Pandora comforts herself that they are all here to heal the girl in spirit form, and from there, in physical form. This is how it must work, she knows—correct the disturbances in the energetic fields first and the physical form can repair itself over time. Or all at once; it’s not unheard of. The body is a projection of the spirit, not the reverse, as most people imagine. The spirit holds memory of eons of suffering it can neither abide nor release. So they will help her release it. Whether Pandora found this place on her own or was lead here by someone or something doesn’t matter. Now that she’s here, she will do her job.
The two remaining nuns, or druids, whatever they are—is this ancient Ireland?—block her view of the child. When she moves closer, they step aside, and the child turns toward Pandora. Pandora gasps, “Uhhh!” Her hands fly to her mouth.
The child’s skin is a deliciously rich crème du cocoa hue. Her eyelids flicker in the blinking light, but they are unmistakably familiar. This is no Sydney who lies near death on the stone floor of a medieval abbey surrounded by nuns. This is Elysha. This is Elysha, and one of the women is Pandora. She is looking at herself and her daughter. Their history is long and it appears, tragically repetitive. This is not the first time her daughter has died on her watch. Pandora is sickened by this knowledge. Who brought her here? Who?
Raising her head at the level of the diamond pane window on the opposite wall, she glimpses the unmistakable violet of Anjah’s halo alight in the distant night sky. She raises her fist at him, You! she signals. You! And he disappears.
The next thing Pandora knows, she is deep within the moist carapace of her restless flesh and blood, squirming awake in her Tahoe cottage, stretching her long limbs against the length of the couch, fighting awareness. The dawn bleeds blood orange through the dip in the eastern peaks, and Guru’s scratchy tongue licks cherry ice cream from the sticky fingers of her right hand. “Yuck,” she whispers, retracting her fingers. “Scat!”
Slowly, she pushes herself to a sitting position, trying to recall the night. Was she hallucinating? She’s going to have to pull back on the ganja, not that she wants to. She cocks her head, staring into the embers, reaching for the vision, so faded. But what was it? Or who? Was it Sydney? Was Pandora too late? Her head pounds. She can’t remember it exactly. It’s a blur. But whatever it was, wasn’t good. Her entire body registers the residue of shock and pain, blocking the details.
Eventually, she rises and treads softly across the wide-paneled pine, staring down at her feet, thinking hard. Recalling. Or trying to recall. On her way to the kitchen to make coffee, she stops, pivots in the other direction, hesitates, and heads for the easel. Perhaps…to solve the puzzle…but no. Why now? Why now after twenty years? Must she start painting again to end this mystery? She stands before the covered canvas, hands on hips. Studies it with her muddled brain, reaches for the stained linen, feeling its viscous fabric, dusty and deteriorating. In a single motion she whips it from the canvas.
Oh God, she thinks. Oh no! What’s happened here? Her strength crumbles. She drops to her knees.
Hannah
Yawning, Hannah kicks off her puffball of a comforter and slides back against the stack of pillows, staring through the windows into the frozen Connecticut dawn. She feels as if she’s been away from the farm for months, even though it’s only been three weeks. It’s still February; how is that possible? Based on her restlessness, it could easily be summer or at least spring. On top of that, her head is pounding and she tries like hell to shake off the remnants of the weirdest dream ever. Get out of my head! Although when you think about it, a weird dream might be good for her novel. The weirder the better, actually.
She reaches across the bed for her laptop and furiously types what little she can remember. The child is sick, but they are trying to heal her. She cocks her head. The child is sick? Maybe not so weird then, since Syd actually is sick. Dreams famously reconstitute psycho-grizzlies into bite-size gummy bears (or the reverse), so there you go. But the child in the dream wasn’t Syd, she’s pretty sure. Or was it? Huh. She can’t remember. Anyway, the surroundings were old and decrepit and nothing at all like the chateau or really, anywhere in Connecticut at all. Maybe somewhere on the New England coast, though. It did smell pretty salty. Strange that she remembers the distinct smell of salt water in her dream, but so little else. Can you really smell in a dream? Oh, for God’s sake, who cares? She drops her laptop on the mattress and yawns again. She doesn’t want to get lost in a weird dream right now. It’s not as if the life unfolding all around her isn’t weird enough. It is.
