“So.” Dr. Sterling settles himself behind his desk. He steeples his long tan fingers and leans toward me in a way that clearly says I’m totally engaged. “Mariana,” he says, “How have we been?”
“We—I mean I have been fine.” Why does he always say we as if we’re conjoined twins? Doesn’t that go against some psychology rule about boundaries? “You know, more or less fine.”
He looks at me expectantly. “More or less?”
I fidget uncomfortably on the womb couch. I should have just said fine. Now he’ll want me to talk about something, probably Enrique. I cast about in my mind for something else I can throw him. “Well…I had a nightmare last night…” I say, and instantly regret it.
Dr. Sterling leans forward another fraction of an inch, almost bumping the silver perpetual motion statue on his desk. Its pendulum sways. “Interesting. Tell me about the dream.” He cycles one hand as if to reel the story out of me. “Please.”
“Well…” I try to sit up straighter, but the couch is too squashy. I take a deep breath. “I’m walking toward a house—no, more like a castle. A manor house, maybe? It’s big and made of stone. It’s dark. I’m following a girl.”
He gathers his legal pad and pen off his desk. “Describe the girl.”
“She has red-blond hair, long and wavy. She’s wearing a copper-colored dress, very old fashioned, like Victorian. Very fancy, formal.”
“Like one would wear to a wedding? A prom?”
“I guess.” The dress was actually much more formal than that, more austere, but I don’t want to make it sound funereal. He’ll read into that for sure. “Yes.”
Dr. Sterling nods and jots something down on his legal pad. “Go on.”
My face feels hot. I thought the dream would be a good distraction, but it’s embarrassing, somehow, to retell it, even though there’s really nothing embarrassing about it—I mean, it’s not like one of those dreams people always have when they’re naked in class or something, but I do feel naked somehow, like I’m revealing too much. “We’re going up the front steps to a door.”
“Please,” he says, “Describe the door.”
“It’s huge,” I say, “Stretched. Elongated. The wood is red—like oxblood red.”
He frowns at his legal pad, jotting things down. “Does it have a handle? A latch?”
“A doorknob. Polished brass.” That’s very clear in my mind. “And a knocker, also brass, shaped like a face.”
Dr. Sterling makes a thoughtful hmmmming noise. “And what does the face look like?”
I don’t want to remember it. “I can’t remember.”
He smiles a bland, reassuring smile. “Please, Mariana, try.”
How can I describe it? “It’s in agony. It’s screaming.”
“I see.” He nods and writes something down. “And do you knock on the door?”
I want to yell No, I don’t knock on the door! Are you insane? But there’s no way to express to him how the door feels, the paralyzing feeling of dread that comes over me when I’m near it. The feeling there’s something behind it that I do not want to see. I can’t even begin to express the feeling, so instead I say, “There’s a ticking noise.”
“Like… a bomb,” he supplies.
“No, like a clock.” My face is hot with embarrassment. I know it sounds silly. What’s so scary about a clock?
Dr. Sterling turns his gaze on me like he’s directing a spotlight. “And tell me, how does that make you feel?”
It makes me feel like every vein in my body is a tiny crack and any second I’m going to splinter into a thousand pieces. It makes me feel like my stomach is a small animal curling up to die. It makes me feel like my throat is scabbing over and I can’t breathe.
It makes me feel like I felt in the hospital.
My voice comes out very small. “Afraid?”
Dr. Sterling gives me a patented reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Mariana. You’re safe here. The dream is in your mind, nothing more.”
I suddenly feel like I’m about nine. Of course it’s just in my mind. To believe anything else would be crazy.
“Is there anything more?”
I can’t help but feel like I’ve let him down somehow. I mean, it isn’t even a real nightmare. No one even has a chainsaw. And I’m supposed to be his craziest client.
“There are words carved into the arch above the door,” I add lamely.
He picks his legal pad up again with interest. “And what do the words say?”
“I don’t know. They’re high above the door. I can’t see them.” The truth is, I can’t even bring myself to look.
Dr. Sterling shuts his eyes. “I invite you to close your eyes, Mariana,” he says in a soothing voice, “and imagine what the words might say, if you were able to see them.”
I want to tell him it doesn’t matter what they might say. They say what they say. But that makes it sound like I think the door is real, and that makes me sound too crazy.
“See it in your mind’s eye,” Dr. Sterling intones.
I don’t want to see it. Instead I picture the chalkboard behind the cash register in the dining hall, marked with the day’s specials.”
“Now,” he says, “What does it say?”
I’m tempted to say, tuna salad and tater tots. I shake my head. “I really don’t know.”
“That’s fine, Mariana,” he says soothingly, “But tell me, what do the words remind you of?”
I think for a moment. “They’re carved, like the words on a tombstone.”
“Good. Good.” He nods vigorously, eyes still closed. “And if you could carve any words up there, what words would you choose?”
I feel like I’m being manipulated. He’s trying to trick me into getting at it in some roundabout way. But I have to say something. I can just picture him writing in the record “patient uncooperative.”
