Assimilation

by James Stryker

  They stopped before the closed door.

  “We are the builders of our own worlds. We are the masters of the universe. And we must stick together.”

  Robert didn’t need the advice, but it was true nonetheless. While Natalie was still coping with the trauma, as soon as she fell into the routine of being a wife and mother, a firm hand wouldn’t be necessary. It was nice though, to have someone who understood and cared enough about him to provide off-record suggestions.

  “Thanks for your help, Doctor.”

  “A pleasure. Let us know if you need anything. And best of luck.”

  Robert put his hand on the doorknob.

  “One more thing, Mr. Keller.” The doctor caught his eyes. “Keeping the ankle monitor on for two weeks is our requirement. But that doesn’t mean you can’t use it in future. You don’t have to return it. It’s included.” Dr. Brigman tossed the keychain to Robert with a wink. “Part of the lifetime support system.”

  Before he could respond, the doctor strode down the hall and turned the corner.

  *

  And then the day Robert had dreamed of finally arrived. He pushed her wheelchair toward the eastside door. There was one brief stop at the nurse’s desk to sign out. Then they were free. She was free!

  Natalie had been groggier since the ankle monitor incident. He assumed it was a result of Brigman increasing the neuroleptics, whatever those were. But after talking with Dr. Zuniga, he’d decided to let the current dosage go a week. In the meantime, he would be lenient with her.

  He knelt by her wheelchair and held out a clipboard and pen. It took her several seconds to find his eye contact.

  “Nat, this is a breakdown of the regulations. You need to sign that you understand them.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Hon, you need to sign this document so I can take you home. Do you want me to read the list to you?”

  Natalie shut her eyes and reopened them. She shook her head and turned to the clipboard, holding out her hand for the pen. It was a series of difficult movements, as if her joints were made of wood.

  Robert stayed beside her, watching her sluggishly read the list. He didn’t care if she read it, but there was a nurse hovering to ensure she did.

  “You took her temperature?” he asked. “No fever?”

  “Yes, sir.” The nurse replied. “Minutes ago, and it was normal.”

  Normal. Normal is so excellent.

  Robert turned his attention to Natalie. When she arrived at the signature line her hand tightened on the pen. She pressed it to the paper and he held the clipboard steady.

  But then he had to stop the pen in motion.

  “Nat, you just need to sign your name.” Robert put a hand to her forehead. He looked at the nurse. “Check her temperature again, please.”

  Natalie breathed deeply. It was like she was coming out of a daze. “What?”

  The nurse showed him the thermometer.

  Normal.

  “It’s the medication then.” Robert nodded to the nurse, who returned the gesture.

  Natalie looked back at the clipboard and blinked.

  “Not a problem. Let’s cross this out.” Robert guided her hand to the scrawl on the page.

  And? And what? He considered asking her. But if she was too delirious to even sign her name, the chance that she’d be able to provide an answer wasn’t worth the breath in asking. It didn’t matter anyway.

  He moved her hand to scratch out the writing with the pen. “There we go. Now sign your name, and we’ll go home.”

  But just in case, he kept his hand on hers and helped her write it.

  Chapter 7

  Home. As Simon said, it was the first floor of a blue complex on Third Street. A two-bedroom in an okayish college neighborhood. It wasn’t bad, but a substantial downgrade from the house they’d had before.

  That one had been three thousand square feet. New red bricks and gray shingles. Four bedrooms, three baths. An open living and dining room. A kitchen with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and an island.

  But it’d gone on the block. Sold quickly to the highest buyer for the noblest purpose:

  To bring me back.

  And whenever a line formed outside the single bathroom, or they hit elbows turning in the tiny kitchen, Andrew was reminded that despite his efforts, he continued to fall short of Robert’s expectations.

  Not that Robert said much. He did comment on things and offer corrections, but his remarks were mostly in reference to un-Natalieish behavior. He hadn’t complained about their cramped living quarters.

