I understood of hypnosis a week ago was negligible. After awakening at night to research hypnosis on the internet, I became enlightened. Hypnosis, as I’ve come to understand it, is a very relaxed trancelike state similar to daydreaming. This will allow Mia to become less inhibited and tune out the rest of the world to allow herself, with the doctor’s help, to arouse the memories she’s lost. Under hypnosis, the subject becomes highly suggestible, and can recall information that the mind has locked in a vault. By hypnotizing Mia, Dr. Rhodes will be dealing directly with the subconscious, that part of the brain that’s hidden Mia’s memories from her. The goal is to put Mia into a state of deep relaxation so her conscious mind, more or less, goes to sleep and Dr. Rhodes can deal with the subconscious. For Mia’s sake, the goal is to regain all or some part—some minute details even—of her time in the cabin so that, through therapy, she can come to terms with her abduction and heal. For the investigation’s sake, however, Detective Hoffman is desperate for information, for any details or clues that Colin Thatcher might have aired in the cabin that would help police find the man who did this to Mia.
When we arrive at Dr. Rhodes’s office, I, at James’s insistence, am allowed inside. He wants me to keep an eye on the nutcase, what he calls Dr. Rhodes, in case she tries to screw with Mia’s head. I sit in an armchair out of the way while Mia, squeamishly, sprawls out on the couch. Textbooks line floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the southernmost wall. There is a window that faces the parking lot. Dr. Rhodes keeps the blinds closed, allowing in only a scant amount of light, so there’s an abundance of privacy. The room is dark and discreet, the secrets revealed inside the walls absorbed by the burgundy paint and oak wainscoting. The room is drafty; I pull my sweater tightly around my body and hug myself as Mia’s conscious mind begins to get drowsy. The doctor says, “We’ll start with off with the simple things, with what we know to be true, and see where that leads.”
It doesn’t come back chronologically. It doesn’t even come back sensibly and, to me, long after we escape into the piercing winter day, it’s a puzzle. I had imagined that hypnosis would be able to unlock the vault and there, in that very instant, all the memories would topple onto the faux Persian rug so that Mia, the doctor and I could hover over and dissect them. But that’s not the way it happens at all. For the limited time Mia is under hypnosis—maybe twenty minutes but no more—the door is open and Dr. Rhodes, with a kind, harmonious voice, is trying to pry away the cookie’s layers to get at the cream filling. They come off in crumbs: the rustic feel of the cabin with the knotty pine paneling and exposed beams, static on a car radio, the sound of Beethoven’s Für Elise, spotting a moose.
“Who’s in the car, Mia?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you driving the car?”
“No.”
“Who’s driving the car?”
“I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“What time of day is it?”
“Early morning. The sun is just beginning to rise.”
“You can see out the window?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see stars?”
“Yes.”
“And the moon?”
“Yes.”
“A full moon?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “A half moon.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“On a highway. It’s a small, two-lane highway, surrounded by woods.”
“Are there other cars?”
“No.”
“Do you see street signs?”
“No.”
“Do you hear anything?”
“Static. From the radio. There’s a man speaking, but his voice...there’s static.” Mia is lying on the couch with her legs crossed at the ankles. It’s the first time I’ve seen her relax in the last two weeks. Her arms are folded against a bare midriff—her chunky cream sweater having hiked up an inch or two when she laid down—as if she’s been placed in a casket.
“Can you hear what the man is saying?” Dr. Rhodes asks from where she sits on a maroon armchair beside Mia. The woman is the epitome of together: not a wrinkle in her clothing, not a hair out of place. The sound of her voice is monotonous; it could lull me to sleep.
“Temperatures in the forties, plenty of sun...”
“The weather forecast?”
“It’s a disc jockey—the sound is coming from the radio. But the static... The front speakers don’t work. The voice comes from the backseat.”
“Is there someone in the backseat, Mia?”
“No. It’s just us.”
“Us?”
“I can see his hands in the darkness. He drives with two hands, holding the steering wheel so tightly.”
“What else can you tell me about him?” Mia shakes her head. “Can you see what he’s wearing?”
“No.”
“But you can see his hands?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything on his hands—a ring, watch? Anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“What can you tell me about his hands?”
“They’re rough.”
“You can see that? You can see that his hands are rough?”
I scoot to the edge of my seat, hanging on to Mia’s every last muted word. I know that Mia—the old Mia, pre-Colin Thatcher—would have never wanted me to hear this conversation.
This question she doesn’t answer.
“Is he hurting you?” Mia twitches on the couch, pushing aside the question. Dr. Rhodes asks again, “Did he hurt you, Mia? There, in the car, or maybe before?” There’s no response.
The doctor moves on. “What else can you tell me about the car?”
But Mia states instead, “This wasn’t...this wasn’t supposed...to happen.”
“What wasn’t, Mia?” she asks. “What wasn’t supposed to happen?”
“It’s all wrong,” Mia replies. She’s disoriented, her visions cluttered, random memories running adrift in her mind.
“What is all wrong?” There’s no reply.
