by Huss, JA
Ten thousand square feet of space to cover. So much space I had to chip in an extra five grand to Jordan’s twenty because I wanted the newest control panel and a two-thousand-dollar leather chair.
If I gotta watch this chick for whatever weird, fucked-up reason, I’m gonna do it right and I’m gonna be goddamned comfortable too.
It only takes me a few days to rig everything up, so I kick it in the house to wait out the rest of the time before this Evangeline chick comes by, enjoying the media room. It’s fucking sweet with a ninety-eight-inch, 4K ultra screen.
And the game room. Because it’s got a mini-arcade from the 80’s in there. Pac-Man and Tetris. Frogger and Galaga. Reminds me of the nickel arcade Jordan and I used to hang out at when we’d ditch in middle school. God, how I used to love playing Galaga when we were kids. He’s even got Dig Dug and Centipede.
There’s a house-wide intercom, so at first I figured I’d just leave that on all the time and I wouldn’t have to wire the place for sound. But I tried it out and it sucks. Like, that thing is from the seventies or something. Back when house intercoms were the epitome of high-tech. This one’s all crackly and static-y. Practically worthless unless you don’t mind your voice sounding like someone using an AM radio that doesn’t quite pick up the station you’re listening to.
So the microphones go up.
The day before she’s supposed to show up I go through all the rooms, trying to guess which one she’ll choose to sleep in. Usually, when I’m not drunk and high and in the mood to bash brand-new trucks up with a baseball bat, I can predict things like this.
I have a natural intuition. Which is why I do what I do, I guess.
But Evangeline Rolaine is kind of a mystery to me. I’ve read up on her over the past few days. Spent her whole childhood performing like a trained monkey then poof. Disappeared.
Will she like the feminine bedroom? Does she like white mosquito netting hanging from the ceiling? Does she see herself as a princess? Because that room is kinda princess-y. Something your eight-year-old baby sister would have.
Or maybe she’ll like the teen boy bedroom? I can’t imagine she’d pick this one because it’s nothing but shades of red and gray with a bunch of framed sports memorabilia on the walls, but who knows? Maybe Evangeline is a sports fanatic?
There’s a nursery too. But unless she’s gonna curl up in one of those gliding rocker chairs, she won’t pick that one. Because it only has a crib.
Maybe she’ll take the master? I would. It’s got a California king bed that even accommodates my tall frame. I’ve slept in it three times already just to check it out. I’m thorough like that. Plus that room is classy. Not too personal, like the kids’ rooms. Or gaudy, like the guest rooms. They look like they were decorated to impress… well, you know. Guests.
Maybe she’ll sleep in one of the offices? They both have couches. Or the media room? Does she like to fall asleep in front of a TV? Hell, you could even sleep on the kitchen island, it’s so big. If, that is, you don’t mind a ten-foot-long slab of soapstone as your bed.
I decide to make a little bet with myself just to prove I’ve still got game. That I haven’t been fucking off wasting my family money all these years. That my mind is focused on the task. That I’m not still having that imaginary conversation with Jordan back in his office where he tells me he found her, and that’s why he found me, and then we all go to dinner at the Grant like nothing ever happened.
The one where she forgives me and says, God, I missed you, Ix. And then time melds together, like we were never apart. And we fall into old habits—just the good ones though. And we laugh again. And it’s good. The way it used to be.
But of course… if he really did tell me he found her, and he really did tell me that’s why he came looking—I’d be back on the road so fast.
Because there’s only one reason for him to do that.
So he could have her again.
It’s got nothing to do with me, other than I’m the one he needs, not the one he wants.
I sigh, close my eyes and shake my head, pulling myself out of the past and refocusing on the present. And then I open them and say, “I choose the library. And not because Evangeline Rolaine might like books.”
Chapter Three - Evangeline
It’s never going to snow again.
The thought pops into my head unwanted and takes me by surprise. Ever since I started seeing Lucinda last year things have been getting progressively better for me.
Actually, they got significantly better.
After just six months of seeing her I went outside without a hat and sunglasses. I was wearing a sundress. Bare shoulders, bare legs. I went down to the 16th Street Mall and walked through all the crowds without bolting home or hiding in a bathroom until dark.
After that I walked the Mall every day for weeks. I went to the library every Sunday and checked out books. I even went to my favorite Chinese restaurant and sat there, alone, and ate an entire meal. Twice.
I. Was. Normal.
Lucinda has been a godsend. And even though I was reluctant after she explained her therapy methods, I gave her a shot. Then another. And another. Until I was going to see her three times a week.
She explained her practice to me the first time we met, which included highlighting (anonymously, of course) a lot of former cases involving sexual issues.
I don’t have a sex problem. Not even a small one because I don’t have sex. Haven’t in many years. It’s hard to find people to have sex with when you’re a recluse.
Yes, I’ve come to terms with that descriptor of myself. Estranged is another word I’ve learned to embrace. Well, maybe not embrace. I don’t want to be estranged from anyone. Not even my asshole parents. I don’t want to be a recluse, either.
It’s just… I am those things. What more can I say about it?
