Chapter 28

With an unlimited ceiling to the blue skies above, Theresa lies in her manicured backyard with a lemonade in hand. Birds sing, and squirrels traverse the power lines perpendicular to the sloping fence. She loves the simplicity nature offers and its inherent ability to soothe the savage soul. Her father had created this paradise with the forethought of planting trees and shrubs and gardens so that he and her mother could enjoy the serenity of their backyard oasis in his retirement.

Now it is Theresa who benefits from her father’s mindful planting. She is who maintains the yard and who would one day spend as much time as life allowed appreciating it.

Nature is something she prescribes to all her clients. Forest bathing is a term used in Japan that rings true for her. Place yourself barefoot in a forest and let nature’s effect lower your blood pressure, balance your ions, cleanse your lungs and feed your soul.

She is shocked out of her reverie by the sound of a text coming through her phone. Why did I feel the need to bring it with me? She hesitates and then picks up the phone to view the message. It’s from Peter.

Hi, Theresa, can we talk? Clare has been abducted. Peter.

Theresa senses Peter’s angst. Peter’s girlfriend is missing. She sits up to respond, her thumbs typing madly at her screen.

Peter, That’s awful! I’m so sorry. We can talk today if you’d like. Theresa.

Peter responds immediately, asking if he can come to her home to talk. He’s upset over the lives he’s experienced under hypnosis. Clare had broken his heart twice before. Is that what this is? Has she left me in again?

Theresa offers a time of 5 pm, as she’s planned to have lunch with Nyra and then a session with a client at 2. Peter accepts, and her day is off to a rolling start.

At lunch, Nyra explains her life in detail while Theresa listens. She is still on the fence over her marriage, the kids are acting out, and life is becoming tiresome. It’s a tired tale of the bored housewife; whether that’s a legitimate claim, Theresa’s heard it umpteen times in sessions. Theresa checks out, nodding at appropriate moments but thinking of what her conversation will be like with Peter tonight. Peter fills her head, and she realizes a disturbing truth: she likes him. Like a high school crush. It’s inescapable.

After lunch, she is dropped off at home to receive her client, who lives a life as a political prisoner, released and then condemned to live like a refugee. Life is hard, Theresa thinks, it’s cruel and awful, but it can be beautiful and easy too. What will she tell Peter tonight to give him that sense of wonder now that Clare has disappeared?

Peter arrives five minutes early as the buses run on time tonight. Theresa welcomes him and leads Peter to the kitchen, where she has a charcuterie board laid out and a bottle of wine open.

“I didn’t know if you’d had a chance to eat, so I laid out a few things.” Peter looks a bit disoriented. “This is a personal visit, Peter, one friend meeting with another.” She picks up a glass and offers it to Peter. He takes it reluctantly, and she pours a 5-ounce glass of the chardonnay. “I like a white in the summer months, don’t you?” Small talk has never been her forte, but she’s trying.

Peter nods, his expression blank. He wasn’t expecting this to be so informal, Theresa realizes. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so forward.

“I - thank you for this, I’m not very hungry, but the wine might help,” he smiles out of the side of his face, eyes locking with hers for a moment, and Theresa feels a connection.

“You said Clare has been abducted,” Theresa decides to skip the small talk and charge ahead with the topic top of mind. “What happened?”

“I’m being told she was abducted from her apartment and is in danger. Her mother alerted the police, and they found the place in disarray and Clare missing.” Theresa notices how Peter is short of breath after his explanation.

“That’s awful, Peter; I’m so sorry,” Theresa touches his forearm delicately. “What’s being done about it?”

“Yeah, so I’ve been revisited by that detective, the one who questioned Clare and me on the murder of our robber,” Peter takes a sip of the fruity wine. “So, yesterday he came with the news of Clare missing and a note and had me come to the station for what he called ‘my own good,’ but I know he’s thinking I’m the one who has Clare and that I’m a serial murderer and -” Peter stops to fill his lungs with a shaky breath.

Theresa squeezes Peter’s forearm now, resting on the kitchen island. “Please, breathe, Peter. I’m listening.”

Peter inhales deeply and exhales slowly. He does this twice more. “I’m sorry, I just felt I needed to see you on this. To vent, I guess. I’m rattled. I don’t know what to do. I feel helpless.”

“That’s all very understandable,” Theresa says in a whisper. “But if you haven’t done these things, don’t waste your energy worrying about being blamed for it.”

“You don’t think I’ve done them?” Peter’s expression falls.

“Oh, no, Peter, I know you haven’t done them. You aren’t the type.” She picks up a grape from the board and slips it in her mouth, perhaps too sensually. It bursts perfectly, pairing nicely with the wine.

Peter starts to pace, the chardonnay swishing in the glass. “I feel like I need to see her, you know. I want to hold her.”

Theresa feels a stab of jealousy. Why? Because taking Peter in like this isn’t professional, and neither are your feelings toward him. “I’m sure she would take great comfort in that, Peter.”

“The past lives, I don’t care about them. I want to be with her regardless. I want to take the chance. If my heart gets broken, that’s on me.” He’s become animated, and some of the wine leaps out of his glass, landing on the island and splashing them both.

Theresa rushes to pull a dishcloth from the counter and wipes away the puddle. She takes Peter’s arm and dries it as well. He seems vulnerable and preoccupied.

