Shattered Echoes

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Hyper what?”

  “Hypergraphia—a compulsive urge to write. Often detailed diaries or poems, or, as in Dostoyevski’s case, very long books. Vincent van Gogh is another suspected TLE sufferer; the term hypergraphia is often used to connote a similarly strong urge to draw.”

  I tried to smile. “You know I’m a writer?”

  “Compulsive?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even like it that much.”

  “Let’s go through some of these others.” She got up and took a book from her desk and opened it at the yellow Post-it Note holding her place; she put her glasses back on. “Hyperreligiosity?”

  I grinned. “I don’t even believe in God.”

  “I know you’re not humorless, and it’s obvious you don’t suffer from stickiness—the inability to end a conversation. Homosexuality? Hypersexuality?” She looked at me over the rims of her glasses.

  “I wish. I haven’t had sex—except in my dreams—in almost a year and a half.”

  She turned back to the book. “Head turning? Inability to take a full breath? Stuttering?”

  I shook my head no in answer to each of her questions.

  “Any history of transient weakness in the limbs, particularly your legs?”

  “Does clumsiness count?”

  She smiled. “Not really. How about foul smells or tastes?”

  I shook my head again.

  “History of aggressive behavior or violence?”

  “Nope.”

  “Compulsive orderliness? Drive to perfection? Compulsive attention to detail?”

  “No one’s ever accused me of any of those.”

  “See? It doesn’t quite fit.” She closed the book and placed it on the table between us. “On the other hand, your daymares, your childhood ‘watch the letters,’ your nightmares, your headaches—and possibly even your memory lapses—are all consistent with TLE symptomology.”

  I leaned forward. “So do I have it?”

  She took off her glasses and slowly folded them closed, then placed them in her lap. “Neither I, nor Dr. Smith-Holt, think that you do.”

  “But you aren’t sure?”

  She sighed. “We’re not sure.” She leaned back in her chair.

  I stared at the book on the table. Neurotransmitters Seizures and Epilepsy. “So, what am I supposed to think?”

  “I’m sorry, Lindsey. I’m sorry we couldn’t give you more definitive answers.”

  “But I need definitive answers!” I cried. “This is my life—I need to know if I’m crazy, or if dead people can come alive again, or if I’m some sort of epileptic. I need to know!” I dropped my head in my hand; the tears dropped between my fingers.

  “There is one thing we could try.”

  I looked up and took the tissues Naomi offered.

  “There’s a drug—an antiseizure medication called Tegretol. You could try that.”

  “Would it make the daymares go away?”

  “It might—if you have TLE. There are also some other tests we could run. A SPECT or maybe a seventy-two-hour EEG would give—”

  I leaned forward. “If I took this drug and it didn’t work, would that mean I didn’t have TLE?”

  She sighed. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Maybe? What’s the point of all these fancy tests with fancy names if all you guys can say is ‘maybe’ and ‘probably’ and ‘frankly, Lindsey, we’re just not sure’?”

  Naomi smiled. “Sometimes I ask myself the same question.” She shrugged. “But with drugs, there are never any guarantees. People respond differently. It’s unpredictable. Drugs are sometimes ineffective for no known reason.”

  “If I took this stuff and the daymares stopped, would that mean I did have TLE?”

  She smiled again. “That’s more likely.”

  “But not definite?”

  She raised her hands, palms up. “What’s definite in this world?” We rocked in silence for a while.

  “Sometimes I do have trouble taking a full breath,” I said.

  “So you want to try the Tegretol?”

  “I’ll try the Tegretol.”

  I stepped out of Naomi’s building and into the glitter and frenzy of pre-Christmas. Although there were still ten shopping days left, there was a frantic urgency in the gait of a tall woman who pushed past me on her way into a toy store, and exhaustion was already deeply etched into the face of a far-too-slender Santa ringing his Salvation Army bell on the corner of Boylston and Berkeley.

  Could this temporal lobe stuff be my answer? The end of dog whistles and apples and Shakespeare’s Horatio? Could TLE transform Isabel Davenport back into just a woman who had once lived in my house? Could TLE return Clay to his grave?

