Christopher

Christopher turned off the computer at his desk and began to get ready to leave work. He’d been employed by the insurance company for 12 years and the routine had become something he did nearly unconsciously. As he went through the revolving front door, the wind seemed to pick up just to inconvenience him. It had snowed and there were few footprints on the walk. Makes sense, he thought. Very few people would be leaving the office this early.

His appointment with the therapist wasn’t until 2:30 but Christopher wanted to stop at a coffee shop, pick up an espresso and use the washroom, mostly to check that he looked OK for Darla. She was a truly beautiful woman and Christopher couldn’t help but imagine himself in a relationship with her. Of course, this was never discussed and, besides, Dar wore what looked like an engagement ring. He didn’t call her ‘Dar’ of course, not in person. He hadn’t even used ‘Darla’. They didn’t have a personal relationship. He knew nothing about Dar outside of his appointments, but “she certainly knows pretty much everything about me.”

Did Darla think about him in any way other than as a patient? Even though a love affair was totally off the table, Christopher didn’t go a day that she didn’t fill his head with a host of imagined situations for the two of them. Silly stuff. Simple. Darla drops her pen and I get up quickly to pick it up for her, just as she’s reaching for it. Our hands touch, she seems to want it to linger. As we rise from their crouch, we are face to face, extremely close, and Darla laughs nervously, then continues to gaze at me. In silent, yet mutual, agreement, I gently cradle my hand under her chin, tipping her head slightly up as I lower myself closer to her lips… He played the same scenarios in different locations with a selection of errant items. Perhaps he’d forget a jacket after his appointment, then rush to her door just as she was racing out to catch up with him to return it. They collide. Darla missteps and falls directly into Christopher’s outstretched arms…

When he was ushered into Darla’s office by her receptionist, Christopher quickly took a chair, then waited. The incredibly comfortable blue couch was behind him as he faced his therapist’s desk. The door to the office was opened inward and he stared at the bronze nameplate: Darla M. Kellogg, PsyD. When he first noticed her accreditation, he had no idea what the letters stood for, but Google had quickly filled him in. Doctor of Psychology. Pretty impressive, he’d decided.

Darla…Dr. Kellogg came into the room in a cloud of the scent that was distinctly her own. Chris imagined it was a combination of shampoo, conditioner, body lotion and just her own perfumed aura.

“Hello Christopher,” she said, as she closed the door behind her. His heart always skipped a beat and his stomach often curled into knots at the start of every appointment. He was never completely at ease, afraid he might misspeak and say too much, or not enough. He wanted to impress her with his knowledge and experience, and demonstrate he was ‘in touch with his feelings’.

Most of all, though, he worried about what he might say in the dreamy state. Would he give anything away about his feelings for her? He spent the rest of the day, after his weekly appointment, trying to recall anything at all from the 45-minute session. He knew the focus was on his past, unearthing what he believed was there. Whatever it was, it had reared its ugly head about a year ago when his sister, Jocelyn, had introduced him to her 3-day old baby boy. Shortly after that, Christopher began to have unsettling dreams that often jolted him awake at night. When he woke, he could never immediately go back to sleep. Something always demanded he leave his bed and he obeyed. He would be afraid to return for fear of having the same dream, the one he had over and over, the one that never concluded, the one that left him hanging, sweaty and breathing heavily as he tried to dig for calm at the core of his being. Often he didn’t go back to bed, but read or watched TV for the remainder of the night. Or he’d try his luck going back to bed, then toss and turn with thoughts about things he knew were there, but couldn’t quite access or interpret.

As she was taking her seat behind the desk, Darla asked, “How’s it going?”

“Not too bad,” Christopher replied.

“Have you been sleeping through the nights?”

“Mostly. Still get the horrid dreams about half the time.”

“Have you managed to make any progress in unraveling the cause of them?”

Chris wished he could answer ‘yes’, which he thought might impress her. He wanted her to believe he was actively trying to get to the source of his nightmares, but he knew that were he to reach that answer, Darla might dismiss him as her patient client, believing her work done. He comforted himself that he would still need to process all the new information and emotions under a therapist’s care should such a time come, so opted to hang his hope on that outcome. His moments with Darla were something he didn’t want to relinquish any time soon.