But Lucinda said she’s not a sex therapist, she simply uses sex to conquer fears and psychological disorders.
My treatment plan does not involve sex. She made that very clear. I have an unusual phobia. The fear of being watched is pathological in my case and it’s called scopophobia.
Lucinda is fairly certain it comes from repressed performance anxiety when I was a child. So I didn’t get a hook-up as part of my cure. Which is too bad. I could use a hook-up, if I’m being honest.
Things got better the longer I saw Lucinda. I became braver. Bolder. More in control, more assertive (well, a tiny bit more). I mean, I did go outside, and read books, and have small essential conversations with people like waitresses at the Chinese restaurant.
The problem is… I think all that talking, and embracing, and self-reflection, and courage led me to believe I was recovering.
Which was a mistake because I’m not.
I’m right back where I started that day I first called her. Afraid, riddled with anxiety, and unable to go outside.
My phone buzzes on the couch, but I let it go to voicemail so I can continue looking out the window wishing for snow. Rain. Hell, hurricane-force winds. I’ll take anything at this point. I’m dying up here. Dying. I need to get out but I can’t go out until the people go in.
Every once in a while I go out at night, but it takes me days to work up to it. And I don’t understand. I don’t get it. Things were going so well… weren’t they?
They were.
And then I looked at my bank account and realized I’d spent almost a hundred thousand dollars on therapy with Lucinda last year. And then I paid my property taxes because I was behind. Two years. (I’m not the most organized person.) So that was another eighty-two thousand dollars because the penthouse is now valued at eight million, not three.
I should sell this place. Move to Mississippi, or Louisiana, or Texas. Somewhere down south where the real estate is cheap and so are the taxes. I could live like that for a long time. Little shack in a bayou, maybe? Something you’d need a boat to get to. Hidden in all those weirdly twisted cypress trees with Spanish moss hanging off every li
mb like a curtain. Maybe? Couldn’t I?
Could totally do that. Should totally do that.
A hard knock at my door makes me whirl around, startled. Who the hell got up here?
“Evangeline!”
“Fuck.” I breathe the word out, giving it life as a whisper as my manic episode recedes.
More hard knocking. “I know you’re in there. Open. The. Door.”
What should I do? Should I run? Jump out the window? Hide in the bathroom?
“I’m not kidding,” Lucinda shouts. “I’ll stay here all damn day if I have to. Open the door right now and tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m sick,” I yell at the door. “And contagious. A really bad virus—”
“Open the door right now, Evangeline. I’m not going away.”
“I’m moving to the bayou! I’m leaving tomorrow!”
I hear her laugh. Which makes me smile. Because I’m being fucking ridiculous and I know this. I just can’t help myself.
“OK,” Lucinda says. “Fine. You’re moving to the bayou. Let me in and I’ll help you pack.”
God, why did I ever call the number on that card? Why?
“Come on,” Lucinda says. “Open up and I promise not to ask you any questions. Cross my heart. I won’t, OK?”
I think about her offer. Because I’ve been up here for weeks now. I’m desperate for someone to talk to and Lucinda is my only candidate.
“Evangeline…”
“Fine,” I huff. I pull my hoodie hood over my head, put my sunglasses on, walk to the door, and open it up. “What?”
Lucinda’s smug smile at winning this standoff falters as she registers the meaning behind my outfit. Up until I quit seeing her three weeks ago, I’d stopped wearing the sunglasses for our visits.
She sighs, pushes past me so I can’t shut the door in her face, and then goes over to the window and doesn’t turn around. “You’re regressing,” she says.
I actually have the gall to form the word no.
But enough sense not to say it.
Because she’s right. I’m back where I started last year. I’m worse, in fact. So much worse.
“It’s the show, isn’t it?”
Oh, God. Just hearing the word ‘show’ makes me want to vomit. “I can’t do it,” I say, breathless from my now rapidly beating heart. “I cannot fucking do it.”
Lucinda turns around but keeps her eyes lowered, not looking at my face.
I cannot stand it when people look at me. I fucking hate it. And three months ago when I was doing well, and I let people look at me, and I went outside, I thought I was cured.
But then… when I noticed how little money I had left in my bank account… I called my old manger and told him I wanted to do a performance and what would it take to make a comeback?
“Cancel it,” she says.
“It sold out in ten minutes,” I say. “It’s two and a half weeks away!”
“So? Cancel it.”
“Ten thousand people, Lucinda!”
“Cancel it.”
“I can’t,” I shout. “I can’t fucking cancel it. I need the money. And the people… God, the people will hate me.”
Lucinda raises her head and meets my gaze. I fumble with my sunglasses, paranoid that she might get a glimpse of my eyes, then almost have a panic attack when I realize I’m not wearing gloves and she can see my hands. I tuck them into my hoodie pockets and swallow hard, praying I don’t have a heart attack, because it feels like I’m gonna have a heart attack. Then hoping I do, because if I die, all this anxiety will just… go away.
“I have one last option for you.”
