“Now, Stella, I want you to think back to that tragic event six years ago,” she prompts. “Let your mind wander and don’t force any memories to come forward. Just let them appear on their own.”
Immediately, the memory of my cursed hiking trip comes into the foreground. I begin recounting it.
Dr. Biel interrupts me. “Take a deep breath in… As you exhale, allow your body, all your muscles to become more relaxed.”
I let her guide me to where she wants me.
“As you continue to relax,” she says, “imagine the memory of the hike as a cloud that starts to drift away, becoming more distant and less significant.”
I do that.
“Now,” she picks up, “focus on a closed door at the end of a corridor. Behind that door lies the true memory that has been hidden from your conscious mind. When you’re ready, open the door and see what’s behind.”
In my mind, I rush to the door and open it. A fuzzy image begins to take shape. It’s like watching a movie through a foggy lens. I can make out the figures, but their faces are unclear. And I’m not sure what they’re doing.
“Everything is too hazy,” I complain.
“Are you experiencing any emotions?” Dr. Biel asks. “Can you describe them?”
“Fear and disbelief. Confusion. Great confusion.”
“Don’t be afraid, Stella. Push through.”
I swallow hard and concentrate. Slowly, the fog of confusion melts away.
“Can you describe what you see?” Dr. Biel asks.
“I wake up and go to the window. I see two figures in our front yard. It’s too dark to make out their faces. But I know who they are from the way they move, from the shape of their bodies.”
“Who are they?”
“Mom and Dad.”
“What are they doing?”
“It’s too blurry… I’m not sure.”
Dr. Biel’s voice remains calm and steady as she suggests, “Try to focus on the sounds and the sensations around you. What do you hear?”
As I strain to listen, the sounds become more distinct. “Shoes scuffing the patio, my parents’ voices… Dad barks at Mom to lift the other end. They’re dragging something to Dad’s SUV something heavy and wrapped in a carpet.”
As I confine the images in my mind’s eye into words, the enormity of what I’m seeing hits me so hard I can barely breathe.
“Keep going, Stella,” Dr. Biel says. “Try to remember what happens next.”
“I run out to the porch in my flimsy pajamas. It’s cold even though it’s summer. My feet are cold, too. And uncomfortable. I’m barefoot!”
“What do you do, standing on the porch cold and uncomfortable?” she asks.
“I call to my parents.”
“Can you remember what you’re saying to them?”
There’s a sense of frustration as I struggle to piece together the fragments of the memory. “What the fuck?”
“Is that what you’re saying to them?”
I nod. “I feel I can dispense with watching my language, given the circumstances, so I’m shouting, ‘What the fuck is going on?’”
