My stomach flips.
Not this, I say.
9
Daniel Rosenstein
“Tell me about the Fouls,” I say.
“What do you want to know?”
“When they arrived. What purpose they serve.”
She leans back in her chair. Gazes with listless inquiry at the oil painting. Her head tilting from side to side as if it might offer a different view of the cliffs. Another perspective.
“They make me do things,” she says eventually, drawing her eyes to meet mine. “They make me hurt myself, then show up to scold or poke fun. They hate me. Us.”
“Us?”
“The Flock.” She smiles shyly.
“They’re not part of the Flock too?”
She looks away.
“I’ve asked them to join us but they refuse.”
“Why?” I ask.
“You tell me. You’re the expert.”
“First, I’m no expert,” I say, “and secondly, we’re in this together. It’s not a Q&A.”
She jolts back into herself, her earlier smile now gone. Then throws me a confused look.
“An expert requires no further learning,” I continue. “I’d like us to make sense of the Voices together. This way you’ll find a way to manage them and I’ll find a way to guide.”
She hesitates.
“They say I’m evil,” she says, “rotten to the core.”
“This quasi-religious evil . . . tell me, your father—was he a religious man?”
“No. He just preached a lot. Told me how lousy I was.”
“Is it possible you’ve internalized his voice, created the Fouls to mirror your father?”
“You mean like self-punishment? Probably.” She shrugs, answering her own question.
“Ever discuss this with Joseph?”
“Sometimes. But I was scared he’d see me for what I was.”
“You feared his rejection?”
“Always.”
“So you presented a false self?” I ask.
“There was a lot of that,” she says.
“I see.”
She raises her chin.
“Joseph had paintings in his consulting room too,” she says, fixing her eyes on the cliffs. “There was one, a print, of a family. I think it was by Picasso. A mother and father with their four children. And a dog. A baby resting in the mother’s lap. One of the children, I was never sure if it was a boy or a girl, stands, defiant. Their gaze is so fixed and penetrating. I hated it to begin with. The idea of family—it felt so alien. It was as if the painting was tormenting me. Waiting for me to leak all my badness into the room like some awful contagion—like somehow the idyllic portrait would set my evil and envious thoughts into actions. The Fouls used to tell me to destroy it. Let him see how bad you really are, they’d say.”
“And how bad are you?” I ask.
She pauses.
I wait.
“How bad?” I repeat.
Her feet turn inward, a gentle wringing of hands. She shakes her head.
“I’m a good girl,” she whispers quietly, “not like Alexa.”
I note the switch.
“What did Alexa do?” I say.
“Last night”—she pauses, looks around, vigilant and patrolled—“she went to that icky place, Electra, with her friend Ella. I watched them from the Nest.”
Bambi-eyed, she tucks her left foot beneath her thigh and bites her lip.
“You must be Dolly?” I venture playfully, noting the slight rise in my voice.
She nods.
“It’s nice to meet you.” I smile.
“You too,” she says, rather too quickly.
I check the gold clock on my desk. Damn.
“Dolly,” I say, “we have to finish now, but I hope you’ll come back soon. I’d like us to talk some more. Maybe you can tell me about that icky place?”
She stands, her quick fingers tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her maimed ear. Feet still turned inward, she points at the door as if seeking license to leave, which I grant with a nod. When I turn the door handle she stretches into her former self. Her shoulders pulling back and rearing like a mustang as if to brace the outside once again. Seemingly given permission to take up more space in the world, Alexa smiles.
“Goodbye,” she says.
I open my laptop, curiosity now having gotten the better of me. A desire to know more about the icky place Alexa and Ella visited last night causing me strain.
An image of a girl with long red hair and heavily made-up eyes stares out, a mole above her glossed and slightly open mouth. I note how the pinch of her waist accentuates her large chest. A tight white tank top straining with the word electra in bright magenta printed across. My eyes travel to her string panties, a triangle of silk barely the size of a Dorito.
I slap the screen shut.
Attempting to steady myself for my next patient, I stand and gaze out the bay window, but an inescapable image of Alexa suddenly appears in my mind. She arrives at my office and morphs into a self-assured version of herself wearing red lipstick and heels. When I offer her a seat she scrambles into the far corner of my office like a wild animal, her eyes wide open and darting. Suddenly a child.
10
Alexa Wú
“Pass me the lens hood!” Jack orders, his voice barely heard over the lobbying crowds.
A political rally.
Thousands marching to Downing Street demanding more cash for the National Health Service.
“Keep an eye out for anything interesting,” he shouts again, “and stay close.”
I scoot into Jack’s side, our awareness and protection of each other evident by the proximity in which we move like armored side-walking crabs. I clench my own hand three times, the effect not nearly as reassuring as when Ella and I use our three-squeeze code.
It’s okay, Oneiroi whispers, we’ve got you. Don’t panic.
Rucksacks secured on our backs, Jack and I forge ahead, our hands free to protect our cameras and our eyes fixed on the marching men and women.
