by C.G. Banks
Chapter 35: Night in the Realm
Patsy sat unblinking on the couch in her living room. The TV was a blank empty shell before her playing its endless darkness. At times she could almost see forms, shapes dancing far back in its depths and she feared to turn it on. Feared what it could do, what it would tell her. It was now three days after her second encounter with Lorca. She’d not seen him since; there’d been no voice on the telephone in explanation. She could feel her gnawed-at soul quivering far down inside, crouching against the deep chill of subjugation and pain that would not leave. Her mind had become a dervish in her head, all whispered warnings it now seemed too late to heed.
She stood up and rounded the couch to the kitchen. Walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. The starkness inside echoed her thoughts and she bent to her knee, looking deeper. She pushed back a carton of spoiled meat and grabbed the tin of ham, the remnants of a mustard jar she’d bought when first she came here. She took these and shuffled back to the kitchen island, set them down, stared, and turned back to the window. A quarter loaf of bread sat by the toaster oven and she put her hand on it, feeling its rigidity through the wrap. Regardless, she set it with the others on the island. Pulled open a drawer and extracted a knife, only too late realizing it was not for butter but rather possessed a serrated edge. She held it up to her face and studied it closely, turning it this way and that in her hand, watching her pale, fleeting image play along the blade. A seductive thought whistled through her: the flash of steel across her throat, the hot splash of blood it would call forth. The knife clanged to the floor, her hunger suddenly lost. She left it where it lay, turned her back on the things arranged on the island, and stared out through the window.
It was another sunny day in a long bright string of them. So hot now the air conditioner had to run steady for hours at a time and even then labored like a lost dog. The house remained as sultry and stifled as an abattoir. A subtle stink hung in the air, refusing to give ground. She stepped aside from the island to the sink. Placed her hands on either side of its partition. Leaned forward and continued staring.
Not a soul moved outside her confines. Even now the neighbors’ yards were falling to the spell of her own dereliction. A bicycle lay neglected three yards down, the same place it’d been for the past week, long tufted weeds already sprouting up through the wheels. A car across the street and cattycornered rested on two flat tires, and she’d not seen its owner in days. Perhaps weeks. She was hard-pressed to measure time now. Everything seemed to flow with an uneasy restlessness to some pre-ordained point of despair. She’d received no mail since she couldn’t remember, had no idea of her carrier’s fate because she’d also quit with the TV days ago. She thought of the things she’d seen on the path and shuddered.
Something in the back of her mind, a small voice much likened to Terri’s, tried from its shackles to convince her to leave. Go! it whispered as if looking over its own shoulder. Don’t pack, don’t wait, just go! but she knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Such deals as hers weren’t made for reconsideration. That, too, was a reason she figured Lorca had not called her since…then.
Some decisions were irrevocable.
But there was a part of her mind that hinted otherwise. Just as a trapped animal will gnaw off its own leg to free itself, so too did her mind turn. And the main reason was because she’d still not seen Terri, regardless of what he’d said. And if Lorca’s word was not anathema, why then, should hers? She scanned the kitchen. Caught the edge of the table where he’d taken her. Tried to pull down the blinds on that thing. Because it was all Terri now, always had been. Everything in her life now for one sole purpose. There was no other avenue to pursue. Nothing else left to hope for.
Her eyes slid across the phone. Stopped. Stared.
A number came to her mind. Skate’s, the doctor’s. It had been weeks since that visit; she’d almost forgotten the woman entirely except for right now. A small voice (a different, alien one) begged her from some lost room to try. To just call. To try and escape this madness because that’s what it is, Patsy. This is fucking madness. Think whatever you want but you know. In the part of you that knows, you know this is madness. Call her! Call her please!
She found her hand on the phone. Pulled it from the wall in a daze, dialed the numbers.
“Doctor Skate’s office,” a pleasant voice on the other end said after three rings. For a moment Patsy had no idea how to proceed; her voice was locked inside her throat. She frantically scanned the kitchen, trying to get her bearings, looking at the phone in her hand like a snake she’d suddenly grabbed up off the kitchen counter. She was on the verge of hanging up when she heard the tinny voice repeat, “Doctor Skate’s office, may I help you?” Eyes wide she brought the receiver back to her ear. She still could find no words. “Is there anyone there?” the female voice asked.