I laugh as I turn my back to her. She can still see me, but it’s better when I can’t see her seeing me. “I can’t be fixed,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what your option is, I cannot be fixed. I’m gonna disappoint all those people who bought tickets and I’m gonna go bankrupt and end up living in a shack in the bayou with only a canoe to my name.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Lucinda says. “If you sell this house you’ll make at least seven million dollars. Just sell the house.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s mine. It’s all I’ve got left. If I sell the house then… then everything about me has failed.”
“Then do the show. Make more money. And go back to being the girl you are underneath all those clothes.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Lucinda grunts. “No shit, it’s not simple. Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I don’t know what you’re going through?”
“You don’t,” I say. But I’m whimpering like a sad puppy right now and that makes everything worse. Then I get angry and turn to her. “Do you think I want to be this way? Do you think I want to feel exposed and afraid all the time? Do you think I don’t miss playing my violin? Do you think I like living vicariously through the substandard vinyl recordings of other child prodigies? I mean, what the fuck, Lucinda? I’m not doing any of this on purpose. I just…” I deflate and sink onto the couch, folding like a woman who’s lost everything. Because I have. “I had it all at one time, but now it’s gone. Even my music. It’s gone.”
Lucinda is quiet as she walks over to the couch, sits down next to me—so close our legs are touching—and takes my hand out of my pocket to stroke it as she talks. “I have one last-ditch option for you, Evangeline. If you truly want all those things the way you say you do—”
“I do!” I yell. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Then listen to me. Just take deep breaths and listen to me. I know a man,” she says. “He deals with… special cases for me and I think you qualify. Not because your phobia is so out of the ordinary, because it isn’t. Lots of people have the same fear as you. Not as severely, I admit. But it’s very common. What isn’t common is needing to conquer it in two and a half weeks. So… because you need results and you need them quick, I want you to consider this next option. And just hear me out before you say no, OK?”
I nod—“Fine”—and do as I’m told. Just sit quietly and listen as she tells me more about her partner. About her plan. About the house, and the cameras, and the stranger who’ll be watching me. She says she’s set it all up and I can move in on Friday.
And when she’s done she waits.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I say.
“It’s called flooding, Evangeline. It’s a tried-and-true technique. A respected technique. Another term for it is exposure therapy, whereby a patient with certain phobic conditions is continuously exposed to their irrational fears over a period of time, forcing them to confront them and make changes.” She says all of that in a single breath, like she needs to talk fast, get her idea out into the real world where it can’t be dismissed. Must be taken seriously. Considered.
So I don’t dismiss her idea. I take it seriously and consider it. Picture what she just said, trying to imagine it and what it might mean. “How long will it take?”
I feel Lucinda’s shrug. “It varies by person. By your commitment to see it through, of course. We can’t hold you prisoner, that’s illegal. So this has to be one hundred percent consensual.”
I wave a hand at her. “Right. But if I did all that, if I committed to it, then how long?”
“A few weeks?”
“I don’t have a few weeks. I have two and a half. And if I move in to this house on Friday, that’s two weeks, almost to the day. Can it work in two weeks?”
I hold my breath waiting for her answer.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I can’t say, Evangeline. It’s really all up to you. I’m not a part of this treatment. You have to take responsibility and see it through. But if you do that, the chances of a quick success are extremely high.”
“Define quick and high,” I say, letting myself feel a little whisper of hope building.
“A week?” she says, not very confidently. “It’s fairly fast because of the in-your-face nature of the treatment. You can’t run away. You can’t ask for help.
You just have to learn to deal.”
The word week echoes in my head. “I could perform my show?” I murmur.
“Possibly,” Lucinda says. “If it works.”
I lower my sunglasses, take them off and hold them in the hand she’s not still stroking, and look at her. “Will it work?”
“It’s up to you,” she says, lowering her gaze so she’s not meeting mine. “None of your fears are rational, Evangeline. People look at you. People look at everyone. They can’t hurt you by looking.”
She’s wrong. They do hurt me. A gaze—a direct stare into my eyes—it’s painful for me. Not like a bee sting or stubbing your toe. But like… agonizing anxiety that cripples me. Makes me irrational. And how can I possibly stand up on stage with my heart beating so fast I make myself pass out from hyperventilating?
“The cameras will help you. Twenty-four hours a day someone will be watching you.”
“Who?” I ask, too quickly. A chill runs up my spine at the thought, but I can’t decide if the tingling is pain, or cold, or what.
“You don’t need to know who. It’s anonymous. Who the watcher is isn’t important. The fact that someone will be watching, and you know they’re watching, that’s what’s important.”
“My watcher,” I say. “They’ll see me all the time?”
“Yes. All the time while you’re in treatment.”
“They’ll follow me if I leave the house?”
“Yes, if you’re in treatment. If you leave the program, all surveillance will stop immediately.”
I swallow hard. “So I can opt out at any time?”
“Of course. I already told you, this is all consensual.”
I sit there for many minutes, dreaming of the life I might have if this works. A week? Is it possible I could cure myself in a week? After all this time, after all that money spent, and all those visits to Lucinda, not to mention all the miserable years I’ve spent up here in this apartment, hiding from the world, now I learn I can cure myself in seven days? With cameras?