The 8th Sky_A Psychological Novel With An Unforgettable Twist

by Leigh Lyn

  “Is that how they put it, second thoughts?” Yuxi scoffed.

  “It’s what Frances said. Anyway, Ben said he needs to deal with things, so I’m not expecting him to call soon. I’ll let you know if he does.”

  I got up to let the woman next to me out to gather her bags.

  “There is one more thing.” Yuxi hesitated. “They said on the news that there was a fire on the night of the opening. An apartment a few blocks from the gallery burnt down, and they found the charred body of a man in the ashes.”

  “A fire?” I sat down. “So, what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t imagine.” I closed my eyes and shook the idea out of my head. “Ben is probably spending quality time with what’s-her-face. He’ll show up. I shouldn’t think there’s any reason to worry.”

  After exchanging a few pleasantries, I said goodbye to Yuxi. I didn’t want to talk or think about Ben, where he might be and what he was doing, who he was with, or whether he missed me.

  PART FOUR

  Chongqing

  Chapter 39

  On the Express back into town, I gazed out of the window at how the wooden posts carrying the cables chopped the view up. Like a movie played frame by frame, it cast everything in a different perspective, suggesting each contained an angle worthy of further contemplation.

  Frieda’s matronly face appeared on my cell. Skipping greetings, she asked fresh as a spring chicken, “Guess what?”

  “What?” I replied, as upbeat as I could.

  “Do you remember Li Ming?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Don’t you remember your grandmother’s firstborn?” she asked.

  Annoyed, I replied, “If you’re talking about my uncle who died at birth over ninety years ago, then no.”

  “Anyway, guess what?”

  “Spill it, for Christ’s sake.” I snapped. The fatigue was coming through.

  “We checked hospital and government records for births and deaths during that year in the whole of Hong Kong.”

  “And?”

  “And they are alive.”

  “They are alive?! You mean my grandmother was mistaken about the number and death of her babies? How is that possible?”

  “Well, she is,” Frieda said. “Based on your grandparents’ names, the hospital had records for the birth of twins.”

  “Twins?!”

  “I counterchecked twice.”

  “Twins are our family thing, I suppose. Our family tree is full of them—”

  “That’s not all,” Frieda said. “On the government registry they were registered as Li Meng and Li Ming, both female. Three years later, one of them died and, listen to this, at the same time as the death certificate was registered, they told the registrar a mistake was made in Li Ming’s gender, which was subsequently changed to male.”

  “Or maybe the registrar ticked the wrong box for gender and was tardy registering his death?”

  “We have a better theory. Listen to this.” Frieda paused. “Your Uncle Hua was called Flower because they want to deceive the gods, right? Maybe they did the same thing with your Uncle Ming: to deceive the gods and hide the baby boy from them, they said there were girl-twins.” Frieda took a deep breath. “And, when the boy got sick, they offered the girl to the gods to please them so that the boy may live.”

  “Come again?”

  Were my grandparents capable of something as diabolical as that? I knew it was done, but was I the direct offspring of folks who would discard their daughters because someone persuasive named Confucius pulled a bad prank on Chinese women in the name of virtue and the superior male line of descent?

  “This is the way things ought to be,” my aunts’ voices said in my head, while Jesus rolled his soulful eyes from his gold-plated cross on the wall of our living room in Holland.

  “You still there, Lin?” Frieda’s voice pierced through the babble spilling over my brain.

  “Huh? Yes. How does any of this madness make sense, Frieda?” I asked.

  “Trust me, darling, old hospital records don’t have any reason to lie. We uncovered your little family secret alright.”

  “My little family secret? What are you saying?”

  “Oh, you better hear it from the lion’s mouth.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dr. Wen, of course.” Frieda laughed.

  “Frieda, I’m not in the mood right now.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Frieda’s tone changed.

  I told Frieda what happened in the last few days.

  “Do you remember the incident?” Frieda asked.

  “What incident?” A chill went down my spine.

  “I thought you knew.” Frieda sounded surprised.

  “Knew what?” I frowned.

  “Don’t you remember going on about seeing apparitions during that session with Dr. Liu? When you were hypnotized?”

  It must have been on the last session I failed to copy. “I don’t recall at all!” I exclaimed. “Come to think of it, how do you know about it?”

  “Dr. Wen asked me to do the transcript of all patients’ sessions and translate them into Chinese.”

  So that was why my personal folder was open on the computer screen in the little side room.

  “Why is he having it translated into Chinese?”

  “He’s retiring, remember?”

  “I see. Well, Dr. Wen played a tape of a hypnosis session once, but I don’t think it mentioned any incident.”

  “Did you listen to all of it?”

  “I’m not sure.” I sighed.

  “Why don’t I make an appointment for you to see Dr. Wen?” Frieda asked. “I’ll call you back.”

  “Wait, Frieda. Tell Mrs. Wen I’ve changed the design of their house in Saikung.”

  A busy-tone indicated Frieda had already hung up.