  Through a heavy mist, Andrew remembered standing beside Robert as he’d unlocked the apartment door the first time:

  “It’s smaller than the old house, but it’s still nice as long as you keep it clean.” Robert sounded like he was shouting up from the bottom of a well. Everyone had been sounding that way.

  Andrew didn’t respond. Along with the strange voice tones, speaking had taken significant effort. Even his thoughts came in fragments.

  Robert pushed open the door and waited for him to step inside. Instead, he felt rooted outside the threshold.

  “Go on, Nat.”

  Yes, go on. This is your home now. You live here with your husband and son. Your name is Natalie. You—

  From within the apartment, an elephant stampede followed by a roar:

  “Mooommm!”

  And the choice of whether to enter the apartment or not ended. The eight-year-old attached himself and sucked Andrew in.

  A whirlpool. Quicksand. A black hole.

  The door closed and locked behind him, and his internment began.

  Stop. You’re being dramatic. It’s been a week and things are better. You aren’t in such a fog anymore. Things sound more normal now. You can speak fluidly again, and there’s—

  A knock at the bathroom door. “Are you almost ready, hon?”

  “Yes.”

  But he had no idea. Robert had asked twice, and while some things had improved Andrew was still struggling to master a vital element of the Natalie role. That evening, for the thousandth time, he was trying to do what she’d done every day for twenty-seven years – fix her hair and makeup.

  No exaggeration. She probably did it in her crib. I swear to fucking—

  A sharp intake of breath as he poked himself with the pencil again. The whites of his eyes were red from repeat stabbings.

  You’re too close to the mirror. Back up. You can do this.

  He leaned over the fake marble sink with his face only an inch from the mirror, but he hated to back up. That was the worst part. This close, it was a piece. Only a cheek. Just a lip. A single bloodshot eye that seemed impervious to repeat puncture wounds. And these individual parts could belong to anyone. Male or female. Natalie or Andrew. It was scattered Cubism.

  When he pulled back, the sections came together in the face of a stranger. And whenever he’d tried to apply the makeup, they took the form of something worse – a lie.

  Not this time. This time, I’m going to do it. I’ll get it right. Andrew set down the pencil and felt for the eyeshadow brush without changing proximity to the reflection of his eye. You want to get it right. You’re tired of fucking up.

  That’s really all Andrew had been doing since he’d been pulled into this vortex. And he felt sure that Robert’s patience was wearing thin.

  “What are you doing?” Robert had asked two days ago.

  Andrew had been sitting at the dining room table when Robert came home from work. It had been a rare, peaceful afternoon where as long as Andrew stayed within Simon’s line of sight and made no sudden movements, the boy let up from mauling him and watched television.

  “Looking.” One of Natalie’s art magazines was in front of him and he’d extended the centerfold. Three white panels connected by thick swoops of black brushstrokes. Smaller rivulets branched off from the main tributaries and paint spacklings formed hundreds of action points. The movement of the pain
ting changed at every angle.

  A black ribbon unraveled and fraying. A drop of dye slowly spreading through a glass of water. If a ballerina’s slippers were dipped in ink.

  It was one of the most interesting paintings Andrew had ever seen. He turned the page so Robert could see.

  “It looks like a dirty restaurant table.”

  “It’s called June Celebration.”

  “Celebration for baboons at a zoo maybe.” Robert looked around the room. “How long have you spent on this?”

  “Only a couple of hours or so. But Simon is fine and everything’s clean.”

  “Is it?”

  Andrew nodded. He’d been very careful in cleaning the apartment to Robert’s specifications, even wiping down the ceiling fan blades. And he knew Robert didn’t understand his fascination with painting, but maybe if Andrew explained it in a different way.