“Yes. Yes, I’m here,” she said, trying to bring some focus. She dragged a hand through her tangled hair pulling the knots, the personification of her downward slide. Thoughts of hanging up evaporated. “This is Patsy,” she said in a small, child’s voice. “Patsy Standish. I’m calling for Doctor Skate.” It was all she could manage.
The voice helped her through. “Okay, Mrs. Standish. How can we help you?”
“I, uh, I need to speak to Doctor Skate.”
“You are a patient?” the calm, still voice prodded.
Patsy found herself nodding, closed her eyes, and said, “Yes. I’ve been to see her once.” Then a pause.
“Could you spell your last name?” She did and another brief pause followed.
“Yes, okay,” the voice said. “You’re in our records.”
“Is she there?” Patsy said in a breathless hush. She still rode the fine line between continuing on the one hand and slamming the phone back into its cradle on the other and high-tailing it to the bedroom. For a moment the image of herself safe behind the locked bedroom door, the covers pulled up to her chin, was almost enough to terminate the call.
“Yes, she’s here, Mrs. Standish, but she’s in session. Do you want to make an appointment?”
“I,uh, yes, I think I would. I do.” Her throat had constricted into a tight squeeze of air. Like breathing through a long, clogged snorkel. A wave of dizziness passed before her eyes so she shut them and leaned hard against the cabinets, her free hand to her forehead. She felt like she might pass out; just keep concentrating on the cool, rational voice on the other end of the line, she told herself.
“Okay,” she heard. In the background came the faint sound of keyboard tapping. “Let’s see, Doctor Skate has an opening on Thursday, 2 o’clock. Would that be all right?”
For a long, monstrous second the world twisted violently, almost throwing her off. She couldn’t seem to find her voice again. Then, finally, terribly she said, grimacing, “What day is today?” The pause proved longer on the other end this time.
“Monday,” the woman replied, all hesitation now too. “But that’s her first available slot.” Then, when nothing came. “Mrs. Standish, ma’am, is this an emergency? If it is I might be able to work something out…”
The tone of the question brought her around. The last thing she wanted was to fan suspicion. She coughed hard to clear her throat. Baked away from the counter. Found her real voice hiding far down in the ruin of this funny one she was using. “No, no, that’s fine…that’s…really, it’s fine. Thursday’s fine.” She fumbled for the pencil and pad she kept by the phone. Wrote down most of Thursday before the lead broke on ‘d’. Threw it off to the corner by the laundry closet and watched it. The voice on the other end remained uncomfortably silent so she asked, “And the time again?” even though she remembered. Anything to retain a semblance of normalcy.
The voice was restrained and wary now. “2 o’clock,” it repeated. In the background Patsy heard that damned clattering again. She wondered what the woman was writing down. Decided the call had been a wrong move, but of course, there was nothing to be done about it now.
“Okay…2 o’clock,” she said haltingly as if writing that down. She continued staring across the room at the pencil lying accusingly on the floor. From the attic above she thought she heard the whispered sound of footsteps. A cold wave of nausea uncoiled through her gut. “Okay, that’s good…fine,” she intoned staring above her head at the ceiling. Laughter now? Something heavy being dragged around up there?
“All right,” the now-hesitant voice said from its place in the sane world. NO! NO! the warning voice railed in Patsy’s mind. IT’S NOT ALL RIGHT! TELL HER NOW AND SAVE YOURSELF, PATSY! FOR GOD’S SAKE—“then I’ll pencil you in for Thursday,” and the voice slid once more to silence. Patsy’s dizziness increased. The voice on the other end returned, quieter, more pronounced, like a mother to a child. “Mrs. Standish,” this voice said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m fine. I’ve just been sick lately. A cold. It’s nothing, nothing really. Thursday will be fine,” and found herself completely out of breath. She knew another word would kill her.
“Okay then,” the receptionist said, only then realizing she was talking to a dead line.