Factoring Humanity

“But there are many psychologists who believe that that simply can’t happen — that there’s no mechanism for repression, and so when traumatic memories suddenly appear years or decades after the supposed event, they have to be false memories. We’ve been debating this in psychology for a quarter-century or more now, without ever coming up with a solid answer.”

Kyle took a deep breath, then let it out slowly “So what does it come down to? Humans can either shut out memories of traumatic events that really did happen — or we can have vivid memories of things that never occurred?”

Heather nodded. “I know; neither is an appealing idea. No matter which one you accept — and, of course, there’s a chance that both happen at different times — it means that our memories, and our sense of who we are and where we came from, are much more fallible than we’d like to believe.”

“Well, I know for a fact that Becky’s memories are bogus. But what I don’t understand is where such memories could come from?”

“The most common theory is that they’re implanted.”

“Implanted?” He said it as if he’d never heard the word before.

Heather nodded. “In therapy. I’ve seen the basic principle demonstrated myself, with children. You have a child visit you every day for a week. On the first day you ask him how things went at the hospital after he cut his finger. He says, ‘I never went to the hospital.’ And that’s true, he didn’t. But you ask him again tomorrow, and the next day and the next day. And by the end of the week, the child is convinced that he did go to the hospital. He’ll be able to tell you a detailed, consistent story about his trip there — and he’ll really believe it happened.”

“Kind of like Biff Loman.”

“Who?”

“Death of a Salesman. Biff wasn’t a young kid, but as he says to his father, ‘You blew me so full of hot air, I could never stand taking orders from anybody.’ He really came to be convinced by his father that he’d had a much better job in a company than the lowly position he’d actually held.”

“Well, that can happen. Memories can be implanted, even just through suggestion and constant repetition. And if a therapist augments that with hypnosis, really unshakable false memories can be created.”

“But why on earth would a therapist do that?”

Heather looked grim. “To quote an old Psych Department joke, there are many routes to mental health, but none so lucrative as Freudian analysis.”

Kyle frowned. He was quiet for several seconds, apparently contemplating whether to ask another question. And at last he did. “I’m not trying to be argumentative here, but your endorsement of my innocence has been less than ringing. Why do you think Becky’s memories might be false?”

“Because her therapist suggested that my father might have molested me.”

“Oh,” said Kyle. And then, “Oh.”

8

After Kyle had gone home, Heather sat in the darkened living room, thinking. It was past time she went to bed — she had a 9:00 A.M. meeting tomorrow.

Damn, maybe Kyle’s insomnia was contagious. She was bone-tired but too nervous to sleep.

She’d said something — words tumbling out without thinking — to Kyle, and now she was trying to decide if she’d really believed it.

But those things — a war, a car exploding, even a child dying — they are common enough occurrences. They’re not unthinkable; indeed, there’s not a parent alive who doesn’t fret about something happening to one of their children.

But it wasn’t an undefined “something” that had happened to Mary. No, Mary had taken her own life, slitting her wrists. Heather hadn’t been expecting that, or even fearing it. It had been as shocking to her as… as… well, as what Eileen Franklin had supposedly seen, the rape and murder of her childhood friend by her own father.

But Heather hadn’t walled off the memories of what had happened to Mary.

Because…

Because, perhaps, suicide was not unthinkable to her.

Not, of course, that Heather had ever contemplated taking her own life — not seriously anyway.

No, no, that wasn’t it. But suicide had touched her life once before in the past.

She did not often think of it.

In fact, she hadn’t thought of it in years.

Had the memories been repressed? Had recent stress brought them to light?

No. Surely not. Surely she could have recalled it all at any time and had just been choosing not to.

It had been so long ago, and she had been so young. Young and foolish.

Heather had been eighteen, fresh out of high school, leaving the small town of Vegreville, Alberta, for the first time, coming halfway across the continent to giant, cosmopolitan Toronto. She’d tried so many new things that wild first year. And she’d taken an introductory astronomy course — she’d always loved the stars, crystal points above the flat prairie sky.