Curing Erica's Phobia Ch. 05

When Erica woke up, she couldn't see and she sat up in a panic. A damp, cold washcloth fell into her lap and she realized it had been over her eyes. She stared at it for a few moments in confusion, before she finally realized that other people were around her. She was on the couch in the main room of the apartment. Eric was pacing near the front door. Joann was sitting in the chair next to the couch and took the damp cloth from her lap, offering her a glass of water instead. Erica turned to put her feet on the floor. She could see John doing something in the kitchen and the other man – what did he say his name was? – speaking softly on his cell phone. He glanced at her from time to time, so she figured she was the topic of conversation. She could also see a stack of papers on the dining table. Her papers? She forced herself to focus on Joann.

"What happened?"

"You fainted."

She shook her head. "I don't faint. I have panic attacks. I have phobias. I have a shitload of things. But I don't faint."

"I think you had a memory," Joann said softly.

"Of what?" Erica said in exasperation.

"Of Doctor Templar. Doctor Max."

Erica could feel herself go pale. "Doctor Max," she repeated in a whisper. There was something there, tickling at the back of her mind. It just wouldn't come forward. The new party member finished his call and turned toward her. Something about him... She stood and moved around Joann and the chair. She was vaguely aware of Eric stepping up behind her, as if expecting to have to catch her again. She stepped cautiously toward the stranger. He obligingly stood perfectly still, letting her set her own speed. She stopped just out of his reach and stared at his eyes. The irises were a peculiar color, almost a teal, and that tickle was becoming an itch, but still refused to be drawn forward.

"Do you know me?" he asked softly.

Erica took a step back, almost colliding with Eric. She pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead. "Tell me what you're feeling right now," he continued in the same soft voice.

Erica shook her head furiously, refusing to look at him.

"What name did I call you when you knew me?"

"Stop it!" she cried, backing away again and running up against Eric. He did his best to block her way without physically holding her.

Templar didn't move closer, but his soft voice wrapped around her, holding her in place and binding her attention. "You seem to remember me. If you remember me, it may be that I treated you at one time, perhaps in California. But I need to know what your name was then. Then I can search through my old records, help you remember more. Help you remember your mother."

Her head snapped up. "You don't know my mother!" she snarled at him.

"You are the one who does not know," he said, his words harsh but soft in the silent room. "If you help me, I can help you remember her."

"She left me. She didn't love me. She didn't care so I don't want to remember her. I don't want to remember anything!" She spun around trying to push Eric out of her way.

"You wanted to see your records, this morning," Eric reminded her. "You wanted to remember. You want to trust," he said, pointedly looking down at her hands on his chest as she tried to push him back. She gave one final, futile shove then turned toward the kitchen, since he was obviously determined not to let her flee to the cocoon of her bedroom. She felt Eric start after her and saw the psychologist wave him back out of the corner of her eye. In the kitchen, she dug to the back of the fridge until she found a bottle of wine and turned to John for an opener. He looked to the doctor for permission, before taking the bottle and opening it to pour a glass.

"Perhaps we should all get to know each other, eat dinner together, then it will be easier to delve into difficult subjects," John suggested, looking almost beseechingly at the others.

"Playing the good cop again?" Erica said snidely.

He didn't take offense, just shrugging. "It's what I majored in," but his eyes were still on the psychologist, seemingly asking him to back off and give her space.

"Sorry," Erica muttered. "Makes you an easy target."

"I'm okay with it if it helps you cope," he said softly. His eyes were still on the psychologist, though, and Erica would have sworn he breathed a sigh of relief when Templar nodded slightly. She took her wine and rounded the kitchen counter to sit at the table, in front of the stack of papers. Eric was there instantly, moving them to the kitchen counter.

"They'll be right here when you are ready to talk about them. Like John suggested, let's just talk for right now." He sat down next to her as the psychologist sat across and Joann took the fourth seat. John remained in the kitchen, apparently on dinner duty.

Erica stared at her hands, which were playing nervously with each other. "I'd rather just listen, if you don't mind."