  So it was that, after a day or two, I found myself on Dr. Wen’s couch, staring at the white halo created by his hair and the light behind him.

  “Last time we ended the session with you saying you experienced flashbacks,” he said. “Which of them would you like to discuss first?”

  Could I? Without it opening a floodgate of catharsis?

  “A few were from my childhood, which made me feel good. Writing them down helps me come to grips with them in a new way.”

  “Does the writing change your view on the past?”

  “Bits are the same; bits make me realize things I never thought of. Sometimes I feel like I’m reliving the past, but afresh.”

  “You are seeing it through older eyes and experiencing it with a different mindset. That changes the nature of the memory,” Dr. Wen said. “Give me an example.”

  I nodded. “Somewhere along the line, my mood changed from bright to dark, flipping like a coin, and I can’t figure out why or what happened.”

  “When?”

  Dr. Wen’s face was inscrutable as he flicked through his previous notes.

  “When I was twelve, thirteen. Would you be able to tell me more? I mean, it’s not just a hormonal thing that teenagers go through?” I watched Dr. Wen’s face as I twisted the knife. “Is it, Dr. Wen?”

  He uncrossed his legs as he looked me straight in the eyes.

  “I am sensing hostility here. Perhaps we should talk about what is happening here, between you and me?” he said.

  Darn right, there was. “It’s just that I remember what you told me about honesty, Dr. Wen. I like it to be reciprocal.”

  “I’ll try. Continue.” Dr. Wen nodded.

  “I had a series of rather shocking flashbacks. It appears to be something I’d talked about in an earlier session.”

  Dr. Wen’s eyes pierced mine. “Oh, I see where you’re going. About that; I have a confession to make.”

  Now he made a confession?

  “Your mother came to see me.”

  “Niang?” I jolted upright. “What for?”

  “She made an appointment for herself. I didn’
t realize she was your mother since Lee is a common surname. She told me that several of her relatives suffered from stress and that it runs in the family. Then she said one of her children was emotionally volatile and imaginative ever since she was a baby.”

  “I was not!” Something in my chest snapped. “What else did she say?”

  “She said the child was grown up by now and seeing a shrink who was digging for things that are not there. She was this close—” Dr. Wen pinched his thumb and index finger together “—to suggesting he was planting false memories. I said this is damn hard to prove either way and, since I shouldn’t comment on the treatment of another psychiatrist, I suggested she talk to the child and consider seeking another therapist’s opinion as an extra option, or that they look into steering the treatment to a safer route. In this case, medication. Only toward the end of the session did she mention your name, at which point I told her it would be a serious violation of doctor patient confidentiality for me to talk to her about you.”

  “When was this? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “A year ago.” Dr. Wen said. “She said she didn’t realize either but, since she’s my patient too, she wanted me to keep the incidence confidential. Between me and her. I have to say I felt terrible.”

  “I had no idea. What happens to patients in whom memories are planted?”

  “I will be frank. It is like adding salt to soup. It goes everywhere. You can’t extract or undo it.”

  “Did my mother suggest you switch from therapy to medication before or after these memories came up?”

  Dr. Wen shook his head. “I refused to discuss that with her.”

  He got up and walked toward the window. “Like I said, it’s hard to prove either way. The best thing was to let it rest rather than to linger on it. Whatever comes back does so because the seed of the memory is deeply rooted and not because we dig for it so hard the mind begins to fabricate it.”

  “That’s why you were against me writing my memoirs?”

  He nodded.

  Given the fact that this man had cured and released me, he deserved both credit and the benefit of the doubt.

  “The act of seeking them out and going over them can change memories because, while one remembers, one relives the past. New feelings from the current perspective and mindset with which one views the memory in the present add another layer to the memory itself, changing it. Tracking back what happened through one’s memories is tricky.”

  “That’s why I have to keep taking the meds.”

  “Yes, but Lin, trust me that your interests as my patient are most important to me.”

  “I have no doubts, Dr. Wen. But if Mother has a reason to stop me from finding out about the past, this would be a good excuse.”

  “Yes, but why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know, but has it ever occurred to any of you I’m suffocated by all this? Please don’t help her dig a hole and bury me in it!”

  “Lin, the number of people in this world who are truly benign without ulterior motives are few and far between. Having said that, I do believe your mother loves you in her own way.”

  “Is this how you protect my interests?”

  I stared at him as I confronted him, but he was as elusive as mist.

  “To bet she was wrong and act upon it may damage you just as much. I stand by my decision to leave it alone.”

  What happened to saving the snowflake, Dr. Wen? I wanted to ask, but instead I told him I wanted to be taken off the meds.

  “I know you do.” Dr. Wen nodded. “But I think it’s a gross mistake. You must understand that—unlike popular belief—medication is never the cause of psychosis; it’s always something else.”

  “I am better now. I want those flashbacks to come back.”

  “I tell you what.” Dr. Wen cut me short. “I’ll reduce the dosage if you promise to take them. We’ll monitor it and reduce it gradually.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  He came back from the window to sit in his armchair. “You may want to sit down with your mother and talk about it.”

