The Delphi Room

by The Delphi Room (v5. 0) (epub)

  V: Say nothing of leaving. Don’t mention it again.

  Voices still buzzed in my room, low and hazy, like flies drunk on summer. No one reading literature, though. I rolled half out from under the bed, as if maybe it was the dust ruffle that separated me from Crime and Punishment. Nothing. Wriggled right out into the open, awaited the aural Dostoevsky bullet. Words ordinary filled the room: good weather, traffic, coffee, lunch. None meshed and contorted to form a Russian’s literary zenith. An odd flare lit my stomach, sent tingles of tightness into my chest. Inventory: glad, mad, sad? No: jealous. Because my neighbour in The Delphi Room, or who-knows-where, gets to listen to a literary classic and I don’t. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Until: a voice clear and strong filled the room.

  Dr. Bell to Cardiology, please, Dr. Bell to Cardiology.

  I made no abrupt movement of surprise. Rather the floor seemed to give way, taking several of my internal organs with it. I lay very still, the moment that held the voice running up ahead of me, my mind with its two left feet staggering to catch up.

  And then—

  Velvet. Velvet, come back to me.

  My mother. My mother. My mother. My mother. My mother. My mother.

  Now I sat up. I could see the knife, slicing three words into the skin of my mind:

  WE’RE NOT DEAD

  V: We’re not dead!!!

  B: What?

  V: I just heard my mother’s voice as clear as if she was standing in my room. And she is—my hospital room! Right before she spoke I heard someone paging a Dr. Bell to Cardiology. We’re alive! We’re not trapped in Hell—we’re trapped in a coma!

  B: Are you sure? Hallucination?

  V: We’re alive!!! I’m not hallucinating. I know my mother’s voice. She was calling me back to her—loud and clear. And the doctor. Why would I hallucinate a doctor being paged? All of the voices and sounds we’ve heard—hospital noise. Crime and Punishment is not a precursor to Hellfire—someone is reading to you at your bedside. We will see each other after all—we just have to wake up! When I do, I’ll take the train. I’ll come to Toronto and find you. We’re only trapped in our minds.

  B: If we are trapped in our minds, then how is it that we can write to each other?

  V: The body is a trap—but I guess the spirit can travel. Just like Clara can time travel.

  B: How do we wake up? We’ve thrown ourselves against walls, screamed, cried. What next?

  V: I don’t know. Hold on—I’m going to try the door again.

  An unrecorded feat of record-breaking speed—out from under the bed to the door, my heart gorging on blood. Then—a scene from the past unfolded again: me yanking on the doorknob, twisting the skin on my hands in all directions, sliding down the door still clutching the knob, the bilious taste of disappointment stinging my tongue.

  V: Door’s still locked. But if we’re trapped in our minds then it stands to reason that we can think our way out of this! Since we exist in a state of timelessness (read: coma) then the past, present and future are one. The future already exists, has already passed—we’re already free! We must believe this, and it’ll happen.

  B: Our thoughts are that powerful?

  V: Yes—all thought must manifest somewhere, right? Thoughts are nonperishable items, like canned foods or Kraft Dinner.

  B: I dislike Kraft Dinner.

  V: Fuck, you’re missing the point.

  B: Sorry.

  V: We have to focus!

  B: I am trying, but the exquisite colours at my window are distracting me.

  V: Forget about the damn rainbow for a minute. We’ve got to think our way out of here.

  B: If you are correct, then we’re in Hell because we believed it was so? If thoughts are things, dreams—and nightmares—can be realities. How do we keep our thought-forms from eating us? The creation kills the artist?

  V: Yes, we are in a Hell—of sorts. Which can exist anywhere. But the fiery Hell we were afraid of must simply be a garbage dump of imaginings. So we’re bound only by a coma—not by any red-deviled daydreams. There must be a way we can untwist our wires.

  B: The colours outside my window are more dazzling than ever. They pulse and vibrate—they are living, breathing hearts—sublime, shimmering wings. We don’t speak a language that could ever express what I see. Something is happening to me—a spiral tube has appeared, a tube with many twisting offshoots, superimposed over the colours like a strange, diaphanous flower. All voices are gone.

  V: If you concentrate maybe you can erase all that. We can think ourselves free!

  B: Impossible to erase it. And I don’t want to. I can’t turn away.

  V: What are you saying?

  B: I have no power to decide my fate.

  V: Please don’t go. Return to Toronto. Let me find you!

  B: I am not going back to my old life. So this is what it feels like to die. Happy.

  V: I want to die too. But for a different reason than before.

  V: Brinkley?

  V: Brinkley—answer me!

  Hand to the grate, felt for a poke of paper. A blast of cold air, real or imagined, ordered up a side of goosebumps. Into the light, faced my mirror. There I hung. And then disappeared, leaving the closet reflected behind me. My changed appearance had been shocking, should, I thought, still be. But it wasn’t. Breastless, hairless, with little fat, except around strangely chubby wrists and ankles, no biceps. Aqua crystal eyes. And shorter, I was sure of it. An alien child.

  Me. I see me.

