Face Behind the Mask

by Leo King

  Later that evening, Sam was in her dormitory room, which she shared with Miss Prissy and Lay-Me.

  “Oh my God, Sam! That was beautiful!” Lay-Me sat on the edge of her bed, giggling. “I don’t know who was serious and who wasn’t, but when it got so bad that Dr. Kindley had to call for orderlies to break up the session, I nearly died laughing.”

  “It wasn’t that funny,” replied Miss Prissy from a desk near the window. She was on the fifth iteration of a letter to the Boston Pops, having discarded the others because “the i’s weren’t dotted properly.” She continued, “After all, as Martha Stewart says, ‘Without a sense of teamwork, I think it's really hard to build a great business.’”

  Lay-Me blew a raspberry. “Seriously, Ursula. Stop quoting Martha Stewart or I’m going to make you eat your own letter.”

  Miss Prissy harrumphed loudly.

  Sam remained silent, laying on her back and studying the ceiling. Dr. Kindley hadn’t spoken to her since the session had ended, only nodding politely. Somehow, that was much worse. She was sure that he was going to try to retaliate.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as Lay-Me leaned over her. She had a particularly cat-like smile, which reminded Sam of Cathy from the old comic strip of the same name.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” Lay-Me’s voice rang out cheerfully.

  “Um, nothing really,” Sam said. Despite Lay-Me having a reputation as a nymphomaniac, she was one of the more lucid and friendly people in the unit, but Sam had never really tried to chat with her until today.

  “Uh-huh.” Lay-Me sat next to her, so Sam scooted over to give her room. “You know, you really should learn to trust people more, Sam. Not everyone is out to screw you over.”

  Blinking, Sam rubbed her head, feeling her emotional defenses rise. “Meghan, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve had a pretty unhappy life filled with a lot—and I mean a lot—of betrayal. So keeping people at a distance is all I know to do.”

  “No reason to be a bitch,” Lay-Me said. “You think you’re the only one with problems? Get over yourself, Sam.” She lay back on her own bed.

  Miss Prissy hunkered quietly over her letter.

  Sam rolled on her side, her eyes resting on the only empty bed in the room. Her fourth roommate, a young, mousy, gaunt-faced girl nicknamed Little Squeaker, had been transferred. Little Squeaker had been shy and never opened up, and Dr. Kindley said he couldn’t treat her. So now she was gone. Sam didn’t want to end up like that. She needed to at least try to make a few friends.

  Sitting up, Sam cleared her throat. “Sorry. I’ll try to be more open.”

  Lay-Me winked. “Apology accepted. So, can we be friends?”

  “We can try, yes,” Sam said, pushing back her defensive feelings.

  “Then can I ask you something, Sam? Because I really gotta know.”

  “Um, sure. Go ahead.”

  Lay-Me tossed the book to the side and then swung her legs around, leaning toward her. “Tell me, did you really sleep with your nephew?”

  Sam felt her face heat up. “I shoulda known it would be about sex.”

  “Hey, hey, you promised! And I really wanna know.”

  Memories of her and Richie—and the passion between them—made her chest swell and her body ache with need. The sudden rush of desire took her by surprise, and she remembered her reaction to the hot male nurse. She wondered if it was Bridgette’s doing that she got aroused so easily now.

  She fanned herself. “Yes. Yes, that’s right. His mother and mine were twins. But we didn’t know it while we were doing it.”

  Lay-Me whistled. “Damn, that’s messed up. So… what did you all do? How good was he? Was it as ‘righteously kinky’ as you said?”

  Her mouth slowly opening, Sam stared at Lay-Me, who was waiting with bated breath. Miss Prissy’s ears were burning red, and she was obviously trying to eavesdrop without appearing like it. The entire situation made Sam feel good, even if only for a moment. It was the closest thing to a “sex chat with the girls” she had ever experienced. She wondered if that was what a normal life would have been like.

  Clearing her throat, she reached over and tweaked Lay-Me’s nose. “Sorry. A lady never kisses and tells. And despite what you may think, I am a lady.”

  Miss Prissy snickered, and Lay-Me, who looked like a child denied candy, shrugged and went back to her book. “Buzzkill.”

