Every interview had been agonizing. As the days passed, I blamed myself more and more for her death. Why hadn’t I insisted upon walking her home and guarding her until morning? After she’d told me about the demon at the foot of her bed, how could I have gone off to play video games with Roberto?
Mom loudly flipped over a couple of pages, then started tiptoeing around the subject she really wanted to discuss. “Hal, this report says that after you found the body you saw someone in the trees. Who was it? Did he run away?”
The body. Not Cleo.
All morning long, my parents had refused to say her name, probably on Mom’s advice. After all, the kid might go berserk and shoot up a post office if he heard Cleo’s name too often.
“I don’t know what it was. It was wearing a uniform and had a turquoise face and red hair.”
Mom said, “A turquoise face? You mean . . . it wasn’t human?”
She was evaluating me with her professional eyes, blank, just listening. I’d observed a long time ago that she was a curious character—even though she was my mother. Because her clients wore colorful clothes, she only dressed in black. Because her clients shopped at Walmart and Barnes and Noble, she wouldn’t be caught dead carrying a bag from a big chain store. In fact, she wouldn’t go anywhere that she might cross paths with one of the deviants she counseled, which meant she didn’t go out much. When Dad got pissed at her, he called her a “spoiled trust fund baby, paranoid beyond endurance.” The only evidence of the trust fund that I could tell, however, was the vast wine collection in the basement. Maybe they did have money, but I never saw any of it, so I just assumed they’d spent the bucks long before I was born.
“Hal,” Mom’s voice had turned edgy. “Was it human?”
“No.”
I suspected Dad had probably told Mom she couldn’t yell at me or tell me I was full of crap, which she ordinarily would have. Instead, she continued in a placating voice: “We’re just trying to understand. Your dad and I can’t help you unless we know what really happened. We—”
“What really happened? I told you what happened. And those reports tell you what happened. You saying you don’t believe me? My own parents don’t believe me?”
“Well, Hal . . .” Mom shoved short blonde hair behind one ear. “Some of the stuff in these reports is pretty bizarre.”
“Like what?” It was a rhetorical question, of course. By now I knew where this was going.
Mom took a sip of her coffee. When she set her cup down again, she looked at me over the tops of her reading glasses. “Do you really believe in demons?”
Answering would not have improved my situation, so I clamped my jaws together and didn’t say a word.
She continued: “It says here that you described the man as being a giant.” Her finger tapped the police report. “Is that correct?”
“It was a giant. And it may have had a crocodile head. I didn’t get a very good look at it, but it could have been Ammut.”
“What’s an Ammut?” Mom asked.
“Ancient Egyptian demon. The Devourer of the Damned.”
As though they’d synchronized their movements, my parents leaned back in their chairs at exactly the same moment and started drinking coffee like nothing was wrong. It was just another dull ordinary Wednesday. They blinked at the ceiling and out the window. I knew I was in trouble when Dad started cleaning his fingernails on the corner of the police report, absently brushing the black detritus onto the kitchen table, and Mom said nothing.
“Hal.” Mom spread her hands. “I want you to listen to me. Finding a friend murdered is a powerful and traumatic experience that can result in dissociative episodes. It can, well, unhinge a person’s mind.”
“You think I’m unhinged?”
Mom braced her elbows on the tabletop. Her voice became authoritative, deep and a little dark. “Of course, you are. Who wouldn’t be? Dissociation is a coping mechanism. There are two basic human instincts: fight and flight. When a person undergoes a traumatic experience, as you did when you found your best friend murdered, his mind either has to fight against the unbearable stress or flee from it. You’ve chosen the latter. You’re not suffering from blackouts yet, are you? Passages of time that you can’t account for, or—”
“No, Mom, no blackouts.” I tried to defend myself, even though I knew it was hopeless. When Mom had made her diagnosis, there was no escape. A person just had to endure “the cure.”
She pointed a stern finger at me. “You have to be very careful now, Hal. In the worst cases of dissociation the victim develops DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, which we used to call multiple personality disorder. To protect himself, the victim creates surrogates, different personalities to help him survive or to blame for the incident. Once the victim has created the other personalities, he can go hide somewhere inside and let the fabricated personalities take the blame.” Now her words became precise, spoken one at a time, for effect: “Despite what you say, I know you are overwhelmed with guilt. You believe that her death was your fault, don’t you?”
Mom had not moved a muscle, apart from those that controlled her mouth. Her finger was still pointed at me like a stiletto. Since I’d been playing this psychiatric game of baseball my whole life, I sort of knew when to catch and when to throw hard at the pitcher’s head. “Of course, I know it’s not my fault that an ancient demon killed her. But I also know it killed her because she was Queen Cleopatra in a former life, and the demon refuses to allow her to get to the afterlife, which is the only place Cleo will ever find peace. My ‘unbearable stress’ comes not from guilt, but from the fact that I don’t know how to find the Island of the Two Flames.”
Mom didn’t say anything while she prepared her next salvo. After a deep breath, she said, “Listen carefully, Hal. The demon is the personality you’ve created so you have someone to blame. You have to let go of that surrogate personality. Let me help you. I—”
“No, thanks.”
