Where All The Dead Lie. J.T. EllisonЧитать онлайн книгу.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At the door to Willig’s office, Lincoln bussed her on the cheek and left her, poised and ready to embark on yet another journey to regain herself.
She stood there for a minute, staring at the frosted glass. Dr. Willig was a good woman, smart and compassionate. Taylor would have to let her in, at least a little bit, if this was going to work. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Willig was engrossed in a book, her stocking feet up on the corner of her desk, calmly munching an apple as she read. It took her a second to notice Taylor. She dropped the book onto her desk and sat upright with a smothered exclamation.
“Lieutenant, I’m so sorry. I was reading.” She pointed at the book, blushed a bit at stating the obvious. “My little sister’s latest book comes out Tuesday, and I’m playing catch-up before I read the new one.” She handed the book to Taylor. It was called The Orchid Affair, by Lauren Willig.
Pretty cover. I never figured you for a romantic, Victoria.
“Night and day, my mother always called us. I’m much too empirical to be a writer, and she’s much too creative to be a doctor.”
Taylor smiled. She’d always wanted a sister. Sam had filled the role of surrogate since they were five. Sam had always treated her the same way. Treachery, truly it was, for Taylor to let such a horrid fate befall her best friend. She gulped back a cry of sheer frustration as Willig watched.
“You know, if screaming will help, the office is basically soundproof. I can’t imagine anyone would mind.”
Taylor gave it serious consideration before dropping into a chair in front of Willig’s desk. It wouldn’t work anyway. She’d been trying. At home, on the back deck, where only the squirrels and beer bottles were there to hear her, not even there. Nothing. She was stuck with mumbling her Ms and the occasional laugh.
“Fine. I’ll do the talking. Dr. Benedict told me about the deal he made with you. He’s a dodgy one, I’d be careful.” She said it with a smile. She obviously liked the man.
As Willig talked, she moved around the room, assembling a tray of materials. Taylor watched expectantly. Willig was pretty in an unconventional way, dark tumbling hair that she swept back over her shoulders, eyes spaced too far apart, a thin gold chain with a delicate cross around her slender neck. She wore a subtle perfume and dressed well, in a brown cashmere wrap and green corduroy trousers. Sober and inviting all at the same time, like a forest. Depth and breadth unknown, but on the surface quite striking.
Taylor truly didn’t know what to expect, and when Willig locked the door, sat down across from her and showed her the tray, she became even more confused. There was what looked like a Walkman, with a headset and two pods.
“It’s for EMDR,” Willig said. “We’re going to rewire your brain.”
EMDR—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, Willig explained—was painless. She ran through the procedure. At its most basic, EMDR used several kinds of cognitive therapies to heal the unseen wounds of trauma victims.
“We have a lot of success using this on PTSD. The more we actively utilize the specific methodology, the more we can blur the lines of anxiety in your mind. We’ll interlace the moments of fear with moments you control, happy thoughts, and literally desensitize you. It works wonders. I’ve used it to treat several PTSD patients, with great success.”
Taylor started to shake her head, but the doctor cut her off. “Seriously, Lieutenant, you’ve got classic symptoms of PTSD. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Post-traumatic stress disorder affects millions. It’s not reserved for abuse victims or soldiers. Car accidents, intense illness—anything and everything can trigger it. For you, getting shot in the head by a serial killer who’d planned to do much worse, this is rather uncomplicated. You nearly died. It’s a miracle you didn’t. It’s a miracle that your brain seems okay, physically. You just can’t talk now because you’re scared.”
Taylor wasn’t liking this. She wasn’t scared. Hurt, angry, frustrated, yes, but scared? Hell no. She stood up, tossed the pods back onto the tray. They fell with a short bump. She’d missed her target and they sprawled on the floor like black worms.
“Come on, Lieutenant. I thought you wanted to get better. If that’s going to happen, we’re going to have to be honest with each other.” Her voice softened. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
She searched Taylor’s eyes with her own, was apparently satisfied with what she saw. Willig gestured for Taylor to take her seat. Taylor breathed deep, closed her eyes, and sat. Let Willig think what she wanted, all Taylor really cared about was getting back to normal. And if that meant letting Willig think she was afraid, so be it.
“Good. Thank you. I’m going to ask a lot of you today, and over the course of our sessions. We’re going to go places you aren’t going to want to go, but that’s how this works. You’ll relive the situation, and using my voice and eye movements coupled with both auditory and tactile sensations, we’re going to rework your thought process. There are several steps, and we’ll take it gradually. I’m almost one hundred percent convinced that this will work, but you’re going to have to let it. Okay?”
Taylor nodded. There were about a million things she’d rather do than relive the situation. God, she wished everyone would stop calling it that.
“I’ve reviewed the details of the case, but there are parts that I don’t know. Dr. Baldwin typed up his recollections for me, so I’m there from his perspective. But I’m going to need you to do some homework, too. I need to know everything that happened in that attic. When I can re-create the scene for you, then I’ll be able to guide you through it, help you detach and let go. Are you willing to write it all down for me?”
Taylor had already written an account of that afternoon’s events. She’d had to explain to Baldwin the few moments that led up to the shooting, try to make him understand how she’d managed to get herself shot.
She had the write-up in her notebook. She pulled it from her back pocket, opened to the right page and handed it over.
“Oh, fantastic. Give me a second here.” Willig’s eyes moved quickly across the page, moments of recognition showing here and there as Taylor’s version matched what she’d read from Baldwin’s case notes.
Why wouldn’t it? She’d given him what he wanted to hear, too. She’d glossed over some of the details, but no one needed to know that.
After a few minutes, Willig shut the notebook and handed it back, looking thoughtful. Respect and compassion shone in her eyes. “Wow.”
Yes, wow. That about summed it up.
“Okay then. Are you ready?” she asked.
As I’ll ever be.
Taylor put on the headset, settled the two pods in her palms and grasped them carefully. She felt like an idiot, all wired up like this, but she was willing to do most anything to get herself back up to snuff, so whatever Willig had planned, she was going to try her best to comply.
“This is just a quick test that makes sure everything is running properly.”
Taylor jumped a mile as the headset and pods came to life. Her ears were filled with pings, and the pods in her hands pulsed in time. Left, right, left, right, left, right, metronomic, perfectly in time with the ponging in her ears. After the initial sensation, she relaxed.
“Perfect,” Willig said. “Everything is in working order. Okay, Taylor. I want you to think of a place that’s very safe. A place where you feel completely at home, where you can let your guard down. Someplace that is strictly about you and your happiness. It can be a memory, or a physical spot. That’s where you’re going to be spending some time, so pick something that’s very strong, very immediate for you.”
Someplace I feel safe?
Taylor