Going Widdershins by Sherrye Cohn

Author:Sherrye Cohn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 1950s, mental illness, paganism, psychiatry, healing arts, mental heatlh, ecofeminism, nature worship, nature as god
Publisher: Sherrye Cohn

CHAPTER 27

That evening I barely slept. I had no way of knowing whether the sodium pentothal would help or harm. What if it released more than Emilena could handle, thereby inducing a psychosis? Given her erratic, often childish behaviors, what chance would her conscious mind even have of integrating what the unconscious spewed forth? And if repressed memories were released by the drug and her physical functions did not return, what would be next?

When I arrived at Summerland early the next morning, Emilena was sitting on a straight-backed chair in her room, looking somewhat dazed. Crenshaw had just given her a light sedative and was waiting for me before proceeding.

“Morning, Sam. Why don’t you sit behind her, outside her line of vision but close enough to hear. I will conduct the conversation and she will respond only to my questions. Please don’t interject any questions of your own or it will confuse her.”

I pulled up a chair behind Emilena, watched him fill the hypodermic needle, and carefully insert it into her limp arm. While we waited for the drug to circulate through her system, neither one of us said a word. My brow began to sweat. When Crenshaw was sure she was under its influence, in a soft, soothing voice, he said, “Emilena, can you hear me?”

She did not respond. A minute later he repeated, “Can you hear me, Emilena?”

With her eyes shut tight, she shook her head as if she was trying to clear out the cobwebs. Then, in a barely audible whisper, she said “Yes…”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. She could hear!

Continuing in the same soothing tone, Crenshaw said, “Emilena, I want you to think back, way back to the time when you were a child, a young girl growing up in Riverdale. Tell me what it was like. Where did you live?”

There was a long pause during which the air seemed to leave the room. Then, faintly at first and slowly, Emilena began to speak. Even though I knew this was supposed to happen, the shock of hearing her talk was electrifying.

“I lived in a white frame house at the end of a long drive. It had a dark green front door and big boxwood bushes under the windows. Mama was so proud of them. She always said they made our house look ‘elegant’ like the big houses in town.”

Another pause. Seeing that she had finished, Crenshaw said, “Now Emilena, tell me something you remember about living in that house…something that happened.”

A long pause, then, with surprising warmth: “It was my birthday. I remember my birthday. I was twelve years old. Mama had given me a sewing machine and I was so happy. She bought cloth and patterns and we made dresses, the same dress, one for her and one for me. The cloth was yellow, my favorite color, and it was sprinkled with tiny pink rosebuds. All week we worked hard—cutting, pinning, sewing, hemming, ironing—and then on Sunday morning we wore our matching dresses to church.

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