Stalking the Moon

by Angel Leigh McCoy

  I turned away from the edge.

  Doc Bella stood a few feet away. She'd been watching me. The wind disturbed her white coat, patterned skirt, and the short auburn curls heavily salted with gray. The staff called her Grandma Bella behind her back. She was in her seventies and still as sharp as a syringe.

  "For a minute there," Bella said, "I thought you might jump."

  I met her steady gaze. "And you weren’t going to stop me?"

  Bella smiled a psychiatrist’s smile, non-committal. "Of course, you know that if you ever want to talk, I’m available for you."

  My shoes crunched in the rooftop gravel as I crossed the distance between us.

  "Thanks, Doc, but I’m fine. I just wanted to see—"

  "—what might have been?" she finished for me.

  "—how dangerous it really is up here."

  "Colin has informed me, in no uncertain terms, that he’s going to marry you."

  I cringed inside. "Look—"

  Bella interrupted me. "I’m not here to judge you. That’s not my job. However. I feel it is my responsibility to give you fair warning." Her gaze was no-nonsense, as firm as that of a mother superior. "You’re getting involved with a man who has no memory of his past. He could be anyone. I’m telling you this so you’ll guard your heart. Save a bit back for your own good. When he remembers, you may not care for that person very much."

  I nodded and said, "Okay," though she may as well have been asking a rose to bloom only halfway.

  Bella clasped her hands on her stomach and looked out at the scenery. "In order for him to be with you—once his memories return—he'll have to sacrifice that other life."

  I had thought about that. Many times. What if his previous life had been beautiful? What if he had children? A wife who loved him? If so, I was the other woman and—even I had to admit—probably not worth the sacrifice.

  I asked, "How is he?"

  "That’s what I came to tell you." Bella hooked her arm through mine and guided me toward the roof exit. "We’ve got him settled in bed. He says he wasn’t trying to kill himself."

  "What was he doing?"

  "Trying to fly."

  "Oh. Gee. That’s a relief."

  Bella chuckled. "A mixed blessing, yes."

  When we reached the heavy security door, I tugged it open and held it for her. An emergency exit sign illuminated the concrete stairwell.

  "Did you sedate him?"

  "No."

  "Restrain him?"

  "For now."

  As I started to follow Bella across the threshold, something made me look back over my shoulder and scan the roof, searching. We were on the roof of a four-story building, but it felt like we were being watched. It was the first of many such feelings, and it made my skin crawl. I rubbed the back of my neck and hurried to stay on Bella’s heels.

  When the door shut behind me, it cut off all daylight. Shadows swelled up from the floor and dropped down from the ceiling. One hand clutching the metal railing, I put the other in my pocket and found my straight pin. I placed the pad of my index finger against the point and pressed. The pin slid easily in. Pain helped me keep the panic at bay.

  My footsteps echoed in counterpoint to Bella’s. It took me a full flight of stairs to get up the nerve to ask my next question, afraid of the answer. "Do we have to cancel our plans?" For months, I’d been looking forward to a weekend in the countryside with Colin. I’d arranged a pass for him, contingent upon his good behavior.

  "That won’t be necessary," replied Bella. "We could all use some time away. Myself included. Unless something else happens between now and then, your trip is still approved."

  "Even after…"

  "You’re his grounding wire, Viviane. What he did today was troublesome, but I think time alone with you will do him good. I trust you to watch out for him."

  I released the breath I'd been holding.

  "However," Bella said, "I want you to talk to him. Convince him he can’t leap off buildings."

  I admitted, "Sometimes it’s hard to keep his feet on the ground."

  "Truer words were never spoken, my dear."

  ♦

  I made my way through the Center to the Men's Wing and paused just outside Colin’s room. My back against the wall there, I closed my eyes to focus on the breath going in and out of my body, deepening my inhalations and lengthening my exhalations. Gradually, the worried voices in my head quieted, and my body relaxed.

