The Eighth Girl

by Maxine Mei-Fung Chung

  When I told her I had no time to see her today, she then became incredibly hostile. She tried to intimidate me by pointing in my face and accusing me of being a “useless piece of shit.” I suspect this was her “Runner” personality.

  We should discuss this incident at our next session. But will bringing up her bizarre and aggressive behavior cause her further shame? Further anxiety? It is important to attempt integration by voicing what rogue personalities do whilst the host is in fugue, yet it can be beneficial if the personalities are left to discuss, raise, or reflect on their actions for themselves. Note: consider best course of action before next meeting.

  Have I been neglectful? Unseeing and unalarmed? A bystander to her disorganized world? Should I have encouraged, or rather, insisted, that she stay . . . ? Demanded that her personalities explain the goings-on in her disordered mind?

  Her condition is getting dangerous. Increasingly out of control.

  14

  Alexa Wú

  “Take off your clothes,” he says in a low voice.

  I tiptoe across the bathroom, bare feet kissing the cool tiles. Dropping whatever’s left draped on my body to the floor. Outside, early evening light has turned to pink like candied marshmallow, everything hazy and soft and warm.

  “Baby,” he whispers. His hand cups between my thighs and I gently part them for him to hold. Heat surges through my insides like smoke, a flint of what’s next. He kisses my breasts in turn, angling me to face the mirror. I watch him kiss my neck, a voyeur to my own intimacy.

  He rests his hand on my dark triangle and I twist with zest, not quite knowing who has control of the Body, the way in which it finds rhythm and pleasure.

  “Do that thing,” he says, desire in his eyes.

  My hand finds its place as we sink into each other, touch and timing as easy as breath, our fit something of a mystery.

  “Shh,” I say, my free hand muffling his filthy words, aware Anna is downstairs. The risk of being caught and punished adding intensity to my wetness. Part of me aches to be flogged, my mistake earlier today still causing me shame. The look on Runner’s face when I eventually woke up and she told me Dolly had taken the Body to Glendown and Runner had woken up to witness her standing there, alone and small, begging Daniel to see us. I cringe, then slam myself harder against him, hoping he’ll do the same. A grateful, deserving pain felt deep within me.

  Runner hands me a tissue and turns away, relieved when the whole sordid event is finally over.

  Why must you do that? Runner whispers. It’s too rough, Alexa.

  I deserve it, I say.

  “What’s the rush?” he asks, pulling me back—inked mermaids and monsters stretching as he draws me closer to his glistening chest.

  I kiss his mouth, stirred from the depth of our sex.

  Enough, Runner insists, this feels wrong.

  For you, maybe, Oneiroi says, but not for the rest of us.

  Oh, so now you like it rough too?

  Sometimes, Oneiroi says.

  Runner dials up the shower and pushes the Body toward the hot spray. Heat and steam swirling in the echoey box. Oneiroi stares with lust at Shaun’s naked body, seemingly pleased, and reaches out to draw a fat heart on the steamed-up wall.

  I’m going for a nap after our shower, she says, stretching. Wake me up if Shaun fancies seconds.

  Twisting the knob left to right, Runner shoves the Body against the shower’s wall.

  Go cool off! she snaps.

  When I return, Shaun is dressed and checking his phone.

  “Navid wants me to work tonight,” he says. “You okay with that?”

  “Sure,” I say, knowing I’ve agreed to have supper with Anna.

  I realize Shaun must be thinking how cool and undemanding I am, because I’m thinking it too.

  Thanks, I say to the Flock, not quite knowing who’s responsible for my chill.

  You’re welcome. Oneiroi smiles. Anytime.

  Shaun reaches for my waist, his body relaxed and horizontal. Postsex pleasure pulling down on his watery eyes.

  “I’d kill for a smoke,” he says.

  “How long’s it been now?” I ask.

  “Just over a month. I miss it after sex.”

  “After sex,” I hiss.

  “With you. I miss it after sex with you.”

  “Okay then,” I huff.

  He kisses my mouth, “Hey, I think we need to celebrate your first week at work.” He shines.

  “We already did,” I flirt.

