Settling The Past

By Fran Steinmark

How does one react to the news of the death of one’s child?
When Shayna Miller was informed of such a passing, her family and friends believed she was coping well enough. Over time, however, her self-deployed emotional safeguards begin to unravel and everything, including her judgment, self-confidence, her marriage and her relationship with her surviving adult children, starts to fall apart.
Shayna suspects that the hospital where her son, Jackson, died bears some culpability for the tragic event. Her suspicions become intensified by the hospital’s unwillingness to communicate openly about this matter with her and Shayna’s husband Phil.
At Phil’s urging to seek medical treatment, Shayna consults with Dr. Brothym, who introduces her to past-life regression therapy. Her subsequent transcendental visits bring Shayna to ancient Egypt, the Industrial Revolution in Europe, Australia, and to the death camps of World War II. The notion of justice is a theme that keeps repeating throughout these sessions.
Gradually, but not without additional exacerbating incidents, Shayna learns how to release the monumental pain she has suppressed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fran Steinmark
• Release date: Jun 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9780978927202

Fran Steinmark

Fran Steinmark is an author, artist, attorney, and social activist by profession. A mother of three children and a grandmother to two young boys, she lives with her husband in Florida.

Book preview

Chapter One

Boca Raton, Florida, December 2008

She’d lost her way again in the very same manner her impatience with a slow talker would often lead her astray. Oh, you don’t say? My, my; what a shame. Set the oven for three hundred fifty degrees and bake for forty-five minutes. Off her mind had gone, jumping from one fantastical sphere to the next without so much as an astronaut’s tether to pull her in. Stop off for milk and eggs. Call the nail salon and make an appointment for next Thursday. As the sounds of Dr. Brothym’s words landed on her eardrums, Shayna flitted amongst the brainwaves of her cerebrum, managing to snag snippets of what was being said. To an observer, it would seem she was being attentive and making a concerted effort to hold up her end of the discussion. Hmmm, that is truly something to think about!

Lately, Shayna had accumulated many frequent flyer miles on her mental flights away from her husband, Phil. Whenever he would babble on about the poor quality of imports from China or the devaluation of European Euros, she would feign interest while staring at his lips as if he were a character in a Charlie Chaplin film. She believed she had uttered uh-huh at all of the appropriate moments, but her thoughts all the while would be jumping around like kindergarteners in a playground. Make believe his every third word is a croak, but try not to laugh.

You’re not listening to me, Phil would complain.

Yes I am, she would lie.

You’re spacing out again. That’s plain out insulting, and I resent it!

Greece and Italy. You’re worried if they won’t buckle their belts because of their over-spending.

That was a lucky guess.

And the Federal Reserve is going to make an announcement, but it doesn’t matter what the announcement will be because the market will react no matter what.

Those weren’t exactly my words.

You owe me an apology. They were close enough.

I stand by my assertion: you were just letting me mouth off. You weren’t in the least bit interested in what I was saying.

Talking about money isn’t my thing. I can’t help it if I find what you do to be downright boring.

Shayna heard Dr. Brothym say something about intent and materializing one’s dreams, but he spoke so softly she wasn’t sure if she had imagined the words. She considered asking him to repeat himself, but she had done so a number of times already. He might think her rude. For sure, he’s swallowing his words again. Didn’t anyone ever train you to enunciate? In their last visit, she had fibbed and informed him of a hearing disability: You will have to speak up much louder if it’s not too much trouble. I find myself only hearing just a little of what you’re saying. He told her he would do his best to make sure she understood him, to which she had nodded her head in response, but even then had to piece together what his reply had been.

Shayna swung her leg nervously back and forth until her shoe inadvertently fell to the floor. Oops. She stood to slip it securely back onto her foot, straightened her shirt, and re-parked her rear end into the oversized wing-backed armchair. As her black sateen pants scraped against the padded leather cushion, it made a squeaking sound that embarrassed her; she looked away from Dr. Brothym, hoping he would understand the true nature of the noise. That’s not what you might think, Herr Doktor. You’re the one who had the smelly lunch!

