Free Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy by Barbara Paul Page B

quickly.
    â€œUsually additional sessions to repeat the suggestion. Repetition of clue words.”
    â€œClue words? Then it could be done over the phone?”
    â€œPossibly.” The psychiatrist frowned. “It’s risky, though. Depends on the subject. There have been experiments with reinforcing suggestion by mailing the subject postcards with the clue words written on them. Worked for a couple of weeks, but then lost its effectiveness.”
    â€œBut a voice on a phone?” Gus insisted.
    â€œWould have more authority than a written word,” Snooks agreed. “It would have to be the same voice that originally planted the suggestion, I’d think. These things are so variable—it doesn’t work the same way with everybody.”
    Gus nodded and turned away, thinking.
    Megan came over and stood in front of the psychiatrist. “Snooks,” she said in a small voice, “what are we going to do? What in the hell are we going to do?”
    Snooks had been dreading the question. “I’m going to do some reading. There must be literature on the subject I’m not aware of. Then maybe I can take you down, no, I mean back—oof. I’m having trouble thinking.”
    Megan looked closely at the psychiatrist: her face was gray and pinched. “I can see why,” Megan said. “You’re so tired you’re about to fall over.” Snooks must be at least sixty, and she wasn’t in what you could call a low-stress profession. Megan wondered what time her day had started. “Go home, Snooks. Go to bed. We’re not going to solve this tonight. Go home.”
    The older woman gave a tired sigh. “Yes, you’re right. We’re not going to solve it tonight. I think a small moratorium would do us all good. I need to think. Gus, you’re a nice young man and I’m glad to know you. Now I think I will go home.”
    â€œDo you want me to drive you?” Gus asked.
    â€œOh no, I’m not that tired. But thanks. Good night, Megan. I’ll call you next week.”
    At the door Gus turned to Megan. “Are you all right?”
    She smiled sadly. “Still in a state of shock. But yes, Gus, I’m all right. Don’t worry.”
    â€œIn that case I think I’ll run along too. Hold up, Snooks, I’ll walk down with you.”
    The two of them descended the stairs in silence, each caught up in private thoughts. When they reached the lobby, Gus put a hand on the psychiatrist’s arm. “I know you’re tired, but I wish you’d come down to my place for a few minutes. There’s something Megan doesn’t know—something I think I ought to tell you about.”
    Snooks was instantly alert. She followed him down the six steps to the basement apartment. “All right now, what is this mysterious something you want to tell me about?”
    â€œWrong numbers,” Gus said, and told her.
    Saturday night Megan went out with a friend, determined to forget her troubles and have a good time—and she did. Sunday Gus was in an exuberant mood all day long because The New York Times had printed an acrostic puzzle that week. Monday morning Snooks woke up rested and refreshed and raring to go.
    Later that same Monday morning Megan sat in Mr. Ziegler’s office listening to just about the sweetest words she’d ever heard.
    â€œWhat I’m about to say is confidential,” Mr. Ziegler started out. “It goes no farther than this room.” Megan nodded her understanding. “Mr. Unruh is going to be assuming a new position,” he went on, “and the board wants my recommendation for his replacement as vice president of marketing and distribution. I want to know if you’re interested.”
    â€œI’m interested,” Megan said firmly. You bet your ass I’m interested .
    Mr. Ziegler gave her the kind of smile people use when congratulating themselves on their own perspicacity. He