Standing up, Darla motioned to Chris that he should take his place on the couch. He chose to lie down during his sessions as it seemed to calm his anxious nerves. He wished again that he knew what he’d said or admitted during his 45 minutes. He didn’t like being at a disadvantage in their relationship.

“Relationship?” There was none of that, he reminded himself.

She handed him the tapper, the device Darla used in EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). With it, Christopher could press a button when any kind of memory caused him particular distress. He was so close to remembering what it must have been that created this feeling of experiencing something traumatic that, every session, he hoped he could delve just a little bit farther. He couldn’t process and recover from this dark, suppressed memory until he acknowledged it. The thought of recalling something in his past that unsettled him was both frightening and desirable. But he wanted to know, hoping the unsettling nightmares could finally be put into a workable context.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Always am,” Chris answered.

As he listened to his therapist’s voice, he felt himself relax then drift into the comfortable feeling. His eyelids were heavy as he tried to focus on the part of his disturbing dream, the part that led to the terror that his mind needed to begin his recovery. Darla’s voice was soft and reassuring as she began to lead Chris through what he could remember. In his hypnotic state, Chris knew just where that was.

“You’re in your bed. You’re comfortable and warm, not quite asleep. The room is dark with only a nightlight for illumination. Something makes you open your eyes and, from there you try to focus on the person who was suddenly standing beside your bed."

Chris pressed the tapper and felt the pulse shoot through his arm. “It’s there,” Chris said softly, trying to focus. “It’s there,” he said a bit more loudly.

“What’s there, Christopher? Can you see it??

Chris shut his eyes more tightly and strained to narrow the picture in his head in hopes of seeing beyond the person by his bed. He pressed the tapper harder, hoping to squeeze the answer from it.

“No. I can’t, but I got the same feeling I get now when I wake in the night and absolutely have to get up.”

Darla asked, “What does it feel like, the feeling you get from what you can see?"

“Terror. Nausea. I see myself crying” he replied, adding, “but that’s where everything stops…”.

“…Leaving you in a state of terror and physical reaction.” she continued.

“It’s farther than I’ve ever made it before,” Chris confirmed, smiling despite his discomfiture.

“Do you want to try again?” Darla asked.

“Yes. Please.”

Darla spoke so softly that her voice drifted into the air above the bed he remembered. He suddenly felt that inexplicable terror again. He pressed the tapper. Suddenly there was the figure and he saw arms reach towards him. He saw himself crying, loudly. And then he saw the face. It was somewhat blurry, but he could see that it wasn’t anyone he recognized.

“Are you OK?” Darla sounded concerned.

“No, not really,” Chris answered. “I got farther and saw the face of the figure. It was a man, but I don’t recognize him.”

“Is that where you screamed?” she asked.

“Yeah it was. Wait,” he said, looking at her, “how do you know I was crying…screaming then?”

She looked up. “Because you screamed out loud, just now.”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that. Kind of embarrassing,” he said.

“Not embarrassing. Progress,” Darla assured him. “This is your first real breakthrough.”

Chris didn’t want to abandon the feeling he’d experienced. He felt he might be sick to his stomach. “I feel nauseous, like maybe from being so scared?”

His appointment time was nearing its end. Chris pulled himself up to a sitting position.

“How do you feel other than nauseous?” she asked “Can you describe it?”

“It feels like someone threw a dark blanket or coat over my head but that’s not what happened. At least I don’t remember that part.”

Chris continued visualizing for the next 10 minutes, but everything was fuzzy and stopped at the point where he felt himself lying in bed.

When the 45 minutes were up, Darla stood and walked back to her desk. ”This has been a very good session, Christopher.” She gave him a small smile and immediately seemed to course correct and launch into what was obviously small talk.

“Time to go,” Chris told himself anxiously. He didn’t have the energy to try to chit chat with Darla. That was something he’d need to practice before he dared venture into light conversation.

It was dark when he got home. He was feeling a bit shaken, yet somewhat relieved. He was making progress. After preparing and eating his dinner, he sat down to watch the TV series that was concluding that night. When it ended, Chris was fighting to keep his eyes open. He tried to focus on the TV screen, but decided he may as well take the cue from his body and go to bed.