“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
Dr. Sterling’s sculpted silver eyebrows go up a notch, and he opens his eyes to jot my words down on his pad. I’ve just quoted the carving above the door of Bedlam, London’s most notorious mental hospital, and although I know that’s not what it says above the door in my dream, I think the fact that it’s the first thing that popped into my mind is something the doctor will consider “clinically significant.”
He leans back in his chair and studies me, tapping his pen to his lips. “I’m curious, Mariana, what do you think the dream means?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Come now,” he says, “you must have some idea. Take a guess.”
I feel suddenly tired. “I guess that’s what I’m here for. To find out.”
“Ah!” He holds up a cautionary finger. “But you do understand I’m not here to give you answers, yes? The answers aren’t mine to give. They are locked away inside your own subconscious.” He taps his temple with his long, tan finger. “My job is simply to help you find the key. Have you ever seen a chick hatch, Mariana?” I can tell he has used this analogy many times before, and he doesn’t pause for my answer. “A chick doesn’t just pop out of the egg and there it is. It has to fight its way out.” He makes a grappling motion with his hands. “And if you break the egg for the chick, no matter how ready it is to come out, that chick will die. Do you know why?” He leans forward in his chair, making an emphatic-but-non-confrontational motion with his hand. “Because the very act of breaking out of the shell is what gives the chick the strength it needs to survive. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” I say. “You don’t want to hand me an interpretation and have me swallow it whole. I understand that. I don’t want to be a dead chick. But what if I say I want your take on the dream?”
He studies me, brow creased. I know he wants to give me his two cents. I can tell.
“Please,” I say, “I really value your opinion.”
That’s all it takes. Dr. Sterling is easy to flatter. He leans forward another notch in his chair. “To me, it seems quite clear, Miss
Santos. You are standing on the threshold—a transition, a transformation—but the way is barred. There’s an intimidating door and the words above it say ‘abandon hope—”
“They don’t really say that.”
“Fair enough. But they could. There is a clock ticking in the background, signifying the passage of time, and you are afraid to pass through to—to what, Miss Santos?”
I shrug.
“To adulthood!” He slaps his desk with his palm. “You are afraid, now that you are out of the hospital and at college, you will be asked to take responsibility for yourself as an adult. You feel guilty passing on into adulthood, knowing your brother will never get the chance—”
My eyes skitter away from his face. I don’t want to talk about my brother.
He must see my expression because he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “The point is, you are not alone. You are following a guide, a hyper-feminized anima, a receptive part of your psyche. You said she was dressed for a prom?”
“Well, I think you said—”
“Another ritual transition! A rite of passage. Now, at any point, did this guide speak to you? Tell me. What did she say?”
The image of the girl comes back to me completely, her eyes wide and fearful. “She said, ‘What time is it?’” I mumble.
“What time is it!” He throws his hands up in triumph. “Do you see? She is looking to you for the answer, and the answer is time to move on!” He smiles at me proudly. “Walk through that door, Mariana! You won’t regret it.”
“But,” I say hesitantly, “I don’t really think…”
“What don’t you think?” He frowns at me. “I mean, it’s your dream of course.” He forces himself to lean back in his chair again, carefully steeples his fingers. “Tell me. What do you think the dream means?”
I sit there, silent. I know what I want to say, but I can’t say it. It will sound too crazy.
I think the dream is a warning.
Chapter 5
Saintly
“So,” Delia leans in across our table in the cafeteria at lunch, “any more sightings of Mr. Devilishly Handsome?”
“Yeah,” I said, “He’s right behind you and he just heard you say that.”
She laughs. “I wish he was right here. Where is he hiding, anyway? It’s not that big a campus and there’s hardly anyone left on it.”
I shrug. “Maybe he’s avoiding us. Maybe we’re not his type of people.”
Delia looks appalled. “Speak for yourself! And shut up! Shut up for yourself! I am so his type of people.” She grins. “And he is so mine. God, those arms! Didn’t you just want to lick him?”
I stir my macaroni and cheese. “I don’t know, didn’t he seem like sort of a player?”
“So?” She looks at me like I’m insane. “He can play me all he wants. He can play me like a guitar. Oh! You don’t think he plays guitar, do you?” She clutches her heart like she might swoon. “Or piano! If he sings, I think I’ll have his babies. Him? Singing? Saint, even you couldn’t resist that!”
I can’t help but imagine it: Dev, his coppery curls bent over the piano, eyes shut, fingers moving deftly over the keys. I hope Delia doesn’t notice my blush.
But Delia’s attention is like one of those laser pointers you use to play with cats: intensely focused on whatever it’s on but constantly changing target. Her focus has shifted to searching for something in her overstuffed bag. “Well,” she smiles, “we’ll be seeing him this afternoon for sure.”
I look up from my macaroni. “Wait. What? Why?”
She’s busy dumping things onto the table: melted strawberry lip gloss, a half-eaten power bar, three copies of her headshot, the sheet music to something from Pippin. My fingers itch to snatch the bag out of her hands and organize it for her.
“Because- this!” She whips out what looks like a press release and reads in her best stage voice, “The Fitzgarren Theatre department…blah blah blah…annual fundraiser masquerade ball…Happily Ever After!” She beams at me. “I was too sleepy when you left this morning to tell you. They took my suggestion!”
