by R. W. Ridley
I smile. “They look good, Bone... Charlie.”
“Thanks,” he grins. “They have been itching to get to this thing. It’s been tough holding them back.”
“Where?”
He thinks about the question. “I don’t really know. They’s good hiders. When I need them, they come a running. They’re just about the greatest dogs that ever lived.” Snarkel jumps up and puts his big paws on Charlie’s bony chest.
“Nobody else knows about them?”
“Nobody but Archie. He put me in charge of them when he come here.” He scratches behind Snarkel’s ears.
I poke my head outside the closet door. It’s empty. Back to Bones, “You need to hide them...” I stand in silent wonder. The dogs are gone. “Where?...”
“I told you,” Bones smiles. “They’s good hiders.”
“C’mon,” I say. I step into the hallway and quickly head down the corridor.
“Where we going?” Bones asks as he struggles to keep up with my pace.
“You’re going to escort me to Archie’s room.”
***
“You’re not telling me everything,” I say to Scoop-face.
He sits on the edge of his bed. The missing parts of his face do not disgust me as much as they had before. I can see the young man he used to be in the way he sat. His broad shoulders are perfectly aligned and his posture is proud and straight. For the moment, he is not Scoop-face. He is Archie. He smiles. “I don’t know everything.”
I shake my head. “You know what I mean. You’re not telling me everything you know.”
He hesitates. “Are you a butterfly, Oz?”
I think about the question and remember the story of the Chinese philosopher from his session. “No, Archie. I’m not a butterfly. I am a man... or a boy...”
“Creyshaw,” Scoop-face said. “You are a creyshaw.”
I nod. “Okay, I am a creyshaw.”
“Or are you?” he asks.
I cover my eyes with the palms of my hands and bend back, fighting the urge to scream. “What are you doing to me?”
“Are you a creyshaw dreaming you’re a man in a psychiatric ward in the year 2033 or are you a man in a psychiatric ward dreaming you’re a creyshaw in the year 2008?”
I drop my hands to my sides. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. You tell me.”
“I can’t,” he said. “You’ve got to figure that out on your own.” He places his hand on the bedpost and lifts himself to his feet.
“What are you?” I ask.
He smiles. “I’m a man without a face trying to make up for all the mistakes I’ve made in my life.”
“Your family?”
His smile quickly disappears. “Among others.” He says as he clumsily steps forward. He whispers. “She changed the story.”
I stroke my chin and whisper back, “Millie B. Story?”
He nods. “She’s confused them.”
“Them who?”
He signals for Bones to enter from the doorway. “We’ve never made it this far. This is the longest you’ve remembered. You gave her time to change the story. We are one step away.” He grabs Bones’ elbow. “Take me to the cafeteria. I’m in the mood for some soup.” To me, “What is Lou’s real name?”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I can’t remember.”
“You will,” he says. “Let’s go, Charlie.” They stop at the open doorway and Archie says, “Do you have a notebook?”
I pull the small notebook from the janitor’s closet out of my back pocket. “Yeah.”
“Do me a favor,” he says. “Write down ‘Lou’s real name’ on the last page with writing on it.”
I snicker. “I think I can remember that.”
“Indulge me,” he says. “Do an old faceless man a favor.”
I pause. He is up to something. I turn to the page where I had scribbled Millie B. Story’s name down several times and write down “Lou’s real name.”
He grins. “That-a-boy.” He squeezes Bones’ elbow and they disappear down the hallway.
I stare at the empty doorway for several seconds. He was a strange man. But then again, he was in a loony bin. I glance down at that notebook. Right under Millie B. Story’s name are the words “Lou’s real name.” I look back up at the vacant entryway. Could it be?
***
Lou’s name is not Millie B. Story. I am sure of that. I lay in my bed churning Millie B. Story’s name over in my mind’s eye. I chastise myself several times for not being able to remember Lou’s real name. She told me. I can’t remember where or when, but I can picture the expression of her face when she said it.
I sit up in bed. The decaying face of a woman looks at me from the foot of the bed. “Are you Millie B. Story?” I ask her. She stares at me blankly, as the dead are apt to do. “I guess not. I don’t even think Millie B. Story is Millie B. Story,” I laugh. The dead woman does not join in. I yawn.
Nurse Kline’s face appears in the square window of my room and the dead scatter. I wave to her not expecting her to wave back, but she does. She looks different somehow. Expectant almost. She’s not merely checking in on me as she normally does. I catch a glimpse of my hand as I finish my wave. It looks different, too. Some of the hair is gone. I’m too afraid to let myself think it, but my hand looks younger.
A dead boy whispers from the corner of the room, “I don’t even think Millie B. Story is Millie B. Story.”