  My heart, my eyes—both lived in the room next door. Outside my window—no sign of Brinkley’s rainbow.

  To the desk, the legal pad—one page left. There remained some torn-up pieces of paper under the bed, but that was all. I stared at that last page, eye to a gun barrel, waiting for the trigger pull.

  If someone is in the next room, but they stop writing notes to you, do they still exist? Do you?

  A chorus of angels spoke their harmonies ever louder: Velvet, open your eyes (my mother), Good morning, how are you today? And how are you, Velvet? (a male voice), Isn’t the sunshine gorgeous? (a female voice). There was no static, only clear bell tones. A turned-up radio dial: the volume surged to the level of reverberating eardrums. I thought of what my neighbour had written: all the voices in his room were gone. I wished for silence, the quiet that might mean a chaise lounge in the Elysian Fields next to Brinkley.

  V: Please answer me! What’s happening?

  B: My mother is gone. She smiled, like I have never seen her smile, and then she disappeared. Sensation beneath my bellybutton growing stronger—someone peeling an apple inside me. Apple in my centre turning faster and faster—unloosing its peel in a tingling spiral.

  V: Pointless to plead but—Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go! I don’t want to be alone here. And I want to meet you! You know everything about me. Put your hand against the grate and I’ll put mine there too.

  B: And you know everything about me. Did you feel my hand? I felt yours—my fingers started to tingle. Now both hands are electric. And my scalp feels as though it’s sprouting wires. Light is dimming inside. Outside the window—it glows on.

  V: Let’s sing a song.

  B: We can’t hear each other.

  V: Doesn’t matter. I’ll know you’re singing.

  B: What shall we sing?

  V: How about “Moon River”?

  B: Perfect. Now?

  V: Yes.

  INT. VELVET’S DELPHI ROOM—

  TIMELESS

  Velvet stands in front of her mirror singing “Moon River.”

  INT. BRINKLEY’S DELPHI ROOM—

  TIMELESS

  Brinkley stands in front of his mirror singing “Moon River.”

  V: I think I felt your hand on the grate. There’s a warm spot on my palm.

  B: Mirror is rippling, a pool, a wishing well. Circles within circles—on and on. I am wishing for your face. Writing this by the glow of
the colours outside. Light inside gone. Struck by absence of terror. Calm and clear. Tingling and hot everywhere. Spinning pulse in my centre.

  V: Hold my hand in your mind as you go.

  B: Velvet—I am leaving. Can scarcely hold pen. Window and bars gone—entering tube. I’ll be seeing you . . .

  V: Brinkley?

  V: Brinkley?

  V: Brinkley?

  Hands and mouth pressed to the grate—a creature’s night-cry. Mouth-mash, bloody lips. Frayed my throat with banshee cries, coughed blood. Eyes salted and burned, lungs wrung. Rocked, rocked, rocked—a madwoman’s comfort. Rolled onto my side, in a baby’s curl, dulled and stilled. After a while, the body can’t keep up with the shriek of the heart.

  Out into the bright-as-ever light in my room and over to my desk, pen in hand. Took out the legal pad-with-one-page-left. Sat down and started to write.

  Dear Brinkley,

  This is the last piece of paper in my room, and when I have filled it with words, I don’t know what I will do. I suppose I could write on the walls, but with no one to read my story, I’m not much inclined. My pen moves so slowly now, because I’m afraid of what will happen—or not happen—when I stop writing. It is nothingness we fear, isn’t it? But in this place of nothing—here you were. Life finds its way into the oddest corners.

  What can I say? You were the best next-door coma neighbour a gal could have. So unexpected are life’s shapes, colours and textures, twists and turns, magic tricks and sleights of hand—even to me, a haunted girl of broken faith, a girl who stood in a bathroom and threw up her hands.

  I can’t die yet, Brinkley. I haven’t been given colours, my window hasn’t been opened. Maybe those who take themselves out of the game with a belt and a bad makeover feel compelled to return to square one. I don’t think I want to die yet, even though I want badly to meet you. If I am given the choice to go back, back into the life I kept messing up—I think I’ll take another crack at it. A lot of it sucked, true. But since you had the courage to face down the Shadowman, I think I want to try. I want to do what you did—punch him hard in the face.

  Thanks for being my friend. You’re right: we are different from most people. But having met you, and knowing that you see what I see, and I see what you see . . . well, you make me feel braver. Brave enough to try life again, if I’m given the chance.

  I will carry you with me, Brinkley, if I go back. While I’m busy writing my novella, serving curries and reorganizing my closet, I’ll be dreaming of meeting up with you after I’m done with this life, in a Heavenly swimming pool worthy of our favourite movie stars, floating mattress and margarita included.

  So the guy I love went off into the sunset, just like in the movies.

  Sincerely, Velvet

  At the grate, I pressed my mouth to the letter for a long time. Watching it disappear into the wall, my heart squeezed and released, an opening flower. There. It was done.

  I stayed and stared and stared, even though I knew no note was coming.

