"There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in"
-Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"
A/N. I had a couple of requests to continue my story "How the Light Gets In," so here we go. This part of the tale is quite different in tone from "Light" and it insists upon being told in the present tense, so it became a separate, but sister, story. To any psychologists or psychiatrists who might read this story, if I make any glaring errors, please let me know. Fortunately for me and my limited background in this field, there doesn't seem to be a standard practice for treating magically induced psychogenic amnesia!
Be forewarned: there's going to be some dark stuff here. Just the terror on Belle's face at the end of "The Outsider" makes it clear that whatever she was subjected to in the asylum, it had to be pretty awful, so Archie and Belle are going to have bring all that out into the light before they can treat it.
Gods, I wish Regina were here.
I'd give her a piece of my mind for the way she screwed with the lives and minds of three hundred people, many of them now my patients for the first time, suffering with issues of identity and relationship and grief—and guilt, as they begin to come to terms with their pasts. Guilt serves a purpose, of course, but people seldom know how to handle it successfully: most deny it (Gold, I'm sure, falls into this category), but some flail themselves with it, rubbing into their bleeding wounds the salt of the pain they imagine their wrongdoing has caused others. They are often stunned, even dismayed, to find that imagined pain is so much greater than the actual pain the offended party really feels.
And then there are those who actually enjoy the pain they've caused others; in their quiet moments, these people like to take out the memories of the pain they've caused and relive them blow by blow. From the look on their faces as they remember their victims' agony and fear, you'd think they were browsing a scrapbook of family photographs. It doesn't matter if that pain was actual or imagined, as long as it hurt and hurt bad. Emotional vampires, they lap up the lifesblood of their victims. We label these people social psychopaths. Regina, like her mother, is one of them.
The easiest of my patients are those who actually think Regina's curse did them a favor, removing them from lives of poverty, degradation, fear, physical and emotional agony. Loneliness. Not so surprisingly to me, most of Storybrooke falls into this category—I fall into this category. We don't deceive ourselves that Regina meant to be kind in the new lives she gave us; we know her too well for that. No, she simply didn't care enough about us to bother to devise "punishments" for us.
We who were, in effect, blessed by Regina's curse usually just need permission to feel happy, when all those around us are not; some of us (like me) need a little reassurance that we don't have to go back to our old selves. I hear the talk; I know the dwarves and some of the fairies feel a sense of obligation to return to the old land and restore it. I know they fear what will happen when the outside world discovers us—I have the same worries. But I won't go back, won't ever go back. I love this world with its conveniences, its cleanliness, its healthfulness, its medicine, its science. With the knowledge and tools we have here, I can change people's lives.
And it's with that confidence that I take on my newest case: Belle. I don't know yet how I'll help her. Obviously traditional treatments won't work: the cause of her condition is neither physical nor emotional; it's magical. I don't know much about magic, but the world's leading expert in the field made it clear, by coming to me, that in this situation magic can't fix what it broke.
Which brings me to the other reason I wish Regina were here. I need to talk to her, to find out what she did to Belle. I need the details of her "conditioning" program: the drugs, the "script," the duration and frequency of the "treatments." Most importantly, I need to know who the hell did this.
The only thing I don't need to ask is why. I know why. It's the same as with Hook's attacks: it has nothing to do with Belle. It's the coward's way of attacking a more powerful and smarter enemy.
Before I do anything for Belle, I need to know what was done to her. When my day's appointments are concluded, I collect Pongo and hurry off to the jail; if anyone can find Regina, it's Emma.
"She's not here," David tells me. He looks angry, worried—fatherly—as he explains she and Henry have gone off with Gold. I allow him to vent; once he's gotten his frustrations out, he calms himself and asks if he can help me. I explain my mission and he agrees to begin searching for Regina ("I have a few questions for her myself," he admits). I give him my cell phone number, in case he finds Regina, and add, "If you ever want to talk. . . ." He needs me as much as anyone; he has not only his own problems to deal with, but everyone else's. He bears the weight of Storybrooke on his young shoulders. As does his wife—but she's been a weekly client of mine ever since David came out of his coma.
