Enchanted Dreams Part 7

Emilie looked at David at the mention of the clinic. He watched her from behind the doctor with the look of horror still fixed in his expression. Emilie's sense of dread and foreboding increased every time she looked at him. "I remember...protesters," she began, struggling to recall what she could about the clinic.

"Okay. That's a start," Dr. Rozzi encouraged her. "And do you remember being inside the clinic?"

Emilie shook her head. "I didn't go inside the clinic," she told the doctor.

There was a pause as Dr. Rozzi appeared to consider this. "Do you remember why you went to the clinic?"

Emilie glanced at David again. Her heart was beginning to beat faster. It was strange to be able to feel it and see it on the computer monitor, all at the same time. She nodded her head.

"That's great, Emilie," Dr. Rozzi told her. "You're doing fine. And can you tell me anything about the procedure you had at the clinic?"

Emilie blinked and then shook her head. "I...didn't have the...procedure," she said adamantly. A strange, unidentified dread was creeping over her. She had been clasping the blankets to her chest while the doctor questioned her, and now she slowly pulled them even more tightly to her, as if to prevent someone from removing the blankets and proving Emilie wrong, right there in front of everyone.

"Emilie," Dr. Rozzi continued in a tone of polite firmness combined with patient understanding, "a procedure was performed on you today at the clinic."

Emilie looked at the monitor above her head. She stared at it, mesmerized, as it traced the erratic pace of her heart.

"Do you understand, Emilie?" Dr. Rozzi asked, speaking to her as if she were a child.

There was silence for a long moment. "They took it," Emilie whispered suddenly.

There was another pause, during which Dr. Rozzi appeared to be grappling over how to proceed. "Okay, Emilie," she continued in her patient tone. "That's good. And then do you remember what happened?"

"I fell asleep," said Emilie.

"And after that?"

"Nothing. I woke up here." She suddenly became upset. "That is all I remember, Doctor. Now, please, please, just tell me what happened!"

The other doctor cleared his throat and Dr. Rozzi turned to him expectantly.

"h.e.l.lo again, Emilie," he began awkwardly, clearing his throat again before continuing. "You slept through most of the procedure. We had to sedate you because you were further along than we originally thought. You seemed fine until you woke up in the recovery room." The doctor paused here to clear his throat again. "At that point you became quite hysterical."

"Do you remember any of what he's telling you?" Dr. Rozzi asked.

Emilie shook her head, and the other doctor went on. "You kept screaming and demanding to see the...fetus," he said. "You had quite an episode, tearing things off the walls...breaking them. We had to call an ambulance and that's when you were restrained and brought here."

Upon hearing the doctor's words, Emilie suddenly recalled thinking, as she drifted off to sleep, that she must see the baby before they took it away with them. She wanted to be certain that it was really theirs before she let them take it. But how had she ended up inside the clinic with this doctor? Had the aliens come to her there? "But...I don't understand," she said to the doctor. "How did I get inside the clinic?"

The doctor sighed. "The clinic is where you came to have the abortion," he reiterated impatiently.

"But I didn't have an abortion!" Emilie cried. She looked at David, then at the doctors again. "It wasn't an abortion."

Dr. Rozzi put her hand on Emilie's. "It's perfectly all right," she told her. "We are going to help get you through this."

"No!" Emilie cried, jerking her hand away. "You don't understand. I didn't have an abortion."

Dr. Rozzi gave the nurse a look as if to say, "Get ready," and then she turned to David. "She's going to need your support now," she told him. David moved reluctantly from behind the doctors to stand at Emilie's side. He reached down unenthusiastically and took her hand. Their hands remained flaccid and lifeless, as if the connection was equally repellent to both.

"I didn't have an abortion," Emilie repeated again, but this time it came out more like a plea.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Rozzi said. "Doctor Meade is one of the resident doctors for the clinic and he was there with you at the time."

Emilie turned to him and paled. "You were there with me while I...while I...you..."

"Performed the abortion, yes," he told her. "We had no idea that you were so troubled about it. You seemed so determined to go through with it beforehand."

