Heather would speak up at this point: “Just as you were willing to indict my father for abusing me, even though he died before I was born.”
Gurdjieff would hesitate.
Heather would close some of the distance. “We’re not going to hurt you, Ms. Gurdjieff,” she would say, spreading her arms slightly. “Even my husband, there, is not going to lay a finger on you. But you’re going to hear us out. You’re going to hear what you’ve done to Kyle and to our family.” Heather would raise her hand, a camcorder nestled in her palm. “As you can see, I’ve got a video camera. I’m going to record all this—so there will be no ambiguity, no possible misinterpretation, no way to put a different spin on it after it’s happened.” She’d pause, then let her voice take on a sharper edge. “No false memories.”
“You can’t do this,” Gurdjieff would say.
“After what you did to me and my family,” Kyle would reply, his voice low, “I rather imagine we can do just about anything we want—including making public the tape of this, along with our supporting proof. My wife has become a bit of a celebrity of late; she’s been on TV a lot. She’s in a position to alert the whole world to the kind of sick, evil fraud you are. You may be unlicensed, but we can still put you out of business.”
Gurdjieff would look left and right, like a cornered animal sizing up escape possibilities; then she’d turn back to Kyle. “I’m listening,” she’d say at last, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“You have no idea,” Kyle would say, “how much I love my daughters.” He’d pause, letting that sink in. “When Mary was born, I was the happiest man on the planet. I spent hours just staring at her.” He’d look away, casting his mind back. “She was so tiny, so very tiny. Her little fingers and toes—I couldn’t believe anything could be so small and so delicate. I knew the moment I first saw her that I would die for her. Do you understand that, Ms. Gurdjieff? I would take a bullet in the heart for her; I’d walk into a burning house for her. She meant everything to me. I’m not a religious person, but for the first time in my life, I actually felt blessed.”
Gurdjieff would look at him, still defiant, but saying nothing.
“And then,” Kyle would continue, nodding at his wife, “eleven months later, Heather was pregnant again. And, you know, we didn’t have much money then; we couldn’t really afford a second child.” He’d share a sad smile with Heather. “In fact, Heather suggested she might have an abortion. But we both wanted another baby. I took on some additional teaching-assistant duties—night classes plus some tutoring. And we managed somehow, like everybody does.”
Kyle would look over at Heather, as if weighing whether he wanted to share this with his wife, a secret he’d kept for all these years. But then he’d shrug a little, knowing how pointless such concerns would soon be, and go on.
“I’ll tell you the truth, Ms. Gurdjieff—we already had a little girl, and frankly, I was hoping for a boy. You know, someone to play catch with. I even thought, stupidly, that we might name him Kyle, Jr.” He’d take a deep breath, then let it out in a long, whispery sigh. “But when the baby came, it was a girl. I didn’t get over that immediately—it took maybe twelve seconds. I knew we’d never have a third child.” He’d look again with affection at Heather. “The second pregnancy had been very difficult for my wife. I knew I’d never have a son. But it didn’t matter, because Becky was perfect.”
“Look—” Gurdjieff would protest. “I don’t know—”
“No,” Kyle would snap. “No, you don’t know—you don’t know at all. My daughters were everything to me.”
Gurdjieff would try again. “Everyone in your position says that. Just because you assert all this doesn’t make it true. I spent hundreds of hours with your daughters, working through all this.”
“You mean you spent hundreds of hours with our daughters planting these ideas in their heads,” Heather would say.
“Again, that’s what everyone says.”
Kyle would explode with anger. “Damn you, you stupid—” He would pause, apparently struggling to find some non-sexist epithet to throw at her, but then he’d go on, as if the word he hadn’t uttered for decades fit in a way that no other possibly could. “Damn you, you stupid cunt. You turned them against me. But Becky has recanted, and—”
“Has she now?” Gurdjieff would say, looking smug. “Well, that sometimes happens. People give up the fight, decide not to continue with the battle. It’s the same thing that happened in Nazi Germany, you know—”
Yes, Nazi Germany. She’d say something that fucking stupid.
“She recanted because it wasn’t true,” Kyle would say.
“Wasn’t it? Prove it.”
“You arrogant bitch. You—”
But Heather would calm him with a glance and go on, her tone even. “Oh, we can prove it—fully and completely. In the next few days, something’s going to be made public that will change the world. You’ll be able to see the same absolute proof my daughter and I saw.”
Kyle would exhale, then: “You owe my wife a lot, Ms. Gurdjieff. Me, I’d devote the rest of my life to getting you drummed out of your job—but she’s convinced me that that’s not going to be necessary. Your whole profession is going to change wildly, perhaps even collapse, in the next few weeks. But I want you to think about this every day for the rest of your life: think about the fact that my beautiful daughter Mary slit her wrists because of you, and that you then almost destroyed what was left of my family. I want that to haunt you until your dying day.”
He’d look over at Heather, then back at Gurdjieff.
“And that,” he’d say to the woman with great relish as she stood there, her mouth hanging open, “is what we call closure.”
And then he would join his wife, and the two of them would march off together into the night.
That’s what he wanted to do, that’s what he’d intended to do, that’s what he needed to do.
But now, at last, he could not.
It was a fantasy, and, as Heather said to him, in Jungian therapy, fantasy often had to stand in for reality. Dreams were important, and they could help to heal; that one certainly had.
Kyle had entered Becky’s mind—with her permission—and had looked for the “therapy” sessions. He’d wanted to see for himself what had gone wrong, how it had all become so twisted, how his daughters had been turned against him.
He’d had no intention of entering Lydia Gurdjieff’s mind—he’d have rather walked barefoot through a soup of vomit and shit. But, damn it all, just as in its optical-illusion counterpart, the Necker transformation in psychospace was sometimes a matter of will and sometimes a spontaneous occurrence.
Suddenly, he was there, inside Lydia’s mind.
And it was not at all what he’d expected.
It wasn’t dark, dripping evil, corrupt and seething.
Rather, it was every bit as complex and rich and vibrant as Becky’s mind, as Heather’s mind, as Kyle’s own mind.
Lydia Gurdjieff was a person. For the very first time, Kyle actually recognized that she was a human being.
Of course, by an effort of will, he could Necker into any one of the people whose faces were moving through Lydia’s mind—she seemed to be in a grocery store just now, pushing a cart down a wide, crowded aisle. Or he could have simply visualized the solute-and-solvent metaphor and allowed himself to precipitate out, then recrystallize, extracting himself from her.
But he did not. Surprised at what he’d found here, he decided to stay a while.