Another oddly specific question. I watch Katya trace her index finger over her tattoo while she considers her answer.
“Sometimes, I react to situations in ways that surprise me. Like I know how to defend myself even though I shouldn’t.”
“Any flashbacks? Dreams about weapons. Combat.”
“Yes. Almost every night.”
“And Doctor Orlov has mentioned these dreams feel familiar rather than frightening?”
“Both. They’re terrifying because they feel so real, but familiar in a way that makes no sense.”
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “The subconscious often runs drills your conscious mind doesn’t understand. It’s not unusual for trauma victims to dream in patterns that feel like training.”
“So, my dreams might actually be memories?”
“It’s possible. You were involved in a violent incident, Mrs. Kozlov. Though distinguishing between genuine memories and trauma-induced fantasies requires careful analysis.”
I don’t like where this conversation is heading. Too many questions about violence, and too much focus on Katya’s physical responses.
“What kind of treatment are you recommending?” I interrupt.
“A session every couple of days, to start. Gradual exposure to triggers that might unlock suppressed memories.” Sokolova closes her notebook.
“And which triggers do you recommend for my wife?”
“That will depend on what emerges during our sessions.”
Katya stands and walks to the window. “What if I don’t want to remember? What if my life now is better than whatever came before?”
“That’s a decision only you can make,” Sokolova replies. “But suppressed memories have a way of surfacing whether or not we want them to. Controlled recovery is usually preferable to spontaneous breakthrough.”
The warning is clear enough. Either let her help Katya remember in a controlled environment, or risk having everything explode without warning.
“I’d like to schedule our first formal session for next week,” Sokolova announces as she gathers her materials.
After the doctors leave, Katya remains by the window with her shoulders tense and her fingers working overtime on that damn tattoo.
“How do you feel about the therapy suggestion?” I ask.
“Like I’m being dissected by people who know more about me than I know about myself.”
“Dr. Sokolova seemed knowledgeable.”
“Seemed like she was probing for specifics and calling it treatment. Did you notice how many of her questions focused on violence and government work?”
I had, but I’m surprised she picked it up, too. “Trauma therapists probably see a lot of unusual cases.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe she knows exactly what kind of trauma I’ve experienced, and she’s testing to see how much I remember.”
“You think she knows about your past?”
“I think everyone knows more about my past than you’re telling me.” Katya crosses the room to stand in front of me. “Including you.”
“Whatever surfaces doesn’t matter. You’ve always been mine, kotyonok. And nothing you remember will change that.”
We’ve reached another crossroads. It’s either continue the deception or reveal another carefully measured piece of truth.
Either way, she’ll believe what I tell her because I won’t let her believe anything else.