In spite of all the household distractions, Hannah has moments when her head swims with nothing but story structure and lyrical language. Nothing polished, but still…something. Not nothing. Even though nothing is exactly what you would expect with all the nihilistic drudgery surrounding her. No other way to say it, really. The ten ton emptiness of it all. She hasn’t even had a drink since Aaron left, just because. Well not just because. She promised herself she’d stay clear-headed for Syd, that’s why. And by God, she has. Now she can let Jonah know she’s completely in control. Made of iron! But all that iron just makes things heavier.
The only way for Hannah to stave off the dead weight of Mitsy’s doom and gloom is to indulge her own imagination, not that it’s easy. This house is a brain drain. Well, not the house really, but the atmosphere. The house is anybody’s dream. Oprah’s! It’s certainly Hannah’s. But in spite of the brain drain, she’s managed to produce a few focused notes on character quirks and potential plots. Not writing exactly, but composing. Composing in her head, not the computer. And of course a few sticky notes around the house, per usual. She has little time to indulge in the mechanics of committing words to screen in this insane asylum, exquisite as it is.
Her main character is a middle-aged woman terrified of dying, even though she’s not even the sick one in her house. Kind of like Mitsy, but not Mitsy. Mitsy is just a muse, if you can call lying around uselessly all day muse-worthy. But writers have to take advantage of their circumstances. Write what you know! And anyway, Mitsy is too pedestrian to be heroine material, though Hannah can at least cull from her sister’s increasingly strange habits. All the herbs, seaweed and pine cone enemas, or whatever. Ugh. Ouch. Pine cones might be a stretch. But unlike Mitsy, the fears of Hannah’s character will be original, not obvious and mundane. Hannah is beginning to understand this character so well she thinks the way her character thinks.
She indulges in a good upper body stretch then drags her lazy ass out of bed and heads for the bathroom. Such a fantasy life; she could lie around all day like everybody else. Reaching into the medicine cabinet for aspirin, she imagines her paranoid protagonist—let’s call her Annoya—projecting herself onto her future deathbed saying, “If only she hadn’t taken that aspirin.” Or… “If only she had washed her hands of the brain-consuming bacteria before she took that aspirin,” for instance. Or whatever—the tainted meat, the month-old milk, the cookies spiked with chips of bubonic plague.
If only, if only, if only. Maybe that will be the title of her book. IF ONLY –blockbuster recipient of every award ever conceived. And lots of royalties! Royalties to pay for the piles of merchandise she’s collected in the last three weeks out of sheer anxiety. Although Aaron will no doubt happily pay for all that stuff since she’s here to do his dirty work. Why not? He can afford it. He’ll probably wonder why she didn’t buy twice as much. Maybe she will. She pops the aspirin in her mouth and washes it down with a cupful of water.
“If only she hadn’t washed down the perfectly good aspirin with that cup of contaminated water…”
Now that she has a title, she can focus a little more on the content—that is, the characters and plot. Not too much though, she doesn’t want to rush it. Characters have to percolate and plots have to…age. Like wine or cheese. It doesn’t happen at gunpoint, people. And anyway, she’s accumulated more obligations and responsibilities in this madhouse than she bargained for. Tha
t’s because Mitsy is completely AWOL in her own life. AWOL without admitting it even to herself. No wonder Aaron extended his business trip in Austin for two more weeks.
And Syd is such a warrior, such a powerful creature in spite of her dwindling weight. Her color isn’t that great, either, but the doctors never really say anything about general health, as if it doesn’t matter. They just smile and check her various chemos and procedures off their lists. “She’s had everything in her protocol this month!” they say exuberantly, almost giddily. “We’re right on schedule!”
Hannah, who of course is the one taking Syd to all these appointments lately, wants to say, “Really? Have you looked at her? Maybe she shouldn’t be right on schedule.” Because…maybe she shouldn’t. Just a suggestion from the amateur on the bench. How did she get this job? But seriously, have they noticed the yellow tone of her skin? The underwater blurriness of her eyes? That shit is poison. How can a person be healed with poison? “If only she hadn’t taken that chemo…” But Hannah can’t go there. Not when it comes to Syd.
