The Stranger in the Mirror(83)

My world came crashing to an end on Christmas Day, the year I was twenty-three. Today I am going to relive that event, and I take a deep breath as I prepare to be hypnotized.

“All right, Amelia, close your eyes and relax. Breathe in slowly and deeply. And now exhale. I am going to count backward from ten. On each count you will go deeper.”

I feel my muscles relax as I listen to her voice and begin going into a hypnotic state.

“It’s December 23. You are alone in your apartment. What are you doing?”

“I just hung up with my mother. I told her I’m not coming home until the morning of the twenty-fifth. I don’t want to be there any longer than I have to. I lied and told her I have a work obligation.”

“Look around your apartment. What do you see?”

“Presents I still have to wrap. A pair of size-six Lucky Brand jeans for my twin sister, Shannon. Pearl earrings for my mom, a scarf for my grandmother, and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses for my father that I saved up for six months to buy. He doesn’t deserve them, but maybe he’ll be nicer to everyone if he gets the best present.”

“What do you do next?”

“I call Shannon. She’s disappointed that I won’t be there early, but she understands. I’m worried about her, though. She tried college but fell in with a partying crowd and flunked out her first semester. She lives in Fort Lauderdale now, and tells us she’s a waitress, but I heard from a friend that she’s really an exotic dancer at some bar. I tell her I want her to come back to Boston with me after Christmas, and she tells me she’ll think about it.”

“Christmas morning, you fly to Florida. What happens when you get there?”

“I take a cab from the airport to my parents’ house. I’m standing outside, steeling myself before ringing the bell. My father says that since my sister and I no longer live at home, we’ve lost the privilege of entering without knocking. There’s no answer, and I ring again. I’m starting to sweat, and I take off the heavy coat I wore on the plane. Still no answer. I rap loudly on the door, and finally I punch in the key code, hoping he hasn’t updated it since the last time I was there. I hear the familiar turning sound, and the blue access light comes on. I turn the knob and slowly open the door. Something’s wrong. It smells terrible, like rotting meat and shit. I bend over, gagging, my hand over my nose. I step over the threshold and enter the house.”

“Stop for a minute, Amelia. Take another deep breath. This is going to be difficult. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.”

“What do you see now?”

“It’s too quiet. I’m walking into the living room. I see the Christmas tree in its usual spot in front of the window, with the lights twinkling and piles of wrapped presents beneath it. There’s someone sitting on the couch. No! No! Mom! Shannon. They’re not moving.” I squeeze my eyes shut more tightly and cover my face. I can’t breathe, my heart is going crazy, and I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing in my head.

“Take a deep breath, Amelia, and stop for a moment. This is a memory, it’s in the past. You’re safe. You’re in my office.”

Her voice grounds me, and I go back to that day again. “No! Oh please God, no! My mother is on the sofa, her eyes open and staring like she’s surprised. There’s a round hole in her forehead, and her face is caked in blood. It’s run down her nose and cheeks and all over her white blouse. My sister is slumped facedown against my mother’s shoulder. There is a huge hole in the side of her head, and splintered bones and gristle and tendons are oozing out of it. I vomit on the rug and stumble backward, away from my mother and sister, and when I look down, I see my grandmother sprawled on the floor. Half of her face is gone, but her one remaining eye is open. She is still clutching a lamp in her hand. And blood. I can smell it, like wet copper, sickly sweet. It’s everywhere, on the wood floor, smeared on the furniture and walls, a bloody handprint on the mantel.”

“Amelia, I want you to come back slowly, count to ten, come back to this room, to me.”

I begin to count, listening to her voice.

“Open your eyes.”

Dr. Pearlson is looking at me with a somber expression. “You’re safe. I know that was extremely difficult.”

I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. I’m shaking. I reach out for the blanket thrown over the side of the sofa and clutch it to my chest. “I remember it all now. So horrible. So horrible.”

“Do you remember what you did next?” she asks.

“I called 911.” I’m speaking fast now. “I was rushed out of the house as soon as they arrived. They found my father’s body in the bedroom. He slaughtered all of them, and then he killed himself.” I clench my fists, wanting to punch something. “My grandmother must have tried to stop him by hitting him with the lamp, but he shot her.” I’m sobbing uncontrollably by this point.

“Let it out, Amelia. Just let it all out. I will sit with you for as long as you need.”

I wail as I let all the images bombard me, and Dr. Pearlson just sits, a quiet and comforting presence across from me, the picture of compassion. I think about all the years of silence in my family about my father’s abuse. All the secrets we kept. He was a respected and intelligent airline pilot with a spotless reputation and an arsenal of guns. No one knew that behind closed doors he carried out a reign of terror. There were so many guns that he never missed the one I took and hid under my pillow for all those years. How many times had he pointed a gun at my mother’s head in front of us and threatened to kill her? And the beatings, always making sure the bruises were in places no one could see. And then afterward he would send my mother flowers. Roses. Dozens of them, filling the house with their nauseating smell.