"Then as the newbie here, let me start," Templar said. "As I said, my name is Dr. Maxwell Templar." He paused a moment, watching for a reaction, then continued, "I am a psychologist. I work for the FBI now, but initially practiced in California, first as a state employee, then for a few years in private practice. My specialty is childhood trauma."

"I'm not a child," Erica muttered petulantly, realizing belatedly that she sounded very childish indeed.

"I know that, Erica," he said in that soft voice. She couldn't decide if it was condescending or just intended to be gentle and non-threatening. "Most of the cases that I am called to consult on now do involve children, such as kidnap victims, witnesses to crimes or terrorism, sometimes for natural disasters. I'm not a therapist, per se. I help children cope with the immediate trauma. To put it bluntly, I help children be useful to the FBI so they can resolve their investigation. I follow up by getting the child to a proper therapist who can help them in the long term. That is why I say I am not here to pick you apart and put you back together again. I leave that work to someone else."

She finally looked up and met his eyes. "I told you, I'm not a fucking child," she said angrily. There. That didn't sound nearly as childish.

She noticed Eric tense, but Templar simply continued as if she hadn't interrupted. "I am also called in when an adult is suspected of having undergone childhood trauma that is affecting that adult's ability to assist the FBI in their investigation." Erica's eyes dove back to her nervous hands. "There is reason to believe that may be the case here, so I was asked to assist, if for no other reason than to determine if, indeed, a childhood trauma contributed to your current difficulties to participate in the investigation." He paused again, but Erica remained silent. "It is my understanding that, when you have received treatment recently to retrieve memories, it led to nightmares, but no recovered memories?"

When Erica refused to acknowledge the question, Eric said, "That is what she told us." She could feel him looking at her, daring her to deny or amend his statement.

Templar continued. "I would be inclined to guess that the person you saw tried to use techniques like regression, hypnosis?" He paused again, but Erica was resolutely silent. "These techniques can lead to repressed memories. They can also lead to repressed dreams. In other words, real memories of past dream events, not waking events. This is where false memories come from. False memories can be very damaging and yet are somewhat common. Especially if you have a Freudian bent to begin with," he added. "Like when daughters accuse their fathers of sexual abuse."

Erica's fingers stilled and her breathing sped up. Eric and Joann both shot the psychologist a warning look, but he was studying Erica. "Mind you, sometimes fathers do abuse their daughters. And sons. Sometimes mothers do. Or participate. Or stand by.

"Erica, I'm going to tell you an ugly truth. About myself, about my job, to be specific. It's not something I'm proud of. In fact, it's something that regularly horrifies me." She couldn't help herself. She looked up at him, just slightly, watching his face through her eyelashes. Satisfied he had her attention, he continued. "I push. I push really hard. Like I did with you earlier. That's because, almost invariably, time matters. Time creates more victims. My ugly truth is; I'm willing to deepen your trauma, in order to save someone else the same trauma."

Her eyes fell to her hands and she realized they were betraying her anxiety. She dropped them into her lap, where they continued to torment each other. "I'm listening," she whispered.

"Fair enough," he said agreeably. "When you first came back into the apartment, you gave no sign of recognizing me as anything other than yet another psychologist that you didn't want to see. Am I right, so far?"

She just shrugged. "We know that Juan had you see a psychologist and that led to nightmares. Your foster youth records indicate you intermittently saw a psychiatrist while in the care system. Did you have nightmares from those visits?"

Erica snorted, then realized that even that much communication involved her in the conversation, because when she glanced up at Templar, he was smiling very faintly. She conceded a modicum of defeat. "He only prescribed drugs to make me more manageable."

"And I suspect you didn't take them, given your school performance." She looked up sharply and stared at him, thinking he was ridiculing her. But then she saw his warm, sympathetic smile.

She lowered her eyes, but only slightly. "They made me feel sleepy, and..."

"Stupid?" He asked when she didn't finish.

She was staring at him openly now. "Yes." She answered softly.