  “It’s actually a lot bigger than this.” He raised his voice as Robert walked into the kitchen. “It’s seven feet tall. So in person, to stand in front of just a part …”

  Andrew trailed off when Robert returned with a single cotton swab. He shuffled his chair forward as Robert reached behind him and wiped the tip along the ledge of the electrical outlet cover. Robert briefly inspected the dust particles that clung to the cotton wad before dropping it on the centerfold with a frown.

  “Natalie, you obviously have more important things to do than waste time on chimp paintings.”

  He’s right. In front of the bathroom mirror, Andrew tried to push back the remembered hurt. He needed to concentrate on the makeup. This is why he kept failing. Robert wasn’t being mean by reminding him that he was focused on the wrong things.

  You’re Natalie. And you like art, but you need to put more effort into being Natalie. That’s what you’re doing now. You’re making yourself look nice for your husband. We’ll go out. It’ll be fun. Good to see other people. And they’ll call you Natalie, and say how much they’ve missed you, and compliment your hair. That’s when it’ll click. You’ll finally feel home.

  He was pretty sure Robert felt this way as well. That’s what this “welcome home” party was about. After a few days adjusting to life outside the Cryobiotic Treatment Center, it was time to reunite with the other people who’d been feeling Natalie’s absence for the past year and a half.

  “What if they don’t like me?” Andrew had asked earlier in the week.

  “These aren’t a bunch of new people.” Robert laughed. “They’re our friends. Zack and Evie, Marty and Imogene, David and Maryann. Don’t worry, Clark and Shelly will be there too. And Barbara, Stuart, Rosemarie—”

  “That’s too many people. Way too many people.”

  “We’re not having it here, hon. I rented a space at the SpringHill.”

  “No, that’s too many people for me, Robert. To be around.”

  “But you know everyone.”

  This assurance didn’t help. He’d rather have Robert drag in random hobos off the street. Andrew imagined walking into a room full of people who felt they knew him. They’d look at him and see the Natalie they’d loved for years. Her face would spawn memories of past adventures, heartbreaking moments, and exciting journeys. And Andrew knew the stories, but that’s all they were to him.

  “It’ll be like the summer barbeques we used to have, except you can take it easy.”

  Robert had leased a venue. He’d reserved a catering service. And he’d hired an actor to impersonate his wife.

  What a fucking show.

  But the SpringHill space was theirs for four hours, and the shiny metal buffet tables would move on to their next party. The performer Robert had traded two million dollars for was permanent.

  He deserves to parade her— you around. He paid for you.

  But so many people. Looking. Expecting. Judging.

  It was an odd feeling to only be able to worry a certain amount. In the Center, he’d begin an uneasy thought path and start racing up a staircase without end. But since the haziness that surrounded his release had cleared, there was no more escalation. He knew he should be glad the anxiety had capped, but he wasn’t. It was like trying to dive into only the reflection of a pool.

  Judging. Judging. JUDGING. And crack – right into the glass when he’d thought he had six feet of chlorinated space.

  The lack of frantic anxiety didn’t solve the problem.

  “It’s still, still too many people.” Andrew had folded his arms. He clutched his elbows and paced. Robert’s eyes followed him, his eyebrow raised and lips pursed to the right side of his mouth. But Andrew couldn’t stop. This is what he did now. Pace. Walk for hours in circles around the apartment.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down, Nat. I can shorten the guest list. How many people would you feel comfortable with?”

  None. This wouldn’t be an acceptable reply.

  Or have as many as you want, but can you take me out first? Get an apple corer and slam it over my head, gather this skin, and take that with you. Or give it to someone else. But in addition to not being a satisfactory answer, Robert would promptly report this response to the CryoLife therapist. And not that they could do anything but ask him stupid questions and stare at him, but—

  Andrew paused and glanced at Robert. I have enough people who stare at me. He kept pacing.

  “Eight people?” Robert ventured. “Six people?”

  Yes, this is good. You work it down yourself.

