008: memoriam

IT HAD BEEN TEN YEARS, but Dr. Antonia Levinsky looked roughly the same— the severe hairstyle and glasses were the same, although there was a bit more silver mixed in with the honey blonde.

Chauncy Nottingham sat in a chair, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible. He was failing miserably and had since the hypnotist had put his partner under. Gowan, for all accounts, seemed quite oblivious to the tension that had Chauncy twisting and turning his wedding ring around his finger.

"Larry, I want you to focus on the sound of my voice. This is the only thing you will hear. Now I need you to picture yourself in a room. The room is bare, except for one piece of furniture, a recliner chair. The carpeting, the walls, the ceiling, and the upholstery on the chair are all a beautiful sunny yellow. This is the Yellow Room. The chair looks so inviting that you walk over to it, sit down in it, and push it back into a reclining position." Her voice was as warm and mellow as the room she was describing. "You feel so relaxed, and as you do, you let your mind drift to a pleasant experience of the past thirty days. Tell me something that has made you happy."

"I…" Gowan's face scrunched up into an expression of concentration.

"What are you thinking of, Larry?"

"Nothing," his voice came out flat. "There's nothing at all."

"Bollocks!" Chauncy muttered, "he's got another shot at the Tag Team Titles coming up on Monday. He's facing Eden, too."

"What about your wrestling matches?" The doctor asked, repeating Chauncy's words, "you have a title match—"

"He was wearing the belt when they shot him."

The doctor frowned. "Larry? What day is it?"

"April ninth."

She exchanged a look with Chauncy. "What year?"

"2004."

"Larry? What significance does this day have for you?"

"A police officer came to the door. I was sleeping at Shawn's— in Jacksonville. He was wrestling a house show in Tampa and I was drunk on Listerine and cooking sherry. He dumped all the booze and they'd suspended my license. I had to identify the body. There were three holes in his chest— in my brother's chest."

"Larry? Your brother died in 2007."

"I saw the blood. I saw the holes. They were real and he came back in July. He came in the ring and he hit me with a chair." There were tears rolling down his face now, but he wasn't making a sound.

Chauncy was ashen as he shot to his feet, "do something!"

The doctor reached out, putting her hand on Chauncy's arm. "Larry, I need you to listen to me. I want you to relax. I want you to picture a door. In the yellow room, there is a door. Now as you stand up from the chair, there's one door ahead with a sign that says, 'The Present'. Larry, you are going to walk to the door, turn the knob, and step inside. Can you do that for me? " She paused for a moment, "step through the door. As you do, your eyes narrow down and you hesitate, because it's very dim in this room and the door closes behind you. There a strange feeling beneath your feet, because you're standing on a foam rubber pad which is three inches thick. It's like one of those expensive mattresses. Now the door is closed and your eyes slowly become accustomed to the gloom. There is a kind of a rosy glow in the room. You take a few more steps in and you decide to just sit down. Now you sit down and you feel this soft foam, three inches thick, cradling you so comfortably that you just decide to lay back."

The tears were still falling down Gowan's cheeks and he was trembling now.

The doctor licked her lips. "Larry, you're going to lie back and relax. Now all the light is gone and the room is filled with sounds. You can hear laughter. Happy laughter—"

"He's not happy. He's mocking me."

"He isn't here, Larry. You can hear Chauncy's laughter. Reach out and touch his hand. He's here with you."

Chauncy knelt down beside Gowan, reaching out to take his hand. "Who were you running from, Lawrence? Why did you disappear in Vancouver?"

"Shawn." The word came out from between his lips. "Oh… oh no. What have I done?!" Gowan seemed agitated, his voice sounding petulant and totally strange to Chauncy's ears.

"Larry, listen to me. This memory, the memory of the man who attacked you, the man who lied and faked his own death— we're going to file it away in a special place. Somewhere where it won't upset you anymore. In the room, there is a trapdoor in the floor. You're going to open the trapdoor and push that memory deep inside. Deep inside that trapdoor. Now who hit you over the head at Sunday Night Impact on August 11, 2002? Who caused your memory troubles?"

"… I don't know. It's all a blur. My very first title shot— I missed my match. My shot at the title I could be proud of…"

Her eyes locked on Chauncy's. "Very good, Larry… there's nothing wrong with your memory."

"Tell him," Chauncy urged her, "tell him that Shawn is dead."

"Larry?" The doctor spoke his name softly. "Tell me again what happened in Vancouver?"

"Chauncy and I lost even though we worked perfectly together. We went back to the hotel because I wasn't feeling well. He covered for me. We ordered breakfast from room service— it's a tradition. I ate scrambled eggs and apple juice and then we went to bed."

"Why weren't you feeling well after your loss?"

Less than twenty minutes ago he had admitted to chasing his brother's ghost out into the parking lot. He'd relived the experience, curling on the floor and sobbing in the fetal position. Chauncy had told her that the arena's security cameras had shown no evidence that he was chasing anyone. Apparently nobody had seen him, either.

"I…" he paused, trying to break past the void she'd just helped him create, "I guess I was just tired."

"Larry, now what you're going to do is leave the room and we're going to go back to the Yellow Room. You see that yellow chair again, and you'll go sit down on it again. You feel so relaxed, and as you do, you let your mind drift to a pleasant experience of the past thirty days. A pleasant experience of the past thirty days… what are you thinking of now, Larry?"

"Gold."

She said the word at the same time as Chauncy did. "Gold?"

"Yes, gold. The Tag Team Championships— we're getting another shot! I'm very happy about that because Chauncy wants it so badly. I want to give him that success. I know he feels inferior to… to…"

"Larry? Who does he feel inferior to? You can say his name. He can't hurt you because he's been dead for the last five years."

"Shawn. He thinks our team will never live up to what I had with Shawn."

"That's not true," Chauncy rested his forehead against Gowan's shoulder. "I'm happy to just be working with you again."

"I love him so much," Gowan continued in that hollow voice, "I wish I could show him how much—"

"You can tell him later, Larry. Now what we're going to do is this: we're going to count backwards from three. When I reach one you will wake up and over the next few days, your anxiety will fade. Your fragmented memory will heal itself in time. A few pieces might not come back, but that's to be expected."

"To be expected…"

"Three… you feel lighter, floating towards the surface. Two… lighter still, you can see the light. One… when I clap my hands you will wake up."

She clapped her hands loudly. Gowan's eyes snapped open and he looked right into Chauncy's face as he stretched lazily. "I love you," he whispered, lifting his hand to cup Chauncy's cheek.

"I know, Lawrence—"

"Scrambled eggs! We had scrambled eggs for dinner in Vancouver!"

Chauncy sighed, closing his eyes. "Yes, we did. I'm glad you're remembering everything now…" He swallowed hard. "Everything is fine, Lawrence. You're in perfect health and we're going to go to Little Rock and win those belts."

"Or die trying!" The easy smile was back on Gowan's lips as he wrapped his arms around his partner, giving him a warm hug. "We can do this, Skippy! I know we can!"