The Survivors (31 page)

Coop came in, and, when Scottie sat down with us, the dog laid his head in his lap. We were quiet for a while, sipping coffee and enjoying the companionship.

It was Scottie who finally spoke. “I heard what you were saying about Markaris and Russo. You're starting at the wrong end, with what's going on now. None of that matters.”

“It matters to me, Scottie,” I said.

“More than finding out what happened to your mother?”

Felix said, “Cal's got his practice to worry about, and all his patients. If he can get this thing back in the box, it's better for everybody.”

Here it comes, I thought. Scottie's going to blow up.

But he didn't. He sipped his coffee and petted the dog. “You're the one who's been telling him to forget about his family. Am I right?”

“Not forget,” Felix said. “Just don't dwell—”

“I get the picture,” Scottie said. “A nice box, just the way you put it.”

Felix didn't like being interrupted. His jaw clenched, but he decided to let it go.

Scottie's hands trembled as he held them over his coffee cup. When he glanced at me, his eyes wavered, as if he wanted to look straight at me but couldn't.

“You're never going to keep it under control,” he said. “That's because you remember, the same as I do.” He tapped his forehead. “It's all in there. You know it.”

“What are you getting at?” Felix said.

Scottie didn't answer, so I did. “He remembers things from the night he was shot.”

“So?” Felix said. “You remember things, too.”

Scottie said, “This is different.”

I put my hand out, cutting him off. “I need to speak to Felix alone.”

“No, he'll convince you—”

“Scottie, give us a few minutes, please.”

He was trying so hard to keep his composure—through the booze and lack of sleep and stress of not being in control of anything in his life anymore. I had no idea what he would do.

“OK,” he said softly. “Come on, Coop.” They walked out together.

Felix slouched back in his chair, staring at me. There were times when he was so serious he was comical, Santa Claus meets Armageddon. But aside from my aunt and uncle, he was the person I trusted most. I needed him to understand what I was going to do.

“Scottie remembers things,” I said. “The color shirt my brother was wearing that night. Things we all said. The way the shots came in the closet. Details that he shouldn't be able to remember, but he does.”

Felix shrugged with his hands. He didn't know where I was going with this.

“He had help—with his memory. He went to see Evelyn Rubin.”

He took a moment to process that. “Christ, Evelyn—You're kidding. You know what she did, the way she manipulated her patients. You can't believe that nonsense.”

“He knew about a cut I had on my finger. I'd forgotten all about it. He remembered the games we played that night, details about my mother and father. I'm sure there are things in my own mind, memories that have never come together. With some help—”

“You can't seriously be considering this.” He took hold of my wrists. “A session with her? You have no idea what that could trigger, even if she's straight with you.”

“You're right. But so is Scottie when he says we're working at the wrong end of things. Back then, that's where it starts. That's where I'm going to get answers.”

I pulled free of his grip. “You said Coop treats Scottie like a brother. Maybe that's not a bad idea for me. I need to try things his way, not leave him feeling so stranded on his own island.”

I heard another squeak in the hallway. “Scottie if you're going to listen to us, you might as well come back in.”

He edged around the corner. Even though he was hesitating, he couldn't hide his grin.

He said, “I phoned Evelyn a few days ago. She's home in Baltimore this weekend. She said she could be over here in a couple of hours.”

Felix was staring at me, his face sagging in disbelief. “Damned fools,” he muttered. When he'd said that before, he was joking. Not this time.

THIRTY-TWO

I
convinced Scottie to wait until morning to call Evelyn Rubin. I took one of the bedrooms upstairs, and he went back to the sunroom. He must not have been able to sleep because every time I woke I heard the television on or someone in the kitchen. Toward dawn, I heard Scottie and Felix arguing. I stayed out of it. There was going to be enough tension today, and I didn't need to add to it.

Rubin arrived at noon, driving up in a twenty-year-old sky-blue Cadillac. The car was in mint condition and had a dozen bumper stickers from marathons she had run. She didn't look like an athlete: four feet ten inches and bird-thin, gray hair in a pageboy, and round, black-rimmed glasses. She looked the house up and down carefully before she knocked on the door.

Scottie opened it and introduced us. Her handshake was brief, but her gaze lingered. “Scottie has told me a lot about you.”

“I'll try to live up to it.”

Her eyes crinkled behind the glasses. “Not too hard, I hope.”

Rubin turned to Felix. She didn't offer to shake his hand. “I believe I've heard of you, Dr. Martinez.” It was clear what she'd heard was not good. “Is Cal a patient of yours?”

“No, he's a friend.”

“Fine. I need to be alone with him. You and Scottie will have to leave us.”

“I'm not his therapist, but I would like to observe,” Felix said.

“I'm not here to do parlor tricks, Doctor,” Rubin said sharply. “This is a treatment, the same as any you'd give to any patient. I'm sure you wouldn't allow an audience for that.”

“No, but this is my damned house—”

“Dr. Rubin, hold on,” I said. “Felix and Scottie are as much a part of this as I am. If the purpose is to kick something loose in my memory, they may be able to help.”