The strange man’s face was blurry but he could bring it into focus. Nobody he recognized but the sight of him began to bring on the fear. He saw himself crying as he felt the man lift him up and out. Then came the nausea.

Chris was tossing and turning in his sleep, truly agitated. The combination of terror and nausea swept through him. In his dream he tried to tell himself it was just a dream and everything would be fine when he woke up. Then something happened that Chris had not expected. Everything was dark. The man was talking, and another male voice answered him. As he strained to hear this new voice, the face of the second man suddenly overtook his nightmare thoughts. The second man. He knew that face. It looked like his dad’s friend, Howard, exactly like him. Like a much younger Howard, the one he remembered from all the trips and barbeques the two families had shared. At least until Chris’s father died.

The painful memory of his father’s death jarred him into consciousness.

As he woke up, he felt his breath abandoning him. He felt the arms around him. He was being lifted up and out of his bed. He wanted to pull and run away, but his body wouldn’t co-operate. And the terror. And the nausea. Everything was spinning madly around in a kaleidoscope of horror. His body felt like a churning mass of jello. He began to scream as he was suddenly inside something with the man. And the second man.

His screaming shattered the nightmare and Chris woke up. Immediately he jumped out of his bed, breathing rapidly Gasping, he tried to run. Away from the dream. Away from the two men, but he was frozen in place. He put his hands to his ears and screamed again.

It stopped. He was suddenly wide awake and standing by his bed. He wanted to seek refuge in another room. Any room other than his bedroom. His feet still heavy, he moved slowly into the TV room, where he sat nervously at the more worn end of his couch. This was where he found himself most nights after the unsettling dream. And this is where he would usually find himself in the mornings afterward.

This time was different. He listened to the stacatto beating of his heart and the whooshing sound that filled his ears. He felt the nausea creeping up toward the butterflies in his throat. He was shaking and had every reason to stay where he was for the rest of the night. But something felt different. He wasn’t afraid to go back to bed, or worried that he migh not get back to sleep.

Chris got up and went back to his bedroom. The first light was trickling in through the window when he finally fell back to sleep. He was back in the dream, in his small bed. With a tiny hand, he reached out and touched a thin wooden slat. What was that? It was dark but for the nightlight. Then he saw the man and felt himself being lifted out of the crib. He woke himself up screaming.

He acknowledged the terror, he knew the nausea would come, but he this time he also knew what was happening. He’d been lifted out of his crib, blanketed, then put into a car where he began to choke as vomit lurched from his mouth. The man was in front of him, beside the second man. Where was he? He felt the terror that usually woke him up. This time it took him to another dark room and the second man lowering him into another crib, He began to cry.

A woman’s voice said quietly, “Shhhhhh, little one. Shhhhhh, Jacob. Everything is all right and you’re safe.”

*****

Chris was sitting in his cubicle at work, staring blankly at the computer screen.

That voice. He knew that voice. It wound around his head like a vice. He tried listening more closely to what was being said to him. “There, little Christopher. Do you like that name? It is who you are now.”

Another voice, a man’s, was responding to the woman. “Christopher? You sure? He could be Cameron.”

“He’s not a Cameron,” the soft voice insisted.

“Well, he can’t be Jacob, that’s for sure.”

“Of course not. He’s Christopher.”

He saw it all playing out on the blank computer screen. He knew those voices. The nauseous feeling crept over his back and down to his stomach. He didn’t want to be right.

*****

Christopher left work early again in the afternoon. He wanted to get there before she went out for her the regular bowling night she so enjoyed with her friends.

He turned the door knob and walked in without knocking. She’d left the door unlocked again. How many times had he warned her how dangerous that was? She never listened.

A woman with short white hair peeked out from the kitchen. “What brings you here? You know I’m going out soon?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to ask you something?”

“Go ahead. Quick.”

Christopher played with an expression in his head, one he’d been tossing about since morning.

“What? Hurry up,” she urged.

He took a deep breath and leveled his eyes with hers. “Black market baby. Am I? Was I kidnapped? Was my name Jacob?”

His mother suddenly leaned against the wall as she burst into tears.