Lying in bed, I let the previous day come back to me piece by piece. The string of clients I saw after Patrick, their tics and mannerisms. Ms. Sawyer dabbing a tissue delicately beneath each eye. Mr. Kent’s hands held together, palm to palm, in his lap. A strangely prayerful pose.
I left the Elysian Society late in the day. As usual, I was the last to depart. The sunset was a hot, melted layer at the bottom of the sky. I ticked past the predictable landmarks between the Elysian Society and my apartment. A corner grocery, always shining with humid fluorescence, like a greenhouse. A billboard, the newest ad peeling off in lacy strips to reveal a denture-bright smile. During the drive, a radio talk show host spoke with a calibrated mix of excitement and somberness about a body discovered near a subdivision across town. I let the details anchor me, comforting in their unremarkable ugliness. No sign of a struggle. Blunt force trauma. Anyone with information, please come forward—
When I try to recall what happened after I arrived home, my memories turn dimmer. I remember retreating to my bed earlier than usual. Eight in the evening, or earlier. I must have fallen asleep. Now, the clock tells me I’ve been gone for twelve solid and implacable hours.
Rising reluctantly, I make my way to the bathroom. My body feels stiff and disjointed. Every inch of my skin is as sensitive as the skin revealed beneath a bandage. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor plays music. The bass echoes thickly, the beating of an enormous heart. I’m surrounded by other people’s vices in this apartment. Theatrical sex moans, cigarette smoke, bitter arguments, energetic thumps of TV; it seeps in at all hours.
In the bathroom, I reach for the faucet. The showerhead shudders once before spitting out a patchy spray. At the edges of my mouth, a taste swells. Lake water. Stale and silty, like the air on a hot day just before the rain.
I step back from the lip of the bathtub. In the mirror above the sink, my reflection is all wrong against the backdrop of my bathroom. It takes me a moment to understand why. Sylvia’s lipstick clings to my mouth, turning my lips smaller and more prominent at the same time.
I rub my mouth with the back of my hand. The lipstick stays. I try again, more roughly. As the shower water hisses behind me, I take a square of toilet paper and scrub it across my lips, harshly, until the skin stings like a fresh scrape. There’s a slick, shocking streak of color on the paper.
I drop the blotted tissue into the toilet. It flowers open in slow motion before I flush.
The Braddocks are in my bedroom, Sylvia’s face fanned across the floorboards. I stoop to collect the photos. I sit on the edge of the bed to sift through the images. Slowly, this time, with a methodical patience. I want to see and understand each separate image. Perversely, I hope the Braddocks have changed. I hope they’re ordinary now, glossiness scratched off to reveal people no more remarkable than any of my clients.
But the pattern reemerges, frustrating in its unyieldingness. They’re in love. Charmed by their own lives. I stop at their wedding portrait. Sylvia gazes directly into the camera, her veil blown back in a gauzy plume, a slight widow’s peak emphasizing her heart-shaped face. Patrick looks sidelong at his bride. The formality of their pose only emphasizes the tenderness of his straying gaze, as if he can’t resist the pull of Sylvia’s beauty. As if he can’t believe she’s there without seeing tangible proof.
I hesitate before I turn to the last photo in the stack. The one with the bed. While the other photographs are precisely matched, rectangular and uniform in size, this one has a distinct weight to it. A square silhouette. The Polaroid’s white border gives it the quality of a relic: ephemeral and formal at the same time.
The difference extends to the image itself. The discrepancy between the dewy-bright bride and this naked woman is striking. Sylvia scarcely seems to age throughout the course of the photographs. Her black hair always worn just below her shoulder blades, her sophisticated style unchanging. But the woman in the dark lipstick is peeled back and exposed in a way that has nothing to do with her body. It’s all in her expression: a directness. A fierceness.
My mind fills with something out of an old medical illustration. Sylvia’s skin folded back like curtains to reveal her interior, plump pink organs and coiled muscles. Above this, she smiles, unconcerned and daring me to look.
