I watch my dreaming feet suddenly narrowed and pinched, the Tiger’s paw forcing me into high-heeled shoes. My mouth painted red.
Poi-Poi and Grace wave at me from the top of far-reaching stairs, a half-naked doll in each of their hands.
“Alexa, we’re up here,” they call.
“Wait there,” I order, attempting to climb the impossible steps, my legs buckling beneath me like Bambi’s.
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
Above me, crows circle in the air, their beady eyes locked on my attempts to reach Poi-Poi, but as I very nearly reach the top, I slip and collapse. The stairs now suddenly morphed into a slide.
A trail of laughter and the smell of rotting meat eventually rouse me from the dream, the Body splintering into a thousand tiny pieces, each fragment escaping my alternate world of big cats and small birds—
The eyes open, chinks of morning light sneaking in beneath my bedroom’s stubborn blind.
Wake up, Oneiroi whispers.
You said dreaming people shouldn’t be woken, Runner says.
It’s all right if you do it gently; see—shake, shake—
The Body obeys, bolting upright, the chest, the neck, and the shoulders now suddenly alive. With care, I gather my one thousand pieces until I’m whole again. A small me-shaped space in the world, buckling under the weight of all the lives I live. Lives I’ve invented, lives I carry around inside me for company.
Oneiroi takes the Light and walks us to the bathroom, Anna’s dressing gown snatched down from the back of the door.
“Brush your teeth,” she says, squeezing the mint tube. “You have to be at Daniel’s in an hour.”
“Do you always do the border first?” I ask, noticing a tray of tiny puzzle pieces resting on her lap.
The heavy blonde flinches. “Yes.” An eccentric origami construction worn as a hat tilted on her head. “Are you going to swear at me again?”
“Swear at you?” I ask, baffled.
“Like in the corridor that time. When I was with Emma.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, truly baffled.
“Oh, it’s okay, I forget stuff too. You must have been having a bad day. Wanna try doing some jigsaw with me?”
“Sure,” I say, still confused, then move across the waiting room to sit beside her. The radiators pumping out dry heat and catching my throat.
She hands me the puzzle’s box lid.
“Van Gogh’s sunflowers,” I say, imagining myself splintering into one thousand tiny jigsaw pieces just like in the dream I had earlier.
Eyes riveted, she scratches her neck and scans the tray, I presume for the yellow top right corner piece.
“I hate it when I can’t finish the border,” she frets. “It really bothers me.”
“Cut his own ear off,” I say, rubbing my own.
“Pfft. The mad artist. Such a cliché. I’m Charlotte, by the way.”
She holds out her hand: stiff and straight. Her welcoming formal yet adorable all the same.
“Alexa,” I say, shaking it.
I join in the search for the yellow corner piece.
“I’ve never done a jigsaw before,” I say.
Charlotte stops. Stares at me with pure disbelief.
“Are you kiddin’ me?”
“Nope.”
“Not even as a kid?”
“Can’t remember. Probably not.”
Charlotte closes her eyes, nods her head.
A little dramatic, don’t you think? Runner snorts.
“I have over a hundred.” She speaks with sparkling pride.
Runner pulls a face. Whatever floats ya dinghy.
“A hundred?” I say.
“Yep. Completed all of them, at least five or six times.”
“So you’re a compulsive too, then.”
“You say ‘compulsive,’ I say ‘creative.’”
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto. Let’s call the whole thing off.
Daniel appears at the door.
“You missed your appointment, Charlotte,” he says, beckoning me in. “Have reception reschedule another one, please.”
“Okeydokey,” she says, not bothering to look up. “Bye, Alexa.”
I turn and wave then, pushing my hands deep into the back pockets of my jeans to feel the small and hard thing inside one of them. I walk on ahead with Daniel close behind and look down at my hand, confusion setting in—a yellow right-angled jigsaw piece.
Dirty little thief, the Fouls scold.
On entering the office I notice the suitcase, a neat leather tag tied to its handle. The elephant-suitcase in the room. I feel my heart clang—Please stay, don’t go.
I choose not to comment on the suitcase, wondering if he’s placed it there to get a rise out of me.
You’re being silly and paranoid, Oneiroi mutters.
Even so, keeping my eyes locked on the oil painting, I won’t show my longing today.
Daniel clears his throat. “Dolly was here for most of the session last week,” he begins.
“I know. She told me.”
“She couldn’t remember what happened to your wrists.”
I look away, a lick of shame in my chest.
“Maybe you can?” he probes.