The office in which Shayna was seated was comfortable enough, although its air was tainted with the scent of tuna fish salad. The traditional-style furniture upholstered in tones of cordovan and browns rendered the atmosphere of his office as old-world and clubby with a tincture of a lunchtime coffee shop, which differed starkly from its sleek, sterile, monochromatic waiting area.

Arriving thirty minutes before her appointment time, Shayna had sat on the straight-legged bench fidgeting anxiously, unimpressed with the array of teen and gossip magazines made available on the glass-top table and bothered by the scrunched up gum wrappers deposited on top of them. She had tried to appear indifferent to the conversation taking place between a man and woman sitting across from her a few feet away, but it was impossible not to hear the loud barbs the couple had been throwing at each other.

This is such a waste of my time; I’ll make you pay for this! the man had threatened, tapping his penny loafer nervously on the floor.

Lower your voice, for God’s sake. This is a public place! the woman had pleaded while sending a contrite look in Shayna’s direction. Shayna had smiled as kindly as she could in return. Definitely a face job done out of desperation and gone awry. No way do the wrinkles on her neck match the tautness of her cheeks. Lady, you should have skipped the surgery and gone straight to see a lawyer.

The tenor of the couple’s remarks was curt and unfriendly, and Shayna had pieced together a fictitious account of the issues that had brought them for counseling. She obviously caught him fooling around with a young chick; he grew tired of her nagging; he has a gambling problem; she has debilitating arthritis and is growing feebler each day. She had concluded her scenario by conceding that people were basically the same wherever you go. Aren’t we really all just a bunch of made up stories?

So engrossed in the drama unfolding before her, she had not heard her name being called three times, which had prompted the receptionist to finally step into the waiting area to tap her on the shoulder. Accordingly, she had then jumped up and walked hastily to meet with Dr. Brothym. As she had passed into the corridor of offices, the receptionist had called out again, requesting she deposit her still dripping umbrella in the receptacle by the front entranceway, but Shayna had chosen not to comply. How can I be sure Mr. and Mrs. Grumpy won’t steal it? They might seem nice enough—well, she does. I’m not so sure about him. Why can’t the umbrella just dry out on the floor in Dr. Brothym’s office? What’s the stinkin’ big deal?

The receptionist, however, had been persistent. She approached Shayna and tried to dislodge the umbrella from her grip. Shayna, captivated by the small, brownish mole above the receptionist’s lips, had increased her resistance. She should have it taken off. Doesn’t she know about Mohs surgery? It’ll be waiting for you when you’re done, the receptionist had assured her after successfully twisting the umbrella free. Okay, yes ma’am; Miss Bossy Pants!

She scanned the four corners of Dr. Brothym’s office hoping to zero in on an object that would grab her attention away from his piercing eyes. Except for a dwarf-sized Christmas tree sitting on the credenza, which had not been in place on her previous visits, everything seemed as if it were part of a well thought out arrangement. A clock sat next to the tree; its rotating pendulum twisting to the right and then to the left drew her interest for a while. She considered whether Dr. Brothym preferred this to a swinging fob watch to put his patients under. You are getting sleepy; very, very sleepy.

Although the Venetian shades had not been shut, there was very little light entering the room and Shayna wondered why the overhead fixture or lamp had yet to be turned on. He should have lit a candle to mask that dreadful odor; at the very least, it would have cheered things up. Why do these offices always have to seem so serious and dull? Nope, better nix the candlelight. Some dopey litigious patient might presume the doctor was coming on to her. He looks like a happily married middle-aged man, though. Why would some idiot have to misconstrue an innocent gesture like burning a candle? A thick, cylindrical one would work just fine. Should I suggest this? But what if he thinks I’m coming on to him?