College suddenly seems like a far cry from working life. Work proving nothing like the safe environment of darkrooms and reading and lectures. Just three days in and already I’m starting to feel the burn, the rush. The thrill of being an actual photographer. I feel a wave of nausea—from either excitement or fear.
Excitement, Oneiroi champions.
Fear, the Fouls goad.
Why must you spoil everything?
They sneer.
I settle for excitement, then try on the feeling before deciding to speak the word out loud.
“This is exciting!” I cheer.
Jacks catches my eyes and smiles.
“You’ve got the bug,” he shouts back.
“The bug?”
“It’s infectious,” he says. “In a good way.”
I know that for a great, honest shot we’ll need to move in closer, morph into part of the scene. Our cameras aimed at the lively health workers, activists, and pressure groups, their raised placards demanding we save the nhs. I focus on a man with a tan megaphone—part of the People’s Assembly—click—his leadership addressing the marchers and stating the pressures to come. Click. Click. Click. Another tan megaphone follows his lead and momentum builds, their dual voices strengthening with each repeated protest.
An elbow finds its way to my chest, not intentional but all the same jolting the Body into submission.
“You okay?” Jack shouts.
I nod, twist my shoulder to fit the space where I can see a woman carrying a homemade placard: my 15-year-old daughter killed herself, it reads. save the nhs.
Jack and I sidle up beside her. “Get her story,” he whispers in my ear, “show her your ID.”
I smile to test the waters. The woman notes my camera and nods.
“Pro or anti?” she asks.
“Pro,” I say, showing her my news ID.
Her eyes start to fill.
“The NHS needs our help,” she says. “My daughter killed herself after she was discharged from a psychiatric ward despite our plea that she be kept in hospital. We were told they needed the bed. We said she wasn’t safe to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, my words feeling weak and insubstantial.
She grips the handle of her sign, her lower lip starting to quiver.
“She was really sick. Hallucinating and everything. Hearing voices through the walls, the TV. We didn’t know what to do. Where else to go for help. We only had the NHS, we couldn’t afford private health care.”
Do something, Runner orders. Help her.
“May I?” I ask, offering my camera. “I can support your cause.”
She agrees, anger and grief lining every angle of her face, loss pulling down like rain on her already slim shoulders. Raising my lens, I freeze momentarily, a slight hesitance to my click, thinking my camera’s intrusion might cause her further distress. Suddenly she raises her sign, a swift gush of strength. A determination in her angry and grieving blue eyes. I feel my chest explode with pride and admiration. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Good shot, I tell myself.
“Thank you,” I say, moving on.
The mother lifts her head, pride and resilience forcing back tears.
“Fix it now! Fix it now! Fix it now!” the crowds chant.
Fix it now! Fix it now! Fix it now! the Flock mimic, their own protest going on inside the Body.
This feels good, Runner shouts, throwing a clenched fist in the air. Let’s do this!
“Get the shot?” Jack shouts, joining the flow of revolt. His own camera aimed at a group of lobbying nurses.
“Yes.”
Adrenaline drenches my entire body, a feeling not dissimilar to when I’d survived my father’s wrath or had escaped his sly fists. A sense of empowerment mixed with relief surges through my chest. My camera now a mighty weapon.
I fill my lungs with air and push my body forward, eyes turned back and fixed on the grieving mother. The dense crowd’s chant almost deafening.
This is no time to start feeling sentimental, Runner says. Do you want me to take over for a while?
No, I say, I’m fine. I’m good.
“Over there!” Jack points and I follow.
A group of nurses holding up a banner made of NHS bedsheets. We scoot up toward them, click, Jack suddenly kneeling to get a wide-angle shot of the nurses’ linked arms. I join him. Chants ringing strong all around.
“This feels great,” I say.
Jack smiles and points at my chest.
“That feeling there,” he says, “it never goes away. Stand for something, and you’ll never fall for shit that don’t matter.”
11
Daniel Rosenstein
“Did you schedule an extra session with Alexa Wú?” The Receptionist asks.
“No,” I reply, “I’m heading out to my meeting. I just came in early to catch up on some notes before I meet with the governors this afternoon.”
“Well, she’s here.”
“Give me a moment,” I say, checking my diary. Memory immediately challenged.
“No,” I repeat. “Nothing in my diary. Charlotte’s due after lunch, then Emma. And then we have a team meeting at four p.m., before the governors meeting at six p.m.”
“What would you like me to do? She’s in the waiting room.”
I check my clock—eight a.m.
“I’ll come speak with her,” I say.
Click.
Suddenly disoriented, even though I’ve checked my diary and know we never meet on Fridays because of my AA meeting, I surprise myself by not entirely trusting that I’ve got my timing right. I wonder about this, my countertransference experienced to be shaky and uncertain.
I check the diary again, run my finger down the list of today’s patients and meetings. It’s fine, I reassure myself. It’s Friday. Alexa comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Eight a.m. Both days. I’m not mistaken.
She is seated and waiting. Yet on seeing me approach, she stands.
“Hello, Alexa.”
She steps back.
“Have I done something wrong?” Her voice hushed and small.
