“Hmm,” Ted says. “That’s excellent. Really. You must be very close to remembering everything, Fern—to remember a detail as small as that.”
“All I have are small details.”
“That’s good,” he says. “You’ve been doing so great. What are some of the other details?”
I feel the spindles of the chair pushing against me. They fit into grooves in my back I didn’t know were there.
“I remember Astrid reaching out to me.”
Ted looks down at the book. Turns the page. “When he took you up the stairs, you mean?”
“I think so.”
“You only think so?”
“No. Just—when I remembered that before…”
“Before?”
“From these dreams I always had. I thought she was reaching out for me to save her.”
“And now?”
“I was wrong. She was reaching out to save me.”
Ted pecks a few words into his typewriter. I hear each clack inside my skull.
“That’s a noteworthy revelation,” he says, swiveling back around. “You’re remarkable, Fern.”
I need to get out of this room. This airless office. This place where the ceiling slopes so close to my head it almost scrapes my hair.
But the chair. It’s cradling me. Giving me a place to be steady—and I am so weary. So limp and useless.
“I’ll want to go back to those dreams you mentioned,” Ted says. “But first. In that moment you remember, of Astrid reaching for you… what are you feeling exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. Come on, you’re doing a great job. I’m so proud of your progress.” I sit a little straighter. Warmth oozes through my body. “What do you feel when you think of Astrid reaching out, trying to save you?”
I picture it again. Her arms stretching farther than seems possible. The skin around her eyes crimped with desperation. The terror, deep inside me, that always sent me bolting up in bed.
“I’m scared,” I say.
“Yes. Excellent. And why are you scared?”
“Because…” It’s clearer now, like stepping back from a painting and seeing more than just brushstrokes. “Astrid is scared. And she never was before. She was always so strong.”
Ted hesitates. “No, no, no. Let’s try to pull the memory away from her, okay? Think of the memory as a toy train you can slide along a track. Put your finger on the back of the train, the back of that memory, and push it further from Astrid now. Can you do that?”
I stare at him. His pupils look cavernous.
“Good,” he says. “Now, why are you scared? What’s happened in the memory, right before he took you up the stairs?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“You do. The answer is inside you. You have to be willing to let it slip out.” He gazes at the book, still open in his lap. “Astrid says you saw something. What did you see?”
Fresh tears prickle. “I don’t remember.”
“Memories are just stories, Fern. Tell me the story of what you saw in the basement.”
I look down at my legs, and for a moment, I can almost see them as they once were. Too short to touch the floor. Dangling off the edge.
“I don’t know,” I say. My voice warbles.
“You do!” Ted insists. “You do. You just have to let yourself dwell in the discomfort of…” He stops. “Here. Let me read this to you. It’s a passage from chapter five, the one describing your final day in captivity.”
He lifts the book. Opens his mouth to begin reading.
“No.” It’s a small sound, more moan than protest.
“No?” he asks. “Why not?”
I dig my fingers into my legs. I dig instead of scratch.
“I don’t want to hear that part. It’s too—it’s too much. And I have to…”
I was supposed to leave. Supposed to go somewhere. But the air is throbbing with heat. The ceiling is sinking.
“I think you need to hear it,” Ted says. “Your resistance only proves that.” He scoots closer. “I’ve read this passage a hundred times, and I believe that something important happened here. Something even Astrid didn’t know. I’m quite certain it’s the key to everything. And if you can unlock this memory, you will open up a whole gulf of fear, the one that churned inside you all that time, and we will have so much work we can do together.”
Together. I try to resist the pull of that word. Try to hear, instead, Dr. Lockwood’s voice, how she’d define what’s happening in this moment—because I know something’s happening, something dark and hypnotic. But together still means something to me. He lied and he schemed and he never learned what love is meant to look like—but together is still