event, so the mind could absorb the information and move on. In his opinion, as upsetting as Sara’s symptoms were, they would fade with time. Young children were mentally tougher than most people gave them credit for—they bounced back when adults crumbled. He could see no reason why Sara should be the exception to the rule.
Ben had been happy to go along with Dolinski’s optimism. His explanations had seemed logical and scientific, and they had been backed by several impressive diplomas on his office wall. Now he was forced to revise that opinion.
He was no authority on mental disorders—or, for that matter, psychic phenomena. But over the past few months, he had read exhaustively on both subjects. As difficult to understand as many of the mental conditions were, at least they seemed to have identifiable causes and were researched and presented in a logical, scientific manner. Most of the material in books on psychic phenomena had been presented with a distinct lack of methodology or any kind of scientific or logical grounding.
As open as he had tried to keep his mind, he’d had difficulty buying into theories that seemed as wild and crackpot as some of the psychic conditions described. But a certain category of “cases” had uncannily mirrored what was happening to Sara.
Past-life memories.
He hadn’t mentioned the concept to Mae.
Getting his head around the idea that Sara could have lived a previous life, and that the memories of that life were filtering into this one, made him feel like a crackpot. But for her sake, he had to open his mind to possibilities that he would normally dismiss.
First fact: she was seven years old and she could speak French and German—two languages in which she had received no formal instruction. Ben knew a smattering of both of those languages from his time in the Navy, enough to conduct some basic conversation. But even allowing for the fact that Sara could have picked up a little of either language from other kids at school, she shouldn’t be capable of the sophisticated syntax she had used while sleepwalking. And if she could speak a small amount of French and German, why hadn’t they ever heard her doing so while she was awake?
Secondly, any normal American kid mentioning Germany’s historic secret police would have used the popular term Gestapo, if they had known about it at all, not the full name, Geheime Staats Polizei.
Thirdly, when Sara was sleepwalking, Ben had the distinct impression that she was not a child. Her actions were smooth, controlled and precise, the expression on her face chillingly adult.
In his mind, those three facts added up to the kind of proof no one would believe—certainly not Dolinski.
Ben was convinced his seven-year-old daughter wasn’t mentally unstable and that she hadn’t witnessed a shocking event either at home or at school. However, he did believe she was suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome— but from another place, and another time.
Specifically, occupied France in the Second World War.
Her eyes flipped open, disconcerting him. “I don’t want to be like this, Daddy.”
He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Her voice was normal, her expression that of a child. The sharp, incipient Sara who had lifted all the hairs at his nape and upset Mae wasn’t in evidence. “Then don’t be, honey. Just tell yourself, ‘I’m Sara Fischer, I’m seven years old, and the only place I have ever lived is Shreveport, Louisiana.’ Repeat it after me, then when you go back to sleep it’ll be true.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“You have to make it happen—inside your head. Remember what Dr. Dolinski said? Whenever you’re frightened, just tell yourself not to have the dreams.”
“I like the way you say it better. I’ll do that.”
The crispness of her decision was disconcertingly close to her sleepwalking voice. “Do you ever remember any of the dreams?”
She turned her head on the pillow, and he realized she was checking to make sure Mae wasn’t in the room or lurking at the door. “Sometimes.”
His chest tightened. This was the first time she had admitted that she remembered anything, and the reason was obvious. Mae’s reaction, and probably the visits to Dolinski, had frightened her. “What are you doing when you kneel down and reach into the cupboard?”
“Getting the book. I have to get words, but only one word at a time.”
“Can you remember what the book is?”
She shook her head.
So, okay, not too detailed. He didn’t know whether that was a blessing or not. But like it or not, the “memories,” if that was what they were, had already changed Sara, and he was very much afraid that they were here to stay.
Abruptly his mind was clear. He had tried Dolinski’s method for long enough and it wasn’t easing the situation. In fact, he was certain the “bridging” tactic was making the dreams more acute. From now on he was going to do this his way. He would teach her a technique he had learned during his years of active service in the Gulf. The technique was straight-down-the-line-simple. He was going to teach Sara how to forget.
Two
Shreveport, eleven years later
Sara Fischer hooked her handbag over her shoulder, dried her hands and paused at the nightclub’s washroom counter to check her makeup and her hair.
She frowned at a face that was faintly exotic and sophisticated, and subtly not her, courtesy of the makeover her mother had given her as an eighteenth birthday gift.
Mae Fischer adored shopping, lunching and parties. The fact that Sara would rather take long solitary walks or bury her head in a book was incomprehensible to her mother. The harder Mae worked to break Sara out of what she called “her shell,” the more Sara resisted. They were mother and daughter and they loved one another, but they were like chalk and cheese. Sara was far more comfortable with her father’s company and his quiet acceptance of the way she was.
She made her way back to the table she occupied with her cousin Steve, his latest girlfriend, Cherie and Marc Bayard, Steve’s best friend, who was back from Baton Rouge for the weekend. Steve and Cherie were absent from the table, which meant they were part of the raucous, gyrating crowd on the dance floor, leaving her alone with Bayard—alone as anyone could be in a nightclub packed to capacity.
Bayard got to his feet, towering over her as he pulled out her chair. A familiar tension locked her jaw as she sat down. She had known Bayard for years, although they didn’t often cross paths now. He was two years older, from an old and extremely wealthy “cotton” family.
A law student at LSU, and on the college football team, by definition, he was popular. The fact that he was also tall and dark, with the signature Bayard good looks—dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones and tough jaw—and that she’d had a crush on him since he had moved next door when she was seven, didn’t make him any easier to be with. Steve’s idea of a blind date as a birthday gift couldn’t have gone more horribly wrong.
“Would you like to dance?”
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She was certain Bayard had a steady girlfriend and that he should be with her rather than here on a mercy