"You're sure there was an abortion?" Emilie was incredulous.

"I'm quite certain, yes," the doctor a.s.sured her.

"Was it a...?" The doctor became a blur as large tears suddenly filled Emilie's eyes.

"The s.e.x of the baby is not something you should concern yourself with," he advised.

"Human?" she finished.

The doctors exchanged glances. David gasped. Everyone was clearly taken aback by her question.

"Emilie," Dr. Meade began after an uncomfortable pause. He was clearly choosing his words carefully. "What did you mean at the clinic when you kept saying that you wanted to see if the baby was theirs? Who are 'they'?"

But Emilie suddenly realized what the doctor had said before. Her eyes grew wide with horror. "The baby had a s.e.x?"

Dr. Rozzi tried to interject. "Emilie..."

"Did you see the baby?" Emilie demanded. Her mind was racing as she now struggled to remember the details of what happened. She had not actually seen the aliens take anything out of her. She had only a.s.sumed that's what they were doing. But everything seemed suspect to her now. Why had they come for her, if not to get their hybrid from her before the doctors at the clinic got to her? But if that were the case, why did Dr. Meade keep insisting she'd had the procedure? She looked at him with suspicion. He had to be lying. Was he in on it with the aliens? Was he one of them?

"Why was I brought here?" she asked, her voice turning hard.

"I already explained that to you, Emilie," Dr. Rozzi replied patiently. "We're going to keep you here on the fourth floor for a few days," she continued. "For observation, and to make sure you aren't going to hurt yourself or anybody else."

"You can't keep me here!" Emilie said, her voice rising. She looked at David, but perceived immediately that she couldn't expect support from him. Once again, Dr. Rozzi looked meaningfully at the nurse, who now jerked into action, retrieving a little vial from a nearby table and hurriedly attaching it to a syringe.

"David," Emilie began, knowing it was hopeless, but needing to try. "He must be one of them," she said quickly, realizing there would be no way to explain everything before the nurse finished preparing the sedative. "It wasn't yours," she continued. "It wasn't even human, David." She turned to the doctor suddenly. "Bring it here, then," she screamed. "Show it to me." The nurse was preparing her arm for the needle. Emilie knew better than to struggle. "Please, David," she cried. "Please don't leave me here with them."

"This is only temporary," Dr. Rozzi said in an even tone. But Emilie wouldn't listen to her. She felt the p.r.i.c.k of the needle in her arm and winced. Dr. Rozzi continued speaking in soothing tones. "Given your history, I think it's likely that all of this is a one-time episode brought on by prenatal stress and hormones. I've run some blood tests to confirm if this is the case. For now, there is nothing more you need to do other than rest."

Emilie remained in a state of drugged bliss for several days. When she next saw David, he was supportive and attentive, more like the husband he had been before the incident. He had recovered from the initial shock, Emilie supposed, and forgiven her "temporary insanity," as Dr. Rozzi called it. The doctor explained that the insanity was brought on by a condition Emilie had-something to do with extreme deficiencies of iron in pregnant women causing the kidneys to malfunction. It was often accompanied by a strong taste of metal in the mouth.

Recovery was slower than Dr. Rozzi expected, and Emilie remained on the fourth floor for several weeks, not days as she had originally predicted. During those weeks, Emilie underwent intense therapy where she and Dr. Rozzi discussed the various details of Emilie's life, most of which led to Emilie's mother. What happened at the clinic was concluded to be a tragic but isolated incident of extreme anemia. Although Dr. Rozzi often questioned Emilie about her feelings about her lost pregnancy, she never mentioned the strange "hallucinations" Emilie had suffered from again.

And tomorrow Emilie would be going home.

Emilie looked upon the coming day with mixed feelings. Things would never, she knew, be the same with David. Going back to him and their life together would be difficult now. Perhaps their marriage would end. The thought of being alone with him filled her with dread.

Emilie sighed, wondering what lay ahead for her. She supposed that she would just have to wait and see, feeling a strange sense of acceptance for whatever it was. There was little she could do to change it anyway, she now realized.