  Then Sam saw what Lay-Me was reading. It was The Pale Lantern by Richard Fastellos. Turning away from the others, she pressed her hand to her chest. Just thinking about Richie was like a vise squeezing her heart. That pain was compounded by the knowledge that until she destroyed Vincent, Richie and the other ghosts would be unable to move on.

  I promise, guys, I will never stop fighting.

  Lying back down, she thought of Richie, Rodger, and Michael until she finally fell asleep.

  It was late at night when Sam awoke to someone moving behind her. For a moment, every muscle in her body tensed up like a serpent ready to strike. Then she heard Lay-Me whisper, “Hush! You’ll wake Ursula up!”

  In the quiet of the dorm room, she could hear Miss Prissy sleeping soundly.

  Sam grunted, still half-asleep. “Meghan, what are you doing? I nearly kicked your ass. I nearly. . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she felt a hand run down her back and then cup her rear end. Her eyes widened, and her pulse quickened.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot, Sam, and you never touch yourself. So I figure you need to relieve some stress.”

  Rolling onto her back, Sam arched an eyebrow. Lay-Me started stroking her stomach, avoiding her burns with expert precision.

  “Meghan, you know I’m straight, right?”

  Lay-Me tittered and leaned down, kissing her nose. Her breath was sweet like peppermint, and her voice was low and husky. “I kinda guessed. But you’re putting out some serious ‘sex me up’ signals. You don’t have to do anything. Let me do all the work.”

  Am I? Why am I like this now?

  Lay-Me cupped Sam’s chest and squeezed. “Have you gotten bigger? Feels like it.”

  Sam inhaled through her teeth and arched her back, feeling her skin heat up. But even as her body reacted, she felt a growing sense of unease. This was not something she wanted. “Come on. Knock it off.”

  With a sultry expression, Lay-Me slid her hand into Sam’s underwear and then ran her long hair over her face. “Don’t make me molest you, Sam. You’re beautiful, and I like you. You trusted me and opened up. I really appreciate that. Let me thank you in the way I know how.”

  The fire continued to grow within Sam. Unlike with Richie, there was no emotion, just raw physical desire. What’s going on with me?

  Then she felt Lay-Me’s hand slide between her legs. “Oh, Sam, you’re so wet…”

  In an instant, Sam felt that unease blossom into panic. She slapped Lay-Me’s hand away so fast, it echoed. “Don’t touch me!”

  Miss Prissy snuffled in her sleep and rolled over.

  For a few seconds, Lay-Me just sat there. Then her bottom lip started to tremble, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I’m… I’m sorry… I just wanted… I just…”

  Sam sat up and took several deep breaths, her long blond hair falling over her face. Her entire body was on fire, her libido in overdrive, and she couldn’t figure out why. Part of her wanted to pounce on Lay-Me and use her until there was nothing left. The other part felt so freaked out that she wanted to run. She had never been like this before.

  “I thought it would help. I’m sorry, Sam, OK?” Lay-Me sobbed softly.

  Watching her, Sam felt a deep pity. She didn’t think the other girl could help herself. Maybe it was the only way she knew how to connect with others.

  She hugged the other girl. “It’s OK, Meghan. I’ll forgive it this one time, but never touch me like that again without my permission. OK?”

  Lay-Me nodded.

  Sam flipped her hair out of her face and then wiped Lay-Me’s te
ars away. “I’ll come to you if I ever want anything like that. Otherwise, we’re just friends.”

  “All right. Sorry. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

  As Lay-Me went to bed, Sam rolled to her side. After a while, she reached down and gently touched herself. She was still incredibly excited. Was it because of Bridgette? The Loa Queen was also a loa of sexuality. But if she’s causing this, why can’t I feel her possessing me?

  Chapter 4

  A Cup of Coffee

  Date: Friday, October 9, 1992

  Time: 12:30 p.m.

  Location: Tulane Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit

  Downtown New Orleans

  “Hey, Sam. You OK? You look awful.” Meghan sat down next to her in the cafeteria.

  Sam shrugged, poking at her lunch of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. For the second day in a row, she hadn’t slept well and was unable to eat. Her stomach had hurt to the point of nausea both mornings.