Pongo and I make our way to the hospital. I don't own a car: I find that walking everywhere is good not just for my health but for my business. Under the guise of petting Pongo, people will begin a casual conversation that evolves into a request for an appointment. It happens this afternoon as I enter the hospital: a custodian stops me to ask if I have room in my schedule for him. Turns out he's one of the Three Bears and he's experiencing some gender confusion—he's Mama Bear.
The orderlies and nurses all stop to pat Pongo's head as we make our way down the corridor to Belle's room. Pongo is a certified therapy dog and he's visited here often since the savior arrived and time began taking its toll on Storybrooke's residents. Most people assume Pongo is my pet, but he's my business partner. He's a gateway to conversation for patients who won't or can't reveal their pain to me; his instinct for knowing just when to nudge and when to back off is spot-on. I've seen amazing things happen with patients who allow a pet into their lives.
He's going to help Belle too. I realize this as soon as we step into the room and her face lights up because she sees Pongo. She pats her knee, inviting him forward, and as an afterthought she glances at me. She strokes Pongo's ears. "Hello, doggie." Doggie—she doesn't remember his name. As she smiles at me from the corner of her eye, it's clear she doesn't remember me either. I feel a stab of sadness, and then I imagine that multiplied a thousand times and I know what it must have been like for Gold.
But now I need to know what it's like for Belle. She's an optimist and a people person; those qualities will help us immensely as we begin our work. I can understand why she was first attracted to Rumplestiltskin and then again to Gold: she's driven to help people, and her open-heartedness makes her puzzle over people as complicated and closed (closed, but not completely shut down: he's proved that to me twice now) as he is. But why he brought her into his life that first time, I'd like to find out someday. Whatever the drive was—whether it was a sudden impulse or a long thought-out decision—it must have been a struggle. He had not only his own secretiveness to overcome, but also the Dark One's paranoia and misanthropy.
She looks up at me, waiting.
"That's Pongo," I begin, as though we're meeting for the first time. "I'm Archie Hopper." I watch for signs of recognition; when none come, I continue, "I'm a psychiatrist."
"What is that?" she asks pleasantly.
"May I?" I gesture to the chair beside her bed; when she nods, I seat myself. "It means I'm a medical doctor, but I specialize in treatment of the mind." I give her a lopsided smile. "I help people cope, Belle, and I'd like to help you."
"Cope? Like with lost memories?" She plays with the satin ribbon on her bathrobe. It's her own: Ruby brought her some things from her apartment. Wise Ruby: even though Belle doesn't recognize her own clothes, she relaxes in them.
"Yes. If it's all right with you, I'd like to try to help you recover your memory."
She closes her eyes as if suddenly tired and lies back on her pillows. "Yes. Thank you. Just—no drugs, okay?"
I recall the "treatment" I saw the "health care professionals" administer to her in the vision Gold showed me. I understand her aversion: whatever drug they shot her up with, it made her nearly catatonic and highly susceptible to suggestion. "No, no drugs. Just talk. And fresh air, walks in the park, nutritious food, and time."
"I'd like that," she sighs. "I've been poked and pilled ever since I got here. I'm tired of feeling fuzzy-headed and numb." She turns her head toward me and adds cautiously, "But I don't know if I can pay you. I mean, I might have money; I don't know."
"That's taken care of."
"All right then. Thanks." A small frown creases her forehead: she wants to ask who's paying but she's not sure she wants to hear the answer. "I'll be glad to get out of here. Go home, wherever home is. Ruby tells me I have an apartment above the library. It sounds perfect. All those books just a few steps away. I can't wait to get back to it."
"In another two or three days, Dr. Whale says. The tests show there's no physical damage"—not even a scar from the bullet wound. Why, I want to know, did Gold not use this great gift of his to help people? I understand why Rumplestiltskin didn't—the Dark One held him in thrall—but Gold, once he brought magic into Storybrooke, could have been doing so much good with it. It angers me that he kept it all to himself. "There's no physical damage, but your body did undergo a trauma, so Whale's taking extra precautions."