But she had a sense that it would all work out. What did it matter what any of them thought? She knew the truth. And she knew better than to tell anyone about it, too. Quite obviously, this world was not ready to accept what she knew to be true. And even among those who would accept it, there were plenty who would fight it if they could. There was good reason for her to keep quiet.

But aside from all of this, Emilie knew now that they were watching her. She had known it all along, really, but she became consciously aware of it her second day in the hospital. And once she'd figured this out, she went back over her behavior in the days prior and decided it hadn't been that bad. She had said very little, even in her worst moments, and afterward she had denounced every word. And since then, her behavior had been exemplary. Everything she said now, especially in her conversations with Dr. Rozzi, was really meant for their ears. She was determined to prove that she could be trusted. Next time she would handle things better. She promised this to herself and to them. She hoped they heard her. Hadn't they communicated to her telepathically in the little room? She was certain they must be able to hear her now, as well. They simply must.

And so tomorrow Emilie would go home, to David, and wait. She knew she would have to trust them if she expected them to trust her. She would keep their secret hidden deep inside her, releasing her memories of them only in her dreams. This would have to suffice until they returned. In the meantime, Emilie would remain...expecting.

Flowers for Angela.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009.

The addition of Eleanor Dobbs to my patient list puts an end to my Tuesdays off, but I couldn't comfortably fit her in any other day. I will see her at eleven, and then, for now, spend the afternoon catching up on office business. It looks as though all my hard work has finally blossomed into a successful, full-time practice!

My new patient is a middle-aged woman dealing with issues of loss from the death of her husband (he has been gone for nine months). I'll begin grief therapy initially, until I ascertain if she has any other issues. I had a brief consultation with her today, where we went over the basics. Incidentally, she and her husband had been seeing Dr. Michael Czernick in couple's therapy right up until he died.

Meanwhile, the tension at home continues to escalate. Tom's attempts at reconciliation are cursory and unsatisfactory. Things got a little heated last night, and sure enough, I find flowers in my office this morning (carnations!). Every gesture from him seems calculated to annoy me. His lack of genuine effort makes it impossible to take him seriously.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009.

I encouraged Eleanor Dobbs to simply express her feelings about her loss today. As is the tendency with grieving spouses, she appears to be exaggerating his attributes somewhat and admits to no negative memories of him whatsoever. This is fine for now, but it will be important later on in therapy for me to help her to accept the man he was, so that she can grieve properly. I sense this may be difficult with her, as she seems a bit more rigid in her denial than what is typical. Perhaps there are issues of guilt? She currently expresses feelings of loneliness, lethargy and depression, and says she has the most difficulty at night. I prescribed a mild sedative to help her sleep.

Tom was distant and sullen last night. When I am around him lately, it's like there's a constant pressure weighing me down. He was upset because he made dinner and I was late and didn't feel like eating. But here again, his gestures are thoughtless and rarely hit the mark (he knows I'm watching my weight and he makes pasta, of all things). So I guess I'm supposed to choke down the meal he prepared whether I want it or not? Everything always has to be on his terms.

But even when he's not moping or complaining, he's bombarding me with questions-always his incessant questions about everything! The smallest query from him grates on my nerves like a dripping faucet. I'm not sure why this is. I know he's trying to be civil and it's not like I have anything to hide. But I get the impression that he's only asking these things to gain some kind of advantage over me. Even the simplest inquiries about my day, my practice, my health, even my feelings-when coming from Tom-feel like the most frightful invasion.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009.

Last week, as Eleanor Dobbs was preparing to leave my office, I asked her to write down some of her most cherished memories of her husband as she thought of him throughout the week. I was looking for examples of their more memorable moments together, some nice things he had done for her, special gifts he given her, etc. The list Eleanor brought me was astonishingly deficient. I felt it so lacking as to be mendacious, but she appeared to be quite sincere.

