by Lara Hayes
Face, he said. I hadn’t considered the specificity of my delusions. It is a particular, familiar face and that makes the hallucinations all the more peculiar. If I closed my eyes now, she would be there, burned into the back of my eyelids. The sharp chin and nose. The parted lips. She would be so close I would feel the ghost of her blond hair tickling my cheeks, and those eyes—black, but not vacant—that seem to follow me everywhere.
Maybe that’s why I let this go unchecked for so long, stayed silent about the sensation. In a way, I sometimes welcome the attention, the feeling of being admired from afar. Of course, that’s not always the case. I often feel her presence at inopportune times, and there is an underlying aggression that terrifies me.
“Elizabeth, you know I have the utmost respect for you.”
I do, and he does.
“You need to talk to someone.”
I nod and walk back over to his desk, gripping the empty chair facing him—too anxious to sit and too nervous to stand without holding on to something. A sudden calm washes over me, a finality that seemed miles away moments ago, and with it a grim acceptance. I have railed against it since the first nightmare of that lonely little girl standing on the beach, and the first whiff of drying blood. Back when the shadows I saw were confined to darkened corners, and the deserted hall beside room four-twelve.
“Psychosis,” I admit. Arthur sighs wearily, scratching the silver stubble on his jaw.
“Fatigue!” he bellows, dropping his elbows on the desk. “Hallucinations brought on by extreme emotional distress and fatigue. You’re exhausted.” He presses his short square thumbs into his eye sockets. “There could be several causes that are not evident in the scan and blood work. You’ll need to speak with a psychiatrist.”
He’s right, the matter must be dealt with, and quickly before it gets worse. Before word spreads.
“Do you have a referral for me?”
Arthur looks positively pleased. “A colleague of mine, Dr. Kimberly Sharp. She’s expecting your call. She’s excellent. I wouldn’t entrust your wellbeing to anyone else,” he assures with a proud smile.
“Thank you, Arthur.” I extend my hand, but he won’t take it. Instead, he stands and walks around the side of the desk to embrace me. I’ve never been one for outward displays of physical affection, in fact, I have to fight the urge to fidget, but the gesture warms my heart. His small brown eyes are so serious I distract myself by finding constellations in the age spots that dot his bald head.
“For what it’s worth, of the two of us, you’re the only one entertaining the possibility of psychosis.”
I offer him a crooked smile. “So, your recommendation that I seek professional help is what? A legality?”
“A precaution.” Arthur pats my arms, and shoves his large knuckled hands into the pockets of his tweed blazer. “Call Dr. Sharp. In the meantime, my advice to you is to sleep, Elizabeth. Lay off the caffeine. You know as well as I do it will only exaggerate your symptoms. And for god sakes, get out of the house. Go do something just for you. Go out with people your own age. Your mother has a perfectly capable nurse. They can manage an evening without your company.”
We both know I won’t, just as we both know his advice is sound. So, there’s really no point in arguing. “Thank you again.”
“Give my best to Claire.”
I pull the door closed between us, leaving Arthur to tidy his office and finish up for the evening. There, in the empty hall leading to reception, an inexplicable lightness settles over me. Our mutual concerns seem suddenly preposterous. The rush of relief carries me swiftly to the waiting room, modern and resplendent in the soft glow of the nearly set sun, and I stand in the spreading shadows pooling over the cheap carpet, brushing the business card in my pants pocket with my thumb.
“Ms. Dumas, do you need to make a follow-up appointment?” I start and turn around to Arthur’s receptionist, whom I have also kept after hours. I can hear everything: the subtle shift of the receptionist’s feet against the floor, and the cool air from the vents—swirling around my ankles—droning on in an endless yawn, the steady drum of her heartbeat.
“No…” I push the psychiatrist’s card deeper into my pocket. “I don’t.”
My oddly cheerful mood lingers as I leave the neurology wing and enter the main lobby on the first floor. My shift began five and half hours ago, and I warned Sylvia, the head nurse, that I would be late tonight. I stop at the greeter’s station and reach over the desk, dialing pound four on the lobby phone. I’ve never been absent a day in my life, and a perverse thrill runs through me when the phone begins to ring.