"Yeah, he told me." She stretches her legs. "But I feel so cramped in here. They let me walk in the halls, but—" she gestures to the window, so far away from her bed.
I take the hint and stand up, gathering Pongo's leash. "There's a meditation garden behind the hospital."
"What's a meditation garden?"
"You'll see." I go to the nightstand on the other side of her bed: I notice a book lying open there, Pride and Prejudice; I know that story, so it can be a conversation starter if I need one. I open the drawer and find a pair of slacks and a pullover sweater. At the bottom of the nightstand there's a pair of shoes. I set everything on Belle's lap. "Get dressed."
We grin at each other conspiratorially; she thinks I'm giving her permission to break a hospital rule. I turn my back as she dresses, and then offer her my arm as we stroll past the nurse's station, down the hall and out the back way.
She stops at the top of the stairs and breathes in deeply. When she steps down, she's walking more freely, swinging her free arm. It's late spring and the air is full of scents and sounds. We walk across the lawn and follow a little cinder path into the garden, where the buds are beginning to open. She pauses to admire the flowers. I discover she's a very tactile person, and I wonder again about Gold; at the same time that it makes him uncomfortable, it must provide him with something he's been lacking all his life, something everyone craves: human touch. I'm beginning to see why he let her in.
She identifies each plant to me; she says she loves to garden. My heart skips a beat at this: it's a crack in the curse, a small sign that she remembers her life in the Enchanted Forest, for she has no garden here, of course. I ask questions about the plants to encourage the memory to come, but I won't point out to her the significance of what she's revealing; it would make her nervous.
After she's rattled off the names—both Latin and common—of all the plants in this garden, she pauses. "Ruby says my father is a florist." I'll have to talk to Ruby soon; she and I and everyone else who visits Belle need to be on the same page. It will be too easy to send Belle into a tailspin by bombarding her with details from both her lives. It's confusing enough for an amnesia patient to deal with one life.
"Yes," I confirm.
"He lives in this town, she says. Why hasn't he come to see me?" Her lips quiver and I reach into my pocket for the mini-pack of tissues I always carry.
"I don't know." I won't lie to her. I'll be very careful about how much information I offer, but I'll never lie to her. "Do you want to see him?"
She gives a weak chuckle. "I don't know. I can't remember a thing about him. Do you know him?"
"Not well. But when you're ready to see him, I can go talk to him for you."
"Not yet," she says quickly. "I'm assuming we must not have had the best relationship, or else he'd have been here by now." Her powers of deductive reasoning are impressive. I'll introduce her to Sherlock Holmes novels soon; they will help her exercise her mind.
"What's his name, doctor?" she blurts.
"Moe French."
She scowls. "No, that's not right."
"Maurice. 'Moe' is a. . . nickname." She's not ready yet to hear her father used to be a duke and she, a duchess.
"No," she's still scowling. "Not my father's name." She walks over to the bench beneath the rose-covered trellis and sits down, her hands on her knees. She's trying to concentrate. "There's a man who keeps coming to see me. He seems to have a knack for coming when I'm asleep; I think he gets a kick out of startling me awake. He's about five foot eight, maybe fifty years old, longish grayish-brown hair."
I sit down beside her and Pongo lays his head in her lap. "That's Mr. Gold."
She tries the name out, rolling it around in her mouth like a sip of new wine. "Mr. Gold. Mr. Gold. Ye-e-e-es. . . what's his first name?"
"I, uh, I don't know." If I say 'Rumplestiltskin' that will open a can of worms. "I've known him thirty years and he's never mentioned it. I suspect he doesn't have one."
"He does," she says confidently. "He creeps me out. Why does he keep coming?"
"He won't be coming back. He left town."
She slumps against the bench; the news has given her no relief.
"Why does he creep you out?"
"He's so intense, so insistent." She shudders. "He keeps on about"—she casts a hesitant glance at me, as if she thinks I won't believe her—"magic."
Oh no, I won't go there. Not for a long time yet. "Does he look familiar to you?"
