“Well.” His speech got to her. He was right. Beth raised her glass to hide her blush. “Then let’s drink to that.”
She was used to getting her way. She’d learned how to negotiate past almost any obstacle. Patience was essential. Hamster wheel, indeed, only the wheel always stopped somewhere. She knew how to reach David and would find excuses to do it. Eventually, he’d come around.
David held up his empty glass to show he couldn’t drink to anything.
“I’m heading up to my room,” he said. “Apparently, there’s this Fab party tonight. I may check it out and see if I can shore up my referral network for recovering cultists. Are you going?”
So Carl the drug pusher hadn’t been putting her on. “I was thinking about it.”
“Great, maybe I’ll see you there.”
Beth decided to go, if only to keep an eye on him. Even now, she wanted to protect him, as if a dormant instinct had awakened. She’d always believed the Fab was an urban legend. If the party was real, he had no idea what he was getting himself into.
The fabulous fabled Fab, the many-storied Confabulation Party, where prim and proper psychologists went to let their hair down. Nobody Beth knew had ever attended, but they all claimed to know someone who knew someone who had back in the day. With a judgmental yet envious gleam in their eye, they shared stories they’d heard about drugs, alcohol, quickies in the bathroom, an impromptu orgy in one of the bedrooms.
Carl the drug pusher opened the door. “You made it.”
Beth entered the crowded suite and surveyed professional colleagues chatting on the generic hotel furniture or standing in groups. A bow-tied bartender served drinks at an open bar by a tabletop display promoting Hippocratic’s new antipsychotic drug that promised relief from dangerous delusions.
The drug was called Fabula.
She belted out one of her belly laughs. “The joke’s on us, I guess.”
He offered a roguish grin. “You expected something different?”
“In a meta sense, not at all. I came to learn.”
Carl swept his arm toward the Fabula display. “Then I shall instruct you. Hippocratic has a strong reputation for satisfying unmet needs related to the brain and central nervous system.”
Beth waved him off. “Let me settle in and grab a drink first. I’ll seek you out for your pitch later, though. You earned my time by giving me a good laugh.”
She threaded the crowd and stepped up to the bar, where she ordered a red wine that wasn’t up to her standards but would do in this pinch. Tired, old glam rock strutted from hidden speakers. She sipped her wine and surveyed the room. Her colleagues smiled and talked and glanced past each other’s shoulders as if this were the actual fabled party and Bacchanalia would erupt. Like Beth, they’d come as tourists, prim and professional but not above a little voyeurism. Still playing their part in Carl’s joke, as in psychiatry, confabulation was the act of inventing an imaginary experience to make up for a lack of memory.
No sign of David. Maybe he’d heard about the Fab’s reputation and decided to stay in his room. She pictured him sitting on the bed with a TV remote, cruising the channels while twirling his wedding ring.
Perhaps he was right, and they should leave the past alone. The Family still haunted them, but they’d each accommodated their trauma. While they hadn’t cured their disease, they’d made its symptoms manageable. In some cases, they’d even made the symptoms work for their benefit, such as in their respective careers. Beth had her young but profitable practice, her finely tuned life, a crutch she kept under control, and everything in its proper place.
Strange to realize that if she hadn’t suffered, she’d be a different person. In a sense, she wouldn’t exist.
Near the bar, Dr. James Chambliss, who’d recently won the American Psychological Association’s International Humanitarian Award for his pro bono work with war refugees, pontificated to an admiring audience.
Though they both lived and worked in Santa Barbara, Beth hadn’t seen him in years. Same astronaut build, though he’d shaved his thinning hair to go completely bald, a look that suited him. Years back, when she was a student at Pomona College, he’d been her mentor, therapist, and lover. She’d walked away from all three, the final stage in taking sole charge of her life, and she’d avoided him ever since.