  Meghan stuffed spoonfuls of mashed potatoes into her mouth. “If you’re sick, you should tell Dr. Kindley. He can get you a normal doctor’s visit.”

  “I guess.” Even though Dr. Kindley had yet to retaliate over the outburst in group therapy, Sam was certain he’d mention it to Veronica during their checkup later that day. “But only if I still feel bad by tonight.”

  Truth was, she felt like she could throw up at any moment. The smell of the ketchup-stained meat and salty powdered potatoes just made it worse.

  “Well, well, now. If it isn’t little Sammy and little Meggy,” a voice said with a thick Cajun accent.

  Meghan looked up and then grimaced. “What the heck do you want, Herpes?”

  “That’s Herpin, little Meggy. Orderly Herpin.”

  Herpin, who ran their section, stood over them both. He had a reputation for treating patients with the utmost contempt. Sam couldn’t grasp how anyone like him would be employed by a place as prestigious as Tulane.

  “Sorry, Orderly Herpes.” Meghan spoke in a nasal voice and then giggled, elbowing Sam.

  As he glared at Meghan, his mustache bristling, Sam gagged. She really wanted to throw up. His odor was like spicy garlic, and today it was particularly overpowering.

  Then he tapped her plate. “Hey, little Sammy. You aren’t looking too good. And you’ve hardly touched any lunch. What’s wrong, our food not good enough for you?”

  She glowered, indignant feelings rising within her. The last thing she wanted was to have him around making her want to puke.

  With a resounding slap of her hands against the table, she stood and locked eyes with him. Everyone in the cafeteria stopped and stared. “You wanna know what’s wrong, you jerk? This crap you feed me has been making me sick for two days straight. I can’t keep any of this slop down. And then you give us tapioca pudding in the evenings for dessert. Really? Tapioca pudding? Do I look like I’m seventy-five? And don’t even get me started on the Salisbury steak you served for dinner last night. The only cow in that meal was the milk I drank, which I might add was one day away from turning. And your stinky garlic-ass self isn’t helping! Seriously, dude, do you shower?”

  Even as she ranted, she couldn't place where all this frustration and indignation at being treated so commonly was coming from. It was like a part of her that had always been asleep was waking up—on the wrong side of the bed.

  Several of the orderlies were heading over, and most of the patients were standing slack-jawed. Herpin was prickling like a porcupine.

  Meghan tentatively said, “Um, Sam? The orderlies don’t decide what to serve…”

  But Sam ignored everyone. “But all of this could be forgiven if you just served me some decent coffee.”

  The words flew from her lips like spittle. She couldn't stop now if she wanted.

  She poured the contents of her Styrofoam cup onto the floor. “You call this crap coffee? The motor oil my dad and Rodger drank back in the seventies was better than this dredge. How a hospital in New Orleans can serve such crap is beyond me. I haven’t had a decent cup of Community coffee and chicory since I got here, and quite frankly, Orderly Herpes, this coffee stinks almost as bad as you do!” She tossed the empty cup over her shoulder and dusted her hands off.

  Then she realized that everyone in the cafeteria was either staring in shock or glaring in anger. Oh, crap, I did it again!

  Herpin gaped incredulously at her and then raised his hand. “You whore, I oughta—”

  “Orderly Herpin, stand down!” Dr. Kindley stood at the entrance to the cafeteria, looking cross. “Herpin, you are to clock out and go home at once. I will call you tonight.”

  Growling threateningly, Herpin stormed off, never taking his eyes off Sam.

  Meghan stuck her tongue out. “Yeah, go stick it in your ass, Herp—”

  “Miss Dubios, that is enough out of you. One more outburst and I will seclude you from the general population. Sit down now.”

  With a suddenly meek expression, she sat down. “Sorry, sir.”

  He then smiled at Sam. That fake smile she detested. “Miss Castille. Please come this way. I wish to have a word with you.”

  She clenched her jaw. Meghan squeezed her hand. “Hey. You be careful, OK?”

  “I will. Don’t worry.” She grabbed her crutches and hobbled after him. Two orderlies escorted her to his office, where a rather strong-looking male nurse and Veronica were waiting.

  Dr. Kindley motioned for her to sit next to Veronica. The nurse closed the door and stood guard, arms folded.

