A Season To Believe

Jane nodded. She knew the routine, had followed it each time Zoe worked with her in the hospital. All to no avail. Not one hypnosis session had brought forth even the tiniest scrap of memory.

“Jane.”

Zoe’s sharp tone broke into Jane’s errant thoughts. She looked over to see that her friend was frowning.

“You are not listening to me, are you.”

Jane shook her head. “I’m sorry. Let’s try again.”

This time Jane focused carefully on every word Zoe said, followed each direction carefully. After breathing deeply several more times, she closed her eyes as she was bidden and pictured herself back in Maxwell’s Department Store. As instructed, she let herself recall the slightly perfumed air, the weight of her purse on her shoulder, the hard floor beneath the thin soles of her shoes. Then, when Zoe asked her to, Jane let her imagination put the image into motion, reaching toward the brightly colored strips of fabric draped from a metal rack sitting atop a glass counter.

“I’m examining a burgundy-and-tan plaid scarf,” she reported.

“How does it feel?”

“Soft,” Jane replied. “Cold and silky at the same time. Like the ocean.”

The moment Jane uttered that last word, the image on her closed eyelids changed. The fluorescent-lit department store was replaced by the sight of a wave curling toward her. No longer did hard flooring punish her feet. Instead, moist sand supported every arch and curve, and icy water slipped over her toes.

“I’m at the beach,” she said.

“And what do you see?”

“White foam at my feet, pale green waves breaking farther out. Beyond that, sunbeams dancing on the dark blue sea. A cloudless blue sky above. The beach.”

“Hold that image,” Zoe urged. “Relax, then see what you can make out in your peripheral vision.”

Jane did as she was asked. To her left there seemed to be nothing but foam sliding onto the damp sand. But— “I see cliffs, on my right.”

“Close, or far?”

“Far, I think. I can only see the part where the cliff juts into the sea, not where it meets the shore.”

“Do you know the name of this beach?”

Jane waited, feeling again the cold water over her toes. Nothing about the image changed. The same wave broke in exactly the same way it had a moment before, like some instant replay. No knowledge accompanied either the sensation of silky salt water or the image of curling, foaming green-blue water.

“No. I don’t,” Jane replied.

“All right,” Zoe said. “Focus on your other senses.”

As if by magic, Jane found she could suddenly smell salt—the briny scent that she knew, somehow, belonged to seaweed drying on the sand. “I smell the sea,” she said. “And I hear birds—gulls crying and screeching and…”

Jane frowned as another sound intruded. “I hear music. It’s too soft to identify the tune. It might be coming from a radio playing on the beach behind me. No. It’s coming from above me, louder now. I can almost make out the melody. It’s—”

Jane jerked straight up, her eyes flew open. Gone was the sun-sparkled water, the crashing waves, the cloudless blue sky. What she saw now was Zoe, regarding her with an expression that blended excitement with concern. The woman leaned forward in her chair.

“The song I heard was ‘Silver Bells,’” Jane said woodenly. “That was the tune playing on the department store sound system just before I harassed that salesgirl for rushing the Christmas season.”

“And that was the tune that pulled you out of that moment from the past,” Zoe said.

Every muscle in Jane’s body had constricted. Her heart was racing, her breath was shallow as she stared at Zoe. Focusing on the woman’s strong, angular features, she managed a stiff nod.

Zoe’s black eyebrows formed a worried frown. “Jane, you understand, do you not, that it was this memory that confused you so, made you think that it was not November, but May?”

“Yes.”

Jane wanted to say more, but at the moment it was all she could do keep from leaping to her feet, dashing up two flights of stairs to her attic apartment and shutting the door behind her.

“Why May?”

Matt’s question brought Jane’s attention back to him.

“Why did you think this particular sunny day was May?” he went on. “Why not July, or August? Or any other month, for that matter? This is, after all, California. Even up here in the northern regions, we have pockets of warmth all year long that draw people to the beach.”

Jane couldn’t answer. She knew only that her first thought upon hearing that music was that May was too early for Christmas tunes. She would have given that reply, if it weren’t for the strange, insidious panic now clamping her jaws shut, holding her body prisoner. She could only stare into Matt’s eyes, watch them darken as he moved from the chair to the floor next to her. Resting on one knee, he took her hands in his.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you,” he asked gently.

Jane frowned. Yes, this tension gripping her was indeed fear. What was worse, she didn’t understand what exactly had caused a memory of sea and sand to freeze her with terror. Now, crowds of people was a different matter. Add to that—

“Do you think,” Matt was asking, “that you might have been abducted from that beach? You know you’re safe now. There isn’t anything to be afraid of.”

Jane glanced at Matt’s large hands sandwiching hers. The gentle strength in his grip returned sensation to her fingers, warming them. She looked again into his eyes—eyes that promised to bring her assailant to justice, to make sure she was safe.

Oh, how she wished it were as simple as that.

A shiver broke her paralysis. She shook her head. “That memory didn’t make me afraid of whoever tried to kill me,” she finally said. “It made me afraid of the person I was.”

Chapter Four

Afraid of herself?

Matt tightened his fingers around Jane’s icy hand, and wondered what in the hell was going on in that mind of hers. Of course, uncovering what was going on in her mind—or hidden in it—had been the point of this exercise in hypnotherapy.

He was surprised at the details Zoe had managed to draw out of what had to have been the briefest of flashbacks. Perhaps, with a little time, Jane might begin to recall larger pieces of her past, giving Zoe more than the image of an unnamed beach to—

The beach. If he could find that beach, take Jane to it, perhaps revisiting the sights and sounds she recalled so briefly would open her mind to further details. However, would Jane go along with his plan, such as it was? The fear plainly etched upon her pale features said not, but he knew how to take care of that.

Cocking his head to one side, Matt squinted at her in exaggerated puzzlement. “You’re afraid of the person you were?” he asked. “What, you recall being at the beach, and suddenly worry that you might have spent your past roaming the seashore, randomly destroying sandcastles built by innocent children? That you were once an evil surfer girl bent on mowing down unsuspecting swimmers with your ten-foot board?”

His ploy worked. Jane’s lips twitched slightly, and some of the anxiety retreated from her eyes. “No.” She sighed. “I’m frightened of what happened at Maxwell’s, after I became aware of the music.”

Matt squeezed her hand. “You thought it was May. Most people would be irritated by having the holiday buying season forced upon them in late spring. It’s bad enough that Halloween is barely—”

Jane shook her head. “It wasn’t just the timing. It was the idea of Christmas itself that irritated me. No. Infuriated me.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “When the salesclerk suggested I might like to get a cup of coffee, eggnog flavored to be specific, I informed her that I hated the stuff.”

“Then, why did you try to drink it later?”