Chapter 7

Theresa leads Peter into the treatment room after hanging his light jacket on the hook provided. She’s excited to get started. Peter looks a bit on edge, but he’s probably just nervous.

Theresa turns to Peter and asks, “how was your day?” She directs him to the lounge with her hand, and Peter sits, his hands pressed together between his thighs.

“Not very noteworthy,” Peter stares at his hands. He’s wringing them again. “My boss stopped in first thing and stayed the day.”

“Is he the owner of the shop?” Theresa pulls her plush leather chair closer to the lounge and sits.

“Yes, well, his ex-wife,” Peter looks around the room, and Theresa activates the light dimmer from her pendant. Peter is preoccupied, she thinks.

“Is it nice to have the company? I haven’t been in a proper bookstore in years. I imagine them mostly empty.”

“That’s how I like it,” Peter replies and situates himself horizontally on the lounge. “I-is this right? Do I lie down?”

“Yes,” Theresa affirms, indicating the weighted blankets. “If you’d feel more comfortable with a blanket drawn over you, please take one.” He tests the different weights and decides on the 20 lb. He looks pleased with his choice.

“I’ve never slept with a weighted blanket.” He tells her, shifting his weight under it. “I think I like this.”

“Good, though you won’t fall asleep here, you will become aware that you are extremely relaxed. I find the blankets assist in the transformation.” She sits back and explains that she will record the session for future reference and activates the app on her phone.

“Your boss, what’s his name?” Theresa asks. “Sanderson, Mr. Sanderson,” Peter tells her, eyes shut. “Is Mr. Sanderson a source of stress for you?”

Peter shrugs, nestling into the pillow. “I’ve never experienced my dissociative fugue from interactions with him or anything.”

“Oh, have you experienced lost time before?” She makes a note of this.

“I’ve only lost time twice before,” Peter is quick to answer. “Probably not a big deal. Once following the event in Kandahar and once more state-side a few days after returning.” Peter explains that his psychiatrist believed his dissociative fugue occurred to present a means of escape from his stressors. “Losing time like that scares me,” he continues, “but I haven’t experienced it since.”

“Good. I ask about your boss because he may take precedence over other events if you are experiencing stressors from recent memory. If that’s the case, we’ll manage those first and move on to your main triggers.” Theresa further dims the lights and explains the processes that will place him in a trance-like state as gently as possible and in a muted tone. Peter nods and looks quite content.

Theresa begins by offering reiki to even out Peter’s energy, focusing it for the hypnosis. She does this with all her clients so they may experience the most benefit from the regression therapy. She closes her eyes and places her hands just above the blanket, never touching Peter. She scans his body’s energy by moving her hands over him. Reiki will identify any energy needing to be directed, and Theresa will guide it away from Peter. Once she is satisfied, she begins to speak to him in whispers. The phone doesn’t need to pick up this portion of the session. What’s important is to record the past life or lives that will announce themselves through Peter’s narration.

Eyes may be the windows to the soul, but doors open experiences the soul has encountered. Theresa describes this concept to Peter, guiding him through a long hallway. Doors will appear to Peter’s left and right next, materializing as he moves through the hall in his mind’s eye. Peter rests heavily in the lounge now, eyes closed.

“Choose a door, Peter. Where you enter, you will realize a past life that will assist you in this life.” Theresa allows him the time to make a choice. She knows each will appear different in its architecture and color. Some will be shiny, while others will seem faded. The textures will vary. A combination of these things will draw him to the life his soul recalls with a lesson that can help him navigate the here and now.

“It’s a tall door with bars,” Peter explains what he sees and where he’s going at Theresa's request. “I’m pushing it open… it’s dark. There are bars all around me. I’m in prison. It’s cold… I don’t like it.”

Theresa interrupts. “Stay with this life, Peter. It’s a gift. You’re experiencing it now because it has a message for you. Remember this isn’t happening to you presently.” She watches as the hairs on Peter’s forearm prick up. He’s reacting to the stimuli. She admits the process borders on the paranormal, and though Peter is under hypnosis, he’s very aware of her and what she’s saying.