Anyway, so far nobody’s asked Hannah what she thinks of the whole mess. Aaron doesn’t want particulars unless someone needs a check or an insurance number, something specific and expeditious. He can’t get off the phone fast enough with anyone but Syd, unless she troubles him with medical details, which isn’t often. Mostly it’s “Godiva this, or Godiva that.” Not that he doesn’t care; he does. Or at least Hannah thinks he does. Right? He must. As for Mitsy, well, she’s too busy meditating and zoning out on Zen voodoo to understand how uninvolved she really is. Not to mention the hours of rosary recitation just to make sure she covers all spiritual bases.
Hannah pulls on a pair of worn jeans and a nubby green sweater that she’s already worn twice, but not for whole days, so the hell with it. If she learns how to use the Star-Trek washer/dryer down the hall, she knows she’ll be given that job for the entire household. Better to play dumb. Every new skill becomes her responsibility. She’s already doing the short order cooking. Well, sandwiches and take-out, but still, nobody’s thinking about her dinner! Nobody’s saying, “Hey Hannah, what would you like for dinner tonight?” Not even close. A house this size and the cleaning crew only shows up twice a week! Is Mitsy insane? If not, she’s a damn good actress.
Hannah slides her feet into a pair of Ugg slippers and heads downstairs without even combing her hair. She’s beginning to understand why Mitsy has allowed her personal appearance to deteriorate to the street level, one corroded curb above the sewer grate. After two weeks without a male anywhere in sight, Hannah has even stopped wearing heels. She’s two weeks short of clipping her nails to the cuticle. No more manicures! Not to mention that she hasn’t changed a purse since she got here, even after purchasing three new ones at Neiman’s last week.
Of course she smuggles everything directly to her room in deference to the utterly depressing nature of everything. Shoves it all in the closet. Have fun in there! God forbid anyone should be exposed to something shiny and colorful. Even her snuggle-bunny niece has taken to her room when she’s not at the clinic or being tutored. Hannah wonders what she does in there. Texting, she supposes, or talking to Zelda, or that boy. Half the time Hannah wonders what the hell she’s doing here at all—besides taking full responsibility for the upcoming apocalypse. Oh that! What a chump! That and walking the pooch, Godiva. Walking the pooch and periodically bending down to pretend she’s picking up poop in a plastic newspaper bag so the neighbors won’t arrest her. As if on top of everything else she’s going to pick up poop and carry it around. Good God!
She grabs a pencil and one of the sticky notepads she’s planted around the house. “If only she hadn’t picked up the poop and contracted a deadly parasite, she would be alive to receive her Pulitzer Prize,” she writes. She abandons the note in her bathroom to go brew some coffee. Caffeine helps a headache, she’s heard. Just to add to the utter inertness of it all, she takes the elevator instead of the stairs.
On the first floor, she crosses the grand hall through the great room and into the kitchen, not a soul in sight. It’s already nine o’clock. But then again she did hear Mitsy playing some eerie tune on the piano around 2 AM. A song straight out of Night of the Living Dead—the Musical if there is such a thing. There should be. They could stage it right here. That’s probably where Hannah’s weird dream came from in the first place.
From the kitchen, she can see Godiva, her oversized chocolate paws leaning against the top of the doggy gate in the utility room. She follows Hannah’s every move, waiting for a walk, no doubt. Or food, probably. A dog’s loyalty is limited, she thinks. But then again, so is Hannah’s.
Because she figures zombo-Mitsy probably let Godiva out in the wee hours, Hannah takes her time. Give the dog a chance to expand her bladder, for God’s sake. This isn’t a farm. A dog has to learn some control. She prepares the coffee machine, inhaling the earthy aroma of yesterday’s grounds in the process, and thanking the universe in general for the scraps it provides. Not that she’s getting religious. Mitsy’s antics alone would turn anyone away from God and his employees, or volunteers, whatever. Mitsy uses it to cop out on every feeling and obligation she has. And don’t think Hannah doesn’t plan to lecture that crystal freak, Pandora, when she gets the chance. But things have been a little hectic.