“It’s all a bit of a blur.” I shrug. “The Fouls keep hiding my meds.”
“Switching is exhausting,” he says, stroking his freshly shaven chin, cuff links catching the light, “and your mind is doing its damnedest to protect you. Make you forget what happened. Like those amnesic barriers we’ve discussed.”
“I see.”
He stands. Walks over to his desk, takes a slim silver letter opener, and returns. “Concentrate on the tip of this letter opener,” he says, moving the sliver of silver from left to right. “Focus on the tip.”
Left to right; left to right; left to right.
“I want you to relax and feel your eyes get heavy. Focus. Left to right. Left to right.”
I do as I’m told, sinking deeper into my chair.
“Now close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Only my voice matters right now. None of the others. Relax your body, Alexa.”
I feel my throat swallow. Dolly yawns, setting off a chain reaction for the Flock.
Sleepy, she whispers in my head, her eyes eventually closing.
“Good,” Daniel whispers, his voice faraway. “Now feel the weight of your limbs. Let go. Note where your feet are, and your hands. Relax.”
I sink my feet into the thick carpet, my hands resting between my denim-clad thighs.
“I want you to track back to that night—”
I nod gently.
“—to the last thing you remember.”
A drawn-out pause.
“Where are you, Alexa?”
“The Electra. Sitting at the bar. With Ella.”
“Anyone else?”
“Shaun. Shaun’s there. I’m so cross with him.”
“Anyone else?”
Silence.
“Alexa?”
“A man.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Gray Suit.”
“What else?”
“He’s ordering drinks. Tequila.”
“What now?”
“We’re drinking. He’s laughing—the Man in the Gray Suit. His hand is on my leg. Shaun’s gone.”
“Anything else?”
“More drinks. Gray Suit. Dizzy. Eyes won’t focus.”
“Where’s Ella?”
“Dancing, with Amy and Navid.”
“What’s happening now?”
“Stairs. No. Get off me. You’re hurting. Stop. Please. No!”
“Alexa, what’s happening?”
“Make him stop. Please—”
Flash.
“Alexa, can you hear me?”
“He’s got my wrists. NO. Stop! Can’t move.”
“Alexa!”
“Hurting. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.”
/>
“Alexa, come back. Okay, Alexa. When I count to three you will wake up. You will be back here in the leather armchair at Glendown, where you are safe. Now, come back, Alexa, one, two, three—”
Ping.
I open my eyes, grabbing the arms of the leather chair. I search, like a wild animal, for something familiar. Desk, purple-and-blue-striped rug, oil painting, bay window, Daniel.
Daniel.
Daniel’s all blurry. He’s coming toward me.
I try to focus.
He is standing in front of me now.
“Take this,” he says.
He hands me a glass of what appears to be water. I take the glass, my hands shaking, while Daniel places the letter opener back on his desk.
Haven’t you learned your lesson, stupid? the Fouls sneer.
I spit the water out. The spray reaching Daniel’s waist. Maybe the water’s not safe, just like the tequila, I think, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I try to hand the glass back.
You deserved everything you got that night. Whore! the Fouls scream.
Suddenly my mouth dries up. I can’t get my words out—
Please
take
the
glass, please. Please. PLEASE.
With both hands I push the glass toward Daniel’s chest. Please. I don’t want it. It’s not safe. Take it. Take it. Take it away.
I drop it on the floor, glass shattering everywhere.
“I’m so sorry, Daniel! Please, let me clean it up,” I cry. “So clumsy of me, so stupid.”
Silence.
The Fouls stare me dead in the eye: Now look what you’ve gone and done, Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid fucking crybaby.
45
Daniel Rosenstein
“Can you talk?”
“Sure. Everything okay?”
I look over at the broken glass.
Silence.
“Daniel. What’s happened?”
“Difficult session,” I say, leaning across a stack of mail, looking for the letter opener.
“The DID patient?” Mohsin asks.
“Yes. She had a disturbing flashback.”
“What to?”
“Something happened last month at the Electra. She had bruises on both of her wrists. I thought it might have been self-inflicted, so we engaged in hypnosis.”
“What did you uncover?”
“I think she was raped.” I speak quietly.
“Did she say that; in the hypnosis, I mean?”
“Her narrative was fragmented. I— I—”
“Slow down, Daniel. Take a breath.”
Pausing, I stare at my desk. Momentarily distracted, convinced I put the letter opener right here. Where is it? “I think this case is getti—”
“Getting to you. I know. You need a holiday.”
