“And you said that someone could be distanced from a trauma, but that it was unlikely it would be completely erased from their mind? Under what conditions would a person like that, a person who had been free of any anxiety about their trauma for years, start to have nightmares again . . . maybe even start to remember the trauma in more detail and think about it more?”
“Jacob, it’s hard for me to say without knowing the specifics and the individual in question—”
“I realize that. But just give me an example of why a person who’s been cured of anxiety and phobias might start to have bad dreams about their original trauma again.”
Dr. Fielding sighed at his persistence. “Well, nightmares are associated with rising anxiety, of course.”
“That’s what I assumed,” Jacob said, frowning as he thought about Harper.
“It could be any number of reasons why the person is starting to re-experience memories and anxiety. Perhaps he or she is going through a particularly stressful time, either psychologically or physically. Perhaps a trigger enters their life that wasn’t there before.”
Jacob halted his pacing and stared out the window unseeingly. “A trigger?”
“Yes. Something that calls to mind the original trauma.”
“Like a person, for instance? Another person involved in the original event?”
“Yes, possibly a person.”
“But what if this person looked completely different than the one associated with the trauma, and the person I’m asking about didn’t even recognize him.”
The psychiatrist made an exacerbated sound. “You’re asking me to make wild speculations based on very vague information.”
“Please, Larry.”
Fielding groaned. “Okay. So, you want to know if a subject who suffered a trauma might show signs of relapse when they come into contact with a person who had originally been part of the traumatic event, even if they don’t recognize said person? Am I getting all this straight?”
“That’s right.”
“I suppose it’s possible, theoretically speaking. There are qualities to a person beyond their physical appearance that might signal the unconscious mind.”
“Like what?” Jacob asked tensely.
“Many things . . . anything that promotes a feeling of familiarity. A mannerism, a tone of voice, background information, ways of relating. A feeling of knowing someone is a very subtle phenomenon. It’s not just about physical appearance.”
“But the person I’m referring to is completely different than he was.”
Dr. Fielding gave harsh laugh. “No one can become completely different, Jacob. I’m sorry if you think I’m being annoyingly intellectual, but I’ve based my life’s work on that belief. We all carry some kind of trace or some kind of scar of our past. Our histories echo into our future. And if we accept that to be true: then whomever you’re referring to might have a response to that trace. The question is, to what degree? And will it be a positive or negative response to that echo?”
thirty-six
The first thing that greeted Harper upon returning to work Tuesday morning wasn’t a rabidly curious Ruth Dannen or a persistent Burt Chavis or a bewildered, condemning Sangar. Instead, a huge bouquet of stunning purple hydrangeas and white lilies sat on her desk. Harper set down her briefcase and hurried to find the card.
See? Not all bad. Now nothing can stop me from spoiling you at work, too.
—J
Movement caught her eye. She looked up to see Ruth Dannen standing in her office doorway. Harper realized belatedly she was smiling widely after reading Jacob’s card. In a fit of rebellion, she refused to disguise her happiness . . . even when she noticed what Ruth held in her hand: a copy of Sunday’s Chronicle.
“Morning, Ruth. Have a good holiday?” she asked, putting the card back in the envelope and walking around her desk.
“Not as good as you, it would seem,” Ruth replied, flicking the newspaper against her skirt for emphasis. Refusing to rise to the bait, Harper calmly picked up the vase of flowers and placed it carefully on a nearby credenza. She admired them for a moment, only to turn and see Burt crowding behind Ruth. “Move it, Ruth. I work for Harper. I get first dibs on an interview.”
“I’m the one who told you about Harper and Latimer,” Ruth said scathingly, glaring at Burt. “Go to the back of the line, junior.”
“Cut it out, both of you,” Harper said, going back behind her desk. “There’s not going to be any interviews. There’s not going to be anything, except for business as usual.”
“Business as usual?” Ruth asked, blond eyebrows arching sardonically. She flicked the Chronicle in Harper’s direction. “Do you mean you sitting on top the biggest story in town—no pun intended—and keeping it all to yourself?”