The Butterfly Man (2)
David Godden

 


We got to the counter at the same time and he placed his purchases down and took out his money. I placed mine beside his, but I said nothing. I was waiting for him to turn and see me. I wanted him to be the first to speak. I wanted to be able to judge his reaction at seeing me. If he was warm and friendly as he always was, then everything would be fine. But if he was cold and distant, like the others here, then I would at least know where I stood.

He turned and saw me and his smiled a distant, but polite smile. The kind of smile you give to a total stranger. I then realised that the last time he had seen me, I was thirteen years old. I was now twenty, and fully-grown. Of course he did not recognise me. Why should he?

I felt a little foolish, so I paid for my paint and left the store to head on home.

I was walking along when a voice behind me suddenly broke my train of thought.

“Rebecca, is that you?” I stopped dead in my tracks. I recognised the voice at once. It was the only voice of an adult I can remember that ever spoke to me with genuine affection. I turned around to see Mister Morris stood there, a slightly embarrassed look on his face. He was obviously not sure it was me, and he must have felt a little foolish speaking to a perfect stranger like this. I smiled to put him at his ease and to assure him that his assumption was correct. I didn’t speak. I really didn’t know what to say to him after all this time.

He saved me from my dilemma by speaking for me.

“I thought it was you back there in the store. It didn’t register at first, you have grown so much since..since,” he hesitated. He was obviously uncomfortable with saying, since they took you away to the nut house all those years ago. I finished the sentence for him.

“Since I was at your place and I let all of your butterflies out of the cage?” I couldn’t help myself, I laughed a brief snorting kind of grunt and then I immediately regretted it. Mister Morris went a little red and I felt like a total pig for having done that to him. But he quickly recovered and laughed at the memory as well. “Yes, since you set my menagerie free that day.” We now both stood in the street, unable to think of anything to say to each other after seven years. What was there to say anyway? I had been a child the last time we met and now I was a woman. Two completely different entities, as alien to each other as god and the devil. Mister Morris was going a little red again, so I stepped in and saved the moment for him, for both of us.

“Look, I have to drop this paint off at home and do a few chores, why don’t you come over for coffee later on. Say, in about an hour?” His face brightened up. “Why yes, That would be very nice. Where are you living now?” he asked.

“At my parents old place. You remember where it is?” He nodded his head and smiled again. “See you in an hour then,” he said and turned to go to his car.

I hurried home and set my purchases down on the table. I felt suddenly very nervous at the prospect of having Mister Morris here. It was I suppose, something to do with the fact that I had never entertained anyone one before. You don’t tend to have much of a social life in hospital. I busied myself with tidying up as the house was still in a state of flux, what with me painting and changing things around, but it did not take long to make it presentable.

The hour passed very quickly and the smell of the coffee reminded me of the time and I set out cups on the table. When the doorbell rang, I nearly jumped ten feet in the air. It was the first time since I had been back that anyone other than Church people had been to see me. I wondered that Mister Morris had not heard about me being back before. He was a member of the Church after all. Talk like that spreads like wildfire amongst the righteous.

I let him in and showed him through to the kitchen. It felt like safe, neutral ground for us both to be on. He sat at the table and I poured coffee for us both and joined him.

He held his cup in his hands, warming them up against the cold that had permeated his flesh on the way here. It was the beginning of December and the wind could be vicious when it tore into you. Once he seemed to have warmed up a bit, we faced each other and smiled. It was an awkward moment, neither one of us knowing what to say exactly. Then he broke the ice.

“Rebecca, forgive me, but I think this needs to come out into the open right now, or we are just going to sit here and talk about the weather or something. I am really sorry for all that you have been through. It must have been an awful ordeal for you, all those years I hospital. I know what you did to yourself. I don’t suppose there that there is a single person in the whole town that does not know about that. Bad news like an illness travels fast. I just hope that you will be able to cope with the stupid people here when they get awkward when you try to speak to them. You will see their eyes going down to your arms, to see the scars. They won’t be able to look you in the eye and talk to you like a human being. To them, you will be some kind of freak, a possible source of danger to them. They don’t mean to be so cruel, but it is human nature. Try and forgive them now, before it eats you up with anger.”