“It’s cold,” he repeats.

“Let’s step back a few years in this life, Peter. Tell me your name,” Theresa’s suggestion will build a deeper story to draw from.

“They call me Martin,” he says, shifting slightly in the lounge. He sighs. “It’s warm now. My bare feet are in a creek to cool off. I’ve made a fishing rod out of a stick and some twine.”

Peter describes his life as a young African American boy in the heart of the south in the United States. Georgia, he asserts. Life had never been easy for his family. They felt unwelcome. Constantly on edge, fearful for their lives. To enjoy a moment like this in Walton County was a blessed one.

Peter feels compelled to advance years living as Martin Dorsey, drafted into the US Army to fight the growing threat overseas. Nazis. He’s read the papers and admits he’s terrified to face them but understands repression and is proud to stand up to it, even if it’s on another continent.

He shifts further into the future and explains his apprehension over the scene in front of him. Shells are exploding all around. He’s part of the Italian campaign. His segregated platoon of African Americans has fought bravely. The Apennines mountains loom in the distance but fade to black as smoke and dust rise from the bombardment of mortars slamming into the naked earth around him. Trees are cracked and splintered. The colored infantry supports the 1^st armored division, who press forward despite the shelling.

Again, Peter feels the pull of time. He’s back where he started. Walton County. His mother is happy to see him. His sisters as well. He’s glad to be home but disappointed in how he and his colored comrades are treated even after serving their country. Unrest in the southern states is coming to a head. Martin supports the civil rights movements. White supremacists are rallying to take back their power and resent African Americans’ potential to vote and be recognized as equals. Lynching is becoming alarmingly commonplace in Georgia. Martin – Peter conveys his concern to Theresa.

A moment later, Peter returns to prison.

Theresa asks him what year it is, and he answers 1946.

“Look at your feet, Peter. Tell me what you’re wearing.”

“I’m not wearing anything.” Peter’s head tilts slightly in the lounge. “It’s a cell. There are chains around my ankles. My hands are cuffed as well. But I don’t deserve this. I haven’t done anything to deserve this.” Theresa notices his body shake and lays a calming hand on his chest.

“Then why are you in prison? Is there a guard? What are they wearing?” She wants him to focus.

“Yes, he’s a big, white man with a sarcastic smile. He wears a blue uniform... a double-breasted jacket - a gold badge on his left breast. There is a gun at his hip - a pistol. He’s mocking me - my color. He tells me someone’s coming for – coming for me. It’ll be a lynching. They claim I raped a white woman. They say I did it, but I know I didn’t. I explain it to the officer, but he calls me a wet rag as if I’m sucking all the fun out of this – whatever this is.”

“Focus, Peter,” Theresa asks him to concentrate on the officer’s eyes. Identifying this man from the past could lead Peter to an individual in his current life, one who is causing levels of anxiety and unrest. “What this man is doing, taunting you like that, it’s not right. You don’t deserve it. It’s cruel.”

“Lights are coming closer. Torches. I see them through the bars in the window.” Peter is visibly agitated. Theresa senses the scene he’s recalling will have a bad end. “The officer is at the door and pulling me out! He says it’s time for me to pay the piper.” Peter’s voice is animated. He explains to Theresa how he resists, and more men in white cloaks pour into the small station, dragging him out into the night. A noose lowers over his head, and when secured around his neck, he is pulled along the dirt road. He struggles against the rough rope with his fingers trying to stay upright, but a man on a horse has the end of the rope now and moving too fast for him to keep up. He fights to breathe, and this is reflected in his narration.

When they stop, the men form a circle around him, each with a torch, and he is brought to his feet under a low-hanging branch of a sturdy Oak. “This is it,” Peter tells her, anxiety sticks in his throat. “This is how it happens. This is how I die.” Theresa watches on as tears escape down Peter’s reddening cheeks. This is a difficult life that somehow connects him to his current difficulties.

