Weakened Warriors
“Hello Charles, Joyce. I went over the list you sent in Sunday. While you’re bringing out enough conjectures to show that you’re committed to finding your way through this forest, I caution you not to put too much credentialing into what may simply be flights of fancy arising to give some kind of sense to the unknown. That said, please don’t stop. Your subconscious minds are working to bring the dark areas to light. That part of your psyche is also programmed to keep you from painful experiences. It’s a fine balance we must keep to discover what needs to be brought out without causing your mental health any injury. Before we begin our session, is there anything more you want to bring out?”
The room was starting to have a familiar feel to the Baxters, which was helpful, for anything that didn’t mystify at this point was appreciated. That was one of the reasons that Dr. Grossman very seldom rearranged anything. The wall pictures were as old as the practice, and some of his reference books were older than some hymns. The only things that changed much were calendar pages, blotter paper and waste basket bags. Abigail held the last item suspect. The box of replacement bags in the hall closet were an A&P store brand. Dr. Grossman cycled more than recycled.
Charles asked, “Dr. Grossman, suppose we find that one of us did something bad to the other in another life. What then? I mean, why should it make a difference? That was someone else, somewhere else, in a time that’s come and long gone.”
Joyce chimed in, “And when and if we find the bogeyman, how will that help us? We can’t change the past, only the present.”
“Charles, Joyce, you make very good points. When it comes to the human psyche, a life-changing revelation for one person is a ‘so what’ info-byte to another. We are in pursuit of the truth, and that has always seemed a good and wise thing to do. Truth is our highest ideal, sought by policemen, game show contestants and mystics, with the reward being justice, wealth and self-actualization, respectively. Truth is the only solid anchor we have to set our foot to when seeing our true path to our destiny. That is the best answer I can give to your questions at this point. Are you ready to proceed?”
This time, both husband and wife said yes with no hesitation.
The hypnotic process began, with Abigail watching very, very carefully. She found the process fascinating, as was the unfolding of what her professors at school might laugh themselves silly about and loudly ridicule. Yet they weren’t here to see and hear this married couple in dire straights plunge into the murkiest waters where existed lives lived and long since forgotten. No, not forgotten. Here they were, being remembered again. Were the Baxters different then other people in having been a couple in a previous life? Abigail considered herself an agnostic, suspecting there was a creative force, but feeling he, she or it didn’t go by any name invented by humankind. Yet the tool of hypnotic regression was having side effects of having her re-evaluate her own theology beliefs. She wasn’t ready to be a Jehovah’s fan girl, at least not yet. She was willing to nudge ‘agnostic’ over to ‘hypnostic’, though.
“Charles and Joyce, you are in a relaxed, meditative state. You are warm and comfortable, and happy to be together on this journey. Together, you will walk towards wisdom and greater perspective. From there, you will see your pathway to the answers your souls seek. Be at peace with the process. There may be times you will feel fear, but do not fear that fear. It is a normal caution to protect you, but was never meant to immobilize you. Use your fear to choose the right stones to step on as you cross the streams of time.
“Choose a time in your previous life shared where you were happy and content. This will be a reassurance that your spirits were meant to be together on this journey, and help you face the more troubling times with greater confidence. When you are ready, proceed, and speak your observations and feelings.”
Joyce spoke first. “I see us. It looks like a department store of some kind, people are wearing light coats and hats. There are aisles of things people are looking through, picking up and looking at things. Hats. Clothing. Perfume. No shopping carts, but people are carrying bags they put things into.”
Charles picked up the baton. “The walls. They’re pink. And the ceiling. How unusual. It’s blue, and someone painted white areas, like clouds. It’s a big place.”
“Charles and Joyce, you can see your former selves. What is it you are doing?”
Silence, as the couple proceeded to stalk themselves. “We’re shopping,” both said.
Abigail thought, “Duh!”
Joyce smiled, then said, “Look Charles, you’re picking up that box of chocolates. You’re saying something. It’s for…Florence. You said ‘Florence’. It’s a present. We’re shopping for…wait, I’m picking up another box of chocolates and putting them in the bag, saying Florence is…oh, dear. Very fat? That wasn’t very nice to say. But it must be true. I’m picking up a third box. Poor Florence. No wonder she never married.”
That was a red flag. The subject was leaving the posture of an observer and entering the observed’s mind.
“Joyce, take a step back, stay with Charles. You do not belong here, only your former self does. You are not the husband anymore, Joyce. You are the wife of Charles, who is beside you, who supports and loves you. The scene before you is not your time. You do not belong here. Remain a visitor.”
Joyce’s head began to turn left and right. She had not done that before. It was as if she was actually looking around. Abigail noted that the Doctor didn’t look comfortable with that. Charles’ hand crossed over the distance of the two chair arms and placed itself over hers. Joyce whispered, “But…it’s Christmas.”
“Doctor, it’s me, Charles. The mists have come and the store is gone. What do we do, now?”
Dr. Grossman was biting his thumbnail, something Abigail hadn’t seen before. He seemed taken aback, almost unsure of himself. Joyce’s move into her previous personality had taken him by surprise. Was there a danger here? Apparently so, or at least possibly, given his next statement.