“Her regression’s increasing and her memory’s fading. I think the personalities are warring and blocking out each other’s actions.”
“Has she stopped taking her medication?”
“She’s in and out with it; was adamant that she have some autonomy, so we agreed on a reduction, but I suspect some of the personalities are preventing her from taking it.”
“What about her stepmother? Where’s she in all this?”
“Anna?”
“Maybe she can get more involved. Encourage Alexa to keep up with her medication?”
“They don’t have a great relationship.”
“But they do have a relationship.”
“Okay. I’ll think about that.”
“How did the session end?”
“I had one of the nurses administer antipsychotics. It seemed to help.”
“Good. When do you leave?”
“Couple of hours,” I say, my voice trembling at the edge.
Silence.
“I don’t want to leave her, Mohsin,” I say, eyeing my suitcase.
“You have to,” he dismisses, “or you’ll burn out. And anyway, you’re not that powerful.”
I sigh, knowing he’s right.
“Give her my number. It’ll ease your concern.”
“Thank you.”
I stare again at the glass.
“I’ve been having dreams,” I say.
“What about?”
“Desiring her. Making love to her. I feel a certain guilt.”
“Guilt is a waste of time—it’s just resentment turned inward. But the desire needs to be addressed. And soon.”
“I’ll pass on your number,” I say.
“Call me from the airport.”
Click.
I walk toward the shards of glass scattered like fragments of the self: hiding and splintered beneath the chair. With a dustpan and brush I collect the pieces, carefully sweeping them to safety, mulling over Alexa’s unsettling flashback. Who had control of the Body when the Man in the Gray Suit raped her?
I leave a note for the Receptionist to contact Alexa with Mohsin’s number. Wheeling my overloaded suitcase toward my office door, I attempt a calm, steady soundtrack in my mind: Everything will be fine, everything will be fine.
46
Alexa Wú
I walk the grounds of Glendown, sedated. My tongue fried, my pride lacerated. The residents gather like packs of zombies—shuffling, mumbling, and pulling at their clothes—curbed by the medication they’ve been given. Today I’m one of them. Chemically coshed. Mouth numb. Head like a freakin’ hot-air balloon. Slashes of hysteria keen to remind me that I’m only two steps away from unbalance. I glance at the rose brick wall. A lone blackbird lifts a black wing.
I want to go home, Dolly whines, her tiny fingers fat and throbbing from the adult dose of medication.
Don’t worry, I say, cutting across the lawn to the path, we’re heading back home now. Oneiroi will call Jack later and tell him we’re sick again and we can stay in bed.
Again? Oneiroi asks.
> Again, I say.
You can’t keep calling in sick, she demands, or he’ll fire you.
Who cares? I say.
Glendown’s windows feel like unsleeping eyes on me, vigilant and still, a sense of unease creeping up my back. I look at the menacing rain-filled clouds and exit the grounds.
A Tube ride.
A walk.
I am stalked all the way home by my Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid-ness, like a shadow, until I finally turn the key to my front door—the Fouls insisting all the while that I climb the stairs. Reach under my bed. The blade already waiting for me.
I watch the familiar red slide out.
Deeper, the Fouls insist, adding the silver letter opener to my collection of strange weapons.
47
Daniel Rosenstein
Monica now settled in consumer heaven, I park myself on a gray plastic chair far away from excited crowds at Terminal 5, then take out my phone and dial the Receptionist.
“Daniel Rosenstein’s office.”
“It’s me,” I say. “I left you a note.”
“I’ve got it. I left her a voicemail.”
“Good. If she hasn’t called back by the end of the day, chase her.”
“Everything all right?”
I sigh. “Just about.”
A pause.
“Oh, your daughter called. I told her you were on your way to the airport.”
“Did she leave a message?”
“No.”
“Daughters,” I say.
“Daughters,” she agrees.
I imagine the Receptionist’s eyebrows raised, eyes rolling in their sockets.
“See you in a couple of weeks,” I say.
“Have fun,” she says.
Opposite me, a thin young man has arrived. He has slender pianist fingers that hold tightly to a white plastic bag full of magazines and bottled water. His face is kind, but beneath his eyes are dark half-moons. Exhaustion lines his cheeks. I note his jacket is slightly too small, his trousers too large at the waist.
He checks his watch—his knees pressed firmly together—then gazes at the overhead clock, followed by the check-in board. He then repeats the process.
Watch, clock, check-in board.
Watch, clock, check-in board.
The Eighth Girl Page 24