  “I will.”

  Dr. Wen gestured me to the couch. Something was on his mind. “I sense we have trust issues. One way to remedy that is for us both to be completely candid from now on.”

  “Sure, if that’s the way you like it.”

  Dr. Wen leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. I could tell something was bothering him.

  “In decades of treating patients, I have discovered a pattern. The more disoriented a patient is, the more he or she hungers for a sense of authenticity, and a bigger autonomy than reality can give them. Their imaginary world may not be real, but they are always authentic and sincere about their delusions, whereas you not only doubt yourself but reality and everyone around you.”

  “I’m one of your more disoriented patients?”

  “Let me finish.” He raised his hand. “You are exceptional in that you have this undying urge to autonomy, but for some reason, the authenticity is lacking.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, I feel you’re holding back and what you are presenting is only part of the truth.”

  “I would say it’s not because I’m not authentic but—”

  Dr. Wen raised his hand. “Hear me out, please. I’ve wondered if you have Munchhausen; that’s when patients imagine they have disorders.”

  “I know what Munchhausen is. So you’re suggesting I’m faking it?”

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Wen said. “I’ve had a little notion from what you told me before. You said you’d like to extract the fantastical out of your life and put it on paper instead. As a writer, you’re used to creating fictitious characters and transcending beyond what is autobiographical and authentic. You create what is regarded in literary circles as the lie that reveals a higher truth, which reality obscures.” He stopped to look at me with raised brows.

  I shrugged. “So?”

  “So, I figure this is how your need for authenticity is neutralized.”

  Dr. Wen was looking rather pleased with himself but, apart from the fact that he considered me as one of his more disoriented patients, I was missing his point.

  “Are you saying a disturbed person pursues authenticity, but a disturbed novelist doesn’t because the desire is neutralized by his need to transcend a dawdled reality and invent one which unfolds it?”

  Dr. Wen tilted his head to one side, his fuzzy white hair swaying to the motion. “No, I’m saying you may have fallen into one of the dangers of solitary reflection: you perceive this narrative of your own making as more real than the world, which is out there. I suspect you’re fictionalizing your life by aggravating your illness, and you are keeping a foot in both worlds for a reason you’re not aware of.”

  He was saying I was faking it subconsciously.

  “Where is this going, Doc?”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of; even scientists fall into the trap of believing that the reification of a scientifically constructed object as more real than actual objects because of the uncritical scientific imagination they’ve adopted.”

  “I’ve no idea what point you’re making.”

  “In the past, your love for your twin daughters had kept you grounded in reality. What I didn’t understand was why you insisted on keeping a foot in the other world if I was ready to declare you cured. Especially when you trivialized any insight your psychiatrist, I, had in the process.”

  What convoluted garb was this?

  “It could be I’m overcompensating for my presumed madness because I’m afraid of being sent back to the asylum. Maybe I’m second guessing what behavior would pass the tests you subject me to, Doc.”

  “Possibly, but I don’t believe it.”

  “What do you believe then?”

  To hide my irritation, I folded my hands, resting them in my lap, but my voice had gained an edge I couldn’t control.

  “Honestly?” Dr. Wen asked. “I think only your initial bout
of psychosis is unadulterated, and everything that came afterward was willed to happen by your subconscious: your cure, the neurosis, the paranoia, the hallucinations, everything.”

  I bolted up. “That’s absurd! That asylum was a living hell; why would I risk being sent back?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe on a subconscious level you hope that being in this erratic mental state can inspire you to write a book from an authentic yet dissociated perspective by living it out for real.”

  “What?!”

  “You identify yourself with this fictional personality you created for the sake of your story. You go so far as to skip your medication and bringing on an extreme level of anxiety by walking the fine line between integrating this alien personality into your own being, just so you can write about the experience more truly. At the same time, you experience repulsion when you are more successful at immersing in it than your true self would be comfortable with.”

  “Goodness.” I was lost for words. “I’m trying to be openminded about this—” I swallowed the words cock-up. “Otherwise, you’ll think I’m ignoring your insights. So, you’re saying everything springs from my imagination. And it’s my subconscious that is living my life to match my fiction?”

  “It is not as crazy as it sounds, and you may not be aware you are doing it. In the seventies, whole colonies of artists were treading in Dali’s footsteps, believing that only madness can set the true artist free. What are you feeling now?”

  “I’m thinking how little you know about me after all this time.”

  “So, this idea never occurred to you?”

  “No, Doc. My memoir is about my life; it’s not fiction I make up. Anyway, how could my subconscious orchestrate something that the conscious me hated? My subconscious wish to be mad couldn’t possibly override the conscious me. I would rather die than go back to the asylum. After all I’d done to get out and stay out, I would be crazy to will my way back in.”

  Dr. Wen was observing me with a gleam in his eyes. I read an article in a magazine once which said that every psychologist dreamt about his or her own career crowning case. Was I Dr. Wen’s?