  A chain of toddlers, each holding a ring attached to a single rope, wound by me, their chubby faces ecstatic and filled with wonder at the blinking lights and the profusion of goodies behind the store windows. “Santa Claus! Santa Claus!” one screamed, and they jumbled and twisted together in an exuberant hodgepodge of red and blue and pink parkas. The exhaustion on the Salvation Army Santa’s face vanished and he became jolly and lively and somehow more rotund. TLE would explain a lot. It would explain Isabel in my shower and the ladies having tea in my bay. And it would make Clay go way for good.

  But it didn’t explain the books or the forks or how my picture got fixed. A burly man who smelled of gasoline pushed by me so violently, I had to step down into the street to avoid his shoulders. I yanked my foot back to the sidewalk; a leaflet stuck to my boot. I leaned over and peeled the mud-covered paper from my sole and dropped it into an overflowing garbage can. It didn’t explain the alarm clock or the lights or the pickles falling on De Matteo’s head.

  A cold gust of wind caught me from behind. I pulled my collar up and pressed my arms closer to my body. “An epileptic,” I whispered out loud. Just the sound of the word was chilling. Did I want to be an epileptic? Was this good news? If electricity was misfiring in my temporal lobe, did that mean it might go haywire somewhere else? I touched my head gingerly. Would I suddenly drop to the ground in one of those “other kinds” of fits? I pulled my coat even tighter around me.

  No. Naomi had said those epilepsies were different. TLE was the answer I’d been hoping for, the answer I didn’t think existed. I just needed more information. I’d go to the library. I’d call my friend Lisa; she was a neuropsychologist. Having TLE was going to save my life. TLE was going to put my fears to rest: my fear of insanity, and my fear of Clay.

  As I turned in to my office building, the kiosk man waved from the corner. He raised a newspaper and dipped his head in question. I smiled and mouthed the word “later.” He shook his head and, with a shrug and an exaggerated frown, dropped the paper back onto the pile.

  “Lindsey!” Pam waved a pink telephone slip at me as I walked into the office. “Guess who just called.” She grinned and pulled the message slip away when I reached for it. “Guess who said you would want to call him back as soon as you came in. Guess who said he had some very, very good news for you.”

  I stood completely still. “Arthur Farnham?” I said slowly. “Was it Arthur Farnham?”

  She nodded and her grin widened. “We’re in the money! We’re in the money!” she sang.

  Pam was right. We were in the money. To the tune of $1.2 million on a five-year task-order contract. TWTTR had arrived. I didn’t quite know how I had pulled off this remarkable feat, but we were safe and solvent for the next five years. Who would have ever thought it?

  One million two hundred thousand dollars! That was enough for me and Peter and Pam and perhaps one other full-time person. It was enough for a couple new computers and a decent desk for Peter and that supply cabinet Pam had been whining about. Perhaps it was also enough for a few raises. Finally, finally, finally, my luck seemed to be turning!

  I called Joel and Hilary and Babs. I called Jay, my old boss, and Carol, my next-door neighbor in Lexington. I even called my mother. Happiness was apparent in each of their vo
ices, and so was relief. Tears pricked my eyes after I talked to Joel; even he had been worried about me, even he was honestly thrilled at my good fortune. I was touched. After two years of bleak phone calls, it was time I was delivering some good news.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon happily scribbling lists and setting up Farnham files. On my way home—after I’d gotten my Globe and the kiosk man’s good-natured workaholic lecture—I stopped and picked up the prescription that Holt-Smith had called in to Back Bay Drugs. I bought a can of soda and swallowed a pill before I left the store.

  I bounded up the stairs toward my apartment. Now I knew everything would be all right, everything would be as I’d left it. When I reached my door, it was locked—just as I’d left it. When I walked into the entryway, it was dark—just as I’d left it. When I peeked into the kitchen, it was messy—just as I’d left it. And there was no lavender scent. I laughed out loud. Being an epileptic was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

  I slept the sleep of babies and the dead and the innocent, and woke the next day feeling fresh and invigorated. I took another Tegretol with my coffee. I pressed my hands around the smooth, warm mug and carried it into the bay. It had snowed overnight. The world sparkled and glowed through the window; it looked new and clean. It was Saturday. I was free.

