voice.
“Describe it to me.”
“Dark brown wood, dirty windows,” I tell him. It is a foreboding, decrepit house. Spartan and bare, like something you might find falling apart in the middle of the woods.
“I want you to go in the house,” he says.
So I do. I am magically off the boat and transported onto the front steps. The stairs creak, and the porch is stained a muddy, black-brown color. A tall maroon vase hovers next to the door, like a spittoon, with a cobweb lacing it to the front door. The place looks like a haunted house on a movie set. Even in the midst of hypnosis, it strikes me that my imaginary house does not suggest a sanguine state of mind.
“Go into the house,” he repeats.
I don’t want to, but Sam’s voice is strong, and I pull open the heavy door to a gleaming white room. The floor is marble white. I step in gingerly, feeling like a little kid who is trespassing. The walls are freshly painted white. When I turn around, I see my own black footprints following me. I am tracking in soot.
“Do you recognize anything?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. Except maybe some heavy-handed symbolism I’ll have to decode in a later therapy session. I look ahead to stairs, which are covered in a run-down, puke-green carpet, threads pouched up from years of catching book bags, high heels, puppy claws. Years of wear and tear. My feet are taking me up the stairs. I don’t want to go, but I can’t stop them.
“What is happening?” Sam asks.
“Stairs,” I answer. As I ascend, I realize something strange is happening. Time is spinning forward at a rapid pace, as in a reality TV show where the camera pans in on a house from daybreak to sunset in a few seconds, pictorially flipping through the hours with the clouds racing by. With each step it turns darker outside, until I’m at the top and it is pitch-black outside the window. Silent. I have been here before.
“What are you seeing?” he asks. “Don’t forget. You have to stay with me, Zoe.”
“The laundry room,” I say, surprised at my answer. The laundry room? I walk into the gray darkness. I can hear whirring, and I put my hand on the dryer. Warm. The room is warm. “That’s the whirring!” I yell out, surprised and thrilled.
“What is?”
“The dryer. That’s the sound I always hear in my dream!” I could never identify that rhythmic motor. Now I hear it clearly, the soft rumbling. I look down at the floor and see shadows of branches, swaying. Outside the moon is out, white-bright.
I hear footsteps, whispers. I reach out and shut the door, by millimeters, careful not to make any noise. The door clicks, and the footsteps stop. My heart freezes. Whispers, and then footsteps again. I am panting in fear.
“What’s going on, Zoe?” Sam says. “Stay with me here. Don’t do this alone.”
“They’re coming.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaking. My mother? My father? I hear the rumble of the dryer. Outside the door, music is playing. Loud classical music. Crashing cymbals, scratching cellos. “I hear music,” I say.
“What else?” he asks.
I sit down, rag-doll exhausted, on the cold, white floor. The moon is a marble in the sky. I put my hand against the moan of the dryer, which is comforting. The orchestral music blares and fades from down the hall. I hear a bedroom door opening, then slamming shut. The sweet smell of smoke is wafting into the room.
“I smell something now,” I say.
“What is it? Can you tell?”
“Smoke, I think,” I say. The smell is a deep cedar. Tobacco? Maybe the fire started with a pipe.
“Do you see any smoke?”
“No, not yet,” I answer, looking under the door. I envision a plume of smoke wafting outside the door. I picture this but I do not actually see it, because I will not open the door. I touch the doorknob, which is warm, but not hot.
“Do you see your mother?”
“No,” I say, my voice desperate. “She’s supposed to be here.”
“It’s okay,”
“Describe it to me.”
“Dark brown wood, dirty windows,” I tell him. It is a foreboding, decrepit house. Spartan and bare, like something you might find falling apart in the middle of the woods.
“I want you to go in the house,” he says.
So I do. I am magically off the boat and transported onto the front steps. The stairs creak, and the porch is stained a muddy, black-brown color. A tall maroon vase hovers next to the door, like a spittoon, with a cobweb lacing it to the front door. The place looks like a haunted house on a movie set. Even in the midst of hypnosis, it strikes me that my imaginary house does not suggest a sanguine state of mind.
“Go into the house,” he repeats.
I don’t want to, but Sam’s voice is strong, and I pull open the heavy door to a gleaming white room. The floor is marble white. I step in gingerly, feeling like a little kid who is trespassing. The walls are freshly painted white. When I turn around, I see my own black footprints following me. I am tracking in soot.
“Do you recognize anything?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. Except maybe some heavy-handed symbolism I’ll have to decode in a later therapy session. I look ahead to stairs, which are covered in a run-down, puke-green carpet, threads pouched up from years of catching book bags, high heels, puppy claws. Years of wear and tear. My feet are taking me up the stairs. I don’t want to go, but I can’t stop them.
“What is happening?” Sam asks.
“Stairs,” I answer. As I ascend, I realize something strange is happening. Time is spinning forward at a rapid pace, as in a reality TV show where the camera pans in on a house from daybreak to sunset in a few seconds, pictorially flipping through the hours with the clouds racing by. With each step it turns darker outside, until I’m at the top and it is pitch-black outside the window. Silent. I have been here before.
“What are you seeing?” he asks. “Don’t forget. You have to stay with me, Zoe.”
“The laundry room,” I say, surprised at my answer. The laundry room? I walk into the gray darkness. I can hear whirring, and I put my hand on the dryer. Warm. The room is warm. “That’s the whirring!” I yell out, surprised and thrilled.
“What is?”
“The dryer. That’s the sound I always hear in my dream!” I could never identify that rhythmic motor. Now I hear it clearly, the soft rumbling. I look down at the floor and see shadows of branches, swaying. Outside the moon is out, white-bright.
I hear footsteps, whispers. I reach out and shut the door, by millimeters, careful not to make any noise. The door clicks, and the footsteps stop. My heart freezes. Whispers, and then footsteps again. I am panting in fear.
“What’s going on, Zoe?” Sam says. “Stay with me here. Don’t do this alone.”
“They’re coming.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaking. My mother? My father? I hear the rumble of the dryer. Outside the door, music is playing. Loud classical music. Crashing cymbals, scratching cellos. “I hear music,” I say.
“What else?” he asks.
I sit down, rag-doll exhausted, on the cold, white floor. The moon is a marble in the sky. I put my hand against the moan of the dryer, which is comforting. The orchestral music blares and fades from down the hall. I hear a bedroom door opening, then slamming shut. The sweet smell of smoke is wafting into the room.
“I smell something now,” I say.
“What is it? Can you tell?”
“Smoke, I think,” I say. The smell is a deep cedar. Tobacco? Maybe the fire started with a pipe.
“Do you see any smoke?”
“No, not yet,” I answer, looking under the door. I envision a plume of smoke wafting outside the door. I picture this but I do not actually see it, because I will not open the door. I touch the doorknob, which is warm, but not hot.
“Do you see your mother?”
“No,” I say, my voice desperate. “She’s supposed to be here.”
“It’s okay,”
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