We then proceeded to discuss her list-one item in particular was especially perplexing for me. Her husband had brought her a "gift" of a half-eaten chocolate cake. When she asked him about it, he admitted that it was leftover from a party at his office. I mentioned to her that it seemed a strange thing to include on her list, and as we discussed it further, I learned that Eleanor is actually allergic to chocolate! I questioned her repeatedly about why she would include this on her list, but she appeared to be unable to explain it. Yet she remained strangely fixed in her belief that it was a nice gesture, and also that the memory of it makes her feel "happy." Very odd.

Tom brought up s.e.x again last night. In his usual pa.s.sive-aggressive manner, he "wondered" out loud how long it had been. I wanted to say, "It's been four months, one week and two days, Tom." It's truly irritating the way he tiptoes around a subject. He doesn't see that he's making me the responsible party for the s.e.x that he wants! It's so typical. I deal with this all of the time with my patients, and yet it doesn't make it easier to cope with in my personal life. I must say that it does shed a new light on many of my concepts about therapy. I have always encouraged both partners to make an equal effort on issues in their marriage. But what if both partners don't want change on a particular issue? Surely the party with the stronger interest should do the lion's share of the work. I can understand why some patients might resist therapy if it means working toward a solution they may not necessarily want.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009.

Today Eleanor Dobbs and I discussed her marriage in more detail. Mainly I wanted to know more about the treatment she and her husband received in couples' therapy with Dr. Czernick. I have been hearing his name pop up more and more in the industry. He is purported to having somewhere in the neighborhood of a ninety-three percent success rate with couples-naturally I disregarded that for the absurdity that it is. Most therapists, I am certain, would agree that most of these couples should be encouraged to separate. Instead of a.s.sisting his patients in this natural progression of things, Dr. Czernick appears to be convincing them to stay together at all costs. But what I'm wondering is how he manages to do this. I tried to gain insight from Eleanor but she is still so steeped in denial and grief that it is difficult to get to the core of her ideas and beliefs, and locate their origins. Time appears to have little or no effect on her grief. She suffers as much, if not more, with each pa.s.sing day. Her memories of her husband have not only been transformed into exclusively happy experiences, but they seem to be getting more and more distinct instead of fading, as would be expected. And when we discuss these memories in greater detail, the antic.i.p.ated epiphany never comes. Whether she is describing a "wonderful moment" she shared with her husband or a "proof" of his love for her, she doesn't seem to notice that the incident does not come close to living up to her impression of it.

This is the case with all of Eleanor's memories of her husband, even those pertaining to s.e.x. She mentioned several times that this part of their life was exceptional, so today I encouraged her to talk more openly about it. She proceeded to describe to me how, in the months preceding her husband's death, they had begun to share "intimacies" she had never before known existed.

I asked her what had prompted these new intimacies, to which she replied, "The efforts he was making toward our marriage made him seem so much more appealing to me." I let this pa.s.s without comment and encouraged her to continue.

"He had always called me his 'pet,'" she began with a strange little half smile on her lips. "I liked it when we first started dating, but after we were married it began to get on my nerves. It just seemed kind of degrading and annoying. But then, I don't know, it was like we were dating all over again and I liked it."

"And this was after you went to see Dr. Czernick?" I asked.

She thought about this for a minute and then nodded. "Most definitely after."

"All right...go on. So he would call you his pet?"

"Yes." The strange little smile settled over her features again. "And there were other things, too." She grinned sheepishly, somewhat embarra.s.sed. "He wanted me to do things and I discovered that I liked doing them. It seemed to bring us closer together."

"What sort of things?"

"You know," she replied, apparently feeling awkward to be discussing it so openly. "I think it's called S and M."

"Oh," I said, catching on. I attempted to put her at ease. "It's very normal, Eleanor, for couples to experiment with s.e.xual fantasy and role-playing. It's quite healthy for the relationship."

The expression on her face still struck me as peculiar. I found that I was becoming a bit ill at ease as I waited for her to continue.