She edged away from him again now and found herself tangled in another group, Dr. Tamara Wilke being admired possibly for different reasons, being young and prone to fidgeting gestures—tugging at her blouse collar and buttons—that suggested a repressed but itchy sexuality about to explode. Carl was there, nursing a drink while he devoured her with his eyes.
“Dr. Harris,” she beamed. “I was just arguing that God is dead.”
Beth offered a polite smile. “Psychology replaced him, I suppose.”
“The human brain did.” The woman appeared to be drunk, her gestures even more animated. “Quantum physics. The universe exists as it does because it is perceived. Without us, it might not exist at all. The materialist idea of consciousness being a projection of the physical is wrong. It may be the other way around. As for shrinks, we are merely priests of this invisible new religion.”
Carl chimed in. “What about morality? Everybody would rape and pillage—”
“Don’t be such a fucking pessimist,” Tamara said. “Cooperation is a survival trait for our species. Morality precedes religion. It’s part of the brain, just like the God spot that makes us hardwired for spirituality. Forget morality, though. I’m trying to say the entire universe may be conscious of itself.”
“Speaking of God,” Beth said, “I could use some advice with a patient.”
All eyes turned to her now, ready for a challenge.
“His name is Ishmael. His dad is Abraham, whom he shares with his half brother, Isaac. One day, Abraham starts hearing a voice, which he believes is God. God tells him to kill Isaac and burn the body as a sacrificial offering.”
Carl chuckled as he caught on. “The Book of Genesis, right?”
“In my story, God doesn’t stop Abraham, who goes ahead with it. He kills his son.”
“Seems to me Abraham should have taken Fabula.”
“Here’s my question,” Beth said over the group’s laughter. “Ishmael learns what his dad did, and suicidal ideation takes hold. The truth is unbearable. Either God doesn’t exist, and Abraham murdered his son for nothing, or perhaps worse, God does, and Abraham killed his son because God wanted it.”
Tugging at her collar, Tamara said, “Therapeutically, the answer is simple, which is it doesn’t matter. You treat Ishmael’s suicidal ideation and help him live with whatever truth he accepts. You can’t treat a belief.”
Beth pictured Emily in her casket and thought, Sometimes, the belief treats you. Maybe some things proved too big for therapy to fix.
“The biblical Old Testament God, on the other hand,” said Tamara. “Him, I’d love to see on my couch. The vindictive, narcissistic, gaslighting bastard.”
Beth glimpsed David on the far side of the room and excused herself, first stopping at the bar for another glass of the barely passable red.
Carl followed her. “Red pill or blue pill? I have free samples.”
“Which is the one that gets you out of the Matrix, again?”
“Both of them.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward Tamara, who was cackling at some joke. “Why do you think they’re talking about God?”
“I prefer the Matrix’s orderly and comfortable design, thanks.”
“You might benefit to loosen up a little.”
She snorted. “Are you kidding?”
“To each their own.” Again that grin, which she was starting to find grating. Beth suspected Carl valued mischief over sales.
The suite was packed with people now, a maze of groups radiating body heat in the airless room. The crowd’s volume inched higher while AC/DC blasted from the speakers. Beth tried to work her way toward David but found herself pulled into a h
alf dozen conversations. She smiled and nodded along as she heard only half of what was being said, much of which was nonsense anyway as many appeared to have taken Carl up on his offer to escape the Matrix’s confines. Sweat dampened her armpits under her suit jacket. She looked around for David, but he’d either left or disappeared in the shifting throng. She needed a quick exit.
The bathroom door opened, and a woman left with a sheepish smile, followed by a man whose face reddened as he realized Beth recognized him. She went inside and locked the door. The crowd rumbled and guffawed as if waiting for her outside. Someone bumped against the door, which made her jump.
Take it easy, her other inner voice said.
Beth raised her glass and gulped the rest of her wine. Forcing down the last swallow with a gasp, she sat trembling on the toilet. Something about the party was triggering her—the gradual loss of control, perhaps, the undercurrent of hysteria.