  “My girlfriend, a photographer! First assistant to Mr. Jack Carrasqueiro.” He smiles.

  “So I’m your girlfriend now, am I? I kinda like that.”

  He winks.

  “You’re the only one for me. I’m so proud of you, baby.” Then, more seriously, “He’d better not be good looking, this Jack guy.”

  “Mm, well—” I tease, raising my eyes. An attempt to keep Shaun on his toes.

  He grabs me by the waist and pulls me into him. “I can’t have my girl falling in love with her new boss.”

  He tickles my ribs, part of me knowing his little joke is not completely innocent. The dig of his thumbs just a little too firm on my skin. The pin of his eyes tightly in place.

  I smile. My nerves hoping he’s feeling possessive. Hoping he’s not.

  “So, you’re cool about tonight?” he says, sitting up and casting me adrift.

  I nod, withholding that I already have plans with Anna but wanting to score brownie points all the same.

  “It might be a late night,” he adds. “Some new girls are coming in.”

  “New girls?” I ask, trying my very best to steady my nerves.

  But I know he senses it, is alert to my insecurity as he watches me clutch a pillow to my chest. I try to imagine what the girls might look like.

  “If it’s not too late, maybe you can come over when you’re finished?” I say.

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  Disappointment knees me in the chest, his own cool trumping mine.

  “I’ll be up anyway,” I say.

  A pause.

  Shaun pulls me in closer, tosses the pillow protecting my chest.

  “Navid thinks the club needs more girls, more choice.”

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  He looks away. “Electra’s changed a lot since I started work there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “What?” I repeat.

  Silence.

  “Cassie has a brother,” he says, “Tao. He lives in China. Says he has access to girls desperate for work. And Navid wants to branch out, you know, do more with the girls.”

  “More?” I ask.

  He looks again at his phone.

  “Porn,” he says.

  “I bet he does,” I snap, knowing our matinee sex has loosened his tongue. “Is that what you think too?”

  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think I’d be a fool to cross him. That’s what I think.”

  “Are you scared of him?” I challenge.

  He tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling.

  “Get dressed,” he says, his mood turned low. “I need coffee.”

  He stands. Turns away. Presses the TV controls. One of the music channels leaking out some backbeat R&B. Two scantily clad girls dance across the screen circling a pool party before finally diving in among inflated pink flamingos and neon fruits. Their bodies surgically enhanced like manga characters with gigantic breasts and tiny waists, skin tanned and oiled. I look away. My carnal heart wishing he wouldn’t stare like that. So fixed.

  15

  Daniel Rosenstein

  The Old-Timer looks down at the floor, suddenly overcome. The room is silent. Still. Respectful of the words that he shared just moments ago, grieving his dead mother. He leans forward in his chair, struggling to find forgiveness for his father, whom he believes could have offered more patience and love—kissed her, held her, made her last
few weeks more comfortable before the cancer eventually devoured her pancreas. “Destroying,” he says, “a woman I barely recognized in the end.”

  He knows forgiveness will be the thing that heals, but today it’s hard for him to reach. His anger and resentment sabotaging his recovery.

  The Single Mother looks at him, uncrosses her legs. A tear slicing through any resistance she may have to let go. Her body responding to his grief.

  “Last night, I wanted to drink,” the Old-Timer says. “It caught me by surprise. I thought twenty years in I’d be safe, but apparently not. Apparently, addiction still wants to surface like some overflowing sewer. Persistent, this fucking disease.”

  One of the newcomers looks about the room, spooked. A certain panic setting in. Sensing his alarm, I attempt to catch his eyes—a codependent act, I realize—but as they meet I hold him steadily in my gaze. It’s not unusual that significant loss can spark overwhelming feelings of despair, so much sometimes that relapse occurs, even for old-timers.

  Clara suddenly sails into my mind, my own loss ignited. Remembering how I’d struggled with my addiction five years ago when her death became a constant companion to my waking day—preoccupation forcing me down, a little boy, into a deep well of sadness. I feel the loss lodge itself in the core of my chest, anxiety causing a rush of adrenaline. Dark and alone, I sense myself relieved the meeting has now ended. I look up at the Single Mother as she leaves. Her tears finally permitting the release of my own.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  “Hello.”