She concentrates. "His eyes. I don't understand it. He scares me, his dark clothes, the way he stands, that cane. That cane scares me." I remember the dream catcher vision: she's been conditioned to fear that cane. "But his eyes. Yes, they seem familiar. When I put all the rest of it out of my mind and I think about just his eyes, and his voice—they're soft and kind and—they make me think of home. Wherever home is." Her eyes glisten. "But why does he look at me like that when he wants to hurt me?"
"No, Belle, he doesn't want to hurt you. Not at all. He cares about you."
"Ruby says he and I were together before the accident. She said people thought we'd get married someday."
"Yes."
"Why don't I remember that?" she buries her face in her hands and sobs. "How could I forget something so important? How could I forget someone I love? And why am I afraid of him?"
Pongo whimpers and licks her hand.
I slide my arm around her shoulders and pat her, letting her cry it out. She uses up every tissue in my mini-pack. When she has no tears left, she draws in a cleansing breath and asks the million-dollar question: "Why can't I remember him?"
"You will, Belle. I promise you, you will."
I'm so encouraged by our first session, so impressed by the strength of this woman and the power of the love she has for Gold that I'm certain we can break through her curse. Pongo and I return in the morning for our second session.
After a long shower and a hearty breakfast (supplemented by a bagel from Granny's), Belle looks quite refreshed, hardly a hospital patient at all. She is sitting up in bed, a closed book in her lap, but watching the hospital staff pass by her open door as I enter. I rap on the open door and she welcomes us in.
We chat a while about inconsequentials—the weather, hospital food, the little treats Ruby had been sneaking in from Granny's. As she pets Pongo, she remarks that she would like to have a pet of her own someday, though she never has had. I tell her all about Pongo: his quirky little habits, his favorite toys. I describe my first meeting with him, when I'd wandered into the animal shelter one morning before work, just to pass the time, and I found a playful spotted pup there who instantly chose me as a friend.
"Oh yes, I know what you mean," Belle laughs. "We went into the shelter once too." The tilt of her head informs me the other person in her "we" is Gold. She suddenly takes her hand away from Pongo. She shrinks against herself. "How am I remembering that?" Tears gather in her eyes. "How can I remember that but I can't remember my own name, or his?"
"It's good, Belle. Don't force it and don't get discouraged that you're not remembering more. We're making good progress. I'm very encouraged."
"It's like. . . like sticking your hand into a murky river and trying to grab out a fish."
"One fish at a time, Belle. We have plenty of time. Just a few days ago, you went though a traumatic experience."
"I don't remember much of that night," she admits. "It was so dark, out there on the road. Confusing."
"Have you been sleeping all right, these past couple of nights?"
"I think so." She seems to have difficulty recalling even that.
"No nightmares that you can recall?"
"No."
"Tomorrow, you can go home, where you'll have all your things around you, your books, your clothes, your friends, and you can start to get back to normal. I was thinking you might like to have a roommate for a little while, to help you out: Ruby would like to stay with you. What do you think?"
She gives it thought. "It would be nice to not be alone."
Ah, Belle, if you only knew. Gold could be such a big help in your recovery, if only Regina hadn't poisoned your mind against him. "That's fine, then. In the meantime. . . Dr. Whale has been giving you some medication to help you sleep, but it's best if we move you off the medication soon. I can give you a more natural way to relax and get some quality rest. Shall we try?"
She agrees to a trial. I won't tax her, but I do want to wean her off the sleeping pills and meditation could help open up her mind. I teach her how to breathe properly—most people don't, you know, and so they don't get full benefit of the air they take into their lungs. Afterward, she says she feels more relaxed already. That's enough for one day, I say; I'll leave her now to read and rest, but tomorrow I'll be here with Ruby, right after breakfast, to take her home.
And later, we will see what hypnosis can do, for I have hope now that her memories—both those from Storybrooke and those from the Enchanted Forest—exist, down deep somewhere.
I spread word and her acquaintances agree to cooperate: we will make no effort to try to jog her memory. Any questions she asks, we will answer honestly but simply. The key, in these first few days, is to build her confidence, restore a routine to her life, give her a sense of normalcy and help her relax.
