Memorabilia

Mason carefully wrapped each dish in newspaper before setting it into the cardboard box and placed a cardboard square between each dish and the one below it.  None of her dishes would break during the move if she could help it.  Each piece of china had a memory attached... the setting for four that her grandmother had given her when she moved out of the dormitories into an apartment in Cambridge Massachusetts, there were three full settings left plus the saucer and small plate from the fourth... the handmade stoneware single setting with a hand-painted tiger's eye motif that her roommate Cheryl had bought her after breaking the dinner plate of that fourth setting... the two white plates with gold trim that Doug had given her on Valentine's day her junior year at Harvard, only a month before he proposed marriage, and she turned him down, for the first of three times... she hadn't thought of Doug for a year, since she'd been a bridesmaid at his wedding to her sorority sister Beth.  Her thoughts turned as she wrapped another dish, this one a dark red, it had belonged to her friends Zoe and Zelda, fraternal twins who she'd played with summers at the New England seashore.  She'd traded them for one of her mother's plates with the yellow Van Gogh sunflower design.  

Mason finished wrapping dishes and started on her ceramic mugs.  She had quite a few, mostly souvenirs.  This one from the trip to Spain... that one from Acapulco... another from Palm Springs, another from the Florida keys.  Here was one from when she'd gone to Euro Disney with her family - that had been a lot less fun than it sounded, she and Standish were too old for the usual Disney fare when they'd gone.  Too old, or too young - just at that post-pubertal, sophomoric stage where kid stuff was anathema.  Odd that they'd hit it at just the same time, since Mason was almost six years older, but, Standish had outgrown things faster than Mason - he'd got cynical and flip at an earlier stage in his adolescence.  

Mason wrapped the Dallas Cowboys mug her father had given her and thought of how sick he'd sounded on the phone on Christmas Day.  She wondered if she could call their family doctor... but no, he had doctor patient privacy to consider.  

And that reminded Mason of a task she'd made no progress on yet - finding a psychiatrist for Constance.  She needed someone who could be extremely discreet, someone who already knew or could be guaranteed not to cause difficulty with preservation of the Masquerade.  She thought, and considered, and placed a phone call to one of the psychology professors she'd had at Harvard.

Mason was fortunate enough to find Professor Catherine Altamira at home, reading a professional journal and considering a nap.  She had finished this morning cleaning up after the visit from her daughter and grandchildren the day before.  

Altamira answered on the second ring.  "Hello?"

"Hello, Professor Altamira?  This is Mason Weston... do you remember me?  I was in your seminar on counseling technique in Spring 97?"

"Oh, Mason, of course.   Happy New Year and Merry Christmas to you.  And, you aren't a student anymore, why don't you call me Catherine?"

"Oh.. thank you, Catherine.  I wish you a happy year 2000 and I hope your holidays were joyous..." Mason let her voice trail off.

"They were wonderful, my grandchildren destroyed my house and I had the time of my life.  But you aren't calling to hear about the apples of my eye?  How can I help you, I'd be happy to if I can."

"Oh..well... thank you, it's true.  I didn't just call to wish you Merry Christmas... I have a problem I hoped you could maybe help me with?  You see, I have this very difficult case... a person I'm counseling, who is in a great deal of difficulty.  She is severely depressed, and was also recently a rape victim, which exacerbated it into a very bad case of agoraphobia as well.  She has a strange sort of situation though... she has a, well, let's say an odd religion.  That isn't part of her problem though, in fact it might be part of her support system if we can handle it right.. but... it's just the kind of thing that a lot of psychiatrists might seize on as a part of the difficulty... and if they do that, I just know she'll stop seeing them or get worse.  Or even be institutionalized with an awful misdiagnosis.  I was wondering if you could recommend someone who'd be... well... tolerant of her oddness and able to see past it to her actual problems, which are quite a bit more mundane?"

Altamira took a long, slow breath.  "This wouldn't be one of those cases of false memory, would it, Mason?  The generational Satanic cults and all that?"

Mason bit her lip.  "Well... not exactly... but it isn't that far off that, either."

Altamira sighed softly.  "It won't be easy.  Most reputable psychiatrists believe such things simply don't exist, and that all reports are false memory.   The few who believe in it, tend to believe it's everywhere, and they are the ones who are the sources of the false memory issues in the first place.  They also tend to focus on that far too much, as you rightly fear.  To find someone who will simply overlook that aspect and treat the patient's other symptoms... well... I will see what I can find for you, Mason.  I'll call you back as soon as I have something, though I honestly expect that won't be till after the new year."

Mason nodded, then realized quickly that she couldn't be seen nodding over the phone.  "Thank you, Catherine.  Your help means a lot to me and if we are successful, will mean even more to the person I'm trying to help."

They said their goodbyes and hung up.  Mason returned to her packing, this time knives and silverware.  She hummed as she worked, a song that if she'd realized what it was, she would have found it highly ironic.  "Oh that'll be the day...."