She picked it up, but couldn't make out what was written on it. It wasn't Japanese, nor was it English. At the bottom of the paper, on a new line, something short was written. A name, perhaps? That meant this was definitely a message from someone. She gave up trying to figure out what language it was written in herself and took a photo of it with her smartphone camera. However, even with the power of Google Translate— which she had absolute faith in—it seemed unable to decipher the language written in this note. She returned to her original train of thought. As usual, she had been the last to leave her clinic and the first to arrive this morning. This note meant someone had snuck in and left it here. She was beginning to feel frightened. Could there be a possibility that she had written this note herself? Did she have something she wanted to tell herself using a language she didn't know? She had lost her memory, and moreover, had written something in a language incomprehensible to herself. To want to hide something so deeply from herself, yet still leave herself a note—could something so paradoxical even exist? Kery Rowden, LCSW from the Center for Psychoanalytic Study - Houston Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the desk. Mother quickly stood, slipping the paper into the writing box, a gift from Father. “Darling,” she said coolly. “What are you doing here? Where is Irena?” “She’s gone out.” “Out? What about your lessons?” “I don’t know. We were in the library when Mrs. Leyden brought a note for her. She read it and her face got very red and she said we will stop here for today. And she left.” “Left the house?” “Yes. I saw her walk past under the window. She was wearing her coat but not her hat.” “And she didn’t say where she was going?” “No. She just left. What were you writing?” “Don’t be so nosy. Go and ask Mrs. Leyden to come here.” Her voice changed then. “Darling,” she murmured sweetly. There was a flush creeping up her neck. Babette Saebisch, DPG / German Psychoanalytic Society Her attention was drawn to a piece of paper on the table. Rahel had left her a note. She hesitantly drew the paper towards her, but then didn't look at it, instead letting her gaze wander over the desk and the windowsill to the outside. The Santa Ana winds moved the delicate curtains so gently that they could almost have been perceived as gentle, had they not brought with them this paralysing, yet unbearably nerve-wrecking heat.
65
Made with FlippingBook Annual report maker