“Deals! That’s awesome!”
“I know, right? Who’s in good with the department now? This girl! And—” she points to me, “—that girl, too, especially once you help Dev and me at the warehouse today. The department shares a big storage space with a couple of other theatres over North. It’s where they keep set pieces, props, costumes. I said we’d go pull a bunch of costumes to loan out for the ball, and tag set pieces we might want to use to decorate.” She claps her hands, bouncing in her seat. “Fun, right? I hear it’s a bit of a jungle in there, but we’ll set it sorted out. I’m awesome at organizing.”
I look at the mess strewn all over the table. Delia is definitely going to need me. “But why is Dev coming?”
Delia grins. “Why not? He’s the muscle, in case we need any heavy lifting. Plus, he offered his car, remember? We’ll taxi over there, and then Dev can catch up with us and help with the big stuff and drive us home. I was hoping he could drive us over, too, but he’s busy this afternoon and I want to go as soon as you get off work-study, so we can be done before tonight. The warehouse is in a neighborhood you don’t really want to hang out in after dark.”
“That doesn’t really make me want to go.”
Delia frowns at me. “Are you having anxiety again? Because when you woke up from your nightmare—”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Seriously. No big deal.”
“Are you sure?” She studies me. Most of the time, Delia is pretty wrapped up in Delia, but we’ve been best friends for so long, she has a sixth sense about me. She lowers her voice. “How did your session go? Did you talk about the changes in your medication?”
“He said it was all good. Everything is going well.” I force a smile.
“Good.” She looks relieved. “And you’re cool with Dev helping?”
My stomach gives a nervous little twist, but I ignore it. “Sure. Of course.” I check my watch. “I better get to the library. It’s almost my shift.”
Delia laughs. “And God forbid you should be late!”
“Hey!” I say, “I believe in punctuality. So what? You know what my mother always says. ‘Timing is everything’.”
Delia shakes her head. “I can’t believe you have to go in at all, considering the fact campus is deserted. Somehow, I don’t think a minute or two will make a difference.”
I stand and shrug my bag onto my shoulder. “Well,” I say, “you never know.”
A few minutes later, I’m moving out of the cold and into the warmth and quiet of the library. Just stepping through the door makes me feel instantly more relaxed. There’s something about the smell of the books, the hushed voices. The gentle tap of fingers on keyboards is like the sound of rain on a roof when you’re inside, cozy and dry. The thickly padded carpet seems to swallow my footsteps as I head to the circulation desk to sign in.
“Hello, Mrs. Newman.”
The librarian’s sour expression doesn’t change, but she gives me a curt nod. “Mariana.” She looks sharply at the clock, like she would like to tell me I’m late, but of course I’m not. I feel momentarily victorious.
“Reshelving in the stacks, Mrs. Newman?” I almost don’t have to ask. Reshelving is pretty much the only job first year work-study students get to do.
“No. There was a note on the schedule. You’re to be assigned to the children’s room.”
“The children’s room?” I’m disappointed. Unlike most people, I actually like reshelving in the main stacks. The order-out-of-chaos feeling of putting books in their proper place calms me. Besides, in a campus library like this, the children’s room is sort of Siberia. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? I can’t picture that I did. Some of the other first-years like to screw around on the job—hiding out to do their homework, shelving thing sloppily, committing P.D.A in the stacks—but I never have. “Are you sure?”
The librarian shrugs. “All I k
now is there was a post-it on the schedule.” She pushes her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose and turns back to her check-ins. Clearly our chat is over.
I heft my bag back on my shoulder and traipse off, resigned. Up the stairs I go and off to the west wing, where the newly constructed main section of the library meets the hundred-year-old building that came before it. The plush carpets give way to worn wood floors, grooved with the passage of feet. The windows become narrow and arched, like the windows of a castle.
The whole library is quiet today, but the children’s room is particularly deserted. Which doesn’t really surprise me. It’s never like the children’s rooms of public libraries, with their primary-colored beanbag chairs and squealing story-time toddlers. This room is mainly for academics who study children’s literature, or maybe the occasional alumni who visit campus with their kids. Every once in a while you’ll catch a nostalgic student curled up in the window seat reading Dr. Seuss, but for the most part no one bothers.
Oh, well, I think as I flump my bag down on the desk, at least I’ll have some peace and quiet.
“There you are.”
I jump about ten miles. “Dev!”
He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor between the shelves, an oversized picture book open on his lap. He smiles up at me. “You’re late.”
“I am not. What are you doing here?”
He gestures to the book. “Finding Goldbug, obviously. And waiting for you.”
“But how did you know I’d be here?”
“I left a note on the schedule.” His smile widens at the look on my face. “What? Delia told me the planning committee decided to go with the fairy tale theme. I thought we could do some brainstorming.”
“Then why didn’t you just come to lunch?” Where Delia is, I add mentally.
He shrugs. “I thought we’d find more inspiration in here.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “But what if they find out you messed with the schedule? And I’m supposed to be working!”
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