Page 70 of The Crimson Lily
I clench my jaw a little, pressing my buttocks against him. I can feel how hard he is. Seeing the aftermath of his deed must arouse him.
“I missed you,” I murmur, folding my head to the side to invite him down my neck.
He kisses it, nibbles on it, sinks his teeth in the flesh above my shoulder. I let a moan escape, but I need to keep my anchor. I can’t let him sway me now; I need to get to Doctor Rossi as soon as possible.
Maksim eventually lets me go. I tell him about Chiara’s therapist, who can potentially help me with the last of my missing memories. I ask him to join me, and he immediately goes to fetch his jacket and mine. I carefully slip into my black turtleneck, the one that makes my breasts pop, and notice the craving look he gives me as he hands me my coat. He wants me. Tough luck, Maksim! I need to be somewhere. I smirk, twitching my nose at him to tease him. I think, under other circumstances, he would seek vengeance by tearing off my clothes and fuckingme until I lose consciousness, but he chuckles instead and heads for the door.
Doctor Rossi has a big belly, a thick black beard, and green eyes that can see through one’s soul. His entire office is made of wood. There are books on endless bookshelves, a little statue of a pagan goddess, and some trinkets scattered around his desk. He also has a portrait photo of a woman who looks like a daughter.
Alberto Rossi fiddles a lot with his glasses as he addresses me and Maksim, who sits in the rounded seat by the window, while I’ve been placed on the big leather sofa.
“We can start from one memory,” Doctor Rossi says.
I look at him with rounded eyes, expecting him to say more.
“I am going to borrow a technique from trauma therapy,” he announces when he notices. “It’s a derivation of EMDR, using sound instead of a visual stimulus.”
Sure, whatever. I’ll go with that. I’ll go with anything Doctor Rossi will give me. I’m skeptical but still a little curious.
“What’s EMDR?” I wonder.
“Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing, but in this case, we will be using bilateral sound.”
This all sounds so scientific. I just want him to start with the procedure and be done with it. I don’t particularly expect any results to come out of this. To be fair, being here in the office of yet another therapist mildly irritates me.
Doctor Rossi places a big headset with thick and foamy pads on my head, and instructs me to relax against the backrest. I do so, peering at Maksim to read what he must be thinking of the whole situation. He just sits there, calm, watching me like a guard dog, his piercing blue eyes fixated on me. He didn’t do his hair this morning, but he’s the most beautiful man I know in his gray shirt and black jeans.
“Before we start,” Doctor Rossi requests my attention, “I will ask you to focus on a memory connected to what you want to remember. We’ll move on from there.”
Easy. It’ll be the vision of me walking behind William de Loit in the Musei Vaticani.
“Please tell me what you see,” Doctor Rossi requests.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and lay my hands flat on my lap. “I’m in the Vatican Museums with my boss, Professor de Loit,” I describe. “I’m walking behind him.” I can see William and his frizzy red hair in my memory.
“What do you feel as you walk behind your boss?” he inquires, his voice lower than what it’s been so far.
“Oh!” I exclaim and puff some clueless air out. “Hmm, maybe…eagerness? Like…I want to follow him.”
The ticks start—a clock’s pendulum swinging from my right ear to my left.
“Focus on that feeling, then go back,” Alberto directs. “Why are you in this place?”
I let the clicks rock me back to a few moments before that memory. There is darkness, an absolute void I can’t fill, yet there is the presence of a hunch, a buried sentiment inside my past.
“I’m…” I hesitate. “I’m not sure. It feels familiar.”
“Go forward. Where are you going next?”
My voice takes over. An idea finds its way out of my hushed neurons and pushes through my consciousness. “Back home.”
It’s as if the ticks have amplified, and I’m no longer in Doctor Rossi’s office.
“We’re going back home,” I declare, certain now.
“To America?” Alberto verifies.
“Yes,” I say, sure of it, but then my mind becomes cloudy with doubt. “No. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