Nudity is forbidden at the Elysian Society. I’ve come across a scattering of these photos throughout the years, and I consider the images mostly harmless. Vein-marbled thighs and fleshy breasts, commonplace as household objects. Always before, though, I’ve reported the photos, declining to work with the clients. People can be quick to test boundaries at the Elysian Society, feeling out soft spots and loopholes. Any infringement at an early stage is a risk. I know this.
I remember the press of Patrick’s knee against mine. The shocking immediacy of his body. Heat darts down my spine.
I rise from the bed. The photos shed back onto the floor in a slippery rush, and my heel tamps down on Sylvia’s wedding-day smile as I walk across the room to prepare for work.
The Elysian Society stands in a limbo of a neighborhood. The area has a reputation for benign danger, hinted at rather than seen. The streets are populated with abandoned homes and condemned buildings. Boarded-up windows are painted the same shade as the brickwork, giving the impression of featureless faces. The neighborhood offers the Elysian Society an automatic privacy. Here, our clients are less likely to run into anybody they know.
Many decades ago, the building that houses the Elysian Society must have belonged to an affluent family. From the outside, the cool white brick and tightly shuttered windows produce the exact impression that clients want when they come to a place like this. Elegant, but not funereal; old and established, but unconnected to scandal or witchcraft. At a squinting angle, it could be a church. A museum.
Appointment times are carefully staggered, with clients dispatched to their designated rooms soon after arriving. Each client should feel as if he’s entering a private landscape. The Elysian Society’s waiting room isn’t for visitors; it’s the space where bodies congregate between encounters. Unlike the encounter suites, the waiting room bears the layered marks of aging. Sepia water stains embellished on the ceiling, carpet loose over aging floorboards and pocked with sunken patches. Couches share space in front of a TV set that displays grainy videos, random landscapes with soothing instrumental music rolling behind the images. A pleasant, wordless distraction.
This Friday morning, I arrive early enough that the waiting room is mostly empty. A redheaded body watches the TV without interest. A boy with stark cheekbones yawns into his fist, eyes glassy as a doll’s from the lingering effects of a lotus. I spot an older body, salt-and-pepper hair and a gently creased face, as if her skin has been folded up and then smoothed out again.
“Edie.”
I turn. Leander approaches, smiling. Some bodies wear the pale, plain Elysian Society uniforms with a stiffness or hunched apology that highlights the strangeness of the outfit until that’s all that stands out. Bodies like Lee complement the simplicity of the uniform: his wide-set green eyes, clean-shaven jawline. The white pants and airy shirt, even his milky-pale bare feet, all seem an extension of his youthful handsomeness.
“I hear you’re wanted,” Lee says.
I shake my head slightly. Lee’s been a body for two years now, a record closing in on mine by steady increments. The friendliness we’ve developed is mostly due to his patience. The first time I instinctively smiled back at Lee, the first time I was grateful to see a familiar face in the waiting room, I almost felt like he’d tricked me.
“Mrs. Renard needs to speak with you,” he clarifies. “Whenever you have time.”
“Do you know what it’s about?” I ask.
“I’m only the messenger.” But Lee’s distracted. His eyes shift over my face. “There’s something different about you today,” he says. “Did you cut your hair?”
I reach a hand to my hair. Blond, coarse, and prone to dryness. Gathered into a simple knot at the n
ape of my neck. I cut it myself, chopping it bluntly to my shoulders once a year. It’s nearly at its longest point right now.
My mind slips to Sylvia’s hair in the photographs. Blue-black as a raven’s wing, the iridescence of oil on asphalt. I imagine its texture. Sleek and smooth. Silkiness pressed under my fingertips.
“I might look tired.” I bring my hand down quickly. “I’ve had trouble sleeping.”
“No, no, you look fine,” Lee says. “I’m imagining things. I’m sorry.”
“Just a trick of the light,” I suggest.
Lee smiles. “Whatever it is, it’s not a bad change.”
His voice holds a coaxing note under the surface. I mirror his smile. “I should really go see what she wants,” I say.
