“Sometimes.”
“I mean in the extreme?”
“No.”
“Any sense of foreboding?”
He shook his head. His leg was bouncing.
“Well, can you think of anything that might specifically set off these flashbacks or illusions—internal or external cues that might symbolize or resemble some aspects of the events?”
Yes. “No.”
“Do you have suicidal thoughts?”
“Suicidal thoughts? Yeah, sometimes. But it’s more that I just want to escape, not kill myself, if that makes sense.”
“Tell me the difference.”
Jack thought for a moment. “I don’t feel masochistic, like I want to punish myself. It’s just that I feel like Humpty Dumpty with too many pieces to put back—and a few missing.”
“I see.”
“But it’s not all the time, just when I’m feeling sorry for myself. But I’m not braiding a noose.”
Dr. Heller smiled, then blanked her face as she studied him, looking as she were trying to read a ticker tape across his skull.
“So what can you give me?”
She handed him the slip with the name of the neuropsychologist. “Call him. You’re clearly blocking something, and if you still choose not to”—and on her prescription pad she wrote something down—“take this to your pharmacy.” She handed him the second slip. “It’s called Zyprexa—it has sedative effects and has been shown to reduce nightmares associated with PTSD.”
“PTSD?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. But I think you really should see an expert if you want to do something about these episodes. Because what concerns me is that you appear to be blocking something.”
65
DR. HELLER WAS RIGHT: HE WAS BLOCKING something, all right.
And he was avoiding places—the cellar, for instance. Oh yeah, Nightmare Central, and that had sent him and his laundry to the Scrub-a-Dub coin place in town, convinced the basement was cursed.
She was also right that maybe in addition to his new PTSD pills he needed a good shrink to get behind all the memory flashes, bad dream scraps, and little pockets of horror his mind would pass through, because they had gotten worse since he’d been out of Greendale. Maybe he should call that name on the script sheet and talk all the vomit from his soul until he got to the bottom.
Aye, and there’s the rub, sweet prince, because you know as well as I do that you don’t need a shrink, because when you look down those stairs, you know what you see.
That large stuffed mouse with its head bashed in.
Maideek Mookie. He’d looked it up. Armenian for mama mouse.
BECAUSE THE ARCHIVES OF LOCAL NEWSPAPERS from thirty years ago could not be accessed online, Jack rented a car and drove to the Boston Public Library the next day. There, in the basement, he located microfilm for the Boston Globe, New Bedford’s Standard-Times, and the Cape Cod Times for August 22, 1975. One headline blared “Nor’easter Pounds Mass. Coastline. Millions in Damage.”
The New Bedford paper gave more details of the search-and-rescue attempts for the next several days. There were several different articles covering various aspects of the storm, including one that reported on the damage to coastal homes and boats.
One mentioned the disappearance of Rose Najarian.
COAST GUARD SEARCHES FOR MISSING MASS. BOATERA Massachusetts boater has been missing since Friday, when her sailboat was apparently capsized by high winds and choppy seas in the waters off Homer’s Island in the Elizabeth Island chain off the coast of Massachusetts.Coast Guard vessels went into action at daybreak, when a call went out from Falmouth police after island residents discovered the washed-up and damaged remains of an Oday 17 belonging to Rose Najarian of Watertown.
Seeing his mother’s name listed was like putting his finger in a wall socket. For as long as he could remember, she was simply the biological circumstance of his existence and a label to someone in old photographs. But seeing her name in print had the effect of connecting that existence to a life he knew almost nothing about. What he did know—and it came back to him like a heat-seeking missile—was that she had handmade that stuffed mouse.
He continued reading:
According to officials, Mrs. Najarian was apparently attempting to batten down her vessel in anticipation of yesterday’s nor‘easter, characterized by northeast winds of 30 to 40 mph. Police reported that her two-year-old child was found inside a beachfront cottage over a mile from where her boat washed up.It is not known if life a jacket was worn since four were found in or near the boat, adding to official’s theory of why Mrs. Najarian was in the boat. According to a Coast Guard spokesman, even if she had worn a life jacket, exposure for a few hours even in warm water would lead to hypothermia. No sign of Mrs. Najarian has yet been found.Rose Najarian, a widow, was a research biochemist affiliated with MIT. Her two-year-old son, Jack, was found the next morning in the beach cottage in fair condition …The fast-moving storm caused coastal flooding and damage to homes on the islands and to southern Massachusetts …
Jack made a photocopy of the article, then scanned the next days’ papers. Two days later a second article appeared in the Boston Globe.
COAST GUARD GIVES UP SEARCH FOR MASS. BOATERThe Coast Guard officially ended its search for a Massachusetts woman, which began Saturday morning after her sailboat capsized off Homer’s Island …Rose Najarian was apparently drowned when trying to secure her boat in anticipation of last week’s storm. The search included a Jayhawk rescue helicopter from Coast Guard Air Station Cape Cod and two rescue boats from Station Pt. Judith, R.I. “The decision to suspend a search is never an easy one,” said Petty Officer James Fagan of the First Coast Guard District Office.“However, we’ve saturated more than 125 square miles with rescue and air assets for 28 hours and, based on that information, we feel that if the victim was on the surface, we would have detected her … .”
Jack wrote down the officer’s name, although he didn’t need to. The details of the articles stuck to his mind like frost.
WHEN HE REACHED HOME LATER THAT day, Jack called the Massachusetts Coast Guard Station at Woods Hole and explained that he was investigating the disappearance of his mother some years ago. After two holds, he was connected to a public information officer who asked if he were a policeman on a cold case. Jack was tempted to say he was, only to avoid the obvious questions: Why do you want to know? And why now?
“I’m sorry, we don’t keep records from that far back.”
Jack then called Vince and explained that he needed a contact at the Coast Guard. In vague terms Jack explained that he was interested in how, exactly, his mother had died, and that he had time on his hands. Vince didn’t know what to make of Jack’s explanation, but half an hour later he called back with a name: Fred Barboza.
Two hours later, Jack reached Lieutenant Fred Barboza, who said that it could not be done over the phone, that Jack would have to come to the CG Falmouth office in person. And tomorrow was not a good day.
ON FRIDAY HE DROVE HIS RENTAL to Falmouth for an eleven A.M. appointment.
The Coast Guard station was located on the southwest shore of Little Harbor in Woods Hole. The administration building was a long, narrow, two-story cinder-block-and-brick structure that sat in the middle of a long dock along which several CG vessels were docked. Jack checked in at the security desk, and after a brief wait a man in a uniform appeared and introduced himself as Fred Barboza. He led Jack to a small office.