Page 71 of An Immaculate Deception

And me. I am the repressed thought.

“What can be done about it?” I ask.

“There is one technique most effective at retrieving repressed thoughts. The alienist induces a mesmeric trance, and the patient enters a state where they are neither awake nor asleep, neither conscious nor unconscious. It is called hypnotism. From this place, latent knowledge can surface.”

I lean in. Could this possibly work on Mother?

Mother’s expression darkens as she listens. Maybe this will trigger something, a fleeting recognition, a spark of self-awareness. When she speaks, it is with an intensity I recognize. “And what is the treatment for the affliction of modern men who worship knowledge instead of God?”

She pauses to let the forceful words hang, and fixes us with a stare that stirs within me deep-rooted feelings of guilt. Her voice is now full of conviction, harsh and terrifying. Her eyes flash with might. Her jaw squares.

She sounds like herself again.

“ ‘You were dead in your transgression and sins,’ ” she recites, “ ‘in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient,’ ” she continues, reciting a biblical passage. “All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our flesh, and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath.”

I am stunned. For the first time, it feels that Mother is here.

“Ephesians,” I mutter, having memorized all of her favorite Bible quotes from how frequently she recites them.

She nods. But her gaze scrapes over the surface of me.

“When people find themselves lost,” Mother says, “it’s always because of separation from God. That is the cause of all ills, and love of God is the cure. The idea that lost memories from childhood have the power to cause diseases in the mind is only the folly of modern men who think themselves beyond good and evil.”

When she looks at me there isn’t a spark of recognition, though I seek it, hope for it still. Her real personality flashed, yet the memories remain absent.

Doctor Lobo switches topics and Strange Madalena returns with her polite smile, and soon she’s back to laughing at every little comment he makes.

I am shaken to the core.

Now I know—Mother is still in there somewhere.

It is not only the past nineteen years of her life and me that are trapped in her subconscious. It is Mother herself.

43

I watch the flickering candle on the mantel, its long narrow flame licking at the air. I’m in my room, restless. My thoughts are racing. Strange Madalena’s dramatic laughter echoes in my mind and reminds me of Joaquina. She sat across from me at dinner and stared right through me. I didn’t exist. Her smile seems more joyful than Mother’s. Why? What does she have to be so happy about?

She seems happy enough believing that I am my father. If I were not here at all—if it was just her and Lobo and the servants—she would be plenty happy.

Happier than if she remembered, maybe.

Lobo said her mind reverted back to an easier, less turbulent time. Why did that bother me so? The feeling tugs at me, a dull ache.

A less turbulent time…A time before me.

Is that why her mind erased the memories? To give Mother a second chance at happiness?

I sit up, suddenly wide-awake and feverish.

What if when Mother finally remembers me and the forgotten years, she feels worse? Like waking up from a lovely dream, only to be crushed by the weight of reality?

What if it wasn’t simply the accident that ruined her life but me—choosing to keep me instead of giving me away to the orphanage like her family wanted?

I take the candle and step out into the corridor. I go into Mother’s room, expecting that by some miracle Joaquina will be there, sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair. Tucking hibiscus petals behind her ear. Glancing over her shoulder at me with flushed cheeks and eyes full of adoration.

Joaquina cared for me. Her feelings were real. I tried so hard to be rid of her, I didn’t really believe I ever would be.

The room is encrusted in deep shadows and cobwebs. But the lavender-rose perfume scent lingers. I spin around. I cross the corridor, descend the stairs, and step through the kitchen. I knock on the door of her quarters.