I never talked about my wife's ex-husband with her. Then I found his diary. My wife, Kate, sometimes calls me “Jack” when she gets upset. My name is Tom. “Jack” was the name of my wife’s first husband, and that’s pretty much all I know about him. Kate was reluctant to talk about the marriage. It was unusually brief and, from what I gather, wholly unpleasant. I did my best not to pry. Still, the idea that there was a man before me would sometimes tug on my insecurities. I usually kept my feelings to myself as I didn’t want to open any old wounds. But now I’m starting to wonder what happened to him. I met Kate shortly after I finished my undergrad at the Houston Symphony. I’m not sure why I went since I never preferred classical music, but I couldn’t complain about free tickets. Unbeknownst to me, I would sit next to my future wife during Mozart’s Requiem. Kate and I talked the whole time. It was like I had known her for years. I mustered up the courage to ask her to dinner and have been madly in love ever since. Kate was a bit older than me, which I had no problem with. She was just finishing up her psychiatry residency when we first met. Kate came from a wealthy and posh English family with long ties to the banking industry and scientific discovery. They intimidated me because I was the first person in my family to even complete high school. We didn’t see Kate’s family much, and I got the impression that they disapproved of our relationship. But that didn’t matter to Kate. She loved me for who I was. We eloped after only six months of dating and moved in together. Kate started her practice in our new home, and life began to make sense. I didn’t have to worry about money anymore, and Kate suggested I quit teaching to focus more on my novel. I’ve been writing a book, but my creativity and willpower took a dive when I started teaching. Sitting at my desk all day was dull and isolating. I sometimes wondered if I was even meant to be a writer. To decompress, I’d take walks in the park and watch the landscapers cut the grass and trim the hedges. I felt an odd kinship toward them and fantasized about riding on one of their lawnmowers in the hot sun. Anything was better than being crammed at my desk. But I knew Kate would be disappointed if I gave up writing entirely. The boredom got to me one day. I just couldn’t stand being trapped in my study for another eight hours. Kate was at a medical conference, so I had the whole house to myself for a few days. After one or two bottles of wine, I found myself standing outside Kate’s office. Kate was very protective of her office space, and I couldn’t step foot in there unless I brought her lunch. But I was drunk, and my curiosity got the better of me, so I went in. Kate’s office was smaller than I remembered. It had olive green walls and was usually dimly lit with candles. There was a relaxing waterfall fountain in the back corner, and when you lay on the chaise lounge, you felt like you were in a tropical paradise. I sat down to clear my head when I noticed another door in the room. I was sure I had never seen it before. I opened the door and was greeted by a black room with sound-proofed walls. In the middle of the room was a tiny round table with two lounge chairs was in the middle of the room. An old lightbulb hung from the ceiling. What the hell was this place? It felt strangely familiar, and I felt anxious when I explored it. In the corner of the room was a dusty filing cabinet. It must have contained patient records. I know I shouldn’t have opened it, but I was still inebriated enough to do something irresponsible. I opened the top drawer, but it only contained one thing, a wrinkled composition notebook. I picked up the notebook and realized it was someone else’s journal. The first date was almost ten years ago. Written on the top margin in faded black ink: Jack Taylor. I rushed back to my study and slammed the door. I knew I would feel terrible for invading Kate’s privacy once I sobered up, but I started reading the journal anyway. The first entry was short, and many words were either crossed out or misspelled. “Dr. Kate said I should keep a journal to write down my thoughts. She said it will help me feel better. So here they are. My name is Jack Taylor. I’m 25 years old. I was born in Waco. I like to be outside. I like to watch the Cowboys on Sunday. I like to drink Lonestar beer. That’s all I guess.” I almost started laughing. No wonder their marriage didn’t last very long! This guy was a total dud and not at all Kate’s type. I wonder what she saw in him. I decided to keep reading as my ego prevented me from not making fun of this guy. I glossed over to the next entry. “I showed Kate my first page, and she got mad at me. She said that this journal was for ‘feelings and emotions.’ Well, excuse me! It was her idea in the first place! I feel bad I guess. She’s so smart. And I’m me. Just a gardener. I’ll have my own business someday, though. Then I’ll ask Kate to marry me.” I started to feel bad after the second passage. Jack may have been a bit dim, but I could definitely empathize with him. I always felt like I needed to be better for Kate. It could be hard to be with someone so much more accomplished than yourself. I mulled over whether or not I wanted to continue reading but decided to keep going. The following passage was dated almost a year later. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve written in this journal because I decided to only write when I felt depressed. Kate keeps bringing up the idea of me going back to school, and while that sounds nice, I’m content with our life. I enjoy writing and even have ideas for a book, but I’m not sure I want to return to college. The landscaping business is doing better than anticipated. It’s blue-collar work, and I know Kate is embarrassed because her family back in Cornwall disapproves. However, we said our vows, which should mean more to her. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I need to put my foot down.” I stopped reading to pour another glass of wine. It was interesting to hear Jack’s perspective on his marriage to Kate. Kate never outright said anything nasty about Jack, but I always got the feeling that *he* was solely the problem. I guess situations are always more complicated than they seem. I flipped to the next page with a different perspective. Plus, his writing had improved dramatically since his first entry. “The fighting with Kate is getting worse. Why can’t she just accept me for who I am? I will never be the sensual, introspective novelist that she desires. I have a business to run. A business, I might add, that has paid for this house and extra additions for her new office once she finishes her residency. I’m just so exhausted from the constant mental gymnastics with her! It’s almost like she’s trying to conform me to her weird fantasy. I like what I do!” I shook my head and took another sip of wine. It was almost surreal reading Jack’s journal. We were more similar than I had initially thought. Was Kate doing the same thing to me? I really enjoyed teaching, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough for her. I kept reading. “Last night, I had that terrible nightmare again. I dreamt I was sitting in a dark room and sitting at a chipped wooden table. Kate was there too, and she kept turning the light on and off while saying terrible things to me. Before I woke up, she was screaming, almost foaming at the mouth. I’ve never seen her that angry before. I haven’t been able to sleep very well recently, and I honestly don’t feel like myself anymore. I’ve called in sick to work for the past three days. I thought being outside would help me breathe again, but working is the last thing I want to do. Perhaps Kate is right. Maybe a change of scenery would be helpful for me.” I froze after I read the last page. The room Jack dreamt about had to be the same in Kate’s office. Was Kate doing something to him? I crept back to Kate’s office and slipped into the room again. It felt even smaller this time, and the feelings of anxiousness rose from my stomach again. I grasped my chest, struggling to breathe until I thought I was almost suffocating. What was going on with me? My knees started to buckle, and I slid into the cold wooden table’s only chair. I looked up, and it felt like the vantablack walls slowly moved toward me. I mustered up all my strength and threw myself at the filing cabinet to put Jack’s journal back. This time, I knocked over a small manila folder from the top of the cabinet. Was this here before? I grabbed it and rushed out of the room, collapsing on Kate’s chaise lounge. I quickly came back to my senses and inspected the folder. It was filled with documents and on the corner was a rectangular blue sticker labeled “Jack Taylor.” Inside were patient records and various essays scribbled with handwriting that looked like Kate’s. *Was Jack Kate’s patient before they were married?* That didn’t make any sense. Kate hadn’t even started her practice when we got married. How was she already treating patients? And to marry one? Kate was almost paranoid about following ethical guidelines. To break her oath seemed unfathomable to me. Against my best judgment, I opened the folder and combed through the pages. Jack was undergoing treatment for dissociative identity disorder and depression. Early forms of therapy weren’t helping, and Kate wrote in her notes that she would try a controversial form of treatment as an alternative. Hypnosis. My eyes immediately darted to the corner room, the door still hanging wide open, revealing an abyss. *So that’s what the room was for.* I kept flipping through the pages and found through Kate’s notes that the therapy seemed to be working, though Jack’s disorder desperately tried to fight it. There were several documents on hypnotherapy and a letter from a former professor on his experience implementing the procedure. I knew from Jack’s journal that he had vague memories of being hypnotized and that they manifested into his dreams. This was wrong. A photograph slid out of one of the papers in the folder. I picked it up to examine it. It was a picture of Kate and a man I assumed to be Jack. He was burly, with cropped black hair, a bushy beard, and an apparent farmer’s tan. He looked familiar, but I didn’t think I had ever seen him before. Maybe I learned too much about this man, but I’m deciding to confront Kate about him. She always preaches that honest conversations strengthen relationships, so now is the time. I’m going to finish up writing here and then wait for Kate to get home. It may be painful, but I need to do this for myself. And maybe even for Jack, whereve r he m ay beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee I suppose I owe you an explanation. I’m honestly impressed at how much of a sleuth you are. I have no idea how you came across Tom’s musings, though it does not matter. Fine, I will grant you this one favour. Jack came to me as a patient in the early 2000s. He was a gardener who drove his large truck through a bar during a manic episode. I must admit, he was quite striking when I met him. Tall, muscular, and hairy. Exactly my type, *physically.* He wasn’t, oh how do you Americans say this, the sharpest knife in the drawer. But what if he could be? What if he could be convinced over time that he was the man of my dreams? Hypnosis is a tricky procedure, and it takes years to bind someone to your will. I hit an impasse after Jack and I were married. Until I had an epiphany. “Jack Taylor” would never be a romantic writer who would serenade me with poems and beach novellas. But “Tom Rhoades” could be. I didn’t need to bend someone to my will; I needed to get them to believe they were not the person they thought they were. Through hypnosis, a gardener could become a novelist. Plus, I always preferred the name Tom. The experiment went extraordinarily well at first, but alas, Tom’s disorder was incredibly resilient. It was like his DID was leading him to the truth in a twisted and cruel way. I knew he was getting close to finding out when he started writing less and drinking more. I told him I was going to a news conference and let him figure out the truth for himself. Where is he now? Oh, darling, I would not worry about Tom anymore. He is job is done, and he is now at peace. I am ready to close the chapter on this experiment. I’m done with using hypnosis for love. But you? **WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH YOU?**