Shayna took note of a single strand of ornamental lights draped haphazardly across the silver coated twigs of the holiday tree and decided the tree would have been better off without its half-hearted embellishment. She speculated if Dr. Brothym had been trying to downplay his own religious beliefs and whether any thought had been given to displaying a menorah alongside the tree. Just to be correct, there’d have to be a kinara for Kwanzaa as well. Nope, couldn’t leave the atheists out. Something would have to be added for them, too—especially at this time of year.

Shayna was jolted into attention when she heard Dr. Brothym clear his throat. She immediately brought her hand up to cover her right cheek, which prompted Dr. Brothym to issue a quizzical look and jot something on a nearby notepad.

He’s scribbling. I can’t read his letters upside-down. I’m sorry, she hastily apologized. Where was I? Oh, yes: With the journey beginning and ending in Madrid; we spent approximately three and a half weeks in Spain.

Dr. Brothym scrolled the wheel upwards on his laptop mouse, presumably searching for a word or paragraph in the notes he had already taken. So, you stayed all that time in the one country? he asked.

She wondered why he had thought it important enough to retain the exact length of her vacation in his notes. Unless he’s actually reading some other chart with some sexy stuff in it, or perhaps he’s shopping on Amazon, making believe he’s listening to me. When I first came to see him last year, he seemed much more attentive. This time around he’s peering more into his laptop and giving me less feedback. He’s definitely holding back for some reason. Man, that’s got to be difficult. If I were in his shoes, I would want to jump in all over the place.

So, you stayed all that time in the one country? Dr. Brothym repeated his question, this time raising the volume of his voice.

No. As soon as we left Toledo, Phil and I drove immediately southwest into Sintra.

And Sintra is in Portugal?

Yes. We stopped at a few spots in Portugal as we wound our way down the coastline to Faro. We visited the Pena Palace and the Belem Tower, marveling at the limestone and basalt, mosaic-tiled sidewalks along the way. Have you ever been there? No? It was pitifully poor at that time. The roofs were a beautiful shade of pink. It was the first thing I noticed as we crossed the Vasco da Gama into Lisbon. Phil got us a little lost trying to find the city, blaming it on me as usual, but we did get to traverse that massive bridge, which was an amazing sight. Don’t know if much has changed since then. From Faro, we returned back into Spain, passing by Gibraltar as a side trip. I wonder if the place Faro has anything to do with the grain farro?

Pardon me? Dr. Brothym asked, sitting less than four feet away and framed in a red, zippered, knitted sweater. As he arched his eyebrows, Shayna realized how strongly the doctor resembled Mr. Rogers, the host of a children’s television program who had died five years earlier. Kindly and always wearing cardigans, but no tawny blonde hair like this guy.

Oh, I made a farro salad last night for dinner and the connection just came to my mind between Faro and farro, she clarified, suppressing an urge to giggle. Isn’t that something? Out of the blue, I just so happened to choose a Martha Stewart recipe with farro in it. How synchronistic is that? And of course, there’s pharaoh as well—the Egyptian kind.

Yes, Dr. Brothym responded, I know what you’re referring to. And he began to tap furiously on the keyboard, entering comments after her most recent digression. Shayna wished she could see through to the front of the screen. What is he writing now? Is it about what I just mentioned? Does he think I’m nuts? That’s why most people come to see him; why wouldn’t he think the same of me? Just how much more does he have to type? Hello, I’m still here, keeping this smile plastered on my face. Faro, farro, bo faro, anana fana fo Pharaoh.

After turning his attention once more to Shayna, Dr. Brothym resumed the interview by asking, Anything unusual strike you while you were in Portugal?

Not really, she answered without any elaboration.

Perusing the next spot on his list, Dr. Brothym asked, How about in Gibraltar?

No outstanding issues there to report.

Then we need to talk more next time about what happened in Toledo. Does this sit well with you? he asked, closing the cover of his laptop halfway.