  The snow was that fine, light, powdery stuff, like cotton candy and sugar cookies. It outlined the details of the mansard roof across the street and coated the lacy grillwork running in front of its dormers. The snow added even more depth to the pavilions standing guard at each side of the building. I smiled, remembering Babs’s earnest face when she told me a composition like that—of projecting end pavilions about a central block—was a typical French Academic solution.

  I looked down at the street and watched a toddler in an oversize parka stepping in and out of a mound of snow. In and out, in and out, he pulled his red boot, giggling and waving his arms. I wondered if Isabel Davenport had ever watched a child do the same thing from this same window. I wondered without fear, without apprehension. In and out, in and out, the little guy pulled his soggy boot. Laughing, his mother scooped him up and carried him to drier land. He touched her cheek with a mittened hand and smiled.

  A shadow passed over the window. I looked up, but there were no clouds in the sky. I grasped the mug tighter in my hands and turned very slowly. A tiny shadow, the shadow of a veiled woman in a long, wide-skirted dress, was silhouetted on my wall. I whirled toward the doorway, to the spot from where the shadow would have to be cast; the doorway was empty. “No!” I said as the air got thicker and full of lavender. “I took the pills! You can’t be here! You’re dead! You’re dead! Dead people have to stay dead!”

  The coffee mug fell from my hands and shattered all over the floor; I grabbed the edge of the couch. The couch and the chairs and the rug and the pictures all became wavy and distorted, but the shadow remained clear. It got larger and smaller and then larger again, but its edges always cut a decisive line against the white walls. I whirled around to the empty doorway. “Go away! Leave me alone! You’re dead! You and Clay are dead!”

  There was a loud banging. I froze, then turned back to the shadow; it had disappeared, and so had the lavender.

  “Lindsey, Lindsey, it is I—Edgar,” he called through the door. “Is everything all right? Are you hurt?”

  “No, no, Edgar,” I managed to say. “I’m fine.” I picked up a few large pieces of broken ceramic and dragged myself toward the door.

  He banged again. “Lindsey, my dear, excuse us for interrupting while you’re entertaining, but I promise to take only a short moment of your time.”

  I pulled open the door.

  “Is everything all right? I heard shouting, and frankly, my dear, you don’t look well at all.”

  “Just dropped my cup.” I held out a jagged piece of ceramic.

  “Where are your guests?” Edgar asked, peering into the apartment. He was slight enough to slip through the narrow space I had mistakenly left between myself and the door. “Do you mind if we come in?” he asked. By the time the question was completed, he and Mirepoix were in the living room. “I thought I heard shouting.”

  I pushed my hair from my forehead and swallowed. “Must’ve been the TV.”

  He glanced at the dark and blank face of the mute television and nodded. “I see.”

  Mirepoix ran joyful circles around my feet, then stopped and began to lick my ankles. I stepped away. “And I really would rather that Mirepoix not—”

  “Oh, not to worry, my dear.” He looked around and nodded his head. “Mirepoix won’t bother a thing in this lovely room. Why, Lindsey,” he gushed, “I had no idea you had such talent—very tasteful, very tasteful indeed! My, I just adore that dining room table—it must be a very valuable antique. I can tell by—”

  “Edgar, actually, I’m not feeling that well—headache.” I touched my forehead. “Is there something I can do for you? I was on my way to go lie down.”

  He picked up some slivers of mug. “Let me help you.” He handed me the pieces.

  “Thank you.” I swallowed hard. “I, ah, I was just cleaning it up.” I turned toward the kitchen, and he trotted behind me. So did his dog. “Before I went to bed.”

  He stopped when we reached the dining area. “Marvelous, just marvelous.” He lovingly ran his hand over the tabletop, then he turned to me. “It’s the street people again, my dear. This morning, as Mirepoix and I left for our early morning constitutional, we saw the most pitiful sight: a very seedy, and very malodorous, man asleep in our vestibule! I took it upon myself to wake him—it was the only way to insure he vacate the premises.” He fluttered his bony fingers. “And, oh, oh, my dear—it was a deplorable task. He was so distressing—so rank and grimy—I could only bring myself to touch his shoulder with my foot. Oh—” he shuddered “—it was foul—and most disturbing.”