  After I knocked, an orderly opened Colin’s door. "Hey-dee ho, Viv."

  "Hi there, Jimmy."

  Jimmy had been a cannibal in a past life. He’d confided this strange secret to me on another evening when we were standing guard together over Colin. It had started with an innocent question for the sake of conversation.

  "Jimmy, what made you decide to go into healthcare?"

  The large man considered the question and his response, and finally, he said, "I was a cannibal in a past life. I have to make up for it in this one, by helping more people than I ate."

  "I see."

  "It’s karmic balance, y'know? I was bad. Now, I try to be extra good so I can get a better life next time, maybe wealth or good looks. Y'know?"

  I wanted to laugh, but he wasn’t joking. "What makes you think you were a cannibal?"

  Jimmy leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "I know because I remember it sometimes, at night, right before I fall asleep. I have flashes where I’m eating someone. It’s a nightmare, except I’m awake." He paused, then whispered, "Sometimes, I can even taste it."

  That was the thing about being public with your mental illness. People told you things they would never mention in polite society, assuming you wouldn't be freaked out by it.

  After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Jimmy added, "You probably think that's crazy."

  I shrugged. "Because you believe you were a cannibal in a past life? I’ve heard crazier. Truth is, I’ve never met anyone who was completely sane. Have you?"

  He clapped me on the shoulder and gave a hardy, "No, ma’am, I sure have not."

  Ever since that conversation, Jimmy had given me special consideration, as if we’d bonded over his secret.

  I entered Colin’s room. "You can take a break if you want, Jimmy. I’ll stay with him for a while."

  Jimmy made to leave. "I could use a piss and some coffee. After that, I’ll wait outside for you. Just yell if you need me."

  "Thanks."

  I waited for the door to shut behind him, then pulled a chair across the room. I placed it near the head of the bed and perched on the edge of it. "Hey, cutie. You awake?"

  Colin lay on his back with his wrists buckled to the rails. A thick strap crossed his chest. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him restrained, but it never stopped bothering me. I undid the chest strap.

  Colin resembled a child. His light reddish-brown hair had a wild, cow-licked quality, his tight curls a chaotic dance, and his face had the long-lashed, boyish features that would keep him handsome throughout his life, but there was more. He had innocence about him, as if he were seeing everything for the first time. That hadn’t diminished over the years, though his delusions and hallucinations added a sense of whimsy.

  Without opening his eyes or otherwise moving, Colin said, "I have to talk to you." His voice dropped so low that I had to lean forward to hear. "I saw her."

  I unbuckled the nearest arm strap. "You saw who?"

  "The hag. And I remember what she is."

  "I don’t understand."

  "She's a scout—a tracking dog." Paranoia came with the territory of Colin's mental illness, but it unnerved me when he talked like that.

  "Honey, why were you on the roof?"

  "That’s what I’m trying to tell you." He opened his eyes and looked at me. "She’s looking for me. That’s why I went to the roof. She nests there."

  "Promise me you'll stay off the roof, okay? It's dangerous."

  "Not for me," he said, so calmly, as if he were saying he had mad
e a delicious ham and cheese omelet.

  I almost believed him, but then he broke the spell.

  "I can fly."

  His confession triggered an explosion in my emotions—a dirty bomb at my core. It infected all of me.

  "Don’t say that!"

  "It's true."

  Through gritted teeth, I seethed at him. "It isn’t true." I put my face in my hands and the image of him lying dead on the patio appeared in my brain. "Look. You can’t fly. Okay? No one can fly. I need you to get better, Colin. I need you to be okay. Flying is not okay. Do you understand that?"

  "But…"

  "No buts!"

  Lunacy ebbed and flowed. That was how it worked—the human condition. I’d never met anyone immune to those currents. Some people just worked harder than others to hide it, especially from themselves. So-called "stable" people pushed their emotions down deep. They had their methods—just as I did—for maintaining a façade of normalcy, but even the ones most in denial couldn’t fully insulate themselves from the suspicion that they didn't quite fit the so-called norm.