  “No friend today?”

  “Unfortunately not. He’s got a date.”

  I don’t know why I say this; Mohsin does not have a date. Neither is he likely to have one until he completes the piece of research the Royal College of Psychiatrists has him working on day and night—this also being the reason I find myself alone, again, seated at our usual table, not speaking the truth. But I can’t help myself. I’m a little liar.

  “Someone he met at a reading group,” I say.

  Another lie.

  “Well, I guess it beats internet dating.” She laughs.

  “Pfft.” I snort. “I know what you mean.”

  I have no idea what she means. The one and only time I signed up for internet dating I met Monica. Mohsin’s suggestion that I find a “companion” not something I’d wanted to even mildly entertain. But there were no bad experiences. I was instantly charmed by Monica’s online profile on TopFlightSingles:

  Slim, bubbly and petite 35 yr. old Libran ISO fun, travel, and conversation. I am artistic, have left-leaning politics and a GSOH. I love mountains, trees, and challenges—I’ve cycled from Havana to Trinidad, climbed a glacier in the Andes, and I fancy Antarctica next. I enjoy being surrounded by white and silence (does that make me sound weird?). Is there a witty, dashingly good-looking Oscar Wilde or Ray Mears out there?

  I am someone who wants to make a difference in the world (I’m a doctor)—God, I sound like a beauty pageant queen! I hope that clarifies things . . . maybe not? . . . How about this? . . .

  I’m an ordinary girl striving to be extraordinary and I am amused by life’s glorious absurdities. Laughter is important and a sense of humor a must. I love sunsets and fires, India and the Andes, sensuality and early morning dew . . . on cobwebs . . . ooh, and perhaps a stroll on the South Bank, a glass of vino, and a great deal of chatting. Finally, you must be an AL (Animal Lover!) although I have no pets.

  A little voice in my head forced my hand. Just give it a go, it said, she sounds funny and smart and lighthearted, what’s the harm? I was just a little naive, like a child posting a letter to Santa Claus. Click. And so we arranged to meet—at the South Bank for a glass of something, obviously not vino, and a great deal of chatting. I bought a new suit, new underpants, mildly relieved to no longer be hostage to the seven stages of grief. I was feeling again. An encore of senses. My manhood swelling and adolescent unruly. I was rekindled. Unchaste. And sad. But supposedly no longer alone.

  The Pretty Freckled Waitress shifts her weight from left to right, a long, thin notepad in her hand.

  “What can I get you?” She smiles.

  “I’d like the shishito peppers to start,” I point, finger trailing the menu, “followed by the salmon teriyaki.”

  I feel a wave of shame wash over my predictable choice and watch the Pretty Freckled Waitress write down my order. I’m sure she only does this to make me feel better, knowing I order the same thing every time.

  “Anything to drink?”

  “A bottle of—”

  “Sparkling mineral water,” she interrupts, “with lime cordial.” Writes this down too. Cringe.

  “That’s all,” I say, fingering the ceramic ginger jar. An attempt to mask my unease.

  She underlines my order with a confident strike of her blue pen, then leans over to place a starched napkin across my lap. I note the trio of buttons casually left opened on her blouse, revealing the contours of her breasts. I look away, embarrassed.

  “Okay then,” she chirps, “back in a while.”

  “Crocodile!”

  Oh sweet Jesus. Crocodile? My longing to appear light and quippy drags me into a further abyss of shame. Hopefully none of the other diners have heard. I look to the Zen garden, wincing, my fat friend the Buddha experiencing no such conflict, his laughing today, I imagine, aimed at my foolishness. I wish Mohsin were here to keep me company and help ease my embarrassment. My stony-faced friend, although rather jolly, isn’t much of a talker.

  A group of women opposite toast, for the fifth time. Clinking their champagne flutes while making exaggerated eye contact. Someone’s birthday, I tell myself. One woman, whom it appears the celebration is for, starts to cry. Immediately manicured hands and reassurances are rushed in like cavalry from the two women sitting on either side of her. Instant gratification, I tell myself, likening them to a pair of slavish, pearl-clutching dimwits.