David was right. Sometimes, the worst flashbacks came on solely as a feeling, a terrible sensation of dread. Sometimes, they weren’t triggered by what was happening but by foreboding over what might.
Knuckles rapped on the door, followed by laughter. The knock became pounding. Beth palmed a handful of Altoids and chewed them into peppermint grist.
With a deep breath, she opened the door and darted into the crowd. She glimpsed David across the room. He stood with his back against the wall, twirling his wedding band around his finger while a redhead leaned into his personal space to make herself heard over the noise. Beth paused at the sight of Tamara Wilke, PsyD, dancing on the couch, several blouse buttons undone to reveal flashes of white skin and black bra.
Arriving as tourists, the conference attendees were going native. They’d shown up expecting the Fab party, which had probably never existed, and created it from wishful thinking and imagination. Their belief was making it true.
Again finding herself near the bar, Beth ordered two more glasses of red and downed both of them like Kool-Aid while the bartender eyed her with a nervous smile. Her brain was starting to grow fuzzy and mellow enough to see her out the door and back to her room.
She reached David as the redhead leaned toward him again and this time flicked his ear with her tongue, making him flinch.
“Excuse me,” Beth said, taking his hand. She led him toward the front door.
“Thank God,” he said with relief.
In the hallway, the party evaporated to a throbbing bass that vibrated through the wall. Panting, he bent to rest his hands on his knees. “Give me a second.”
Beth patted his back. “Are you okay?”
David wiped his sweaty forehead. “Crowds don’t usually bother me, but…”
“Mobs do,” Beth said.
“Yes. Right. That’s exactly it.”
She rubbed his back. “Remember your breathing.”
He straightened with a long sigh. “I’m fine. You grabbed me just in time. Things had started getting a little hairy in there. You’ve always understood—”
Beth lunged to mash her lips against his. His body went rigid, but otherwise he didn’t resist. She locked her arms around his neck and pressed against him, practically climbing him in a sudden burst of passion.
“You’re real,” she breathed.
Real like Deacon, real like nobody else seemed to be.
He turned away from her lips and firmly tugged her arms from his neck. “No, Beth. I have a family.”
Shit. She wiped her eyes as she regained her composure. What am I doing? “David, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I sincerely apologize.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m sorry, David. I didn’t mean any harm. I guess I had a few too many.”
David breathed hard. “You know, Beth, you’re good at getting into people’s heads. You should peek inside your own once in a while.”
He left without saying bye, leaving her flustered and pacing the corridor carpet in her high heels.
You messed up, gloated her inner voice, the mean one.
“I messed up big time,” she muttered, no debate now.
Beth returned to the party and forced her way through the throng until she reached Carl, who was grinning at a trio of women dancing on the couch.
He acknowledged Beth with his rogue’s grin and said, “The greater the repression, the bigger the explosion.”
“Tell me what you’re giving people.”
He shrugged. “Placebos. Sugar pills. They’re high because they want to be.”
“You’re lying.”
The grin faded. “It’s just Percocet.”
Beth said, “Is the pharmacy still open?”
8
REBEL
2005
Beth crept through the woods. The trees sighed around her in the breeze, and Deacon was being extra annoying.
“Where are we going?” she hissed.
Wearing an impish smile, he hushed her and motioned for her to keep moving. School was done, and they had the rest of the afternoon to themselves until the supper bell rang. Deacon had told her he wanted to show her something.
“This had better be good,” she breathed.
She used to enjoy antagonizing him for the ticklish thrill, but things had changed with age. Sometimes, she wanted to pinch him until he cried uncle. Others, she stared as if he was a well she could fall into and never hit bottom.
“You’re gonna love it,” he whispered back.
I’m gonna love you, Beth thought, but didn’t say it. If it was, in fact, love. Whatever it was, it often hurt. But what a delicious pain.
“I’d better love it, or I’m going to pinch you.” Make him hurt too.