  When I began to wonder why it was so dark, I realized I had my eyes closed. On opening them I saw the underside of the bed—I was lying on my back, arms and legs spread mid-snow angel, with no immediate recollection of how I got there. My limbs were awkwardly attached dead weights: turning over was like hauling coils of rope. No letter from Brinkley. Pressed my hands to my eyes and rolled into the light.

  I wondered if Brinkley would get a Children of Divorce mouse pad in Heaven. I decided that he would.

  The room was as changeless as ever, undisturbed by emotion or need: bed, desk, chair, closet, Chinese screen, door, mirror—all constant and faceless as the moon. White, too, was a constant beyond the window, white and more white, full of pain caused by the absence of celestial bodies burning in their own dust, reminding you of home.

  My hanging self was gone from the mirror. There stood my alien, baby-headed self, beseeching my oracle with the eyes of a Dickensian street urchin from Mars. How many times in all my life had I stood before a mirror in supplication, hoping that the sage I thought possibly lived behind my eyes would spell an answer on my forehead?

  INT. MIRROR—VELVET’S DELPHI ROOM—

  VELVET’S APARTMENT—BATHROOM—TIMELESS

  Velvet stands in her bathroom, face to the mirror. The glass reflects her faithfully: red dress, hacked-off hair, painted face—a weird, drag queen majesty. Her eyes, though fixed on her image, see nothing; or rather they have gone away and see only something hidden, a hermetic reverie. Her movements are slow and floaty, as through water, leaving a wake of chiffon. When she ties a long belt around her neck, it gives her a hapless, S&M look: the woman who spent too much time dressing wrongly for the fetish party.

  A boldness now, an ascension: up onto the toilet, fastening the belt to the pipes. Eyes starward, a breath in and out. Step off!

  Her feet in their cunning heels appear pointed—ballerina toes—and this, combined with the slight swaying of her hanging body, gives a quaint lyrical effect. The Shadowman, handsome in black cashmere, enters. He unties the belt from Velvet’s throat, cradles her in his arms and places her on the floor. He stands up, looks straight ahead. His image flashes from the handsome man in black cashmere to the Zorro look-alike, the Gene Kelly look-alike, the white-faced devil and a drag queen. The drag queen shrugs, and walks out of frame.

  Velvet opens her eyes. She does not seem surprised that she is lying on the floor; rather she sits up and looks around, placid as a Buddha, as though this were the natural course of events.

  As she stands she smoothes her dress, shakes free the wrinkles.

  INT. VELVET’S DELPHI ROOM—CONTINUOUS

  I stand before my mirror watching my image, the image of my memories, stand in her bathroom, and wait to see what she will do next. She only stares back at me, eyes wide. I step closer—so does she. I stop, heart pounding out its blood-riddle. I raise a hand—so does she. I lower it—so does she. My eyes shift from the mirror to my own body. And then I see—I am my familiar. My red dress hugs my hips; my feet are squeezed in fancy shoes. My gaze darts back to the mirror. There I remain, though the bathroom is gone and The Delphi Room is reflected faithfully. I lift my hands to my hair, my messy Louise Brooks bob. It is soft. Touch my mouth, the red mouth I took so much trouble over. I step to the mirror, raise my hand. Touch, palm to palm. And smile, for here I am: a woman, not too tall, with a rounded, dimpled body and bright eyes. Behind me, in the closet, hangs the pink dress, my temporary Delphi Room costume.

  I turn from the mirror. The door to my room stands ajar. My insides backflip.

  I touch the bed.

  I touch the desk.

  I touch the chair.

  I touch the Chinese screen.

  I touch the pink dress.

  I touch the window.

  I touch the mirror.

  I hug Paddington Bear.

  I straighten my spine.

  I breathe in and out.

  I open the door—

  The heart does not stop.

  Acknowledgements

  The genesis of The Delphi Room and its journey into the world owe a great debt of gratitude to many.

  I am awed and humbled by the work of the passionate souls at ChiZine Publications: A resounding thank you to the brilliant and courageous Brett Savory and Sandra Kasturi; to my sublime editor Samantha Beiko for her outstanding guidance and generous, effervescent spirit; and to Erik Mohr, for creating book cover perfection. Huge thanks also to Danny Evarts and Klaudia Bednarczyk.

  Deep gratitude to Caroline Adderson, whose early encouragement and guidance were, and are, cherished gifts.

  To Nancy Richler, whose keen eye and immensely kind shepherding made all the difference, I offer a heartfelt merci.

  Warm thanks to Annabel Lyon for valuable insight into an early draft.

  To Betsy Warland, for her tremendous kindness, I offer my appreciation.

 
A grateful salute to Ron Eckel and Suzanne Brandreth at The Cooke Agency International.

  Much hat tipping to Cathie Borrie for solace at the W and more.

  A loving wink to Karen Schlote for constant “laotong” inspiration.

  Immense love to family and friends for unwavering faith, grace and generosity expressed in myriad ways.

  And to The Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University, I extend my gratitude for formative support.

  About the Author

  Melia McClure was born in Vancouver. Her fiction has been shortlisted in the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation National Literary Awards. She is also the editor of Meditation & Health magazine.