She seems to trust everyone around her, even Whale, but around Ruby she demonstrates a level of ease that she has with no one else. When Ruby, Pongo and I show up the next morning, she's already dressed and packed. Whale checks her vitals one last time, then signs her chart and gives her his business card with instructions to call if she experiences headaches, blurred vision or any other problems.
We walk her back to the library, staying just a half-step behind: she leads us, apparently remembering the way, but when we pause at the crosswalk to wait for the traffic, Belle's stride and her concentration falter and she panics momentarily. She can't understand why we'd come to the library when our destination is her apartment. Her forehead puckers; she fumbles in her pockets as though seeking something that would indicate her address, and when she finds only a pair of keys, her eyes cloud. She stares at the keys as though they might talk to her if she listens closely enough, and then she notices the keychain, which holds a tiny charm in the shape of a teacup. Gulping back tears, she yanks the charm from the chain and throws it into the gutter without explanation.
Ruby looks to me with worry, but I shake my head: we should not intervene. In the long run, this reaction to the charm—a gift whose giver we can easily guess—could be a positive sign: a memory has been provoked. Ruby rescues the charm and slips it into her pocket.
"Where is it?" Belle's frantic eyes search the front and sides of the library but she can't find the stairs to her apartment. "Where do I live?"
Passing Pongo's leash to Ruby, I place a comforting hand on Belle's back and direct her to the flight of stairs at the back. "Your home is upstairs, Belle," I said. "Shall we go in?"
She nods and wipes her face with her palms. "I'm sorry. It's so hard not knowing." We climb the stairs and she opens the door.
She stands on the threshold, searching the room for something, anything familiar. Her keys dangle from her finger as she deliberates.
The door opens upon her living room. The apartment is quite small and the living room barely can accommodate her couch, her rocking chair, an entertainment center with a tv and stereo, a coffee table, an overflowing bookcase, and a desk piled high with more books. She drops her keys into a small dish on the desk and takes off her sweater. I quickly launch a conversation to distract her; as she answers me, she moves automatically to a coat closet just behind the front door and she places her sweater on a hook without even looking. Through muscle memory she knows this place, and she feels safe here. This will be a good place to heal.
Ruby shifts her suitcase from hand to hand, and Belle catches on. "The bedroom's over there, Ruby," she points. "You'll sleep there. I'll sleep on the couch."
"Will you be comfortable?" Ruby frowns. "I can sleep out here—"
"I'll be fine," Belle waves a hand. "See? The couch is plenty big enough. Doctor-"
"Archie," I correct her. "You've always called me Archie."
"Archie, would you like something to drink? I don't know what I have." She patters off to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. "Eww." She pours a quart of milk down the sink and tosses the jug into the recycling bin. "I have orange juice, root beer, tea."
"I'd like some tea," I say, seating myself in the rocking chair. Pongo lies at my feet and promptly falls asleep.
"Ruby?"
"Root beer sounds yummy." The waitress drops onto the couch.
Belle pours the drinks and carries them to us. She hesitates before she hands Ruby the root beer; she stares at the glass.
"What is it?" Ruby asks. "Do you have a headache?" Whale has commissioned Ruby to watch Belle for any symptoms of injury.
"No, no," Belle collects herself and gives Ruby the glass with a small sigh. "I was just thinking: I don't like root beer."
"Oh." Ruby and I piece it together at the same time: the root beer must've been for her most frequent guest.
Belle sits down beside Ruby and sips tea slowly, lost in thought.
"What do you remember about Mr. Gold?" I make my tone gentle, giving Belle permission to refuse to answer if she doesn't want to—or can't.
She shakes her head in frustration. "Nothing. Nothing." But her eyes move across the room to the entertainment center, where there's a photo of the two of them, bundled in winter coats, leaning into each other and smiling for the camera (or each other). There's snow on their coats and their cheeks are red with the cold. I've never seen him smile like that—with his eyes. I wonder who took the photo—who he allowed to see him so unguarded.
