My long-forgotten history peeked out from behind the curtains. The questions McInnes posed during hypnosis had dredged up memories that had been repressed for more than a century, and fragments of those subconscious recollections began intruding into my life. We would be performing our second-rate imitation of Simon and Garfunkel when an unexpected Germanism would leap out of my mouth. The boys in the band thought I was tripping, and wed have to start over after a brief apology to the audience. Or Id be seducing a young woman and find that her face had morphed into the visage of a changeling. A baby would cry and Id wonder if it was human or a bundle of holy terror that had been left on the doorstep. A photograph of six-year-old Henry Days first day of school would remind me of all I was not. Id see myself superimposed over the image, my face reflected in the glass, layered over his face, and wonder what had become of him, what had become of me. No longer a monster, but not Henry Day either. I suffered trying to remember my own name, but that German boy stole away every time I drew near.

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