Part 8 (1/2)
He came to me and gently took my bag, setting it aside. Then he held out his hand. ”Give me your cloak, and we'll discuss this.”
”I just don't understand-”
”Forget your gloves, Mrs. Carelton. Your cloak. Please.”
I hesitated only a moment, then I did as he asked, though I struggled with the cloak's clasp. He hung it on the coatrack and bade me once more to sit down. When I did, he pulled the other red chair to face me, sitting with a languid ease.
”Now, Mrs. Carelton, tell me exactly what frightens you.”
”I'm not frightened,” I said.
”You sound quite frightened.”
”I'm not. It isn't fear, exactly. It's more . . . disturbing.”
”Very well.” He folded his hands together-long fingers, careful movements. ”Then tell me what has disturbed you.”
Faced with his calm, with his quiet, soothing voice, I found myself wordless. I struggled for something to say, a way to explain. ”I-I had a dream.”
It was not what I'd meant to tell him.
He waited.
”A dream about here,” I rushed on. ”This office. I was walking across the room to the window. I had my hands pressed to the gla.s.s. I was crying.”
”Did anything else happen to you in this dream?”
”No, but it felt quite real. As if it had really happened. I could see the cigar sign and the light. . . .”
”It should feel real,” he said. ”You did walk, while you were in a deep hypnotic state.”
”You mean . . . the last time I was here?”
”Yes.”
”But you said I slept.”
He shrugged. ”It's easier to explain that way. The state of profound unconsciousness is most like sleep. Unlike sleep, however, you are quite aware of everything around you.”
”But I remembered nothing of it.”
”Your unconscious remembered it,” he pointed out. ”Which is why you had the dream. Now tell me: You said you were having disturbing visions. Did you mean the dream?”
”No, there was a forest.”
”Ah,” he said. ”That was a suggestion I made to you. I thought such a scene would calm you. When you began to feel out of control, as if you were going into a fit, you were to think of a peaceful forest, a walk. There was a rock, a-”
”Bird,” I finished.
He nodded. ”A bird. A pretty song. Apparently it did not have the desired effect. You were disturbed by it.”
”I didn't expect it,” I said. ”You said nothing about a forest. You said you made a suggestion that I would be calm.”
”Which also apparently did not have the desired effect. The forest was only for oncoming hysteria. A secondary suggestion, if you will, in case the first did not work. Tell me, Mrs. Carelton, how you felt when you left my office.”
”Rested,” I said reluctantly. ”Peaceful.”
”Did that feeling last beyond the time it took you to reach your home?”
”Oh yes,” I said. ”It lasted until I had the dream, and it lingered beyond that, though not as strongly.”
”Then we made a temporary improvement,” he said with satisfaction. ”A good sign.”
”Is it?” I leaned forward. ”Is it a good sign?”
”It shows your cerebral condition can be modified,” he said.
”But it didn't last.”
”It will,” he a.s.sured me. ”Your unconscious has been badly trained; we must retrain it to be well. What you must relinquish, Mrs. Carelton, is intellectual control. Reason is the enemy of unconscious suggestion. What occurred with the suggestion of the forest is an example: You realized the forest was not a real memory; your reason rejected it as impossible, and therefore you rejected the calm it was meant to convey. You no doubt began to feel hysterical.”
”Yes. Yes, that was exactly what happened.”
”It was my mistake. I should have told you about the image. I won't forget again. More importantly, you said you were calm until you had the dream that was not a dream, simply your unconscious memory. Were there any other details you remembered?”
I shook my head.
”How did you feel after remembering this?”
”Sad,” I said. ”I felt sad.”
”Why is that?”
I tried to remember. ”I don't know. My hands were on the window, and I wanted to cry.”
”Did it remind you of anything else? Any other memory you have of a window?”
”No.”
His gaze was solid, penetrating. I looked away, feeling uncomfortable again.
”What kind of a relations.h.i.+p do you have with your husband, Mrs. Carelton?”
I was startled. ”What has that to do with anything?”
”It may have a great deal to do with everything,” he answered. ”Is it a loving relations.h.i.+p?”