She clears her throat nervously.
I wander over to the entertainment center and look at her CD collection. It's eclectic, something from every genre: a crash course in this world's music. She seems to have settled at some point on country rock, starting with John Denver and the Eagles and moving into the new millennium with the Dixie Chicks, Blake Shelton, Carrie Underwood and Tim McGraw. It seems a likely match, this music that's soft but confident, insightful and sincere. Like her.
But off to the side there's a stack of psychedelic and hard rock: Hendrix, Joplin, Led Zepplin, the Stones, the latter-60s Beatles, Steppenwolf, the Troggs. I pick up the top disk: "'Wild Thing.'"
Ruby nods approvingly. "My girl likes to rock. Wait'll I introduce you to some of my music. We'll have fun, Belle."
Belle puzzles. "Those aren't mine."
Ruby's eyebrows shoot up. "Gold? Gold listens to Hendrix?"
"I. . . I think. . ." Her eyes glaze as she latches onto a half-thought. "I think yes, but it's a secret."
"Are some of these his too?" I ask of the DVDs lined up neatly on the bottom shelf.
Her face suddenly freezes. "I don't—I don't know."
I catch Ruby's eye and she takes my meaning. She quickly changes the subject. "So, maybe we could go to the movies tonight, Belle, if you're up to it. There's this indie film I've been wanting to see about a has-been rock star who's about to be deported. Unless you've already seen it?"
She closes her eyes painfully. "I don't know. I. . . we went to some movies, I think. . . ." She rests her hand over her eyes.
I need to take the pressure off her. I tell Ruby I saw that movie last Saturday and thought the lead actor should've been nominated for an Academy Award. Ruby and I begin to talk about other Oscar screw-ups, and then Belle blurts, "He likes to pour a box—no, two boxes of Junior Mints into the popcorn and shake them up so they mix together."
Belle raises her head from the couch and grins triumphantly. "It's there, Belle. Your memories are still intact, just inaccessible," I assure her.
She needs praise and we give it, but we're careful not to be effusive; that would be condescending. Ruby knows these things instinctively; I find myself looking at her more closely, past the stylish clothes, the red streak she's painted down her black hair. She's more perceptive than anyone gives her credit for.
I change the subject. It's not wise to linger on any one memory; it's too much like touching a hot stove. We begin to talk about the library and Belle brightens; she wants us to tell her the plans for the grand opening, which would have taken place on the first of the month. Ruby is able to describe Belle's plans: there was to have been a ribbon cutting, with Acting Sheriff Nolan doing the honors; then a tour of the building, with Belle's techie assistant, a high-schooler named Hugh, demonstrating the bank of brand-new public computers; then a puppet show, story times, a performance by the middle school choir, and a mag—
Ruby doesn't get to finish her sentence. Belle gasps at the half-word and her fingernails dig into the arm of the couch. She draws her knees up to her chest and the blood drains from her face. I reach over and grasp her wrist: her pulse is elevated. "Breathe, Belle, breathe," I model the technique I taught her earlier. She gasps, "Mage, mage."
Gradually we bring her breathing under control. Her feet return to the floor; her fingers release the couch. I glance at Ruby, and Ruby nods: she understands that this reaction could come again at any time, and when (not if) it does, she is to walk Belle through these same steps.
Belle gulps her tea.
"Better now?"
She nods.
"What did you see, Belle?"
"A memory," she admits, her voice wretched. "I know now why I'm so afraid of him." She looks to Ruby, who's perplexed.
"Afraid of Gold?" Ruby asks.
Belle nods again. "I'm afraid because he attacked me."
"Attacked?" Ruby has no great fondness for Gold, but her tone is one of doubt.
Belle lowers her head and her voice. "Many times. Here and there."
"There?" I ask.
"The other place. The dark place." I think she means the Dark Castle. We're in deep, murky waters now; perhaps we should back out. I study her eyes for a clue of how to proceed, but before I can take the lead in this conversation, Belle fixes me with a hard gaze.
"With his magic. He raped me."