Shayna nodded, relieved to be moving from the information gathering stage and on to the nitty-gritty details.

Good then. I’ll see you next week; same day, same time, he announced, arising from his chair and indicating for her to do the same. Shall I have Claire write you out an appointment card?

No, that won’t be necessary. She stood and grabbed the pocketbook wedged between the cushion by her side. Do you think we’ll be starting the regression therapy then?

I do not have a strict timetable in mind, he stated, moving toward the door and guiding Shayna in that direction. As we explore the issues that concern you, we might touch upon forgotten, ignored, or repressed experiences. If and when we engage in this particular therapy, it will be to help you release any emotional or physical pain attached to those so-called past life experiences.

Does everyone have a past life? she asked, sounding giddy with childlike curiosity.

Some people believe we only have but one lifetime, he explained while opening the door to the hallway. Even if we are to accept this premise, the stories we will be exploring will still serve as insightful metaphors for the situations you are now facing. Whether uncovering 'real' past lives or not, regression helps some people to resolve issues and get past blockages that are resistant to other therapeutic approaches.

Shayna stopped walking and spun around to face Dr. Brothym.

I feel like I’m a combination of a lot of different people, she admitted. If I were to guess, I’d say that I once was a queen. Don’t bother asking me what has pointed me in this direction; it’s just a feeling that I have. I sometimes chastise myself for being too haughty and condescending, and I attribute this to my ‘royal’ period. When I come off of that high horse, I find myself wallowing in depths of self-loathing, which I suspect relates to events and circumstances in the earlier years of my current life. In between all of this, I imagine having been a scholar, an artist, a prisoner, a slave, and… Growing short on breath, she paused before rattling off a long list of additional categories. Phil gets angry with me when I do this.

Do what? Dr. Brothym inquired as he closed the door quietly to secure the privacy and confidentiality of her long-winded revelation.

In his words, ‘I go on and on ad infinitum without making any sense.’ Well, you get the picture so far. Would you say that this is unhealthy? She bit her lip as she waited for the doctor’s appraisal.

Do you ever feel like these ‘other lives’ control you, Shayna? His tone grew serious.

In what way?

There is something called dissociative identity disorder, which is a condition in which a person may have more than one personality state. With DID, each personality state may take control of the person’s thinking, speaking, or behaving.

Shayna shook her head and brusquely declared, No; that’s not me, and became uncomfortably self-conscious of Dr. Brothym studying her face for further telltale signs.

He leaned forward and calmly suggested, Then perhaps you might be prone to fantasizing or maybe have a very vivid imagination, which did little to alleviate her unease. Or, he went on to add, we may discover that these will all turn out to be actual past lives.

Shayna’s eyes widened. The prospect of delving into her past lives appealed to her immensely. She extended her arm for a firm handshake, hoping to convey to Dr. Brothym she was a person to be taken seriously. She opened the door this time and said, Good-bye and thank you for your help so far. But she hesitated before leaving, which caused Dr. Brothym to take an unexpected step backwards.

Is there something else you need to say? he asked with such edginess to his voice, Shayna feared she might be eroding his patience.

I forgot to mention the soap. A look of grave concern cast a shadow over her face as she uttered these words.

Soap? What kind of soap?

Bathroom soap, she stated plainly. The kind you have in a soap dish in a bathroom.

He appeared somewhat puzzled. What about it?

Well, I could tell you quickly in case you’re in a hurry since I’ve already taken up a lot of your time, or I can wait to tell you next time. Beads of sweat wet her brows and forehead. Her eyes began to twitch.

Why don’t you sit down again? Dr. Brothym suggested as he closed the door once more and led her back to her seat. I don’t have another appointment scheduled for at least thirty minutes from now.