Moving into the low hall that connects to the offices, I shake off the regret I feel whenever I can’t match Lee’s warmth. He always makes it so easy. A small detail offered about his life, trailed by a blank slot of silence. I’m grateful, in these moments, for the excuse the Elysian Society provides. Turning my reticence into a virtue.
Mrs. Renard’s office door stands ajar, a sliver of light cracking the edge of the paneled oak. I tap. “Come in,” Mrs. Renard calls.
She sits behind her desk, elbows spread wide and hands clasped together. At the edge of the desk, she’s arranged several tissue holders. Tissues extend upward like static smoke. The whole room is lined with books, some so old they’re unmarked and shedding like snakes. These books, and a lampshade with shimmering beadwork, are placed there for the benefit of our more superstitious clientele. A pewter cross on one wall comforts clients who are here straight from church services, confessional booths. Otherwise, the office could belong to a pricey therapist.
“Eurydice,” Mrs. Renard says. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
I hover near the door, aware of a third presence in the room. At first I think she’s a client, but she wears a white dress identical to my own.
“This is Pandora,” Mrs. Renard supplies, following my gaze. “She just joined us. I was telling Pandora that she has a client interested in working with her. You’ll like Mr. Womack,” she continues, speaking to Pandora now. “He lost his wife five years ago. They’d been married several years before that. She was only in her thirties. A terrible loss. So unexpected.”
“Suicide?” Pandora asks.
“A stroke,” Mrs. Renard says. “We don’t work with suicides at the Elysian Society.”
“You needed to talk with me, Mrs. Renard?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. “Pandora, I’m afraid we’ll need our privacy.”
When Pandora passes me, she brushes her gaze against mine and smiles. I smile back a second too late, a reflex that startles me.
When we’re alone, Mrs. Renard sighs. “Well. Eurydice. It’s been some time since we’ve sat down for a good chat, hasn’t it?” Her voice is colored with surprise. “You look quite well.”
“So do you.” I can’t help noticing that she’s changed. Her dyed burgundy hair shows gray at the roots, like dust gathering on a bright tablecloth, and the wrinkles seeping out from the corners of her eyes have deepened. She reminds me of someone recovering from a long illness.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Eurydice,” she says. I lift my chin in a show of attentiveness. “You’ve reached an important milestone. I wanted to acknowledge that.” An indulgent smile.
The window behind Mrs. Renard’s desk is one of the few in the building that hasn’t been cloaked over with heavy layers of curtains. The sunlight in here always seems more rarified than the sky outside. The light through the bare panes is raw and brilliant, bubbled with dust motes.
Mrs. Renard leans back. “It’s been five years, Eurydice. Five years today since you stood across from me and told me you wanted to become a body.”
As she says it, I remember. The awareness of this anniversary has been restlessly circling my mind for months now. I’ve kept it at bay so far.
“I still recall that day quite clearly,” Mrs. Renard continues. “You were a much different woman back then. A girl, really.”
I clasp my hands in front of me. A light tremble runs through my muscles, and I squeeze my fingers tighter, then tighter, as if I can remove this response by force.
“This past week alone, I’ve interviewed half a dozen girls who fit that same mold,” Mrs. Renard says. “New to the city. Craving a fresh start. What’s remarkable about you is that you didn’t merely find a fresh start inside these walls. You found a whole life.”
My past self hanging back in the corner of the room, watching me and summing me up. Gauging which parts of me have grown. Which have stayed the same.
If Mrs. Renard notices my discomfort, she ignores it. “How many of your coworkers can say that?” she asks. “You see the true potential of being a body. You understand what some of the others never will: that it’s a talent. A skill.”
My muscles uncoil. The memory dissolves and scatters. When I smile this time, I can actually mean it. “Thank you, Mrs. Renard.”
“Of course, I would like to see you spend more time with the others,” Mrs. Renard says. “The other bodies could stand to learn a thing or two from you.”
Guilt worms through me, leaving a dark trail. Patrick’s face flashes across my mind, then Sylvia’s; the lipstick, his knee against mine. “I’m honored that you have faith in me,” I say.