I was astounded. I had not expected him to be so candid with me. But when I thought for a second, I realised that he was right. I had noticed the way in which people looked down at my arms whenever I had need to speak to them. I had noticed that some people could not wait to get away from me if they were forced to engage me in conversation. It all began to fall into place now. I think my body posture must have changed slightly, I think I must have slumped down, as the next thing was, I felt Mister Morris’ hand on my shoulder. I pulled back quickly, I was not so used to human contact that I was comfortable with it. The poor guy flinched almost as hard as I did at the physical rejection. I apologised and passed it off as being a knee jerk reaction to his touch and nothing personal, but he could see it in my eyes that there was more to it than that.

We sat for a moment in silence. I was the first to speak, as the lack of conversation was now drumming in my ears like a brass band. I asked about Susanna, his daughter and my one and only real friend here in town. His face became a pained mask of deep sorrow for a flickering second in time, but he regained his composure quickly.

“Susanna? She’s fine. She lives abroad now, someplace in Europe, can’t remember the name of the country. She does missionary work for the Church these days, though why they need missionaries in Europe is anyone’s guess. I suppose it is all about spreading the word.” He looked down into his cup and said no more on the matter of his daughter. Again, we hit the awkward silence of two people who do not really have much to say to each other.

“Do you still keep butterflies?” I asked, groping for a topic of conversation that would be acceptable to both of us. His face brightened up again at the mention of his hobby.

“Why yes, it is the only thing I have these days, since Susanna went away and of course her mother dying all those years ago. I doubt you would remember my wife, Jean. She died when you were only little. Yes, I still keep the butterflies and I have a huge collection now. I give them away to institutions and schools when they start to take up too much space. But I still have a quite a collection. You should come on over and see them sometime.” His invitation to come to his home made me sad. I remembered all those years ago, he was the only person who would allow me to play with his child. I could not go to other friend’s homes, as their parents disliked me for what I had become. A self-mutilating freak and a bully. I smiled at him and said I would love to come by sometime and see his collection. That seemed to signal and end to our meeting. He got up and made his excuses and left. I cleared away the cups and got on with my painting.

It was two days later that I had to go and see my doctor. He was a kindly man, much more understanding than the ones in the hospital, he allowed me to sit in silence if I wanted to, or he would let me talk my heart out if I felt so inclined to. He seemed to understand but like all the others, he could never really appreciate what it meant to be me. Even I didn’t know what it was that drove me to do to myself what I did. Today though, he was in a talkative mood. He had found a reputable hypnotherapist for me to go and see, one who would help regress me back to try and find the root cause of my problems. I suppose that my cynicism was written boldly all over my face. I never really was good at hiding emotions from other people. He sighed and put his pen down.

“I know Rebecca, you have heard all kinds of weird stuff about this type of treatment. You don’t really want to find out that you were Attila the Hun in a previous life, I understand, but that is not what this is all about.” I was grinning now at his joke. He was spot on with his assumption about my reluctance to see this new shrink. I had read about this type of treatment, where people are regressed to a supposed previous life. I thought it was all so much horse shit, but he was explaining the reality to me clearly and I found I was becoming interested.

“What the hypnotherapist does, is to put you into a hypnotic state and then they peel back the layers of your subconscious until they find the root of what it is that is making you sick. The mind is a strange world, one that we do not really understand, but it has a clever way of scabbing over events that we do not wish to or cannot deal with. The mind can hide the trauma of say, a road accident from a seriously injured person. It is a way in which to deal with what we cannot really cope with at the time. Come on Rebecca. Give it a try. I promise you, I would not suggest it unless I thought it had a chance of working, and let’s face it, we are going nowhere very fast with every other treatment we have tried. What do you say?” I thought for a while and then I agreed to his idea. After all, what did I have to loose?

He made a call and set up an appointment for me for the next day. It was an out of town address and so I would have to take the bus to get there. I went home and worked in the house until late. I made myself tired, as I knew I would not sleep otherwise. When I went to bed, it was very late and I was exhausted.

