chair around and rolled it toward the couch. “All right then. Why don’t we begin?”
    What made me think I could go through with this? 
    “Rachel, would you like to lie down?” Theo said, his voice already assuming that gentle tone associated with hypnosis. He gestured at the couch.
    I stepped over to it, looked down at the ghost. Theo sank into his chair, smiled encouragingly and made another sweeping motion, inviting and urging me to submit.
    I wanted to run. The thought of stretching out and giving myself over brought a wave of nausea. But I had to do this. I didn’t know any other way to free my memories.
    I made myself sit down. Instantly dread swooped over me, a smothering cloak. I can’t. I jumped up.
    “Rachel?” Theo said. “Do you need something?”
    Sitting again, I let out a short breath. “No, no, I’m just nervous.”
    “Are you sure—”
    “Yes!” The volume of my voice startled me. “Yes, I’m sure,” I said more quietly. I will do this.
    I was conscious of his hesitancy, and was relieved when he seemed to put it aside. “Please lie down, Rachel,” he said.
    Swinging my legs up, I laid myself out on the couch, ready for dissection. I didn’t realize my hands had formed fists