Silence. Confusion. Then: “Dark.”
“It’s dark outside.”
“Go out.”
“You want to watch yourself going out.”
“Lights. Far . . . go out.”
“It’s dark and you want to go to the lights.”
“Uh-hu-uh.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
“Uh-hu-uh.”
“You can also tell me “yes’ with your finger.”
Right finger.
“Very good. So you’re in the house and you want to go out. Why don’t you just tell me in your own words what’s going on.”
She fidgeted and touched her nose. Sniffed and blinked and opened her eyes. But she wasn’t seeing me.
They closed again.
“Sleep . . . walk. Sleep . . . walk. Door . . . wood. Out . . . out, out . . . out . . .
She grimaced. Her breath quickened and her chest heaved.
“Relax, Lucy. Deeper and deeper relaxed, remembering what you need to remember, seeing what you need to see. . . . Good, very good. Just keep breathing deeply. No matter what you see or hear or touch or smell or remember, you’ll stay deeper and deeper relaxed, watching yourself from the TV room, so safe and calm and in control . . . good. Okay, go on.”
“Out . . . lights. People yelling.” Puzzled look. “Not my fault . . .”
“Deeper and deeper relaxed.”
She sighed and her head drooped. Said something I couldn’t hear.
I moved my chair right next to hers. A carotid pulse was beating slow and steady. Her cheeks were pink. I touched the top of her hand. Warm. Her fingers curled around mine and squeezed.
“Walk,” she said. “Trees—pretty.”
She said nothing for a long time, but her eyes kept moving and her head bobbed.
Walking in place.
Her head moved from side to side.
Taking in the scenery?
Suddenly, I felt her hand go cold.
“What is it, Lucy?”
“Father.”
“You see Father on the screen?”
Long pause as she gripped my hand. Then her right index finger rose but the rest of her fingers stayed clamped.
“Deeper and deeper relaxed, Lucy.”
Slow breathing, but louder and harsher.
“You can leave this place, Lucy. You can turn off the TV any time you want to.”
She made a growling sound, and the left finger stayed up in the air for several seconds.
“You want to stay here.”
Right finger.
“Okay, that’s fine. Go ahead, do what you want to do and tell me what you want to tell me.”
A long silence. “Father . . . men . . . carrying lady. Pretty. Like Mama . . . dark . . . hair. Pretty . . . carrying.”
More silence. The pulse in her neck quickened.
I said, “Other men, too.”
Right finger.
“How many?”
Concentration. Her head moved from side to side. “Two.”
“Two besides Father?”
Right finger. Her hand remained cold. Sweat flowed from her hairline, trickling down her cheek. She seemed impervious as I wiped it.
“You’re just watching it,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”
“Two,” she said.
“What do they look like?”
Silence.
“Can you see them?”
Right finger. “Carrying the lady.”
“Is she saying anything?”
Left finger.
“What’s she wearing?”
“Blouse . . . white blouse . . . skirt.”
“What color skirt?”
“White.”
“A white blouse and a white skirt. Any shoes?”
Left finger. “Toes.”
“You see her toes.”
Right finger.
“Is she moving them?”
Left finger. “Not moving.”
“Can you see her face?”
Silence. “Pretty. Sleeping.”
“She’s sleeping.”
Confused look. “Not moving.”
“She’s not moving at all?”
Right finger.
“So you think she’s sleeping.”
Right finger. “Carrying her.”
“The men are carrying her. Is Father carrying her?”
Left finger. “Hair . . . hairy lip.”
“A man with a hairy lip is carrying her?” I thought of Terry Trafficant’s bearded, skeletal face.
Right finger.
“You can see the men now.”
She puckered her face. “Hairy Lip . . . other man turned around.”
“The third man is turned around. You see his back?”
Right finger.
“Can you see what the other men are wearing?”
Silence. “Father … white … down to ground.” Confused.
“Down to the ground. Long. Like a robe?”
Right finger.
“And the other men?”
“Dark . . . clothes.”
“Both of them?”