uneasy?
“He believed in exploring the unconscious, Daisy. That by examining your unconscious world, you can discover reasons for your behavior, your beliefs and fears. Jungian analysis—”
“No, he was— Goth . He believed in the spiritual world. Ghosts. Murmurs of the past…and how we are all connected.”
Betsy thought of the tarot card. She shook her head.
“Carl Jung did not believe in ghosts and he certainly was not Goth.” She straightened her posture. “He believed in the collective unconscious of the universe—”
Daisy flicked her ebony hair behind her shoulder, shaking her head vehemently. She opened the I-Ching, thrusting her finger at Jung’s foreword.
“Oh, yeah, he did, Betsy. Believe in ghosts, I mean. And collective unconscious? Hello! Totally Goth. And the wild visions—”
“Jung experienced the ‘menace of psychosis,’ as he termed it,” Betsy said carefully. “This was a very dark time for him, when he lost his grasp on reality.”
“What’s reality?” asked Daisy. “Hearing ghosts or me choking on my own spit for no reason?”
Betsy shifted in her chair, making the old floorboards creak.
“He is so freakin’ awesome. I’m telling all my Goth friends about him.”
Daisy closed the book with a definitive thud that resounded throughout the room. Ringo looked up at her, his brown eyes questioning.
Obsessive , thought Betsy. Her patient had perseverated on Jung.
“OK. You’ve made your point, Daisy,” Betsy said, the tone of her voice rising in annoyance. “I am impressed with your research and the time you have spent learning about Carl Jung. Now, it is time for your session.”
“OK, Betsy,” said Daisy, collapsing into a wing chair, a victorious smile on her white-powdered face. “Ask me anything you want.”
Betsy nodded. Who was this stranger who sat across from her now, so affable and open?
Chapter 17
C ARBONDALE, C OLORADO
D ECEMBER 10, 2010
I t’s time to come back, says the voice from the shadows. A sweep of heavy cloth—taffeta? A waft of perfume, hints of rosemary.
A cold hand touches me, a finger under my chin. I am paralyzed.
Answer my call.
Betsy woke up from her dream to the persistent ringing of the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Dr. Path?”
“Yes.”
“I apologize for calling so early. This is Stephen Cox. I’m Dean of History at the University of Chicago. I have your number as an emergency contact for your mother, Dr. Grace Path.”
Betsy sat up quickly, untangling her legs from the sheets.
“Is something wrong? Has something happened to my mother?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. She was supposed to be back to teach a class yesterday, but she didn’t show up. I was only informed of it this morning or I would have called you earlier.”
“She’s not there?”
“No, the last we heard from her was when she submitted a monograph by e-mail for proofreading, and that was several weeks ago.”
Betsy’s pulse began to pound in her head. She forced herself to breathe deeply. The voice on the phone went on.
“We hoped she might have been in contact with you.”
“I had an e-mail from her a few days ago. Let me get it.”
She stumbled out of bed, clutching the phone, and opened her laptop.
The computer whirred to life. She clicked on her in-box.
“OK, here it is. It’s dated—December fourth, so six days ago.
S ORRY I CAN ’ T BE WITH YOU AT THE R ED B OOK D IALOGUES —I KNOW YOU WILL ENJOY IT THOROUGHLY. I AM GOING BACK ONCE MORE TO VISIT C ACHTICE C ASTLE AND B ECKOV C ASTLE TOMORROW, HOMES OF C OUNTESS B ATHORY.
There was dead silence on the phone.
“Is that all?” the dean finally asked. “No mention of returning to Chicago?”
“No, nothing. She just ends, ‘I will send you a postcard, darling.’”
Again a silence. The dean filled it at last. “She was doing research in Slovakia and Hungary. She has a deadline for the book in mid-January.”
“I knew she was doing research, but
“He believed in exploring the unconscious, Daisy. That by examining your unconscious world, you can discover reasons for your behavior, your beliefs and fears. Jungian analysis—”
“No, he was— Goth . He believed in the spiritual world. Ghosts. Murmurs of the past…and how we are all connected.”
Betsy thought of the tarot card. She shook her head.
“Carl Jung did not believe in ghosts and he certainly was not Goth.” She straightened her posture. “He believed in the collective unconscious of the universe—”
Daisy flicked her ebony hair behind her shoulder, shaking her head vehemently. She opened the I-Ching, thrusting her finger at Jung’s foreword.
“Oh, yeah, he did, Betsy. Believe in ghosts, I mean. And collective unconscious? Hello! Totally Goth. And the wild visions—”
“Jung experienced the ‘menace of psychosis,’ as he termed it,” Betsy said carefully. “This was a very dark time for him, when he lost his grasp on reality.”
“What’s reality?” asked Daisy. “Hearing ghosts or me choking on my own spit for no reason?”
Betsy shifted in her chair, making the old floorboards creak.
“He is so freakin’ awesome. I’m telling all my Goth friends about him.”
Daisy closed the book with a definitive thud that resounded throughout the room. Ringo looked up at her, his brown eyes questioning.
Obsessive , thought Betsy. Her patient had perseverated on Jung.
“OK. You’ve made your point, Daisy,” Betsy said, the tone of her voice rising in annoyance. “I am impressed with your research and the time you have spent learning about Carl Jung. Now, it is time for your session.”
“OK, Betsy,” said Daisy, collapsing into a wing chair, a victorious smile on her white-powdered face. “Ask me anything you want.”
Betsy nodded. Who was this stranger who sat across from her now, so affable and open?
Chapter 17
C ARBONDALE, C OLORADO
D ECEMBER 10, 2010
I t’s time to come back, says the voice from the shadows. A sweep of heavy cloth—taffeta? A waft of perfume, hints of rosemary.
A cold hand touches me, a finger under my chin. I am paralyzed.
Answer my call.
Betsy woke up from her dream to the persistent ringing of the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Dr. Path?”
“Yes.”
“I apologize for calling so early. This is Stephen Cox. I’m Dean of History at the University of Chicago. I have your number as an emergency contact for your mother, Dr. Grace Path.”
Betsy sat up quickly, untangling her legs from the sheets.
“Is something wrong? Has something happened to my mother?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. She was supposed to be back to teach a class yesterday, but she didn’t show up. I was only informed of it this morning or I would have called you earlier.”
“She’s not there?”
“No, the last we heard from her was when she submitted a monograph by e-mail for proofreading, and that was several weeks ago.”
Betsy’s pulse began to pound in her head. She forced herself to breathe deeply. The voice on the phone went on.
“We hoped she might have been in contact with you.”
“I had an e-mail from her a few days ago. Let me get it.”
She stumbled out of bed, clutching the phone, and opened her laptop.
The computer whirred to life. She clicked on her in-box.
“OK, here it is. It’s dated—December fourth, so six days ago.
S ORRY I CAN ’ T BE WITH YOU AT THE R ED B OOK D IALOGUES —I KNOW YOU WILL ENJOY IT THOROUGHLY. I AM GOING BACK ONCE MORE TO VISIT C ACHTICE C ASTLE AND B ECKOV C ASTLE TOMORROW, HOMES OF C OUNTESS B ATHORY.
There was dead silence on the phone.
“Is that all?” the dean finally asked. “No mention of returning to Chicago?”
“No, nothing. She just ends, ‘I will send you a postcard, darling.’”
Again a silence. The dean filled it at last. “She was doing research in Slovakia and Hungary. She has a deadline for the book in mid-January.”
“I knew she was doing research, but
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