“All right, then, not me. But you need someone’s help. You have to kill that demonic personality before it leads you headlong into the mythic underworld of the unconscious where your soul will be trapped forever in darkness. This isn’t a game, Hal. It’s serious business. You must—”
Dad threw up his hands in frustration, and shouted, “For God’s sake, Jenna, give it a rest! He just needs to grieve for a while. On this score, Moriarity is right. Hal needs a chance to live his fantasies. We should let him go—”
“Moriarity?” I asked a little breathless. A powerful jolt of fear had gone through me. “You talked to Cleo’s uncle about me?”
And Marcus Antonius thought Ahenobarbus’ betrayal at the Battle of Actium was bad? It had devastated Antonius when his old friend had taken a small boat and defected to Octavian—carrying Antonius’ battle plans—in 31 BC. If Antonius had been forced to endure my traitorous parents, he’d have slit his wrists at the age of sixteen and avoided all that. Then, again, given what happened later, Antonius might have seen an early death as a blessing.
Keeping his voice low and steady, Dad said, “Yes, Hal. Of course, we did. After we read the police reports, we went to see him. You and Cleo were completely absorbed by this ancient Egypt stuff, and Dr. Moriarity is an expert in that field. We just needed to hear his opinion. We weren’t trying to invade your privac—”
“What did he say?”
Mom and Dad exchanged one of those looks, like now they were really walking on eggshells, and if they said a single wrong word, I’d shatter into a thousand tiny pieces that no one would ever be able to glue back together.
Mom spoke in the same chilling professional tone that I figured she used with the paranoid schizophrenics she treated. “The simple truth is that you’re suffering from delusions brought on by the event and the intense role-playing that you and Cleo used to do. Do you understand? I’m telling you the bald truth because I know you�
��re old enough to get it.”
When I just sat there with my arms folded, Dad gave Mom an I-told-you-not-to-say-that look.
I said, “I see. I’m crazy. So, what are you planning to do about it? I’m sure you’ve already figured out how to solve my problem for me. After all, there was no need to discuss it with me before coming to your decision. Who else you been talking to?”
“Now, Hal, that’s not fair,” Dad said. “We’re worried sick, son. We’re just trying to help—”
Mom interrupted him: “For your information, I consulted with several of my Denver colleagues to get their advice, and they agreed with Moriarity that perhaps living out your fantasies would be therapeu—”
“I was there, Mom! I saw the demon!”
“I’m sure you think you saw it, Hal, but you didn’t. There’s no such thing as demons. Now, let’s talk about Egypt . . .”
My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket, checked the number and hit “talk,” knowing how it would drive my parents to the basement for a bottle of wine.
I said, “Hey, Roberto.”
“Cool storm, huh?”
“Yeah, thanks. Appreciate it.”
“No problem. I got to get out of this house, bro. Is your Internet up? Our dish is full of snow, and the lack of service has my parents barking at each other like mad dogs locked in a kennel. They just told me they were going to arrange a lovely summer vacation for me at the Juvenile Detention Center. If your Internet is working, we can play online games for a few hours while discussing how much the world sucks.”
“Yeah, come over. I could use the company.”
“Okay. See you in ten.”
I clicked off, tucked my phone in my pocket, and looked up to find my parents scowling at me.
“We are not finished with this discussion, Hal,” Mom said in her most dire voice. “We have much more to say to you.”
“Well, can you stop all the shit and get to the point?”
“Do not curse in my presence,” Mom said and started to lay into me, but Dad put a restraining hand on her arm.
Mom gave him a sidelong look, and calmly said, “Here’s the upshot. Your father and I had decided to send you to a psychiatrist we know in Denver, a professional colleague of mine who specializes in adolescent psychoses, but Dr. Moriarity—”
“I won’t go, and you can’t make me!”
“If you’d just listen . . .”
Out the kitchen window, I saw a dark-haired girl hiking through the blizzard. She was only faintly visible in the wavering white curtain, but her movements were somehow familiar. My attention fixed on her. She struggled through the drifts to get to our sidewalk, and then started slogging toward the front door. Three paces away, she lifted her head and looked straight at me. The snow stopped dead, the flakes caught in mid-fall. It was surreal. I could see her face clearly. She gave me a sad smile.
A wave of heat flushed my body. This isn’t real.
Her lips formed two unmistakable words:
Don’t go.
Then the snow started falling again, and her image melted into the snowfall and was gone.
My parents’ panicked voices were only faintly audible beneath the rush of blood in my ears.
“Hal? Hal are you all right?” Dad called.
Both of my parents were on their feet rushing toward me. By the time they reached me, I was shaking so hard I just barely managed to stumble out of my chair.
Shoving past their grasping hands, I sprinted for the front door, threw it wide open, and screamed, “Cleo? Cleo, come back!”
Less than a pace behind me, I could hear my parents whispering to one another.
Mom’s voice was low and ominous: “He sees her. Dear God.”
“What should we do?” Dad pleaded.
“Let me discuss this with my colleagues before we consider commitment.”