  As my salmon teriyaki arrives, a tall man sits down at the table next to me with a young woman who I assume is his daughter. She throws her head back, revealing pretty white teeth, laughing at his goofy impression of whom, I’m not quite sure. The waiter joins in and hands them each a menu. It’s not until I notice the girl’s bare foot climb his leg like a tree that I realize they are lovers. Each of them enamored by their opposite. Age proving an attraction for both. The Electra complex, I tell myself, pulling back my shoulders and feeling somewhat envious of the man, his age close to mine. I throw Humbert Humbert a cold stare, painfully aware of my hypocrisy.

  My mind wanders momentarily to Susannah and her much older beau. I wonder if either of them even know what the Electra complex is. Clara and I had hoped for someone who would be a match for Susannah’s creativity. Someone of similar age. A man who was sensitive, kind, smart, and capable of intimacy and commitment. A man with courage. We’d even liked a couple of the guys she brought home whom she’d met through work at the gallery. But then five years ago when Clara’s cancer raged, leaving us only three months to prepare for her death, Susannah met Toby.

  She was sad. Vulnerable. In need of comfort, kindness, and a body—I imagine with unease—to hold her at night when she couldn’t sleep. And he was only too willing to oblige. Even though he was married.

  “Can we not be so quick to judge, Dad?” she’d said.

  “He’s married, for Christ’s sake!” I’d yelled.

  “Oh, Susie,” Clara whispered, taking her hand, “are there children involved?”

  Thankfully there are no children involved. Toby didn’t quite graduate from dad school. And his itch of seven years to a woman I know only as “she” or “her” has now been scratched by my silly daughter and her romantic notions of the older man. Fifty-two years old to be precise, only three years younger than me.

  I wonder if Susannah is searching for a replacement father figure. Whether Toby is he. What did I do that was so wrong that my only child settled for a man like him? I imagine her replacing the girl ne
xt to me; laughing, her bare foot resting against Humbert Humbert’s thigh. I shake my head and quickly dismiss the entire sordid exchange.

  I look up, my appetite killed. Opposite, the group of women are sawing lean meats and dipping rolls of rainbow sushi into soy sauce while the girl next to me opens her mouth like a bird, the tall man feeding her with his chopsticks.

  Lunch left and unfinished, I decide not to leave a tip.

  “Come in, Charlotte,” I say.

  Earlier fatigue lingering somewhat, my eyes still appear blurred and tight. I notice loose change has fallen from my pocket onto the daybed, but rather than risk Charlotte see me reach over to collect it, I wait for her to sit, as is my habit.

  Charlotte negotiates the side table and I note she is dressed rather eccentrically today: swaddled in bright-colored tie-dye, almost like a bandage, the colors fetching and optimistic compared to her usual uniform of blacks and grays. On one of her fingers I notice a ring that looks like it may have fallen from a Christmas cracker or one of those plastic eggs found in claw machines at fairgrounds. Charlotte regards me while I stare at the ring, then quickly places her hand beneath her thigh.

  “I think Nurse Kennedy has a crush on me,” she begins. “He sat with me. Helped me finish my jigsaw.”

  “A crush?” I say.

  She looks down.

  Silence.

  Never work harder than the patient, let her come to you.

  Nurse Kennedy, Peter, joined us six months ago, having worked on a psych ward somewhere in the north of England. I liked him, immediately finding his patience and engagement with the patients a refreshing change from the nurses currently here. He also has the most impressive heart-shaped hairline and piercing dark eyes—rather like a barn owl. This, for some reason, endears him to me. Not that I’m particularly keen on barn owls, or owls of any kind for that matter. Rather, that his looks posed little threat or competition.

  I look up, Charlotte still in her head and preoccupied with the view outside.

  My thoughts drift, picturing the waitress serving me salmon teriyaki. A dainty impression beneath her soft blouse. The afternoon light sends a glow from the glass roof bathing her strawberry hair, thick with curls. Her freckles like cinnamon dust. I ought to feel guilty, fantasizing this way, my commitment to Monica not even slightly denounced. Dirty dog.