“Long-term care, James speaking.”
“James, it’s Elizabeth.”
“Liz, you okay? Your shift started—”
“I know, I’m late. Listen, I won’t be coming in tonight.” There’s a muffled shift, like James is covering the receiver, or cradling it close.
“Is everything all right?” He asks in a low, soft voice and I wish he would tease or flirt instead. “Your mom?”
“She’s fine,” I snap. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Yeah, sure.” He placates, lingering on the phone. “I—hope you feel better. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
My heart races. I don’t have anywhere to be, and when was the last time that happened? Mother has Helen, and the hospital—always short-staffed—will get through an evening without my help.
What am I doing? I feel fine, better than fine, excellent. I have a clean bill of health, which is surely the cause of this uncharacteristic laissez-faire approach to work. Why am I so nervous? And how is it possible to feel both utterly carefree, and riddled with anxiety? My eyes fall to the clock mounted above the east entrance doors: seven forty-nine p.m. Hospitals are a black hole—existing beyond the bounds of time—and in this building it’s always midday.
The purple twilight is a bruise beyond the glass doors, voluptuous pinks bleeding into plum and darkening fast. The noise of the city is relentless, but not unwelcome. There’s still moderate traffic in the parking lot.
Just as I reach the stairs the Red Line trundles off, whizzing down the rails without me, but the next train is only ten minutes out. I shuffle back across the platform, and I realize I’m completely alone up here.
Admittedly, I rarely take the L at this hour. I usually leave for work a little before two in the afternoon, and ride back from the metro just past eleven, sometimes later. But I can’t recall waiting alone on the platform. It’s odd and unsettling, and were it not for the steady, bumper-to-bumper traffic in the streets below, I could almost convince myself I’m the lone survivor of an apocalyptic event.
I’m losing my mind.
I feel exposed up here with the open tracks in front of me and the bare railings to my back. The yellow lights swaying overhead, and apart from my own breathing, the thin rustle of litter and old concert posters flapping in the cool night air are the only sounds. Even the cluttered streets below seem beyond my reach, and all the calm I felt in Arthur’s office, the ease with which I left him, the childish thrill of calling off work for a night to myself, wither and die under the sickly glow of the flickering lamps.
I don’t remember choosing to call out of work, or why that was such an attractive idea in the first place, but I do recall debating whether or not to march back upstairs despite my conversation with James. I don’t remember deciding to leave the main lobby, either. I now crave the smooth tile floors, the recycled air, the secure confinement of the hospital.
I fumble in the depths of my black Birkin, fruitlessly hunting for my phone. I hastily make my way to the edge of the platform craning my head for the train. I can just see the headlights. My watch face catches the glare just enough to read the time: eight-eleven p.m. Any minute now.
I shove my chilled hands in my pants pockets, forgetting Dr. Sharp’s business card until the corner slices the skin between the knuckles of my index and middle finger. From behind, I hear a languorous sigh, relieved, the sou
nd someone makes sliding into a warm bath. There’s no one else on the platform. All the same, I sense an approach, and the hair on my arms and at the nape of my neck stands on end. Tachycardia sets in, my heart hammers against the walls of my chest cavity like it means to punch through my ribs. I would run, but there’s absolutely nothing to run from.
And where would you go? The whisper is horridly clear, a lascivious, distinctly female voice—mocking, on the verge of delighted laughter.
“I know you…”
My purse slides off my shoulder and drops to the ground. I can’t move. I can’t even summon the will to scream. A tremble moves through my body, from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. Someone presses themselves flush against my back, standing so indecently close it’s as though there are two of me. Adrenaline surges through my veins, twitching in my wrists, behind my kneecaps. My body reacts of its own volition bending back against a kind of fixed heat like a cat preening in the sun. A sharp breeze whips around my legs forcing me to stretch the sleeves of my sweater. The space behind me isn’t warm at all, it’s charged—the lingering electricity of another.