CHAPTER NINE
By the time Roberto arrived, I was back in the safety of my room, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling with my heart thundering in my chest. I heard the doorbell ring. Then voices. Finally, Roberto’s boots thumped up the stairs, and he flung open my door. He had on the same black leather jacket and torn Levis he’d been wearing five days ago, but it looked like he’d changed his white T-shirt.
As he slipped out of his backpack, he said, “Jesus, your parents are intense. Your dad told me you are prostate with grief, and I can only stay for half an hour. I thought the prostate was in your dick?”
I sat up, and the room spun for a second. “Probably said prostrate not prostate. It means ‘overcome.’ Overcome with grief.”
Roberto shook his head. “Oh. Okay. Christ, English teachers are so obsessed with adverbs and commas and shit.” He dug around in his pack and handed me the golden medallion.
I grabbed it and clutched it to my chest. “Did they follow you?”
“Naw, once I cast my invisibility spell, they couldn’t see me. And the snow wasn’t that deep when I got there.”
“Thanks, Roberto. Really.”
“Yeah, of course, I—”
“If Dad’s only giving you a half hour, I don’t have much time, and there’s something I have to ask you.”
Roberto shoved greasy brown hair out of his eyes and gave me a concerned look. “You’re not going to quiz me about the demon again, are you? I’m telling you, I didn’t see a demon out there or even a non-demon.”
“Not about that. I believe you. Can you sit down?”
Roberto pulled my desk chair over to my bed and sat down. Leaning the chair back on two legs, he propped his dripping hiking boots on my blue bedspread. “Bad day?”
“My parents are insane. Mom psychoanalyzed me at the breakfast table.”
“Figured it was bad. On the phone, you sounded like you were trying to choke down a big one.”
I had no idea what that meant, and wasn’t about to ask. “My parents think I’m delusional.”
“Oh, dude.” Roberto shook his head. “You remember that time your mom cornered me in the grocery store and told me she knew I tortured kittens? God, I was horrified. I love cats. The worst part was the eerie I’m-Hannibal-Lector-and-I-know-more-than-God glow in her eyes. Scared the holy sh—”
“They may have me committed to an asylum.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he half shouted.
“Shh. Keep your voice down!”
Roberto thoughtfully looked around my bedroom. “Okay. Look, give me a few seconds to process this shit. There’s got to be a way to work this. I just need to figure the angle.”
“Angle?”
“Sure. You have at least a couple of options. You can either play along or hire your own attorney.”
“How would I ever pay for a lawyer?”
“I’ll give you the three hundred bucks in my sock drawer. That ought to buy you an hour.”
“Thanks, but . . .” I felt really tired. Muted white light, filtered through the snowfall, was streaming through the window, sheathing everything in a liquid pearl gleam: My desk, Roberto, the pale blue carpet. “Roberto, I have to tell you something. But you can’t ever tell anyone. You understand?”
“I’m no Judas Icarus. What?”
No point in telling him it was actually “Iscariot.” My mouth had suddenly gone dust dry. I licked my lips. “When you were running down the slope to meet the sheriff’s cars, Cleo said something. I’m sorry I haven’t told you before, but . . .”
The front two legs of his chair banged down on the floor as he leaned forward. “Wait a minute. Have you told anybody this?”
“No. I was afraid to.”
Roberto pulled his wet boots off my bed, planted them on the floor, and propped his elbows on his knees. In a grave voice, he said, “What’d she say?”
I massaged my forehead. I had a headache coming on. “
Have I ever told you about the Island of the Two Flames? It’s mentioned in a number of papyrus texts—”
“Get to the point, Hal. I don’t want a lecture about moldy Greek or Roman gods.”
“It’s the ancient Egyptian island of the dead. Supposedly it sits in the middle of the Nile, but I don’t know exactly where. I’m not sure anyone today does.”
He looked slightly confused. “And?”
“Cleo told me she needs to get there.”
“But if it’s the island where the dead live . . .” Roberto straightened in his chair. A dreadful tone entered his voice. “Wait a minute. You’re not, like, planning to dig up her body and take it to Egypt, are you? Jesus, don’t ask me to help you do that. I really liked her. I don’t think I could force myself—”
“No, no, my God, I couldn’t either. How could you even think that?”
“Well, how else can Cleo get there?”
Silently, I lifted the golden medallion and turned it my hands. The emeralds shimmered like the tears in Cleo’s eyes that last day at Starbucks. Strangely, the medallion started feeling really heavy, as though pulling me toward the center of the earth. Before I could stop myself, I started shaking again. The medallion slipped from my fingers and thudded softly on the bed. Cleo was close by. I could feel her. Watching. Listening. And very worried about me.
“Hey! What’s wrong?” Roberto reached out to me. “You okay? Did I say some—”
“I saw her today, Roberto.”
His mouth was still hanging open from the sentence he hadn’t finished. Slowly, he closed it and swallowed hard. “Like . . . really saw her?”
That sentence felt like the sword of Damocles about to fall and spear down through my head. Truly. That’s exactly what it felt like. A life-or-death moment. Either my friend believed me, or he told me I had completely lost it and needed to be locked up with all the other crazies in Colorado.
Cries from the Lost Island Page 5