  “Miss Castille. Do you know why you’re here?”

  Sam sniffed. “Because a psychotic doctor told a judge that I’m a whackjob.”

  He looked bored. “You mean Dr. Klein?”

  Veronica cleared her throat. “Sam believes that Dr. Klein is manipulating the system to keep her here against her will.”

  Sam pointed as if to say “what she said.” Despite being unable to get her commitment overturned, Veronica was a trustworthy advocate.

  Tapping his fingers together, Dr. Kindley said, “Dr. Klein, well… I may not agree with his methods, but he has been Sam’s psychiatrist for over twenty years. There is no one who knows her profile better.”

  “And yet she is utterly terrified of him,” Veronica added.

  With an obviously fake whimper, Sam sucked on her bottom lip. She then raised her voice to sound like a little girl. “He’s a bad man, Dr. Kindley. I think he wants to toucha muh boobie.”

  When everyone else in the room peered at her, she settled down. “Sorry.” As much as she wanted to lash out about her situation, this wasn't the time or the place for it.

  Dr. Kindley folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. “Miss Castille, the reason you are here is because you burned down your house, tried to commit suicide, and seriously injured a nurse in the burn unit. In short, you have a very violent nature and are constantly endangering yourself and others.”

  Another sudden wave of nausea hit, and she fought to keep from vomiting.

  “However, two days ago at group therapy, you said something very interesting.”

  As the nausea subsided, she asked, “Um, what did I say?”

  “You said you were possessed by the Queen of the Loa and are immortal.”

  As Veronica regarded her with a confused expression, Sam felt another wave of nausea.

  “And I think that pinpoints the nature of your delusion, Miss Castille,” he said.

  Sam swallowed the urge to throw up, mumbling, “It’s not a delusion! I really am immortal. I really do have the Queen of the Loa inside of me.”

  Dr. Kindley leaned forward. “Then prove it. Make me, a doctor, throw away everything I know about reason and rationale to believe in ghosts and voodoo.”

  Closing her eyes, she once more felt for Bridgette. All the signs were there: She felt regal, she felt sexual, and she felt indignant. But she couldn’t feel the loa queen within her like she could with Marinette.

  She finally opened her eyes. “Sorry, I can’t.
”

  Veronica sighed and rubbed her face. “Lovely. Just lovely. Another roadblock.”

  Sitting back, Dr. Kindley opened Sam’s file. “As I thought. Now, Miss Castille, I’m going to prescribe a new round of medication to help with the delusions and symptoms of paranoia. Also, we’re going to move you out of group therapy and into private therapy for a period of two weeks. You’ll still be allowed to mingle with the other patients, but if you cause any more uproars, I will seclude you. Understood?”

  “Fine.” Sam scowled at Veronica, who was still rubbing her face. And what’s up with her? Is she going to betray me now?

  Then he tapped the intercom on his desk. “Bring it in.” A few moments later, an orderly entered holding a tray with a Styrofoam cup and several packets of non-dairy creamer and sugar.

  She craned her neck. “What’s that?”

  He motioned the orderly toward her. “I believe that good will is the best way to incentivize. To show you my good will, I am giving you a cup of Community coffee with chicory. If you continue to behave, you’ll get one cup a day instead of that ‘motor oil’ you detest so much. You may drink it however you wish.”

  “Are you serious?” She couldn’t believe it. She examined the cup as if she expected it to try to eat her.

  Veronica patted her gently on the knee. “Until we can come up with a new plan, Sam, I think it’s best you stay on his good side. Go ahead and take it.”

  She glanced over at Veronica, perplexed. It was like her attitude had changed the moment the conversation had shifted to Bridgette. Now instead of fighting Dr. Kindley, she was almost biding her time. There’s something funny with her. What’s she really about?

  Looking back at the coffee, she exhaled. “OK, fine. Thanks.” She took the cup, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. The smell of coffee and chicory, her favorite drink in the world, was heady and strong.

  A moment later, she threw up.

  The coffee spilled to the ground along with her vomitus. She fell to her knees. It was the scent of the coffee that had done it. And as everyone around her rose to their feet, a light clicked in her head. Oh, my God!