“Copycat,” I say. I see the notebook on the floor by the bed and pick it up. I begin to doodle. “Millie isn’t Millie,” I say in a sing-song tone. A few of the dead join in. We form an eerie chorus that begins to chill me to the bone. “That’s enough,” I say, but they continue without me. The boy who had spoken earlier repeats his line, “I don’t even think Millie B. Story is Millie B. Story.” I cup my hands over my ears. “Shut up!” I scream. I peer down at the notebook now resting in my lap. It hits me. “Millie B. Story isn’t Millie B. Story. Millie B. Story is Lou’s real name.” I smile. “Not her real name, no. But her real name is in Millie B. Story.” I had been looking at it all wrong. It’s not the name that matters. It’s the letters in the name. I frantically start rearranging them in the notebook. I am terrible at these kinds of puzzles. I rearrange and rearrange and rearrange until I have a jumbled mess of letters on the page in front of me.
The door to my room opens and I shove the notebook under my pillow. Chester walks in. “Doc Graham wants to see you,” he says.
“What for?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” he says, “Does it matter?”
“Not to you,” I say.
He snaps his fingers. “Now you’re getting it.” He steps aside and sticks out his meaty paw, inviting me to pass through the open door. “After you, Nutty McCrazy.”
I hesitate. I am reluctant to leave my notebook behind. It’s as if the words will vanish from the page if I leave my room. Chester clamps down on my shoulder with his thick, heavy fingers and pushes me toward the door.
“Apparently you have this idea that I’m a patient man,” Chester groans. “I’m not.”
I flinch in pain. We head down the hallway toward Dr. Graham’s office. “Hey, Chester,” I say. “You ever wonder if you’re a man dreaming you’re a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming you’re a man.”
“What?” He says in a dubious tone.
“Are you a butterfly or a man?”
“You see wings on my back?”
I scoff because he doesn’t understand the question. “The way I see it,” I say, “butterflies don’t have much of a brain. They might not even know the difference between a dream and reality.”
“So?”
“So, I know the difference. I can’t be a dream.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you got a butterfly brain you probably ain’t spending a whole lot of time on what’s real and what’s not.” We turned the corridor. “Besides, butterflies don’t sleep. How can they dream?�
�
***
The first question I ask Dr. Graham is if butterflies sleep. He is of course confused. I don’t pursue the line of questioning. He sits across from me writing in his notebook. We sit for a full five minutes before he speaks.
“How have you been enjoying your GP pass?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Making friends?”
“A few.”
“I hear you’ve been seen with Archie Maynard.”
I am tentative, “Yeah.”
“What do you know about Archie?” He seems to still be focusing on his notebook. He has mastered the ability to multitask. I almost feel like I am interrupting him.
“He can’t wear glasses,” I say expecting to be reprimanded. He chuckles instead. “No he can’t. Do you know what happened to his face?”
I shook my head. “Never came up.”
“He breathed in a rare mold that infected his sinuses. The doctors removed his nose and eyes to save his life. His family abandoned him because of his deformity. His own son would scream at the sight of him.”
“I thought his family... died,” I say.
“He told you that?”
I shrug. “More or less.”
“They are alive. His son is grown now. He calls periodically to check on him, but he’s never visited. He’s still traumatized by his father’s appearance.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because I’m concerned about your recovery. Surrounding yourself with the wrong people isn’t healthy,” he says finally setting his notebook aside. “Archie is perfectly nice, but he’s not... the most rational person. He makes up stories to help himself cope with his condition. The world has rejected him. His loved ones want nothing to do with him. He’s created a fantasy world to give himself a reason to live.”
“You brought me here to tell me not to hang out with crazy people in a crazy house?”
He closes his eyes and calms himself before he speaks. “You know I don’t like that word.” Eyes open now. “And no that’s not why I brought you here. You have a visitor.”
My heart almost explodes. “A visitor... is it...?”
“Millie B. Story. She is quite persistent. I’m sorry I didn’t confer with you first. I suppose that’s what I’m doing with you now. She showed up on the premises today unannounced. My first inclination was to send her away, but then I thought better of it.” He scoots his chair closer to me. “I’ve decided that you should make the determination whether or not you want to see her. You’ve shown great strides over the past weeks. You may be ready for this.”
“I-I-I...” I can feel sweat forming on my upper lip. I reach up to wipe it off and I notice my hand is trembling. I swallow and breathe in deeply. “How do we do this?” I ask. “Is there a visitor’s room...” I laugh. “I don’t even know if this place has a visitor’s room. It seems like I should know something like that.”
Dr. Graham gently pats my leg. “You’ve never had visitors before. It’s all right. We can do this in my office.”
“Here? Now?”
He responds to my shocked expression. “You don’t have to do this at all, Oz.”
I nod. “No, I should... I should... I definitely should.”
He presses a button on his pen and Chester enters the room. “Bring Miss Story in please,” the doc says.
As Chester leaves to do as directed, I feel a certain amount of disappointment. The pen is more than a pen. And what happened to the bell?
Time passes slowly as I await Chester to return with my visitor. I have no idea how I will react. Is she... could she be...
The door opens again. I clasp my hands together and place them on my lap. I don’t know what to do. I want to stand and greet her with a friendly smile, but I am afraid I will stumble to my feet and give her an off-putting sense of apprehension. So I sit.
I hear her shoes beat against the floor as she approaches. Dr. Graham stands and extends a hand. I stare at his hand waiting for hers to zoom in across my field of vision. Perhaps I will recognize it, and I will feel immediately at ease.