I heard the alarm ring, and I turned it off and rolled over and went back to sleep. I had intended to have an extra ten minutes, but when I woke again, I realised that I was going to be seriously late for my appointment. Jumping out of bed, I ran around and got ready. There wasn’t even time enough for more than a quick face wash, a shower was out of the question. Dressed and seriously stressed, I left the house and head for the bus stop.

When I got there, I saw the back of the bus just pulling away. As I said, this is a small town and the bus service is infrequent, so there went my chance of making my appointment. I cursed myself for being so stupid. I would have to go to the doctor and get the number for the therapist, as I did not have a phone at home. That was a luxury I could ill afford at the moment. I set out for the doctors when I saw Mister Morris drive past in his car. He saw me standing there and stopped in the road. Reversing back, he wound down his window and asked me if I needed a lift?

I leaned into the car and told him what had happened.

“Jump in, it just so happens that I am going your way anyway. Good fortune smiles on us both. You get to keep your appointment and I get some company on the drive.” I smiled and opened the door and got in. We set off again, me feeling like a fool and he smiling to himself for being the Good Samaritan.

On the way he talked of inconsequential things. The weather, how far Christmas was away, the price of bread. He seemed to me to be avoiding saying something and then I realised he was just curious as to why I was going to see the new doctor.

I had no problem with telling him everything. He listened as I told him about the hypnotherapy, but he said nothing. I told him that the doctor had said it was really the last resort to try and find out what was wrong with me. I told him what the doctor had said about the mind and how it can cover over events in your life that are too painful or too traumatic to deal with, and how the therapist can get to them and free them from your subconscious, allowing you to eventually deal with them and resolve them so as you could move on. I sounded like an advert for the damn doctor. I suppose I was just trying to convince myself that this would work. I didn’t know what I would do if it didn’t. I was afraid that I would one day go back to the way I was before. Mutilating myself for no reason I could pin down.

We were close now to the therapist’s place and Mister Morris spoke for the first time, other than talking about the price of bread.

“Rebecca, I don’t know if this will help any, but I do understand to some degree what you are going through. I felt much the same when Jean died. I couldn’t cope and I buried a lot of stuff deep down that I have never really managed to come to terms with. But if ever you feel it is all getting too much, you know you can talk to me don’t you?”

My reaction to this generous and selfless offer of help was an explosion of anger.

“How in the hell can you know what I am going through? Even I don’t know what its all about, so how could you possibly sympathise with me? How dare you presume to tell me that you know what it is that makes me the way I am. You know nothing about me, Jesus, even your own daughter has left you for a Church mission thousands of miles away. I have had my fill of people telling me they understand and how talking to them can help. You are all the same. You just want to hear the gory details to satisfy your morbid curiosity. You make me sick.” My outburst ended as quickly as it had come on. God alone knows what made me blow up like that, but I now felt very foolish and very embarrassed. I told him to stop the car and he pulled over, he was so shocked that he could not find words to say to me as I got out of his car and slammed the door. I walked off towards the therapists surgery leaving Mister Morris in his car, confused and upset at my vitriolic tirade against him. The poor man had no idea what he had done to make me explode at him like that.

I found the therapist’s office and spoke to his receptionist. She confirmed my appointment and told me to sit down and wait, that he would be with me soon. I sat and picked up a magazine to read. Try as I might, I could not focus on the words on the page, everything was a blur. Then I realised I was crying.

The receptionist called my name and told me to go along the corridor and to take the first door on the left. I found the room and knocked and went in.

Mister Peterson sat behind his modern desk and wrote something on a pad in front of him. He looked up at me and smiled as I came in and indicated for me to sit down. Once he had finished writing, he put his pen down and looked up at me.

He was about fifty or so years old, with a kind, if somewhat lived in face. My own doctor had told me he had been in the Navy for a long time and had seen service in some pretty terrible places. That was why he followed the profession he did now. He was an expert of dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder through hypnotherapy.

He looked at me with a slightly puzzled frown.

“Been crying already? I haven’t even sent you the bill yet.” I laughed despite myself. I was still feeling terrible about my outburst against Mister Morris, but Mister Peterson had lifted my mood slightly. I was sure I was going to like him.