  I took some paper towels and brought them into the living room. “Please, Edgar, please could you get to the point?”

  He looked hurt. “I am, my dear, I am. So, as if casting a gloom upon our favorite walk were not bad enough—early morning is such a lovely time on the Esplanade, isn’t it, Mirepoix?” he cooed, bending down and stroking his dog. “When we returned, the pathetic creature was still in our vestibule!” He stopped for a breath and looked at me, clearly expecting some expression of distaste, or at least, consolation. Receiving none, he continued. “Upon seeing us, he slunk away.”

  I sighed as I soaked up the coffee and put the smaller slivers into the paper towel. “Edgar, don’t you think a little sympathy for the poor man would be appropriate?”

  “Oh,” he said seriously, “don’t misunderstand me, my dear. I am most sympathetic to the plight of the homeless. I am a regular contributor to the Five Ninety fund.”

  “That’s very commendable.” I walked back into the kitchen and threw the mess away. I was like a robot, carrying out tasks I was programmed to do without thought or feeling or intelligence.

  “I wish to help them find work and shelter, and wholeheartedly support efforts to aid in removing them from their desperate situation. But I also wish to remove them from our vestibule!”

  “Edgar,” I said, gripping the edge of the counter, desperation in my voice. “I really must go lie down.” I had to get him to leave. Leave, leave, my mind silently screamed, just leave!

  “And just this moment, as I was on my way to work, I walked through the vestibule and I could still smell him! The reek of his unwashed body remained! We must, I repeat must, end these unwelcome visitations to our home!” His eye was caught by the carving on the leg of the dining room table. “This isn’t an antique, is it?” He crouched down to inspect its structure. “Why, I daresay, it’s brand-new!”

  “Fine, Edgar, fine—you discovered my secret,” I just about screamed. “You may now tell the world of my devious deception.” I dragged myself to the door. “Look, I’m sorry to be rude, but I really am sick.” I pulled it open.

&
nbsp; “The reason I came to talk to you,” Edgar said, still squatting under the table, his back turned toward me, “is that I want to set up an emergency condo meeting.”

  “Fine, fine. Whatever you want is fine with me.” My hands gripped the doorknob; it was all I could do to keep from running over and wrapping my fingers around his thin white neck. If he didn’t leave soon, I didn’t know what I would do: I couldn’t be responsible for my actions. I had to get him out before I killed him.

  “This really is remarkable—I’ve never seen anything like it before! Where in heaven did you—”

  Suddenly Mirepoix, who had been sniffing and wheezing around the back of the armoire, leapt into the air. She yelped as if she had been slapped or burned or, perhaps, as if she had seen a ghost. The dog raced across the room and jumped into her master’s arms. She cringed and whimpered like a tiny puppy.

  “Why, why, Mirepoix!” Edgar stood up. “What’s wrong with my girl? What’s upset you so?” The dog huddled more closely into Edgar’s arms, growling at the armoire between whimpers.

  “She …” I swallowed hard. “She must want to go home.”

  “Yes, yes, my dear, I daresay you are right.” He carried the cowering animal to the door. “This is very strange; she’s never done anything like this before.”

  Speechless, I watched them. Edgar noticed nothing but Mirepoix. I bit down on my lip.

  “Yes, yes, but what to do? What to do? I was going to take her to work with me, but now—you are right, my dear—now she really must remain at home.” He looked down at the terrified dog. “Mirepoix, Mirepoix, Mirepoix.”

  I held the door open wider. They walked past me to the landing.

  “Mirepoix, my Mirepoix, I have meetings all afternoon,” Edgar murmured, patting her neck and starting down the stairs. “I won’t be able to look after dear little Mirepoix. Oh, this is a problem. This is a problem. My Mirepoix shouldn’t be left home alone, but I’m late, I’m late.”

  I shut the door and leaned my cheek against the mahogany panel. My head was pounding, and the sunlight, which had seemed so warm and comforting when I first got up, was now like hot pokers of pain in my eyes. Holy shit. Holy shit. I began to laugh. This wasn’t TLE. This really was ghosts.