Firm hands spread across my shoulders, slip down my spine and rest upon my hips, tugging me into place. The hands reach out and cover mine. Every nerve-ending rejoices in the touch of someone who simply is not there. An aching emptiness sweeps through me—my brain sounding an alarm, urging for flight—as though I’ve felt this touch many times, and don’t care to be parted from it ever again. The scent finds me, and is it orchid or lilac? Beneath the bouquet, a musty mix of damp soil and incense. The same smell I noticed in my kitchen, the night before I called Arthur.
A scream builds in my throat, pushing against my soft palate, filling my mouth, and every muscle in my body constricts.
And then…nothing. A dreamy sedation spreads through me, warm, euphoric, morphine without the drowsiness, as arms I can’t see wrap themselves around my waist. The scream thins to nothing, released on a long exhalation, and my protest slides back down my throat.
The invisible hands move, spreading themselves against my hips. They smooth one shoulder down and run along my arm—guiding me, positioning me—and I lean down to retrieve my purse. White lights glimmer along the tracks as the train clunks and rattles down the rails. My feet shuffle forward—pushed or pulled, I can’t tell which—until I’m standing at the edge of the platform, staring down at the quivering tracks.
Show me.
Gentle fingers trace abstract patterns up the side of my neck, around my ear and my eyes drift closed. The indescribable calm is made all the more unnatural by my own thunderous pulse.
I slip my hand into my pocket and withdraw Dr. Sharp’s card, raising it up to the light. The hand moves up the outside of my thigh, climbs the edge of my torso, and a strong grip holds both my arms. I stare at the business card as though I’ve never seen it before, as though it materialized by magic in my hand. A nervous laugh spills out of my mouth and shakes me so hard I take a compensating step as the sleek body of the train barrels forward—not two feet from my face.
The card is taken in a single rush of air, sucked into the vacuum of the train. A thin sliver of eggshell-colored cardboard, fluttering once, flips over and sweeps out of sight as the train grinds to a halt with a serpentine hiss.
I’m still laughing when the compartment doors swish open, and a small, elderly black woman with stooped shoulders and a pink knitted cap regards me suspiciously as she steps wide of me to exit the train. She casts a concerned glance over her shoulder and the invisible hand pushes against the small of my back, directing me onto the car. It disappears the instant my hand closes around the metal railing. My laugh drowns in my chest, curdles and twists into a dry, tearless sob. I clutch the rail with both hands and turn around to face the doors. The old woman’s pink hat is the only visible part of her, sinking down the stairs to the street below. Beyond that spot of color, the platform is completely vacant. A single sheet of crumpled paper stirs against the ground and swirls once in a gust of wind as the train trundles off.
* * *
Looming above the dark strip of street, our brownstone is dormant when I reach the stoop. The chocolate brick, the bay windows—strapped with wrought iron on the first floor—and black shutters seem unwelcoming. I press my ear to the oak door, listening for sounds of life inside—Helen in the kitchen, or Mother in the living room—but find none. My hands are shaking so violently it takes three attempts to fit my key into the lock. Finally, on the third try—palms slick with sweat—the heavy door creaks open seconds before I lapse into a full-blown panic attack. The entryway sucks me inside with a greedy breath and I fall back against the door, wrestling the deadbolt back into place.
Panting, I slide down to the hardwood floor, balanced on the balls of my feet, and hang my head between my knees. I swoon and my vision swims. I press my eyes shut and focus on my breathing. Slow, purposeful breaths, timed by the ticking on the grandfather clock in the formal living room. I check my pulse after two minutes of forced meditation and finding it steady, pull myself up from the floor.
The reception area is not ground zero for a mental breakdown. My mother’s antiseptic decor never bothered me much before, but in the throes of this panic, the lack of personal touches stings like a slap in the face. Mother doesn’t do comforting. But this whitewashed calling card of a living area, trussed and dressed like a Better Homes and Gardens spread is strangely insulting.
I slip out of my flat shoes and arrange them unobtrusively by the door.
“Mother?” My voice rings out over the first floor, bouncing off walls, and dancing across the ceramic tiles in the kitchen. Silence rushes up to greet me. No Mother, no Helen.
