“A—a what?”
Van Owen raised her hands. “Not that I’m advancing that as a diagnosis, but you might want to see someone who’ll at least consider it within the realm of possibility. I have a colleague—a Dr. Genoa—”
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“Only too often. I’m sorry, Dr. Van Owen. I can’t take the woman seriously.”
“She’s a brilliant therapist.”
“And a promoter of pseudo-science.”
Van Owen gave her a long, steady look. “Well, you may have a point. Obviously you’re not comfortable with that approach. That’s fine. If you’re willing, we’ll just continue on and see what we can do.”
That wasn’t much. Dr. Van Owen seemed to know Lissa was holding back and Lissa, knowing that to be true, was distracted to the point of impatience. She was relieved when the session was over, and did not make another appointment.
The weekend found Lissa high on relief. For whatever reason, after her visit to Dr. Van Owen, she ceased having the vivid dreams. After two nights of uninterrupted sleep, she was nearly giddy and ready for a night out on the town.
Saturday evening they dined at the Equinox and strolled the Embarcadero. Oddly, the visit to the Amsted Gallery took some urging on Lissa’s part. Normally, Ken was eager to share his colleagues’ moments of pride and triumph. This time he was noticeably reluctant.
They arrived at the Amsted and were met just inside by an effusive Terri Mendez. While she engaged Ken in conversation, Lissa wandered the gallery walls, gazing at her cousin’s photographs. Pastorals and portraits, alike, centered on the people. The people had engaging eyes and shy smiles. They were old and young, radiant, callused. Their faces spoke volumes about the nature of life in places far from cosmopolitan San Francisco—places Lissa had never heard of.
She entered a cubicle dedicated to the photographer’s excursion through the wilds of Mongolia and found herself face to face with a culture that was a curious mosaic of Native American and Asian. Peculiar music accompanied the exhibit; drums, voices, and eerie flutes.
Fascinated, Lissa moved from frame to frame, reading about the culture of an unknown people; women who worked from dawn, to dusk at every task imaginable, men who trained their throats to whistle dual tones.
That’s what I’m hearing, she realized, and paused to study a photograph of the choir. The only instruments were drums; all other music was performed with voice and the strange split tones the Tuvali men produced in their throats.
She shook her head in amazement and turned to view another photo. In it, a group of young men danced the funky chicken.
Lissa’s heart clenched, cold, in her chest. She knew this picture. She knew each face—the young man with the bashful smile whose loincloth was too big by half; the old woman with the gap-grin; the dignified village elder seated before his striped, multi-hued yurt. She knew each standing stone, too, and every carved design.
Her memory at once seized on a distant, waking dream, but reason denied that tenuous connection. Déjà vu.
Why then, the certainty that somewhere in this room was a photograph of a shamanist ritual—that amid the pounding of drums, feet, and hearts sat a man who was both shaman and Buddhist monk, a man whose face she knew to its last chiseled line? The image conjured, she moved her eyes along the linen-covered walls until the picture in her mind’s eyes found a match. A perfect match. Down to the last long feather in the crown of the shaman’s ornate headdress; down to the gleaming gold cap in his upper row of teeth; down to the eagle’s-head drum mallet with which he beat his painted drum. Horse, said Lissa’s insistent memory. He’d call it a horse.
Her heart steadied. “This is ridiculous.”
“There you are!” Ken’s voice sounded strained.
No, she just imagined it because she was strained.
“What’s the matter, honey? You look like you’ve seen a non-existent earthbound spirit.”
She didn’t laugh at the joke. “These photos… I’ve seen them before.”
“How could you? This is Naomi’s first exhibit since she came back from the Russias.”
“Well, I must have seen them on TV, then, or in a magazine.”
Terri Mendez entered the cubicle in the company of a taller, dark-haired woman with a tanned face. Lissa all but leapt at her.
“You’re the photographer?”
The tall woman smiled, nodding. “I’m Naomi Whitehorse, yes.”
Lissa returned the smile, dry lips sticking to her teeth. “My husband and I were just debating what magazine we’ve seen these photos in.”
Naomi glanced at her cousin. “None yet, I hope. I’m due to have a spread in Smithsonian next month, but nothing before that.”
“Oh, well I suppose it must have been on TV then.”
Naomi shook her head. “I haven’t had any television coverage… yet,” she added, crossing her fingers. “I did do a radio interview several weeks ago, though.”
Ken was nodding, “I remember that. It aired on Fresh Art—the morning show.”
Lissa remembered too, then. Really remembered. The foggy dream voices, the vivid dream images. “I’m… positive it had to be a visual medium. I’d swear I’ve seen these photos before.”
Naomi Whitehorse shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. I’ve only done the one radio interview since I came home. There were some newspaper stories on the opening, but no photos were shown.”
“She described the photographs though,” Terri offered.
“Yes. Yes, between the moderator and I, we described these two in some detail.” Naomi indicated the wrestlers and the shaman.
Lissa felt a surge of relief. “Oh, of course, I remember now. I was just waking up. You described them in such vivid detail—the-the images on the standing stones; the shaman with the gold tooth, drumming away on his horse.” She was gabbling and she knew it, but the passing of that horrible moment of weirdness was worth the minor embarrassment.
Naomi’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you know something about the Tannu Tuva culture, then. Most people would have called that a tom-tom.”
Lissa was confused. “I’ve never heard of Tannu Tuva. You called it a horse during the interview.”
Naomi gave her cousin another glance. What’s wrong with this woman? it whispered. “No,” she said, “I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t describe it at all. I described the dancers in great detail. But I know I never used that terminology to describe the shaman’s drum.”
“You did describe the shaman, though; his headdress, his gold tooth—”
Naomi Whitehorse was staring at her now. “Honestly, I never described him in that detail.”
“But I saw—” Lissa swallowed. She sounded so desperate. Three pairs of eyes were on her like hot little spotlights. “I realize how silly this sounds.”
Naomi shook her head. “Not at all. I’m a firm believer in the mysteries of the human spirit. You must have heard the broadcast and somehow visualized what I was seeing as I described the photos. Have you had that sort of psychic experience before?”
“Psychic experience?” Lissa tried to laugh and choked instead. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” countered Naomi. “Why?”
“I’m not allowed to have psychic experiences, I’m a skeptic.”
“A skeptic?” Naomi echoed. “About what, exactly?”
“About all this: psychic experiences, magic, the mystical.”