The hand appears and grips Dr. Graham’s firmly. It is a strong hand covered by smooth ageless skin. The nails are long, but not too long, strong and healthy. The wrist is the only other exposed flesh. She is wearing a light, dignified coat.
“Miss Story,” Dr. Graham says. “Have a seat.” He points to a chair that Chester has placed next to his.
I still can’t bring myself to look at her face. She settles into the chair and I turn away.
“Thank you for doing this,” she says.
“Don’t thank me,” Dr. Graham says. “This was Oz’s decision.”
I can feel her smile. “Thank you, Oz.”
I finally work up the courage to look her in the face. I am amazed. I have no reaction. I do not recognize her. I would recognize Lou. This is not her. It can’t be. She is a beautiful woman. The same features and build as I imagine Lou would have if she were the age of the woman sitting in front of me, but yet, instinct tells me this is not Lou.
“Do you remember me?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“I’m afraid you have us both at a disadvantage, Miss Story,” Dr. Graham says. “There is no record of a Millie B. Story in Oz’s file.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says. She hesitates. “What is your life like outside of this building, Dr. Graham?”
“Pardon me?”
“What is your family like?”
He tilts his head. “Family? I’m not sure what that has to do with Oz...”
She locks me in a stare. “It has everything to do with him.”
“My family is... I have a lovely wife and... two daughters.” The doc strains as he describes his family.
“A lovely wife?” Millie B. Story says. To me, “Don’t you think that’s an odd way to put it?”
I nod. “Yes, very odd.”
“And you seem to have a hard time recalling them.” She says to the doctor.
“I just find this a bit unusual,” he answers.
“What’s your favorite color, Dr. Graham?”
“Color?”
“Your favorite food? Your middle name? Do you have any pets? C’mon, these aren’t hard questions.”
“I... I...” He is panicked and his face is flush.
“Doc,” Chester says. “You okay?”
He looks at the giant orderly. “I don’t know.”
She turns to Chester. “What about you? If I asked you the same questions, would you have any answers?”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Chester says. “I hate animals, and I ain’t never been married.”
She shrugs. “Your middle name?”
He has the same pained look as Dr. Graham.
“How about your last name?”
He strokes his chin with the palm of his brawny hand.
She turns to me. “They don’t know, Oz. Don’t you find that the least bit strange?”
I marvel at the terrified faces of Dr. Graham and Chester. “What’s going on?”
“They have no answers because there are no answers. This isn’t real, Oz.”
“Stop,” Dr. Graham says.
“Not real?” I say.
“Not real. They don’t know it. They think it’s real. But it’s just a story, created for you so the Délons can find the Source. You’re the key, Oz.”
“This is ridiculous,” Dr. Graham shouts.
“We don’t have much time,” she says. “The Storytellers are adapting the story as we speak.”
“I thought the Storytellers were on my side.”
“They are, but the ones being held by the Délons are being forced to write this story. You’re a prisoner being manipulated so you can lead them to the Source. You have to break out of this story.”
“They wrote you in to help me?” I ask.
“Yes, but we don’t have much time. As soon as the Délons discover what the Storytellers have done, I
’ll be erased from the story. Do you understand?”
I nod. “I think I do.”
“It doesn’t matter. Get back to the cave. You have to be there when Archie gets there.”
I lean back and in a blink she disappears from the chair. She reappears in a second blink.
“They’ve found me,” she says. “We’re out of time.” “Wait,” I bark. “Are you Lou?”
She smiles. “Remember my name.”
Dr. Graham suddenly speaks. “My favorite color is blue.”
There is a flash of bright light. I am sitting in Dr. Graham’s office watching him write in his notepad. Millie B. Story is no longer there. The chair she was sitting in is gone. Chester is gone.
“Why do you want to know if butterflies sleep?” Dr. Graham asks.
I squirm in my seat. They have erased her.
***
I do not wait for Bones to escort me to the janitors closet for Scoop-face’s next session. I am in the closet hours before Scoop-face is even due to arrive in the doctor’s office. Bones probably fell to pieces when he didn’t find me in my room. Perhaps he felt “I went without him” again.
I sit on the closet floor going over the puzzle that is Millie B. Story. I arrange the letters in every possible combination and the name still eludes me. Each time I hit a dead end, I grow more discouraged. I try closing my eyes and forcing myself to remember. A pattern flashes in my brain. A group of three letters: MIL. Another group of letters comes to me: STO. I write it down on the notebook. MIL STO. I say it out loud. “Mil Sto.”
“Ready to get my hypnosis on, Doc,” I hear Scoop-face’s voice travel through the vent.
Dr. Graham’s muffled voice answers back, “There is more to your treatment than regression therapy.”
“Right,” Scoop-face says, “and we can get to that next week. Today... today we get me back to Lou and the gang. Things are just about to heat up, and they need me.”
“This is what I didn’t want to happen,” Dr. Graham responds with a heavy sigh. “This is not helping you to progress.”
“Well, duh, Doc. That’s because we haven’t seen it through to the end.”
I can picture Dr. Graham’s face as he mulls over Scoop-face’s logic. “This is the last session.”