  “Four?” A longer hesitation. “Nat, you at least need to see Clark and Shelly. They’ve been dying to see you for—”

  “Fine. Fine.” Andrew walked toward the short hall.

  “For only two people I guess I don’t need to rent—”

  He cut Robert off by shutting the bedroom door. He quickly made his way to the living room and circled the tan couch, his favorite place.

  Two people. Only two people. Two people.

  But that discussion had happened days ago. And now meeting Clark and Shelly felt as intimidating as Robert unleashing a clown car of Natalie critics.

  I’ll try. I’m going to try. It won’t be bad.

  Another knock at the bathroom door, and this time Robert also turned the locked knob. “Are you okay?”

  No.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s going on?”

  The inner turmoil of feeling like a fraud. Guilt and shame pulling me under and drowning me in a dark abyss. I’m going to die at the bottom of a dank hole without having any idea who I am. A complete identity and existential crisis.

  “Hairspray,” Andrew said.

  “Okay, but we’re going to be late.”

  He closed his eyes and took a breath, digging the ends of his fingernails into the rubbery caulk that framed the sink.

  Pull back. And maybe this time, the pieces will come together. You won’t see Figure dans un Fauteuil. You’ll see yourself.

  With his eyes still shut, Andrew took two steps back. The corner of the towel rack bumped his shoulder, and he rubbed the polyester fabric of the dress Robert had selected between two fingers. He opened his eyes and looked into the mirror.

  Tears ran down a poorly contoured face, ugly dark trails plowing through roughly caked layers of foundation. He put his hands to his eyes, and when he pulled them away he inadvertently wiped clods of the greasy mascara into the dress’s fabric. Andrew twisted his fingers in the gnarled blond hair and hid his face in his forearms. He leaned forward and sobbed.

  It wasn’t Natalie.

  It wasn’t Andrew.

  It’s a whore! That’s what you are!

  “Natalie? Are you okay?”

  He lowered his arms and glared at the image in the mirror. You’re a two-million-dollar window dressing!

  “Natalie, open this door.”

  No matter how hard you try to be her, you’re not. You can’t do anything right. You’re a pathetic excuse for her!

  The door shook as Robert banged it.

  I want to be me. And I don’t know who that is. But
this, this thing! Andrew seized the soap dish and heaved it against the mirror. The fragile bowl shattered, showering slivers of porcelain onto the counter. You’re not me! You are a whore!

  Two minutes later, the door left its hinges and slammed to the bathroom tiles inches from where Andrew crouched in a ball near the bathtub.

  “Natalie. Natalie, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  Robert tried to pull his arms and unfurl him from the constricted position.

  “Are you sick? Are you hurt? Natalie, talk to me.”

  Andrew wanted to shove him away, to shout in his face.

  A forward dive off the springboard in tight tuck position:

  Stop! Stop calling me that!

  Somersault.

  Just stop! I’m not Natalie!

  Somersault.

  I’m me!

  Somersault.

  I’m—

  The crown of his head crashed into thick tempered glass instead of the pool water. He could go no further.

  Robert released Andrew’s shoulder when he stopped shaking.

  “Natalie, what’s wrong?”

  I don’t know who I am.

  But he couldn’t admit that he was an imposter while Robert raked his vision across every inch of the body, looking for something to be wrong. His cognitive dissonance wasn’t a trail of dirt Natalie’s husband could hone in on with a cotton swab.

  “Hairspray.”

  Robert leaned back on his knees and his brow furrowed. “Hairspray? You’re uncontrollably sobbing and breaking things over hairspray?”

  What would Natalie say? Could he glue some scraps of her together and form an adequate particle board response? One that wouldn’t reveal the angst or the lies? One that sounded like her and would satisfy Robert? Natalie, Natalie …

  “I want to be perfect for you.”

  The answer met each and every criteria, including not being a lie. His first triumph as Natalie. And as a bonus, Robert postponed the “welcome home” party with Clark and Shelly for another day.

  Chapter 8