After taking the time to locate her comfort zone with her pocketbook now propped on her lap, she searched for a good way to begin. Dr. Brothym, I have this thing about soap. It’s no big deal when the bar is new and clean and is first taken out of its wrapper. I usually use the soap with a washcloth, but not for my face—for that I always use cosmetic cleansers. Lancôme and Estee Lauder have good ones.

Catching a drift of Dr. Brothym’s unwitting sigh, Shayna cut short her discussion on the benefits of using good skin products. Do go on, he prodded gently, swiveling himself from side to side.

Well, every day I use that soap and don’t give it a second’s thought. I just keep using it and using it, and without me really realizing it, it’s getting smaller and smaller. It’s kind of like I’m taking it for granted. She searched Dr. Brothym’s eyes hoping for some validation, but he did not react. She started to choke up and became even more upset. He handed her a box of tissues.

Then one day, I look at that piece of soap in the dish, and it’s a hard, shriveled-up little nothing of a morsel. Phil looks at me like I’m a nincompoop. He tells me to just throw away the scrap and take a new bar—we can certainly afford it. But I can’t do that. I have to use that silly little tidbit until it disintegrates into nothing. And when that happens, I am overcome with terrible feelings of remorse and sadness. I feel guilty that I didn’t enjoy the soap more when it was full and firm with potential.

Dr. Brothym waited for Shayna to collect herself. He was about to say something, but she interrupted him.

There’s got to be more to this soap business, she announced, looking visibly deflated. You’ve no idea how upset I get over this on a regular basis.

I think I have a good idea how you feel. I’m glad you brought up the topic, and it definitely is one we will expand upon further. We’ll get through this together, Shayna.

Chapter Two

Boca Raton, Florida, December 2008

For the final time that day, Shayna gathered up her bag in Dr. Brothym’s office and was glad to reclaim her umbrella from where it had been set down in the main entranceway. As she walked toward the transparent enclosure where the receptionist sat, Shayna could hear shouts emanating from another office in the suite and remembered the couple from the waiting room.

Sorry about that, the receptionist offered.

Oh please; no need to apologize, she responded. I imagine you hear things like that all the time. Some people just aren’t meant to be together. Taking note of the floral blouse the receptionist was wearing, she added, I really like the cadmium yellow you have on today. That color can make people feel quite empowered. Had it been lavender or sappy green, you wouldn’t have been half as bossy.

The receptionist responded cheerily, I guess I am enjoying this day in spite of the lousy weather. The rain hasn’t let up, so do take care while driving.

Will do, Shayna answered. Upon leaving Dr. Brothym’s office, she attempted to dodge the large puddles forming on the sidewalk, but a strong gust did its utmost to jostle her sideways, so she strode down the paved path toward the parking lot with added determination.

Although she had angled her opened umbrella to combat the onslaught of rain, her wet hair dripped down her cheeks and her pants still managed to become drenched. Her new pastel ballet shoes, impulsively purchased by clicking on a one-time banner ad on her computer screen, were becoming discolored to a much darker tone, so she scooped them up and continued barefoot on the asphalt.

Shayna felt like she was wading in the shallow part of the ocean, skipping over discarded trash in lieu of scattered shells and seaweed deposits. Just as an energetic toddler might do, she began to kick and splash all about her. How great would it be to spend a little of each day engaged in this kind of playfulness? A package-carrying woman making her way to a silver Toyota Highlander smiled in Shayna’s direction. That’s exactly what I would want to do right now if I had the time, she said, laughing in a genuine, non-mocking manner. Good for you!

Shayna returned the smile, but now felt too self-conscious to continue on with her antics. Old stick-in-the-mud Phil would be cringing his heart out if he could see me now, frowning over infectious diseases and my making a fool of myself.

An unwelcome wave of sadness seeped its way into Shayna’s chest, dampening her enthusiasm. As she neared her car, the driver’s door clicked automatically, and for a fleeting moment she was transported back to memories of her 1989 keyless entry Maxima and her very first experience with severe Florida summers.