She recognized this part of the woods. They were near the baptismal stream, where over the past week, they’d watched several new families receive the Holy Spirit as the Family expanded onto new land. The roof of a large rock outcropping lay ahead through the thinning oaks, providing a view overlooking the water.
Still in spy mode, Deacon pressed his finger over his lips and motioned for her to get down on her hands and knees to follow him onto the rock.
Beth crouched and started crawling after him on the tonalite, which was as coarse as sandpaper and as hard as, well, rock. It was like crawling on razor blades. The absurdity of it all made her snort, which threatened to become a giggle.
Deacon turned and shook his head slowly. The impish smile was gone. He swept his finger across his throat.
She nodded then hiccuped and clapped her hands over her mouth. A perverse hilarity welled up in her chest, threatening to burst.
Frantic now, he waved his hands at her. If she didn’t laugh, she’d choke.
He backed up to whisper, “They’ll kill us if they hear us.”
This sobered her. She took a few deep breaths and nodded, truly curious now. Together, they crawled to the edge of the rock.
Deacon pointed down.
Beth peered over the edge and froze with her mouth stretched into a large O.
At the base, on a shelf worn into the rock that formed a natural bench, Josh and Angela were kissing.
Oh, my, God, she mouthed.
Deacon leaned close to murmur, “They come out here a lot.”
His whisper tingled in her ear. She couldn’t take her eyes off the couple. The vantage point wasn’t very good, but she could see enough. Josh and Angela seemed to be devouring each other. Before Beth had come to the farm, she’d seen kissing but had always considered it gross.
This wasn’t gross at all. It was something else. Beautiful. More delicious pain.
The supper bell rang through the woods. Stifling a scream, Beth flinched from the edge. Deacon was already retreating on his knobby knees, his eyes watery with fear. She followed, her knees on fire now from the coarse rock. It couldn’t be suppertime yet. She didn’t wear a watch, but her inner clock was nearly as reliable. The ring’s pattern had called for an assembly, she realized, not supper.
Back in the trees, they sprinted toward the fa
rm. Halfway, she started to giggle. Hilarity struck her again and shot out in a wild whoop. Deacon let out a guffaw, and then she was staggering along hugging her ribs and shaking with belly laughs.
“Come on, Beth!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along, still cackling.
The woods gave way to the animal pens, beyond which the farm’s green fields and cabins lay under a metallic blue sky. They stopped to catch their breath, his sweating hand still in hers.
The bell rang again, and they let go, as if shocked.
Deacon chuckled again. “Crazy, huh?”
The scene flashed through her mind. “Totally.”
“I’m not going to tell on them. Are you?”
It hadn’t occurred to her, but it was a practical question. Josh and Angela could get in a lot of trouble. “Maybe it should be our secret.”
What they’d been doing was certainly sinful, though Beth wasn’t sure how. The kissing had struck her as alien and subversive but also utterly normal. How could love be sinful, if it was pure and delivered joy?
So much had changed in the past year, making the world off-kilter.
At sixteen, Angela had grown enviable curves. Even Emily, who was a year younger than Beth, had started to bud. As Josh neared seventeen, his voice deepened, and his face became more angular and sprouted a wispy mustache. Soon, he’d claim all the rights of manhood and be allowed to build his own cabin and take a wife. As for Deacon, he seemed to grow taller by the minute, and his voice often cracked when he talked, as if it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be high or low.
At fourteen, Beth was on the same road to adulthood. Her monthly time started six months ago, which baffled her. When she looked in the mirror, however, she still saw a kid, except this kid had a tiny zit on the side of her nose. Mom called her a late bloomer, something else she didn’t understand. At the farm, sex ed consisted of the basics of keeping herself clean and stern warnings about certain urges.
She liked the idea of sharing a secret with Deacon.
A crowd had gathered at the Temple. The bell stopped ringing. The congregation’s anxious murmur filled the void.
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