"A common complaint," he said with a shrug. "So, when you were placed with a family, you just let everybody think you were being compliant and bottled up your feelings, controlled your outbursts." He paused.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "I started running. Whenever I felt the need to scream or break something... or cut myself, I would run. I would run until the feeling passed."

"I commend your resourcefulness."

She stared at him again, wondering if he was mocking her, but his face showed nothing but genuine admiration. He locked eyes with her. "Erica, everything, throughout your life, has been coping mechanisms for something, some trauma, maybe even many traumas that you have suffered. That is all we extensively, and expensively, educated doctors can offer you; ways to cope. But you scraped together your own solutions, mechanisms. Some have worked well for you. Some not so well. If you understand nothing else, you must understand this, and I think you know it all ready. There is no cure for trauma. There is only coping. I differ with many of my colleagues on this. They want to believe that confronting a traumatic memory enables one to move on; beyond. And I do believe that the event or events must be confronted. But that is not a cure or a solution. It is only a way to determine how best to cope. Like grief, we do not and should not forget a grievous loss. We need to incorporate it, cope with it, find ways to function despite it. The one thing that does not and never will work for any length of time is denial. Denial that an event occurred, denial that it was a loss." He paused as John set plates of Chicken Alfredo for everyone. John set his own at the counter, just behind Erica and, at a nod from Templar, poured her some more wine.

"I would like to talk about your coping mechanisms," the psychologist continued, "because I don't think you are ready to talk about the trauma. Am I right?" He asked, trying to pull her back into the conversation. She only shrugged, but it still constituted a response, so he plunged ahead. "All right. You drink."

"Only wine," she pointed out. "It helps me sleep. And Juan only allows me to have one glass." Templar didn't say anything, only cocking an eyebrow at her. "Guess I don't have to obey him anymore," she muttered, mutinously taking another drink of her wine.

He continued. "Your panic attacks. If you're busy trying to breathe, to not vomit, you don't have to think about what you experienced that threatened to bring a memory to the surface." She stared at her fingers, willing them to be still.

"Your fainting..."

"It was only that one time," she protested.

"Because your other mechanisms haven't been working so well. You were trying out a new one. To avoid remembering me and why you knew me.

"We've talked about your running, and I think that is an excellent response to the pressures that build inside you. What causes those pressures to build are memories threatening to break through." Erica's eyes flicked to Eric. When she had seen his closet full of whips and straps, she had fled and run all night. At the time, she thought it was memories of her time with Juan that drove her to run, but those weren't repressed memories. Eric didn't say anything, but from his face, she thought he might be pursuing the same line of questions she was. He was looking at her openly, encouragingly, a fork of food stalled in transition to his mouth.

Templar observed their silent interaction, giving it time to play out before he continued. "Another coping mechanism you have is the fear of being too close to another person. What an anthropologist or sociologist would deem an invasion of your 'personal space.' Most of us deal with this infringement by making exceptions for, say, a hand shake, or toleration on a crowded bus for the duration of the ride, or by stepping back when someone comes too close or even a blunt statement to back off. Irritation is the natural response. Yours is fear. You don't know who might bring you pain, so you maintain a safe distance from every person you meet. If pressed, you explain it away as a phobia. That way, you don't have to think about why a stranger would cause you pain. Do you remember when you developed that fear reaction? The records that we have right now indicate it was in place when you entered the foster system."

She shrugged in what she hoped was an 'it doesn't really matter,' sort of way. Another part of her was delving back, cautiously, surreptitiously, trying to remember when it started, without success. She was playing with her food, twisting the fettuccini about her fork without actually eating any of it. A totally aside part of her mind knew without even looking at him that Eric wanted to order her to eat something. She felt a small delight to know he was irritated with her.

"I don't remember," she said. It was her pat answer to pretty much anything, any questions that came up about the time before she entered the foster care system. She had learned it from all the other kids in the system, some of them had been there for as long as they had memories. Anything an adult asks you, you answer 'I don't remember' and they don't really want to know, so they gladly accept that answer. This psychologist, this Doctor Max was different. Why the hell was that name twitching inside her brain? Why the hell wouldn't he accept a simple answer?