She pictured herself standing by the glass sliding doors of the family room, looking out beyond the swimming pool and holding the article she had just read in the Palm Beach Post about an abrupt change in the atmosphere. A booming clap of thunder preceded a downpour that flooded the patio pavers and played havoc with the chairs and small potted plants no one had thought to secure in consideration of the impending storm. Although it was nine o’clock in the morning, not one of her three kids had wanted to get out of bed, pleading instead to be left alone so they could remain snuggly under their covers.

Shayna had stood mesmerized by the glaring, almost vertical bolts of lightning catapulting over the rooftops. To her disappointment, they had disappeared way too rapidly from her view. In awe of this brilliant yet frightening display of power, she had muttered, There is so much to admire in these southern skies, as another barrage of blasts reverberated from a travelling cluster of graphite-colored clouds, intent on obscuring any hint of sunshine from the horizon.

While she pondered her kids’ demands to cancel their medical appointments scheduled for that day, a loud cracking sound had exploded on the patio. The wooden pole of the umbrella had snapped in two, landing on the tempered-glass tabletop. Hundreds of fractured lines zigzagged across the table’s surface, making Shayna fearful the top might not be able to hold together under the pressure from the incessant pelting rain.

Oh, this is nothing. Everyone in Florida drives in this kind of rain, the clerk had responded to Shayna’s call, made immediately after the crash. If you don’t show up at the orthodontist’s office today, you’ll still have to pay for all three visits. It’s the doctor’s policy; no exceptions.

That’s utterly unfair, Shayna had protested. I’m rescheduling because of an act of God. What am I supposed to do?

I think you should drive here just like everybody else does. Believe me, this ain’t no hurricane. You’ll know it when one actually does hit.

After hanging up the phone, Shayna had turned on the radio, blasting the music loud enough to be heard throughout the house. From her children’s rooms, she had heard a lot of groaning, ughs, and disparaging comments like Geez, turn it off!, Mom, you’re soooo inconsiderate! and Get a life! She had poked and prodded all three until they were cleaned, clothed, and fed and had piled them hurriedly into the backseat of the Maxima.

Holding steady at thirty miles per hour while her hazard lights continually flashed, Shayna had not been perturbed by the other drivers’ honks as they sped by. She could barely see one foot in front of the windshield and kept praying that they wouldn’t end up in an accident. Never before had she driven in such dangerous conditions. As they approached an underpass on I-95, she pulled the car to the shoulder of the highway, appreciating the relief of finally seeing out of her windshield again and not having to hear the constant thumping of the wiper blades.

Fifteen-year-old Jackson had whined, Are we going or not? This is ridiculous, Mom! while the other backseat occupants, Brett and Michelle, had kept their eyes glued on their Gameboy screens.

We’ll get there soon enough. I’m just waiting for the rain to calm down a bit.

That’s never happening, Jackson had objected. Why the hell did we have to move here?

Ooh, Jackson said a dirty word, nine-year-old Michelle had piped in as her thumbs alternated pressing the up and down keys.

Shut your face, metal mouth, Jackson had snapped nastily, to which Michelle had boldly retorted, You should talk, retainer head!

Jackson took a swipe at his young sister, who ducked down in time for Jackson’s fist to hit Brett in the shoulder, prompting Brett to screech, Mom! Can’t you make them stop? Positioned in the middle of the trio by age, Brett usually wound up being an unwilling participant in many of his siblings’ disputes. Punches, shoves, and screaming then ensued among the three until Shayna had turned her head around to yell, STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. Receiving no adequate response, she next turned on the radio to find the most annoying noise, raising the volume to the highest it would go and causing a dissonance of shrieks to arise from the back seat of the car.

Brett had complained, Why are you trying to make us deaf today?

Michelle had cried out, It hurts my ears!

Jackson had goaded, Is that the best you can do?

Desperately hoping to maintain control of the situation, Shayna spun around in her seat once again,