“Charles and Joyce, you are the Baxter family and you live in the now, not the then. The stream of time your former selves existed in is not your own anymore. Do not join your former selves. Only observe them. Do not judge those in these echoes of the past, only observe and learn. That is very important. Do you understand? Answer me.”
The Baxters both murmured their assents. Stroking his close-cropped goatee, the Doctor allowed the process to continue…carefully. “Charles and Joyce. Look into your hearts and let them lead you to the next step in your journey. Choose together the time and place and, once you arrive, remain together no matter what you see. Be at peace. Proceed.”
Joyce seemed to have been cowed by the correction, for she showed not a hint of wanting to speak. A minute later, Charles picked up the patter. Abigail noted that Joyce moved her hands away from the chair’s arms and placed them on her legs, palms down, fingers outstretched. Charles was no longer holding her hand.
“We are in a long hallway with many doors, talking to another couple. Women are walking by in white hats and aprons. The dresses underneath are light pink. Their footsteps echo in the hallway. I can hear someone crying out, ‘Help me, help me’. No one seems to pay attention to the voice. Men are also walking the halls, but fewer of them than women. Some have dark suits with high-collared shirts, others have white jackets on. Someone is coming out of the door to we’re nearest to in the hall. He has a white jacket on and looks very sad. Joyce, he’s putting his hand on your shoulder, shaking his head. The other couple, they’re holding each other, the other woman is crying. They seem familiar to me. Something terrible has happened. I’m not holding you. I’m backing away, my hands to my mouth, shaking my head no. Now I’m screaming it. What happened? Why aren’t I comforting you?”
The voice that issued out of Joyce’s mouth ran chills up the spines of doctor and assistant alike. It was no longer fe
minine and melodic, but gruff, lower in register. Her face was a mask of tension and rage. Joyce had slipped again and far further, and because she had been silent, no one had caught it. Her fingers were no longer outstretched, but balled into fists. It had happened so fast.
“Because you killed her, you killed my mother. In your greed to keep me out of the war, you poisoned her. It was arsenic, the Doctor said. You say you just wanted to make her ill, just ill enough to keep me home so I’d take care of her. You selfish, murdering witch, you killed my MOTHER!”
The fists now became claws, reaching forward to empty air, striving to strike out and choke the life out of the body that once belonged to her husband Charles. It was almost like an act on the stage, for the hands reached out to nothing…or did they?
Charles’ hands were reaching out, pushing away, and he began to plead for his life. Dr. Goodman murmured, “Oh, God, not both of them. What do I do? I have to help them. It’s my duty.”
Charles pleaded with a voice raised in timbre, “Mark, please, no! I’m sorry! It was an accident. Oh, God! What have I done! Please, Mark, don’t kill me.”
“You are not my wife! I disown you, Agnes! You are a murderess, a spawn of the Devil!”
Dr. Grossman demanded, “Charles, Joyce, calm down, please!”
Joyce heard, yet not heard. “No Doctor Lasker! She killed my mother. You told me it was classic arsenic poisoning. Agnes bought arsenic for the rat problem, she said. She lied, all she says is a lie!”
Charles pleaded, “I only gave her a very little, just a tiny bit at a time, not enough to kill her. Please, believe me. I would never have harmed her, not really. I just wanted you alive, home, away from that horrible war. I wanted to protect you! Please, stop choking me! I love you!”
Abigail’s head snapped left and her jaw dropped when Dr. Grossman seemed to take his own leave from reality. “Mr. Spettigue, stand down! Your mother had a weak heart. I’ve known this for a long time, but she told me to speak of it to no one. The arsenic played a role, yes, but it was a tragic mistake on Agnes’s part. What she did was wrong, but was it murder? She only hastened your mother’s demise.” Was Dr. Grossman play-acting or actually a part of this ancient tragedy?
Joyce’s voice continued to rage, “Doctor, that’s what murder always is! Whether my mother had a day or a decade to live, her sacred life was robbed of her by that evil abomination. You don’t deserve to live, Agnes!”
Abigail saw Charles stand up, a move that didn’t seem to register with the Doctor or Joyce. Charles’ eyes were open and, whether he saw the past or the present version, it was a window that his eyes were unblinkingly focused on. The husband-yet-wife let out a shrill shriek and Abigail could see the first move of what would be a lunge forward.
Time began to slow down for the office Assistant. Whole thoughts would come and go in an instant.
“He outweighs me by half. Once he starts, I won’t be able to stop him. He’ll take me with him. I have to stop him. I’m his only hope, and hers. How do you stop someone bigger than you? Brother in football. He said, ‘Stay low’. All right. Brad, I hope you told me the truth.”
Abigail jolted up, pushing the chair backwards towards the window. Maybe it would serve as a back-up barrier. She then let gravity change her center of gravity as her knees bent and her body leaned forward. Both her arms reached out, and she felt like she had tackled a raging locomotive when Charles’ right leg slammed into her left shoulder. It was all she could do to complete the two-armed clasp around his legs, but she did it. Charles fell to the floor. She wasn’t sure it would work, but even before the two hit the ground, Abigail began yelling out one word, over and over.
“TINKERTOY! TINKERTOY! TINKERTOY!”