  Then there were those who gave up the fight for sanity. Keeping the tide at bay could be exhausting. When you had no strength left, it was far too easy to go with the flow. I knew this from experience. I called it "stalking the moon."

  I found my pin and pricked my finger, then my thumb. I breathed. Finally, I said, "Honey, no matter what, you don’t have to fly away."

  "I might have to, to keep you safe."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "There’s a chance that might be true."

  I sighed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  ♦♦♦

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time I left Colin's room, it was 8:45 p.m., and I was fifteen minutes late.

  I threaded my way through the Center’s halls to the Women’s Wing. The atmosphere there differed from the men’s. Security was tighter on the testosterone side. Men had a predictable tendency to express themselves through violence toward others. Women relied more on screaming, tears, and self-mutilation.

  The nurses’ station was a bubble of reinforced glass at the edge of an open recreation area. I waved to the worn-out, middle-aged nurse stationed there and received the same in return. Linda had been a fixture at the Center longer than I had. In her mid-fifties, she had no children, no husband, and only photos of her cats on her desk. Linda pushed a button and spoke into a microphone. Her voice came, tinny, out of speakers tucked high in the room’s corners. "Good evening, Viviane."

  I waved again but didn’t pause. The recreation room was empty that late in the evening—lock-down was at 9:00. Lights-out came at 9:30. Tick tock.

  The rec room had olive-colored, vinyl couches and armchairs facing a flat-screen television anchored high on the wall. Several round tables provided places to play games or draw pictures. One held a 1000-piece puzzle in progress. A picture of kittens in a flower garden graced the box. Years flowed onward, but nothing about the Center ever changed.

  I headed down the hallway past a series of bedrooms. I used to glance right and left as I walked down the hall, peeking through open doors. Over the years, I’d seen enough private moments of despair, degradation, and self-indulgence, had met enough eyes staring back at me that I no longer looked. None of what I saw in those rooms surprised me anymore. After fifteen years of visiting and working at the Center, I'd seen almost everything—almost.

  Voices called to me from the rooms or talked about me as I passed.

  "Hey, Viviane."

  "Hi, Viv."

  "It’s Gisèle’s daughter."

  "She’s here again."

  "Viviane’s here."

  I knew every patient on that floor by name and temperament. They suffered from a range of maladies—severe depression, bipolar disorder, PTSD, schizophrenia, phobias, and any number of other mental and mood conditions—so extreme they had either given up on blending into society or their loved ones had given up on them.

  Vince Malum Residential Living Center rarely took the one-night or even the one-week stands. It housed patients for months, years, or even the rest of their lives. Sometimes, someone got well enough to reintegrate into the world, but it was rare. Most patients only left when they transferred to a different facility or went to live at home with relatives. Or they died.

  My mom, Gisèle, stood behind the chair at the dressing table, brush in hand. She was ghostly in her white nightgown with billowy sleeves and eyelet lace, her face an expressionless blank, eyes gone distant. She was still beautiful, though her body had begun to soften and wrinkles had invaded the landscape around her eyes and mouth. She was the kind of woman who would always be lovely, classy, and graceful—no matter what.

  She was brushing the hair of an imaginary child, a child who had long since grown up.

  I took my seat in front of her, facing the dressing table, and watched her in the mirror. Her eyes were midnight blue, while mine were more like scratchy blue-gray wool. She had thick golden hair streaked with silver. I’d never grown out of my baby hair. Mine was thinner, curlier, had less gold and more mouse.

  "Sorry I’m late, Mom." I felt safe there, in her sanctum—safer than anywhere else—and it was pleasant to be with her.

  She pressed her belly against my shoulder—the most pleasant physical contact she and I ever shared—and brushed my hair as if it had been there all along, not missing a stroke.