“Wrong? Of course not.”
“Your receptionist said I got the time wrong.”
I notice her feet turn inward as she pulls down her sweater to cover her fists. A denim jacket worn on top. She suddenly averts her gaze, instead glancing at the Receptionist.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Take a seat for the moment.”
“I prefer to stand,” she quickly answers.
“I’m afraid I have to leave shortly,” I explain.
“Leave?”
“Yes.”
“So I did get the time wrong?”
“It’s Friday,” I say gently. “We meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays, remember?”
She nods, but I’m unsure if she really believes this to be true.
“Can I wait here for you?” she asks.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why?”
“I have to go to a meeting now, and then I have patients and other meetings for the rest of the day.” I try to calm her apparent unease with a smile.
“So no time to see me at all?”
She picks at her cuticles nervously.
“Sadly not.”
She inches farther away, her gaze trailing the floor, fists held tightly against her chest.
I check the waiting room clock, aware that I need to finish my notes and leave shortly, keen that this situation not escalate into something problematic. I turn around and face the Receptionist, who has one eye on her computer screen. She taps her watch discreetly and smiles.
“I’m sorry, Alexa,” I say. “I’ll see you next week, on Tuesday. Okay?”
She is still. Fixed. I watch her hands clench and unclench. She attempts an intake of breath, her gaze traveling up my body to meet my eyes. Suddenly her body jolts. She is striding toward me at speed.
“Well, thanks a fucking lot!” she yells. Her finger directed in my face.
I feel myself flinch, stumble backward.
“Useless piece of shit.”
Stunned, I waver.
She sneers, sly. Turns and walks away.
12
Alexa Wú
Idiot, the Fouls scorn.
I’m not an idiot, Dolly cries, and stop being so mean.
Alexa, sleepin’ fuckin’ beauty, is still out cold, so I muscle in and force the Fouls away.
Why didn’t you wake me, Dolly? You’re not supposed to come out alone, it’s not safe. You know that.
I just thought I’d let you all rest. Don’t be cross, Runner.
I’m not cross, I’m disappointed. You should have woken me up. It’s not a lot of fun when you wake up and find yourself in this shithole faced with some bloke.
He’s not just any bloke, he helps us. He’s nice, Dolly says.
That useless piece of shit? Don’t be fooled. Next time, wake me. Got it?
She starts to cry. Christ al-fuckin’-mighty.
Stop crying, come on. You’re okay. I try to put my arm around her, but she pulls away.
I’m sorry, Runner, I was just trying to be helpful. We always come to Glendown at eight o’clock.
Didn’t you hear what the doc said? It’s Friday. F-R-I-D-A-Y. We come on Tuesdays and Thursdays, remember? Get it in your head.
She scoots into my side as I make my way down the white corridor. Shall we wake Alexa? she asks between sobs.
Not yet, she’s tired and stressed. She’s got a lot going on with work, the new shrink, and now Ella starting at the Electra. Just let her rest.
Dolly takes my hand, happy now that I’ve stopped yelling at her.
Runner, she says with a smile, can we get breakfast? I’m soooooo hungry.
Okay, I agree, reaching for a Lucky Strike, what d’ya fancy?
Eggs.
Eggs? I laugh. Just eggs?
Eggs an
d chips! With ketchup.
Oneiroi suddenly wakes up. Where are we? She yawns, stretching.
Glendown, I say.
Glendown?
Dolly thought she’d be all clever and bring us here.
Dolly!
I’ve already said sorry, Dolly says, irked.
Where are we going now? asks Oneiroi, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
To get some breakfast. Dolly wants eggs. We can wake Alexa in time for work.
I don’t fancy eggs.
I don’t care what you fancy.
I turn the corner. Dolly happy because she’s got her own way, Oneiroi not so much. Approaching us are two girls. One fat. One thin. They stare. Smile. Stare some more.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” I yell.
Runner! Dolly says, covering her ears. Don’t be so horrid.
“I’m sorry,” I call out, amused, “I’m having a bad day. Forgive me. Come join us for eggs!” But already they are running toward the cafeteria at speed, their legs carrying them quicker than a friggin’ freight train.
Attagirl, Oneiroi says, stepping out of the Nest, you sure know how to make friends.
13
Daniel Rosenstein
Alexa Wú: September 21
Today is Friday. Alexa arrived very confused. She believed she’d done something “wrong,” which I suspect is her trauma history rearing its ugly head. When I informed her that we don’t meet on Fridays, she appeared ashamed and self-conscious. She was clearly disoriented and I was aware of a shift, a distinct switch, in her body language—becoming childlike. Once I’d explained that we only meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she became compliant, nodding and pretending to understand.
I suspect Alexa was in a dissociative fugue, and that one of her personalities, “Dolly,” somehow made her way to Glendown. Need to address the question of safety . . . ?
When I asked that she take a moment and have a seat, she insisted on standing. My countertransference indicated she was feeling immense shame, and that “getting something wrong” made her undeserving of a seat, or kindness even. I sensed she felt incredibly exposed at this point.
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