She rises, moving to where I stand by the door. I’m so accustomed to seeing Mrs. Renard behind her desk that I’m surprised at how small she is, a head shorter than me. Her fingers shimmer with stacks of rings; she wears an elaborate caftan, overlapping layers of fabric. I notice a bruise half hidden by her neckline, a mottled darkness against her sun-coarsened skin. Then she’s pulling me into an embrace.
I try not to stiffen, overwhelmed by her solidity, her fleshy, sweet smell. No one has touched me in so long. Her grasp is strong and assured, and when she lets go and steps back, I’m unanchored for a moment. As if I’ll float away.
“I’m proud of you, Eurydice,” Mrs. Renard says. She plucks at her neckline. The tip of the bruise vanishes. “Please know that you can always come to me. With anything.”
The halls are too dark after the dazzling sunlight in the office. I blink hard to clear my vision, moving rapidly toward Room 12, arms crossed over my chest.
I’m an outlier at the Elysian Society. Most of the bodies barely survive a year. The majority leave after a month. Some vanish after a week or even a single day. Always without warning. My first few weeks, I barely spoke to the others. I passed unnoticed, learning the inner workings of the place like someone thrown into the water and forced to learn to swim.
After a month, I had a full roster of clients. I became adept at setting them at ease, asking the right questions. Back then, my success wasn’t due to a robust work ethic or a newly uncovered talent. I was simply caught up in the relief of the work. The ability to escape myself.
Another body cornered me in the waiting room one morning, demanding an explanation. She was middle-aged, her cheeks dimpled with acne scars. I’d noticed her. She was loud, always talking. Her breath sometimes held a pungent mix of cigarettes and peppermint gum, both forbidden.
“What’s your secret?” That’s how she phrased it, and my heartbeat pulled tight as a wire until I realized there was no way she could know. She pushed on: “You just have the right look. One of those faces that could belong to anybody. People are always mistaking you for someone they know, right?”
“Not really,” I’d lied.
A week later, the woman was gone. It struck me as vaguely ominous at the time. But I began to understand how often new workers joined and how casually they vanished. After one year at the Elysian Society, a mere third of my original coworkers remained.
Mrs. Renard’s point about spending time with the other bodies stings. She’s missed or maybe ignored an essential part of who I am here. My success relies on keeping a distance, biding my time quietly, no distractions. I
watch the others. The way they talk and gossip and flirt, drawing their discrete identities fully to the surface, and how much harder this makes it when they swallow the lotus and allow a stranger inside their flesh.
It’s simpler my way. When I’m inside the Elysian Society walls, I ignore myself. I become lost in the repetitiveness, the monotony. For years, the rules have anchored me, giving me something sturdy to grasp when what I’m doing yawns dark and bottomless at my feet.
And now I’ve slipped, just the slimmest fraction, into that darkness.
THREE
When I passed my four-year milestone, Mrs. Renard made one small concession. I spent years shuffled around like the rest of the bodies, sometimes in Room 3, sometimes in Room 15. After I’d been working for four years, all my encounters shifted to Room 12. Mrs. Renard never directly mentioned it to me, and I never thanked her, but I feel a sense of belonging whenever I enter Room 12 now. A small, neat space that’s all my own.
Today, though, something’s different. I can’t shake the sensation of a criminal slinking back to the scene of the crime. Everything looks the same, but a fine, dark skein of memories clings to every surface, altering the air.
It tugs at my gaze after a second: Sylvia’s lipstick. The bullet-shaped case stands on the end table. I forgot to return it to Patrick after our encounter.
I pick up the lipstick, cradling the delicate weight in my palm. Bodies are required to use loved ones’ belongings during encounters. Sweaters rubbed thin from frequent wear, necklaces shadowed with tarnish. The idea, Mrs. Renard explains, is that the dead are drawn to and comforted by the items they cherished during life. Like dogs trailing familiar scents back home.
Privately, I’m always reminded of a story I read as a child. The greedy woman who steals a bone from a graveyard and takes it to her kitchen, haunted that night by a moaning ghost. Give me my bone. Even as a child, I found the story as much sad as frightening. This idea of the dead still caught up in the material world of the living.
The Possessions Page 2