"You've chosen not to remember," he stated flatly. Erica gave him a glare, but she couldn't hold it long under his penetrating, teal-eyed gaze. "Let's be clear," he stated, then amended, "Let's be clearly honest with one another..."

"Meaning I have to be honest with you, but no quid pro quo," she stated flatly, but firmly. It actually seemed to take him aback. He stared at her in silence for a moment, as if reassessing.

"I want to be honest with you, Erica," he said after a long silence. "But you have to help me. I think you recognized me. Maybe my eyes, because they are an unusual color. Maybe 'Doctor Max,' the name I use when treating children. I had my medical records from California searched for your name, after your reaction to the sight of me. There was nothing. But that would not be surprising if you entered the foster care system with an assumed identity, to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" she demanded sullenly, still twirling pasta about her fork without eating.

"From people who would want to kill you," he said as bluntly as possible. Her fork stopped twirling. She seemed frozen in place. "Is that so surprising?" he asked. "You already believe that this Juan wants to kill you."

Erica looked toward Eric. She could feel the beginning of a panic attack coming, and for some unfathomable reason, she sought comfort, support, help from him. He reached out and grasped her hand. She didn't even flinch. "Who else?" she asked Templar, but her eyes were locked on Eric's.

He took his time, observing the interaction before he answered. "Your father," he stated expressionlessly.

Erica was beginning to gasp for breath. "I don't remember my father." Her eyes were still locked with Eric's.

"Really?" Templar asked with deep skepticism.

Eric's eyes flew to him even before Erica turned to stare at him. "You really mean to ask her that?" Eric demanded. "Put that suggestion in her head? Why don't you just fabricate a whole memory for her?"

"I can only work with the information I'm given," Templar stated stiffly. "You were the source of a great deal of that information, if I might be so bold as to remind you."

Erica's eyes swung back to Eric. "What is he talking about?" she demanded.

"Tell her," Templar told Eric, and she suddenly realized that she had been drug into the very conversation she didn't want to have. Hell, run full blast through the door. Now it was Eric who was reluctant, holding back. He squeezed her hand gently.

"Please tell me," she whispered, then more strongly, "If you're going to force me to remember, then give me all of it. Every dirty, ugly little secret."

"That's the problem, Erica. We can't give your memories to you. You have to give them to us. All we have are hints that may or may not help you," Templar said gently. She glared at him, well aware he was trying to play her with his seemingly mercurial interactions; one moment being soothing and gentle, the next being stern, even demanding. He was trying to keep her off balance, keep her panic attack at bay by forcing her to react to him with a variety of emotions.

"Well then, give me the fucking hints and let's get this over with," she exclaimed, throwing her napkin on the table. It was torn where her restless fingers had worked through the fabric. She stared at the small hole. She went from anger to chagrin; zero to sixty in a nanosecond. Or perhaps sixty to zero. She shoved away from the table and grabbed the papers that Eric had moved to the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eric glance at the doctor, who gave a slight shake of his head. Erica started reading about herself, and as she read she sat back down without even realizing. Everyone at the table was silent, watching her. Some small part of her mind equated it to a crowd watching and waiting for a building to be demolished by implosion. When she reached the end of the paperwork, she knew they were going to be sorely disappointed.

"This is worthless," she snapped, tossing the papers on top of the napkin, starting a pile. "All the names are redacted. Even my original name. There's no hints there."

"Did you learn anything you didn't know before," Templar asked, using his stern voice. She peered at him. Was he trying to sound like a father? If he was trying to sound like her father, he wasn't even close. Wait. Where had that thought come from? Erica ducked her head, lacing her hands through her hair, holding her head like it might explode. Or implode.

"Erica?" He was waiting for an answer, still stern, unrelenting. He didn't want to give her time to think things through, but she needed to. She realized belatedly that they had boxed her in at the table, with Eric to one side of her and John at the counter, blocking the escape route to her bedroom. "Did you learn anything?" he asked again. She took her wine glass in both hands, cradling it as her only solace.