"Yes, well, it all started kind of suddenly and then it just escalated from there," she said, becoming more distant as she retreated inward, focusing back on those memories of her husband. "One day he came home with a present for me." She spoke slowly. Tears came to her eyes, but she digressed here for a quick moment to add, "I didn't mention it on my list before because, you know, I thought it might be hard to explain it at the time."

I nodded for her to go on and she continued.

"It was beautifully wrapped," she said serenely. Her gaze drifted past me and attached itself to a picture I had hanging on the wall. "I remember the paper was yellow with little pink daisies, and there was even a bow on it. Inside there was a black velvet box. I was so excited when I saw it because it had been so many years since he bought me jewelry." She paused, seeming to savor the details of the moment as she related them to me. "Inside the box was the most gorgeous, white, shimmering gold-and-diamond-studded collar, with a tiny gold ring for a leash and an engraved ID tag and everything."

I was momentarily taken aback, but she went on, not noticing me at all now.

"He fastened the collar around my neck," she said, closing her eyes dreamily in remembrance. "I remember it felt cold on my skin, and a little heavy at first, but it fit around my neck perfectly. He asked me to wear it for him every night from then on. So I did." She opened her eyes to look at me. "I wear it sometimes still," she whispered.

I was having difficulty finding my voice. It was not the collar that disturbed me. Many women-and men, too, for that matter-find the symbolism of wearing a collar tremendously thrilling during various kinds of s.e.xual play. But there was something in Eleanor's demeanor as she confided these things that bothered me, although I could not yet pinpoint what it was. I worked to keep my face impa.s.sive as I debated over how to proceed. It is not unusual for me to hold back commenting with patients, so Eleanor was not overly disturbed by my silence. At any rate, she was still too caught up in her memories to notice what my reactions were. Tears that had been filling her eyes began now to spill over as she resumed staring at the picture behind me on the wall.

"After that he began to jokingly call me his cute little pet doggie," she continued. That peculiar smile kept reappearing on her face in spite of her tears. "And then, like I said before, it just kind of escalated. Before I knew it, I was pretending to be his little dog, you know, getting into it. He liked me to crawl around on my hands and knees like a real dog does, and of course, he preferred I didn't wear clothes when I did it."

"Did you enjoy doing that?" I asked, finding my voice at last.

"I loved it," she said automatically, still staring at the wall. "I loved being his pet doggie."

"Were you...I mean, did you contribute any ideas for these...new intimacies?" I asked.

"Sure," she answered. "I was always trying to make it more real for him. I'm the one who came up with our nightly routine when he got home from work." She chuckled at the memory. "He laughed so hard the first time I barked. He was so pleased with me, so I started watching for him out one of the windows every night, and when I heard his car drive into the driveway, I would bark as loud as I could through the window so he could hear me. Then I would jump all over him and bark again when he came through the door." She snapped out of her stupor suddenly to look at me directly. "I would wag my tail and everything."

"What were you feeling while you pretended to be his dog?" I asked her, feeling more and more ill at ease.

She stared at me, as if my question momentarily stumped her. Then she crinkled her nose. "I suppose it was a little weird at first. But after a while, it began to feel normal. More normal than being me, even, in a way. I guess it was hard sometimes. I remember gagging a few times before he got me the kind of dog food that I liked."

The expression on my face must have jerked her out of her reverie, because she blushed suddenly and hastened to explain.

"He thought it would be more real if I didn't eat people food."

I felt myself growing pale as she continued with a nervous laugh. "People food isn't good for dogs."

This was considerably outside of my scope of experience with s.e.xual fantasies involving sadom.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic behavior. And here again, I knew that I wasn't hearing anything too terribly extraordinary in that sphere. Yet I was struggling to get to the root of Eleanor's behavior. I was curious to know what she was feeling during all of this, and what was driving her. I was looking for indications that she was deriving s.e.xual pleasure from these activities with her husband. And yet, in the world of sadism, there are many motivations.

"So, at times you felt repulsed by the things your husband wanted you to do?" I asked.

"Repulsed?" she repeated, instantly becoming defensive. "No, I don't think I said I was repulsed..."