Is it too much to ask that I find her at home, waiting for me? I drop my purse and with resigned sigh, and recognize my anger as misplaced fear.
The kitchen feels better, though the tiles are always cold under my toes no matter the temperature. I press the back of my fingers against the half-emptied coffeepot, which obviously hasn’t been heated since this morning. My drained mug sits on the counter top, exactly as I left it. I pour the hours-old coffee into the cup and heat it in the microwave.
Seated at the center island, I wrap my hands around the mug. A small, careful sip trickles past my lips and chases the chill of dread from my bones. Doctor’s orders about caffeine be damned.
In the reassuringly familiar environment, I replay the events on the subway platform with as much objectivity as I can muster. It is less like a memory and more like a movie. Something removed, something to be watched not felt, or smelled, or touched, or lived. But I was touched, and that’s noteworthy. What’s worse, I was complacent. No that’s the wrong word. Apathetic? Complicit?
Sedate.
Settled on a suitable descriptor, the memory unfolds as though my brain was waiting for permission, or a magic word. The sensation is vivid, disarmingly so, and my heartbeat quickens. There was someone behind me, against me. Thighs pressed to the back of mine, fingers trailing up my neck. I had wanted to run, and at the same time I desired nothing more than to stay exactly as I was. Unable to reconcile the two urges, I stood there with muscles coiled, my fright mounting with every non-action, the inner conflict paralytic.
My hands tighten around my coffee as though being pressed, molded, moved by another. That voice in my ear, close, intentionally intimate. Show me. And I did. I knew exactly what she wanted without further explanation or—oh god—the business card.
The stool clatters to the floor behind me as I dig in both pockets, turning the seams inside out. Were it not for the simple fact that the card has disappeared I could almost chalk the whole evening up to an elaborate fantasy, not a break with reality. I sprint into the living room and empty my entire purse in the middle of the entryway. The floor is a curious mosaic of lip liners, and eye pencils, tampons, a compact, a hair brush, three bottles of hand sanitizer, a lip gloss, a lip stick, my cell phone—I knew it was in there somewhere—and my open wall
et. I rifle through the upturned purse once more, and coming away empty-handed, fling the soft Italian leather against the door.
I can see it in my hand, in Arthur’s hand. I took it from him, and tucked it in my pocket. And then I took it out again…I watched the train carry it away.
What was the name? The Doctor?
This is ridiculous.
I fall against the door and kick a tube of concealer clear across the living room. A staccato pulse throbs in my temples. I’ve never had a migraine before but I’ve never been this exhausted, either. That’s all this is, exhaustion, Arthur said as much. He wasn’t worried. Mother has always said I worry too much. But I can picture the card perfectly. The thin black border, slightly raised. The unassuming eggshell card stock, even the darkish threads running through. But the name just isn’t there. The lapse is so specific it’s as though that single detail was removed with surgical precision.
I take a deep, measured breath and let it out slowly. Tomorrow, I’ll call Arthur. Tell him I lost the card, I washed it in my pants. Accidents happen. Hell, he’ll probably insist upon setting the appointment himself.
I resolve to clean up the foyer and start on the dishes after a nice hot shower. On the second floor I seal myself inside the bathroom, thumb hovering thoughtfully over the lock. No menacing shadows when I threw open the door. No fleeting faces in the mirror. I forgo the lock and turn on the shower, but that strange sensation moves through me the moment I begin to undress—a sudden shyness I can’t reason away, or account for—alone in a room with just one entrance. I don’t remove my underwear until I’m standing under the stream in the shower.
The scalding water runs in skinny rivers down my legs and I release a sigh that has been building for weeks. The water pools over my eyelids, trickles down my neck, not quite the brush of fingers, but reminiscent none the less. I am not crazy. I’m exhausted, defeated, miserable, but not insane. I repeat the words like a mantra, until the water turns cold. I shut the shower off just in time to hear my mother’s pounding, ungainly steps thundering up the staircase. With only enough time to throw a towel around myself, my mother flings the door open.