the word devil. Tell me about that.”
Angela remembered that answer. “What came to my mind was the power they have . . . and too often abuse.” She could still hear the muted cries, the moans.
“You don’t believe that doctors do good, that they save lives?”
“Not always; sometimes lives are sacrificed. They experiment. . . . You must know that, Dr. Fremont. They experiment on their patients and call it research. Not all of them, of course. I didn’t mean that you—”
Dr. Fremont looked distressed. “I hope you don’t feel that way about me, Angela. We try many things in here to help you gain insight into your behavior, but I never think of them as experimentation in a bad way. In fact, I was just going to suggest we try hypnosis. I think we have some fertile ground to work with here.”
They’d tried hypnosis before, and it had never worked. But that was more Angela’s fault than the technique. There were certain things locked up inside her that wouldnever come out. She had intentionally blocked those memories. No, that wasn’t true. She’d done a great deal more than block them. She’d erased them herself because there were things she couldn’t bear to remember. Didn’t dare to remember. She had wiped out a part of her own memory using methods she’d learned in her grad school research that included hypnotic autosuggestion and psychotropic drugs, so of course standard hypnosis alone didn’t work. How could she allow Dr. Fremont to unlock the door that she herself had locked and barred?
Angela looked up in surprise to see Dr. Fremont standing above her. She had a glass of water in one hand and a red capsule in the other.
“I’d like you to take this,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Something to relax you. It’s very mild, but the more relaxed you are, the easier it will be to remember.”
“Why is it so important to remember?” Angela asked softly, although it was no longer quiet inside her mind. What if I don’t want to remember? What if whatever’s locked up in there is supposed to stay there? What if—
“Angela, it’s difficult to make progress when so much is unknown . . . to both of us. You do want to get well?”
Angela nodded and took the capsule.
“Good, because I have something else here that will help you talk more freely. If fear is the block, this will make the memories seem less frightening.”
She knelt beside Angela and opened her arm. Angela allowed her to swab the inner joint with alcohol and tap the vein to plump it. Neither doctor nor patient spoke, and with silence came the understanding that Angela had surrendered herself to this process, that she was forfeiting all other options. Her fate now lay in another’s hands, a doctor’s hands. That was a terrifyingly familiar feeling, and one that Angela had struggled with all her life. It madeher want to stop the psychiatrist, yet something wouldn’t let her.
She did want to get well. She wanted that more than anything, and how could that happen if she didn’t, finally, face her fears?
There was a sharp prick, a searing stream of fluid, and Angela closed her eyes. Was she taking responsibility by allowing these drugs in her system, by giving up conscious control? Or was she evading it? She didn’t have the answer to that, and it was too late now, anyway. The drug was rushing through her veins, carried by the force of her pounding heart. Whatever would happen would happen.
“Rain, rain, go away,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 5
W HEN a man approaching his fifth decade braved the world of women’s bras and panties for the first time, he needed some moral support. Or a drink.
They damn well ought to serve booze in this place, Peter Brandt thought as he gingerly picked up a spidery black wisp of silk and studied it. He didn’t know what it was or where it went, which was probably just as well, since he couldn’t imagine his wife, Barbara, wearing it anyway. Not on a bet.
He wasn’t alone in the
Angela remembered that answer. “What came to my mind was the power they have . . . and too often abuse.” She could still hear the muted cries, the moans.
“You don’t believe that doctors do good, that they save lives?”
“Not always; sometimes lives are sacrificed. They experiment. . . . You must know that, Dr. Fremont. They experiment on their patients and call it research. Not all of them, of course. I didn’t mean that you—”
Dr. Fremont looked distressed. “I hope you don’t feel that way about me, Angela. We try many things in here to help you gain insight into your behavior, but I never think of them as experimentation in a bad way. In fact, I was just going to suggest we try hypnosis. I think we have some fertile ground to work with here.”
They’d tried hypnosis before, and it had never worked. But that was more Angela’s fault than the technique. There were certain things locked up inside her that wouldnever come out. She had intentionally blocked those memories. No, that wasn’t true. She’d done a great deal more than block them. She’d erased them herself because there were things she couldn’t bear to remember. Didn’t dare to remember. She had wiped out a part of her own memory using methods she’d learned in her grad school research that included hypnotic autosuggestion and psychotropic drugs, so of course standard hypnosis alone didn’t work. How could she allow Dr. Fremont to unlock the door that she herself had locked and barred?
Angela looked up in surprise to see Dr. Fremont standing above her. She had a glass of water in one hand and a red capsule in the other.
“I’d like you to take this,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Something to relax you. It’s very mild, but the more relaxed you are, the easier it will be to remember.”
“Why is it so important to remember?” Angela asked softly, although it was no longer quiet inside her mind. What if I don’t want to remember? What if whatever’s locked up in there is supposed to stay there? What if—
“Angela, it’s difficult to make progress when so much is unknown . . . to both of us. You do want to get well?”
Angela nodded and took the capsule.
“Good, because I have something else here that will help you talk more freely. If fear is the block, this will make the memories seem less frightening.”
She knelt beside Angela and opened her arm. Angela allowed her to swab the inner joint with alcohol and tap the vein to plump it. Neither doctor nor patient spoke, and with silence came the understanding that Angela had surrendered herself to this process, that she was forfeiting all other options. Her fate now lay in another’s hands, a doctor’s hands. That was a terrifyingly familiar feeling, and one that Angela had struggled with all her life. It madeher want to stop the psychiatrist, yet something wouldn’t let her.
She did want to get well. She wanted that more than anything, and how could that happen if she didn’t, finally, face her fears?
There was a sharp prick, a searing stream of fluid, and Angela closed her eyes. Was she taking responsibility by allowing these drugs in her system, by giving up conscious control? Or was she evading it? She didn’t have the answer to that, and it was too late now, anyway. The drug was rushing through her veins, carried by the force of her pounding heart. Whatever would happen would happen.
“Rain, rain, go away,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 5
W HEN a man approaching his fifth decade braved the world of women’s bras and panties for the first time, he needed some moral support. Or a drink.
They damn well ought to serve booze in this place, Peter Brandt thought as he gingerly picked up a spidery black wisp of silk and studied it. He didn’t know what it was or where it went, which was probably just as well, since he couldn’t imagine his wife, Barbara, wearing it anyway. Not on a bet.
He wasn’t alone in the
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