“It’s brave, what you’re saying, Peter,” she assures him. “And I’m sure you’ll have that opportunity to see her again. If a murderer absconds with a person rather than murders them, then there’s a chance.”

“That’s what Detective Harlow thinks. That maybe they’ll find her before long.” He leans the palms of his hands against the marble top of the island, his head falling forward.

Harlow, Theresa recalls the name. It sparks a chill in her to remember the part a detective with the same name had played in her young life. Harlow was the detective’s name who had responded to her case – her parent’s case after they were murdered in her own home. She had been away at school but was first on the scene, returning to the horror of finding her parents lying together on the dining room floor. Blood had soaked the carpet. Their bodies were cold when she rushed to shake them awake. The scent that had assailed her upon the discovery assaults her memories, and she crosses her arms across her chest, rubbing her palms along her exposed shoulders.

She waves off the feeling of dread and tells herself to step out of the past and into the present. It’s a complex memory to pull away from, but she is practiced in the methodology. 2011 was the year her life had changed forever. She had only survived by transforming her life. She is a survivor; she reminds herself.

“Harlow, the name sounds familiar,” she says ironically. “What’s his first name?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peter seems caught off-guard by the question, raises his head, and picks up his glass, tilting it into his mouth and draining its contents. He breaths deeply and pushes off the island. “I’m feeling useless,” he tells her, hands rubbing at his face.

“You can help by telling the police what you know, Peter. That’s how you can feel useful. Don’t fall prey to the ‘what-ifs.’ That serves no one.”

Peter concurs with a weak grunt and nods. Theresa pours him more wine. He drinks this too quickly, as well. She senses he doesn’t want to be here and is rushing through their time together. This makes Theresa feel uncomfortable, and she suggests they go to her treatment room.

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” Peter sounds like he’s convincing himself. “I’m just consumed by what Harlow told me. I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling.”

“This is clearly affecting you negatively, and you’re experiencing triggers,” Theresa explains. “You feel guilty over something you have no control over.”

Peter stops pacing and looks at Theresa. “That’s it,” he points a finger at her from under his stemmed glass. “I feel guilty.”

“But why, Peter?” Theresa is going to take a different approach, she’s decided.

Peter takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “I’ve been a part of her life the past couple of weeks,” his eyes dart back and forth as if struggling with the answer. “She experienced the robbery with me – at my place. She backed off. I’m guilty of something there.”

Theresa looks kindly at Peter, head tilting. “You’re no more guilty of Clare’s disappearance than the chaos the suicide bomber set in motion while you served in Afghanistan.”

“I don’t believe that. I don’t know if I believe that,” Peter says hurriedly, his head shaking, supporting himself with both hands pressed into the island countertop.

“You’re looking for something that isn’t there.” She tells him quietly. “Why? Why do you need to feel responsible? What’s making you take on so much?” She rounds the island, and they are a foot apart. Peter looks at her, and Theresa’s heart leaps a moment as he remains tied to her gaze. She places her free hand on his upper arm and squeezes just enough that he knows she’s here for him. She swallows and nearly closes her eyes but stops herself from leaning in to kiss away his grief.

Peter seems to sense the potentially awkward moment and takes a step back. Theresa comes to her senses, pushing up her glasses and snapping out a suggestion.

“Let’s meet in a few days, Peter. We’ll run another session. Perhaps there will be something there you can use.”

Peter goes to pull his phone from his pocket. “Shit, I left my phone at home,” he says. “Can you write the day and time down for me? I’m forgetting everything right now.”

“Sure,” Theresa walks to her office, grabs a sheet of printer paper, and jots down the time, handing Peter the sheet.

“Thank you,” he says meekly, bending the thick stock and placing it in his pocket. “I’d better get back; I should be by my phone.”

“Of course,” Theresa says, walking him out. She hates to see him go, thinking she hasn’t been much help, but sometimes a listening ear is enough. She won’t push her luck with him. It was stupid for her to have leaned into Peter like that. He’s vulnerable. He’s missing his girlfriend. She was taking advantage.

After Peter is gone, Theresa fills her glass and enters the dining room - now sitting room, where her parent’s met their untimely end. She places her glass down on a side table as memories assault her - the unlocked door, the silence, and the shock of discovering her parent’s bodies. The shock is enough to spark the PTSD she’s worked so hard to bury as she relives the scene.

She practices her breathing and sits upright, her hands clenched together. She was robbed of her parents at a difficult age. She was in college, figuring herself out. Now she wonders what her life would have been like if they’d survived. Would she have gone off to study regression therapy? Would her life resemble the solitary one it’s become? Would she be a different person? These and other questions have tormented her since the moment she’d landed on the gruesome discovery. How do I go on? How do I fix this? Can this be fixed? Can I be fixed?

Psychologists and her decision to branch off into regression therapy answered some of these questions. Now she helps others through their difficult periods. She provides others the gift of past lives to draw from, as she had.

Theresa relaxes into the comfortable chair, crosses her legs into the lotus position, and decides to meditate on this, revisiting her own past lives and the lessons they’ll offer to further justify her choices. After several minutes, she switches gears and uses future life progression techniques to understand what is forecasted. She’s careful not to do so often, as it feels like crossing a boundary perilously close to black magic. The future isn’t set in stone, but aspects of it can carry through all possible timelines. What she learns only serves to distress her.