I smiled.
She smiled back.
‘So, I believe you refused to tell Beryl your reason for coming to see me?’
‘That is correct.’
‘What can I do for you, Lady Swanson?’
‘It’s not for me. It’s for my daughter. Well, she’s my stepdaughter, but she is just like my own. I’ve raised her for the last twenty years. Since she was five years old.’
I nodded and began to raise the estimation of her age upwards. She must have been at least forty, but she didn’t look a day over twenty-eight.
‘She met with an accident about a year ago.’ Lady Swanson paused for breath. ‘And she nearly died. She had extensive internal injuries and was in hospital for many months. When she recovered she had lost her memory. She could remember certain things—like how to cook, or wear make-up—and, strangely, certain places and certain people, but she could not remember her past.’ A look of sadness crossed her lovely face. ‘She could not even remember her family.’
I nodded.
‘I was hoping hypnotherapy could help her.’ She leaned forward slightly, her lips parted. ‘Do you think you could…hypnotize her?’
I watched her and thought of the men in her life. How easy it must have been for such a beautiful woman to get anything she wanted from a man.
‘Lady Swanson, I’m not sure I am the right man for the job. Usually I treat people who want to lose weight, kick a bad habit, or who are afraid of spiders.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but you were recovering memories, were you not? You had just discovered a new experimental method when your research was cut short by that awful tragedy.’
I froze at that.
Instantly her face lost some of its glowing enthusiasm. ‘I hope you don’t think I was snooping into your private affairs. I was only interested in your professional credentials…’
Even now the reference to my family was like a knife in my heart. I struggled not to show any emotion in my face. I smiled tightly. I was aware that search engines brought the personal stuff up with the professional stuff. After the accident the two had become inextricably entwined.
‘Of course not. It is prudent to check out a practitioner before you go to see them.’
‘I just want what’s best for my daughter. And I think you are it.’
Some lingering, old pride in the method I had pioneered and been so confident in resurfaced. I clasped my hands lightly on the surface of my desk. ‘I am a clinical psychiatrist, but you must understand that my method does not have any scientific underpinning. In fact, I am obliged to warn you that there is virtually no scientific evidence to demonstrate the authenticity of repressed memories returning. If anything, repeated studies have proven that using regressive hypnosis to recover memories can actually lead to the patient creating new material, a phenomenon called false memory. In some states in the US, any evidence that is gained using hypnosis renders that testimony null and void.’
‘But do you think you could help her?’ she insisted, undaunted.
For a second that heady memory of my first success flashed into my mind. How excited I had been. How amazing to return to something important. ‘To be honest, I’ve never had a patient like your daughter.’
‘It must be worth a try, then?’ she pressed hopefully.
‘You have to bear in mind that not everybody can be hypnotized.’
She didn’t listen to that. Instead she broke into a smile. It was like the sun shining out from between a crack in a sky full of storm clouds. Yes, she was obviously one of those women who could whistle a chap off a tree, but… I was immune to it. For two years I wandered around looking for even the smallest spark of the vibrant life that used to course through my veins. All I ever found were ashes. Even now this beautiful, beautiful woman elicited nothing from me.
‘You will take her on?’ Her voice trembled.
I knew she had manipulated me, but I was professionally intrigued by the case and impressed by her deep desire to cure her stepdaughter. I had prejudged her as shallow and cunning when she walked into my office. But she nurtured a deep and genuine care for another human being. A rare and precious thing.
I nodded.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ she gushed, but softly.
‘I’ll try. No promises.’
She smiled—grateful, triumphant. She had succeeded. ‘I am certain you are the best person for the job. If anybody can do it, you can. In fact, I know you can help her.’
‘Does your stepdaughter know you’re here?’
She leaned back and looked out of the window. ‘A butterfly wing is a miracle, made up of thousands of tiny, loosely attached pigmented scales that individually catch the light and together create a depth of color and iridescence unmatched elsewhere in nature. Our identities are like the butterfly wing, made up of thousands and thousands of tiny, loosely attached memories. Without them we lose our color and iridescence. Olivia is like a child now. We make all the major decisions for her. The world is a frightening place for her.’