  Throughout most of my childhood, I'd believed my mom was dead. It wasn’t until I turned eighteen, when a letter came from a law firm, that I realized the truth. In the time it took me to read the letter, my world had exploded. I learned that my mom wasn’t dead and that my grandfather had been lying to me all those years. The news had hit me hard. I threw away all the acceptance letters I’d received from colleges and took a job at the Center in order to be near her, get to know her, and take care of her. Fifteen years later, I was still working at the Center and still visiting my mom five out of seven nights.

  My mom spoke suddenly. "Kypris was young then—young and beautiful." My mother was a storyteller. Her stories were part and parcel of her delusion. Sometimes, they spilled from her verbally. Sometimes, she wrote them in her journals. The stories always involved a witch named Kypris and an elven prince named Chance.

  Mom said, "Kypris had already been out of her head for a long time, but she’d only just understood what it meant. She took far too many risks, because she believed she had nothing to lose. And yet, it was her husband, Chance, who saved her life." She kept brushing, pulling the hair back from my temples and forehead, pausing only to work carefully through any knots she found. Her gaze remained fixed on a point perpendicular to my own reality.

  "Winter will be here soon." Mom leaned over and set the brush on the mirrored dressing table.

  "It’s almost spring, Mom." I stood and went to the bed.

  "When the cold comes, it gets in your bones and your brain. It eats you from the inside out."

  "You’ll be warm in your room."

  Mom came to stand beside me. "When you go, take me with you in your heart."

  "You’re always in my heart." We had this kind of strange conversation from time to time. Though Richard, our shared psychiatrist, assured me that Mom was talking to an imaginary friend, I pretended we were actually connecting, and sometimes it seemed we were.

  I pulled back the covers on the bed, and Mom crawled in and settled on her side. I leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, then drew the blankets up. "Good night. Sleep well."

  Mom said, "And when you awake, I’ll be near." She closed her eyes.

  "I love you." I folded over the top edge of the blanket and smoothed it, then reached to switch off the bedside lamp.

  Mom’s hand wrapped around my wrist, tightly enough to startle me, and when she spoke, her voice hissed. Through clenched teeth, she said, "Watch out for the hag. Do not drop your guard." Her eyes—now open and trained on me—reflected the glow of the night-light.

  "You
’re hurting me." I pried at her fingers.

  Her hand dropped to the bed. Relaxing back onto the pillow, she closed her eyes again.

  I stood there, rubbing my arm until Nurse Linda stuck her head in to remind me it was time for lights-out.

  "You okay?" Linda asked when she saw my face.

  "Yeah," I replied. "It's just been a long day." And it was about to get longer. I headed for the Center's laundry facilities, where I worked the graveyard shift.

  As I rounded the corner to the employee locker room, I heard a familiar voice say, "Thirteen."

  Ajani Jones was seated on the bench, bent in half to untie his shoes. With his head down, the stealthy patch of smooth, dark skin peeked through at his crown.

  "Thirteen years I been workin’ this God-forsaken job."

  I grabbed a clean uniform off the shelf. We washed, sterilized, and bagged them along with everything else. "You sure it's only been thirteen years?" I asked. "Feels closer to thirteen lifetimes."

  "Amen to that, sister," Ajani replied. He was speaking to the other woman in the room, a stranger to me. She had obviously worked the shift before ours. Ajani said, "I’d have quit long ago if I didn’t have six kids eatin’ me out of house and home."

  "Diós mio!" The woman gave Ajani an exaggerated look of surprise.

  "I don’t think God had a hand in it," I said. "It was definitely the Devil made him do it." My fingers knew the movements to open my locker's padlock, having performed them a million times.

  Julio came into the locker room, his pace steady, and went straight to his locker. He was compact, only a little taller than me, with short dark hair, impressive eyebrows, and a smile that could light up a room—when he chose to share it.

  Ajani told us, "This is Lucinda." He stood and removed his dress shirt, revealing a white tank top, muscled chest, and thick upper arms.