She opens the fridge in the event an alien stocked it with food while they were all sleeping. But no such luck. Fucking aliens. She’s going to have to haul off and buy groceries, which is beyond irritating since she barely shops for food in her own house. Not to mention the long list of restrictions placed on the shopper by Command-Mitsy. From her bed! Maybe Hannah can find an online delivery service. The idea excites her—another way to conserve energy. And Mitsy can certainly afford the extra expense, if there even is any.
“If only she hadn’t ordered her food from the alien delivery service…she would not have grown that forked tongue.”
So much genius rolling around in her head these days, she can afford to let that one go.
Hannah releases the doggy gate and pats Godiva on the head. A good dog, all in all, and not a big barker so far. If she didn’t poop she’d be a winner. Well, at least she doesn’t poop in the house. In the utility room, she opens the pantry closet and pulls out a jar of peanut butter that she brings back to the kitchen. She dips a tablespoon into the jar, pulls out a big gloppy chunk, and licks. Peanut butter & coffee. OMG!!! What a combo! She’ll sell the idea to Starbucks and make a million. She pours herself a cup of dark blend and says, “Come on, Godiva, out you go.”
While Hannah sips her coffee and licks the peanut butter spoon, she watches Godiva absently through the window above the kitchen sink. The pup slides on the slick surface of last night’s snow and ice storm, sniffing as much of the back yard as she can reach before finally peeing. She’s on her back legs now, and Hannah refuses to watch her poop. It reminds her too much of her current life. She sips her coffee and cocks her head toward a distant noise. Is that a voice she hears? Signs of life? She moves to the back stairs for evidence.
The murmuring waxes and wanes, but Hannah’s curious. She carries the mug upstairs, tiptoeing. Following the low sound up and to her left, soon she’s in the neighborhood of Mitsy’s suite. Thin curls of pungent smoke emerge from the doorway like beckoning fingers. The hallway smells like a head shop. Hannah can’t believe this. What next—a Ouiji board? The fragrance is myrrh, if Hannah remembers correctly from her stoner days. Or maybe frankincense. It’s been a while.
“Ommmmm,” chants Mitsy deep in the cavity of her dark room. And seconds later, “Is that right, Pandora? Did I do it right? Just Ommmmm? Like that?”
A second later she says, “Oh, okay. I thought it was pronounced mahn-tra not maan-tra.”
This is all the rocket fuel Hannah needs to launch straight into orbit. How much can she really take? She’s just…had it. She marches into the room; flips open the drapes, and yanks the comforter from Mitsy’s lap.
“Hannah,” says Mitsy frowning. Not even yelling.
Hannah leans over and snatches the cell phone. “I know it isn’t a doctor this time,” she says to Mitsy, eyes widening. “Is it? Nooooooo!” She shakes her head back and forth in an exaggerated fashion. “This time it’s the charlatan herself, isn’t it?” She talks into the phone. “Did you hear that, charlatan?”
“Hannah,” Mitsy repeats helplessly. “Please.”
“This is Pandora,” says the charlatan. “To whom am I speaking?”
Hannah’s eyes bug out at Mitsy. “You hear that?” she says. “The so-called psychic doesn’t even know who she’s talking to! Ha!” She screams into the phone, “Gotcha!”
Silence.
“It doesn’t really matter who I am!” Hannah says as she turns and storms out of the room with the phone. “My name is completely beside the point. I’m protecting my sister, is who I am. Protectress-of-the-Naïve-and-Innocent is my name. Call me that!”
She marches down the long hallway and locks herself in one of the chateau’s ten extraneous bathrooms for privacy. “A sister who is completely dropping out of life because of Y-O-U!” She sits on the closed toilet and sets her coffee mug on the window sill. Fucking madhouse.
“I see,” says the lunatic.
“You…see?!” says Hannah, opening the blind slats. “What exactly do you see in your crackpot crystal, oh fraudulent one?”
“So your sister is dropping out, but not you? You’re not…dropping out?” says the nutcase. “Is that it?”
“What the hell makes you think I’m dropping out?” says Hannah so far beyond indignation she can’t even remember where she saw it last. “I’m right here front and center. Doing everybody’s job. And the only one still getting dressed in the morning, I might add.”
“Barely.”
“Barely?! What’s that supposed to mean? Barely what?” She sips her coffee.
The Anesthesia Game Page 9