Free The Hypnotist by M.J. Rose

As if that act will alleviate their suffering.”
    “Their suffering? Are you sure?”
    “As opposed to what?”
    “As opposed to your suffering?”
    He didn’t answer.
    “Dreams can be tricky,” she said. “Are you a religious man?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Did you have any religious training? Even if you turned your back on it?”
    “None. My father was Protestant and my mother is Jewish, but neither of them practiced.” He was telling her about himself again, but he needed to give her answers and in all the years he’d posed as the appraiser, he’d never invented this part of Ryan’s backstory.
    “Do you believe in life after death?”
    He answered almost before she finished asking. “No. Do you?”
    In traditional therapy he knew it would be unusual for a therapist to answer, but this was anything but traditional.
    “I don’t believe in the Christian view of heaven or hell, but I do believe in the soul living on after our bodies die. You must, too, a little, or you wouldn’t have sought me out.”
    “I’ve tried everything else.”
    “The last resort.” She laughed. “I’m used to that. But back to you. Have you lost many people you were close to, James?”
    “I never thought much about reincarnation before.” If she noticed he’d ignored her question, she didn’t show it.
    “Are you in some kind of personal hell? Professional hell?”
    “Other than what’s going on with these drawings? No.”
    “Are you married? Living with anyone?”
    He shook his head. “Not married. I lived with a woman for the past few years, but we broke up a few months ago, and I’m okay with it. No one I care about is ill or in any kind of trouble.”
    “Do you get any relief from the intensity of your feelings or the headaches once a drawing is done?”
    “Yes, the headaches are usually gone.”
    “For how long?”
    “Two hours. Sometimes longer.”
    “Do you take meds for the pain?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do they offer relief?”
    “Usually, at least for a few hours.”
    “This is a very obvious question, but have you looked into the possibility that you’re having a reaction to your pain meds?”
    “I wish. But no, we checked that out already.”
    As she wrote in her notebook, Lucian studied her. She reminded him of the women pre-Raphaelite painters favored, and he understood why painters like Rossetti and Burne-Jones had been attracted to this type of woman. She could carry bigger themes, grander emotions.
    Dr. Bellmer looked up and, self-conscious that he’d been caught staring, Lucian pointed to the framed drawing on the wall right behind her. “That looks like an authentic William Blake. Is it yours?”
    “No, it belongs to the foundation. One of the directors, Dr. Malachai Samuels, is an avid collector.”
    “I recognize his name.”
    She nodded. “He gets his fair share of press.”
    “Does he only collect Blake?”
    “No. He collects all kinds of things, from playing cards to antique pistols.” She capped her pen. “James, I’d like to talk to you about hypnosis. It can be a shortcut to the kinds of unconscious memories that are very often at the root of our problems. Have you had any experience with hypnosis?”
    “Yes, with pain management self-hypnosis.”
    “Where did you learn it?”
    Again, the truth was easier and harmless.
    “Here in the city—at the NYU pain center.”
    “For your headaches?”
    “No. It was a while ago.”
    “When?”
    “I was hurt when I was a kid.”
    “Can you tell me about it?”
    He could remember every moment of that evening twenty years ago and relive it without making any effort. “I don’t remember much. I was in an accident, lost six pints of blood and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
    “You’re talking about dying pretty casually. It’s an extremelytraumatic experience to go through. I’m so sorry you had to experience that.”
    “It was a long time ago…it feels like it happened to someone else.”
    “An event like