“I can’t stop them. I’m helpless. I’m terrified. Don’t let them lynch me. Please,” he says pleadingly.

Theresa needs Peter to live the life through to its conclusion but doesn’t want him to suffer this end. Not again. That he is anxious always makes for a difficult transition.

Theresa can appreciate the urgency in Peter’s tone, “tell me who the officer is. Tell me. You know him in the present. He’s followed you here.” Theresa is on the edge of her seat and needs Peter to identify the individual causing him grief in this life to address it.

“I do know him,” Peter announces, head slowly nodding. His body relaxes under the weight of the blanket, and he offers a name. Sanderson. Peter’s boss. She considers this information and decides it is enough that he has made the connection and pulls him out of the experience.

Peter opens his eyes as directed and slowly emerges from the past. “It’s Sanderson,” he whispers, a hand instinctively stroking his throat. He turns to Theresa. “How can that be?”

“You mentioned him before we began,” she reminds him. “You don’t like him, and for good reason. He’s hurt you in the past. His presence in your life now is triggering your PTSD.”

Peter pushes himself up on the lounge. “But my whole life is in that bookstore. My apartment, my job.”

“And now you have a choice to make, Peter. Do you continue to work and live in a place where this man only serves to increase your anxieties, or do you move on?”

Peter frowns deeply. “I’ve nowhere else to go. I’m making a life for myself there.”

“You’ll weigh your options,” Theresa tells him, cautious not to upset him further. “you’ll decide whether you can manage his presence in your life or not. That you’ve come away with this information is a good start.”

“Seems more like an end,” Peter shifts his legs off the lounge and pushes the blanket aside. “The man frustrates me, but I don’t know that he’s a trigger.”

“I’m afraid the cycle won’t be broken until you divest yourself from him. You’re twenty-eight now.”

“Yes?”

“You were the same age in the past you just experienced. It’s a pattern. Peter. I’ve seen it before.”

“A pattern? Like, you mean he’s come back to hurt me again?”

“Yes, he’s what I call a repeat past life offender where others are benevolent or helpful.” She looks at the time. He’s been under for just over an hour. She doesn’t feel he could manage another life tonight.

“So, people repeatedly stick to you and reappear to torment you?” Peter looks forlorn.

“Souls, yes.” She admits it’s a dark take on the experience, but it’s predominantly been hers. “Some are here to help you along while others make life difficult. It doesn’t seem fair, I know. Life isn’t fair. You understand that. But if we can use this knowledge to move you out of Sanderson’s circle of influence, then you’re getting ahead.”

“I can’t see myself leaving what I’ve built,” Peter wrings his hands. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“You can learn to live with someone who doesn’t have your best interests in mind,” Theresa explains. “Use the tools you have when he’s around. Practice your breathing exercises. Keep crystals nearby.”

“Crystals?” Peter’s expression shows hesitation.

“Yes, clear quartz, for example, will deflect negativity.” She stands and moves to her collection of crystals and picks up a palm-sized quartz. She hands it to Peter, who reluctantly holds it in his hands.

“What’s something like this cost?”

“This one I’m giving you. I’d like you to keep this on you or near you when dealing with your Mr. Sanderson.”

“Thank you,” he moves the many-edged crystal around in his hands. “That’s kind of you.”

“I think we’ll end our session tonight and let you ruminate on your past. I’ll send you the recording via text.”

Peter stands and places the quartz in his hoodie pocket. Theresa asks him if he is alert enough to walk. He studies his feet a moment and nods. She accepts his payment via e-transfer and, at the door, smiles and gently leads him out. The night is cool but clear. Peter thanks her for her time, and Theresa asks him if the following week works for his next session.

When Peter is gone, Theresa sits heavily on the couch. His session has affected her energy tonight, and she wishes he would remove himself from the toxic relationship with his boss. Peter is clearly invested in his life there and seems unwilling to take the necessary steps to remove himself. Still, it is his choice, but the anxiety she has inherited over the experience stays with her. She snaps up the cylindrical-shaped clear quartz that adorns a side table and rubs it between her palms.