Frank De Felitta: For Love of Audrey Rose

At first the hypnosis went smoothly. Ivy was brought backwards in time to her eighth birthday, then to her fourth, then to her third. The girl not only remembered in exact detail all the events of the birthday parties, but her voice underwent a dramatic change, growing younger and younger, more and more like an infant’s.

Finally, nervously, Dr. Lipscomb instructed Ivy to go back to a time before she was born.

Ivy curled into the prenatal position.

Then, as Dr. Lipscomb’s voice droned on, urging her backward, ever backward in time, she suddenly bolted upright, eyes open.

She seemed to look happily ahead, but then her face clouded over. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a terrible scream. Unable to bring her out of the trance, Dr. Lipscomb tried to comfort the girl, who rocked pitiably on her couch.

Suddenly, Ivy threw herself — or seemed to be catapulted — onto the floor. Screaming in pain, she ran the length and width of the room, her lip bleeding from the fall.

The litany, which the Templetons had heard all too often, now poured out of the twisted mouth of their daughter: “Mommydaddymommydaddyhothothothot!!” Dr. Lipscomb wrestled vainly with Ivy, unable to stop the frenzied delirium.

Then, as she had repeatedly done in the Templetons’ apartment, she threw herself at the long glass in front of her. Her face reddened to an alarming degree, her nostrils flared, as though she were suffocating. She began writhing in convulsions that signified a disintegrating nervous coordination.

Hoover rose against the opposite side of the great mirror and tried to shout to her, but the hypnosis chamber was soundproofed. In the melee of screaming and fainting jurors, it was Hoover who had the presence of mind to hurl a chair through the glass, and the officers of the court tumbled into the chamber just as doctors rushed in through a side door to relieve the panic-stricken Dr. Lipscomb.

Despite the administration of oxygen and injections of adrenalin, Ivy’s respiratory system had failed for too long. The brain had gone almost five minutes without oxygen. At 10:43 A.M. she was declared dead by physician R.F. Shad. Cause of death: laryngospasm, or convulsive closing of the larynx, obstructing the intake of air into the trachea.

• WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

The tragedy at Darien Hospital will not be quickly forgotten, even for those who only knew of the events through the news media.

But for those who were there, the Templetons, the attorneys, Judge Langley, what thoughts must have gone through their minds since that day? And what has happened to each of them? It has taken months to piece together the whole picture, and finally the denouement for the major participants can be revealed:

Elliot Hoover:Acquitted of the charge of first degree kidnapping. Spent two weeks in New York City, praying at the Hompa Hongwanji Buddhist Temple at Christopher Place. Known to have purchased a one-way ticket to India. Presumed to have retreated to a temple in the central plains. Precise destination unknown.

Judge Harmon T. Langley:Under attack from all quarters of the legal profession, Judge Langley retired early. He lives with his sister in Brooklyn Heights and refuses to see reporters. Suffered a mild stroke in early June, 1975.

Scott Velie, prosecutor:Successfully fought to retain his license to practice in the State of New York. He is known, however, to have lost the more difficult battle against alcoholism. He has not appeared in court since The People of New York versus Elliot Suggins Hoover.

Brice Mack, public defender:Now president of well-known firm of Mack, Lowenstein, and Fischbein. Author of moderately successful book on the trial of Elliot Hoover.

William Templeton:Collapsed after being forcibly restrained during the final moments of the fatal test. Was treated for symptoms of dislocation, severe paranoia, and a morbid, guilt-ridden depression. Released, he returned to his apartment at the Hotel Des Artistes. He has subsequently been institutionalized and at this writing is confined to a sanitarium in Ossining.

Janice Templeton:Supervised the cremation of Ivy Templeton. Known to have sent the ashes to India for dispersal. Now works as assistant designer for Christine Daler, Ltd., firm that specializes in women’s sport and casual wear. According to those who know her at Des Artistes, she no longer accepts the beliefs which she once, under the influence of Elliot Hoover, publicly embraced.

No other event presented in this column has been so obliterated by time. Even Brice Mack has grown wary of public comment and no longer will speak about the trial. Nor have any of the participants, including the staff of the Darien Hospital, been willing to discuss what happened. Perhaps it can never be known: exactly what Janice Templeton believed when she testified. What did her husband believe before he collapsed and reason fled?

What has life been like, the apartment empty, with not even an echo of the smiling blond child who once shared their lives, and not a trace of the intruder who waited so calmly, so omnisciently, outside of Ivy’s school? All unresolved, unsolved, waiting for time to work its slow but certain cure, to transform the violence and pain to a tender acceptance.

But perhaps the list of actors in this tragedy is not complete. Perhaps, in memory of the quiet girl whose courage could not in the end save her, we must add:

Audrey Rose:Born September 5, 1959. Died August 4, 1964, thirty seconds before the birth of Ivy Templeton. Death due to smoke inhalation.

Ivy Templeton:Born August 4, 1964. Died February 3, 1975, 10:43 A.M. Death due to convulsive closure of the larynx.

Did Audrey Rose return August 4, 1964? And, if so, who died February 3, 1975, 10:43 A.M.?

February 3, 1975. 11:45 P.M.

It was dark. Bill tasted salt on his lips. Suddenly he became violently nauseous. Terrible images pulled at the back of his brain, grinning monsters who violated Ivy in sparkling space. There was a feeling of black pressure, of perpetually drowning.

Bill heard a deep gurgling, like water choked in a filled drain.

“Are you awake, Mr. Templeton?” said a soft voice.

The gurgle had been his own voice, disembodied, with a torpor thick as tar.

A pretty face moved into his field of vision. Soft brown eyes and short brunette hair swept up under a white cap. She smiled.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Templeton?”

A gentle hand and sponge wiped at his mouth and chest. Bill’s head was turned to the side and the breathing came more easily.

A small light went on, a soft amber that glowed against cold green walls. The sheets were stained from Bill’s nausea. He became conscious of the rhythmic breathing of his own chest, drawing, expelling, drawing, expelling.

“Janice,” he mumbled weakly.

“Your wife waited six hours,” the nurse said. “Then she was taken to a hotel. She’ll come back in the morning.”

Bill turned his head around. Now he knew where he was. The hospital ward had four beds in it, but his was the only one occupied. The others were freshly made and the screens pulled out of the way. It was abnormally quiet. Outside there seemed to be a black screen over the windows. Then he saw her watch. It was nearly midnight.

“Janice,” Bill repeated.

“Your wife is at the Darien Central Hotel.”

Bill groaned. His lips were so parched, they had cracked. The nurse dipped her finger in a glass of water and spread it across his lips, then helped him drink. The sensation of cold water going down into his body revived him.