We talked for a long time. There was no sense of urgency as I had felt with some other doctors, with their want to get me out of the office as soon as possible so as they could herd more patients in to keep the subscription up at the golf course. He was kind and he probed gently around my problems with easy questions.

After a while he seemed satisfied with the amount of written notes he had taken and he invited me to lie on the couch that took up one wall of his small, but tidy office. This had been the bit I was dreading. I knew the couch all too well. Not this one in particular, but couches as a rule made me nervous.

I lay back and he explained to me what he intended to do.

“Rebecca, hypnotism is not exactly a science like medicine or surgery. It’s more of a way of getting inside the mind where the real damage lies and to be able to see it clearly without the filters that we humans put in place to protect ourselves. I know your doctor will have explained all this to you already, but I want to take it a little further.

Hypnotism is simply a kind of sleep state. When you sleep, you either sleep lightly near to the surface that is consciousness, or you sleep deeply, REM sleep, where your dreams occur. When you are in REM sleep, your subconscious files away all the events of the day or issues that are bothering you into neat little packets that your mind can deal with. It then stores them away for retrieval later on. Now, when you come out of REM sleep, it is like you are surfacing from a deepwater dive. Like a diver you come up slowly, and when you get to a certain point, you transcend from REM sleep to light sleep, and then to full consciousness.

The plateau that you reach when coming up is where I will take you to under hypnosis. I will simply let you start to fall asleep and then stop you when you are at the midway point. From there we can see into your subconscious without too much trouble. I can guide you to where the problem is and we can bring it out into the open and we can look at it together and hopefully deal with it and stop it hurting you any more. Do you understand what I have told you Rebecca? Do you feel comfortable for me to take you into your subconscious and to try and find the root cause of your problems?” I was actually falling asleep at the sound of his voice. I snapped awake, slightly embarrassed, but he just laughed lightly, saying that it showed I would be a good patient to work with, as if the sound of his voice put me to sleep, then just think what he could do with a swinging pocket watch.

In the event, he did not need stage props to send me under. He just spoke to me, soft and slowly, each syllable enunciated carefully, until I felt relaxed and at ease. He told me to close my eyes and to just relax and float away. That is exactly what I did do.

The next thing I remember is his voice calling me awake. Slowly, like the diver he had used as his example, I surfaced from the realm of my subconscious back into full consciousness and then fully awake. I felt a little light-headed but I felt good. I felt the most refreshed I had done in years, it was like the best sleep ever and now I was awake again.

He walked away from me and went back behind his desk, sitting down he began to make notes. I got up and went and sat in front of him.

“So, what did you find down there? I imagine there was plenty enough material to write a book about huh?” My levity was partly brought on by the feeling of relaxation I was experiencing and partly bravado. I was a little afraid now of what he was going to tell me he had found. He did not look up, he just kept writing his notes. I began to get a little worried.

When he did speak he was his usual friendly, easy going self, but there was something in his eyes that said all was not as well as it should be. Now I really was worried. What had he found out?

He wanted me to come again tomorrow and he asked if I would sign a waiver form allowing him to tape whatever I said under hypnosis. When I asked what for, he simply said it was a legal requirement. “If I tape what you say, I have to have your permission to do it. If I were to find out some terrible secret, like the fact that you had robbed a bank and hidden the money, then I might just get you to tell me where you had hidden it. It just covers me legally that’s all. Nothing sinister.” I was not so sure, but I signed anyway without really reading the form. I didn’t understand all that legal stuff anyway, so it would have made no difference if I had.

I left his office unaware that as I was going out of the door, he was making a phone call to the Police.

“Can I speak with detective Muir please? Yeah I’ll hold. Pete? Hi, it’s Bob Peterson. Yeah long time huh? Listen, I think I need your advice here. I think I have a case of sexual abuse, long time back, but still causing problems. I think the abuser may still be alive, so I need to know where I stand legally on this. I doubt she will ever have the courage to go to court with it, but I want to know if there is anyway we can get the creep in some other way. OK, I will call by later, thanks.” He hung up and cancelled his appointments for the rest of the day.

***

 

 

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Copyright © 2001 David Godden
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"