“Please connect me to your editorial director.”
“That’s Bridget Bancroft,” he said, as if that ended it.
“Then that’s who I’ll speak to.”
Click.
“Bridget Bancroft’s office.”
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Bancroft.”
“Regarding?”
“Excerpting one of your authors. My name is Alex Printer, and I represent Delaware Press in California. We’d like to include some selections from Terrence Trafficant’s From Hunger to Rage in a—”
“You’d need to speak to our Rights department about that.”
“Could you tell me who Mr. Trafficant’s editor is?”
“What’s the author’s name?”
“Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage. Published twenty-one years ago.”
“I have no idea. People come and go.”
“Would Ms. Bancroft know?”
“Ms. Bancroft’s on vacation.”
“Would you please ask her to call me when she gets back?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Would you like to speak to Rights?”
“Please.”
Click. Voice mail. I left another message and hung up.
Ah, fame.
Lucy arrived precisely on time for her afternoon appointment. She looked energetic, and her eyes were bright.
“I got plenty of sleep last night—no dream—so I shouldn’t doze off. It’s a little weird sleeping in someone else’s bed, but Ken said I’d get used to it; he does it all the time.”
Suddenly, she clamped her lips. Her eyes misted.
“Anything wrong?” I said.
“Nothing. . . . I was just thinking of the summer I worked for Raymond. Sleeping in that bed. . . . I used to have to put on stuff for the customers: lots of makeup, skimpy outfits, sometimes wigs. Costume jewelry, so they could pretend they were rich.”
She hunched and dropped her head. Each hand gripped a bicep and she hugged herself very tightly.
“They had their fantasies,” she said.
The ocean roared. She didn’t move.
“I hated it,” she said softly. “I really hated it. Being invaded, hour after hour, day after day! I put myself somewhere else—like hypnosis, I guess. Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me.”
“Cutting yourself off.”
Nod.
“Where’d you go?”
“To the beach.” She laughed. “How’s that for karma? Usually it worked. But sometimes I’d come back to the real world, lying there—someone on me. I don’t want ever to lose control like that again.”
Straightening her back, she said, “No offense, but no man can ever really understand. Men don’t get invaded. Maybe that’s why the dream’s coming back. All those years ago I saw Karen invaded and it stuck in my head, and somehow . . .”
She reached for a tissue.
“So,” she said, “time for hypnosis? I won’t go bananas on you, I promise.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“Scout’s honor.”
I had her relax and stare at the ocean as I explained that age regression wasn’t always effective or accurate. How some people couldn’t get in touch with childhood memories, even under the deepest hypnotic trance. How others imagined or manufactured false memories.
She nodded, dreamy already.
I began the induction and she went under almost immediately, achieving waxy limbs and surface anesthesia to a pinprick.
I had her go to a “favorite place” and left her there for a while. She looked serene.
I said, “Lucy, can you talk to me?”
Her “yes” was low and throaty, nearly inaudible over the waves.
“You can,” I said, “but talking’s hard work, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re comfortable.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to communicate with me.”
“Yes.”
“Talking’s hard work because you’re so relaxed, Lucy. That’s good. To make it easier for you to communicate, you can answer yes or no with finger signals. If the answer’s “yes,’ raise your right index finger. If it’s “no,’ raise your left index finger. Do you understand?”
She mouthed something. Then her right finger rose.
“Very good. Put it down now; from here on, you just have to leave it up for a second. Now, let’s try a “no’ for practice—good. You’re going to stay deeply relaxed and be able to say what you need to say. Understand?”
The right finger rose and dropped.
“Do you want to stop our hypnosis right here?”
Left finger.
“You want to go on.”
Right finger.
“Do you remember what we discussed about age regression?”
Right finger.
“Would you like to try that now?”
Right finger.