“The
purpose
,” she said, “is to make you better.”

“I understand that. Remember, I'm in the same business as you.”

For a few moments, we had a staring contest.

She fluttered her hands at her sides. “All right. They can stay, but not in the same room.”

Felix began to protest, and she said, “Final offer. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Having set the ground rules, she smiled. “I think some tea would be relaxing. Chamomile. Do you have any, Dr. Martinez? Scottie, my case is in the trunk of my car. Could you bring it in for me?”

He took her keys and went out, while Felix went into the kitchen to look for tea. She stood at the window and watched Scottie. He stumbled as he lifted the heavy suitcase to the ground.

“How has he been?” she asked me.

“He has good times and bad times—like everyone.”

She puckered her lips thoughtfully. “No, Scottie isn't at all like everyone. He has an extraordinary mind. Very creative along certain paths.”

“You mean he makes things up?”

She gave me a sideways glance. “I only had two sessions with him. He didn't come in for his follow-ups or even answer my phone calls. I've been quite worried.”

“He's struggling,” I admitted. “That's partly why I agreed to see you.”

“Only partly?” she said, and she turned and cupped her hands to my face, something completely unexpected for a therapist. “Then let's see what that other part has to say, young man.”

She had Scottie take the suitcase to the parlor and told him to stay in the kitchen with Felix and Coop. We never did get the tea she'd asked for. That had only been a ploy to get Felix out of the way.

She closed the blinds and from the suitcase took out two small lamps with colored bulbs. “I'm afraid this may make it feel like a séance in here, but I do find that red light works best.” She arranged the lamps on side tables. Then she doused the overhead lights. In that room, with the dark furniture, the red-glow effect was more brothel than séance.

“Now one chair here and one here,” she said, indicating which chairs and where she wanted me to move them. We would be next to each other, facing in opposite directions.

“Now come here,” she said, motioning to a spot on the couch. She sat across from me on the coffee table, so close our knees almost touched. “Do you understand what we are going to do?”

“Vaguely.”

“OK. A quick primer. From what Scottie told me, you and he suffered a trauma the same night. He was shot, and you watched your mother take her own life. The distress of that night is still with you, locked inside. The technique I use, EMDR, can help unblock those feelings, let you put them in the past. It gives you a different way of seeing what happened, of coping with it.”

She leaned closer. Her eyes were very intense. “It's all quite simple. You will think about the incident with your mother. I will move my hand in front of you, and you will follow it with your eyes. The movement is just to distract you, so your mind can work a new pathway through the memory. We will do this a number of times, and, as the memory becomes clearer, we will replace any negative feelings you have with positive ones, with confidence and a sense of distance. Do you understand?”

Her voice was very controlled; she never seemed to blink. In graduate school, I'd been hypnotized a few times. It's part of the program. I felt a similar sensation now, relaxed but alert. The only thing that seemed to matter was her voice.

“I understand,” I said.

“Good. Now, what is your worst memory from that evening?”

“When my mother pulled the trigger.”

“Of course. When you think of it, do you always see it the same way?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“The events before and after are the same, too?”

“Before, yes. There is no after.”

“You can't remember a thing after she fell?”

“No.”

“But you see, you just remembered that she fell. That was after she pulled the trigger, yes?”

I smiled. “Yes. You're right.”

“When you see these pictures in your head, what are you feeling?”

I'd known this was coming, telling her—a stranger—about my episodes. I'd been worried about it, but her voice was so calming, it all came out without a hitch.

“When you have one of these episodes, what is the first sensation?”

“Usually there's a tingling in my hands . . .”

We talked for fifteen minutes. The calm feeling continued, and I realized it wasn't hypnosis but something less than that. She wanted me to be completely at ease, but also completely in control of myself. She was skilled at holding the balance.

“Let's move to the chairs,” she said. “You take the one facing the wall.”

When we were settled, she said, “We need a signal. If you start to have one of your episodes, I'll turn your hand over and tap the palm, like this.” She demonstrated. “You'll come straight to the surface, OK?”

“A suggestion to break the crash—I understand.”

“On this first set, I want you to think about something that happened that night, anything before you saw your mother with the gun. Ready?”

I nodded, and she started waving her hand in an arc above my face. I had to move my eyes quickly to keep up.

“Get the image clearly in your mind,” she said.

It seemed to last no time at all. Her hand stopped, and she said, “Rest. Eyes closed.”

“How long was that?” I asked.

“Forty-five seconds. What did you see?”

“That night. Scottie got to our house about five o'clock. We played tag for a while then came inside to play board games. It was all there but very compressed.”

“It's like a dream state. Your mind moves quickly. An hour can pass in a few seconds. Did you see anything that you hadn't remembered before?”

“No, I—wait.” I opened my eyes to look at her, and she shook her head. I closed them again. “I remembered the clothes we wore. I think I did. Alan in a green shirt, and Scottie in a red one. Ron's was striped. That's what Scottie remembered, too. I wasn't there, though. I mean, I didn't see myself.”