by Ryan Schow
“Are you alright?” Her lovely eyes glow with concern.
“I have to go see Dr. Gerhard, then I have someplace I need to go. Off campus.”
“Oh.”
I apologize, then move around her and hustle down the hall, past Julie and Cameron, past everyone. My favorite part of campus, the gardens around the scaled-down fountain of Trevi I now refer to as the Fountain of Astor, doesn’t even warrant a glance. My feet take me straight into Gerhard’s office where I plop down on a chair in the waiting area. Nurse Arabelle looks up at me, smiles her robotic smile. I refuse to look at her eyes, those perfect Amethyst spheres I am insanely jealous of. A few minutes later Dr. Gerhard calls me to his office. I sit across from him, my question barely contained.
“I want to know what would happen if I couldn’t take my pills.” I heave a sigh. Finally, it’s out there. My real chances of dying.
“You mind might fracture,” he says, “depending on the day and the shot I give you.”
“You mean you give me different shots?”
“Yes.”
“How will my mind fracture?” I ask. “And what does that even mean?”
“The human mind is a wondrous and complex organ. In the event of too much trauma, your brain will shut your original personality down, and create in its place a new personality better equipped to deal with the…the more painful circumstances you are enduring at the time. This is your brain’s natural defense mechanism.”
“So is this dissociative identity disorder?” I ask. The new, socially acceptable term for multiple personality disorder.
“Yes. And we don’t want that. Which is why you have the pills. Why do you ask?”
I wonder how much I should tell him. In my head I’m already constructing the lie that will protect me from revealing Georgia had to help me. If no one is to know of my treatments, I’ve done pretty well, but by no means have I been perfect.
“Last night was torture,” I say. “It took me an hour to reach my pills which were only a few feet away. My muscles felt paralyzed. I’ve never felt anything like that. And my bones, it’s like they were being crushed.”
“With this upcoming regimen, you’ll need to keep your pills accessible at all times. This type of temporary paralysis can come on fast. As can other forms of discomfort.” The way he says my regimens are discomforting, that’s like saying giving birth to a twelve pound baby might sting a bit.
I swallow hard. “What upcoming regimen?”
“The one we start today. What you felt last night was a prelude to something more efficient, a process that will be quite productive in terms of your physical appearance.”
“Will this one feel better or worse than my last treatments?”
Looking into my eyes, unflinching, he says, “Worse.”
“And the upside?”
“It will forever change your life.”
I think about the ten or fifteen pound weight loss, the steady leveling of my emotions, the occasional burst of newfound confidence and I say, “Fine. Just give me the gosh damn shot. I have things to do.”
Forcing a smile, he turns around, opens a safe and retrieves a fresh bottle of pills. The label is vastly different looking than my other bottle, presumably so I don’t confuse the two.
“You can take up to four of these pills at a time,” he says, “depending on the levels of discomfort. You may have to take them more than once a night. Do not take more than eight in the night, though, or your heart will stop beating and you will die.”
“More than eight pills equals death, got it. How long will this discomfort last?”
“Not long,” he says, “once you take the pills.” With a reassuring smile that misses the mark, he looks even more German and more creepy than ever. “This regimen will be difficult, Savannah, but it won’t always be this tough.”
A shadow floats through my brain, a memory of words drifting on low currents inside me, feather light, perhaps from a dream: It won’t always be this tough. No, it won’t always be this bad. Yes, that’s what it was. These are the words floating around in my head: “It won’t always be this bad.”
The memory grows clear, more vibrant. Last night, me drifting out of consciousness, the same words were said to me breathlessly, said the way a mother might nurture a sick child with her voice, her love. Georgia spoke these exact same words.
“What is it?” Dr. Gerhard asks.
I shake off the memory, feel my eyes clear. “Nothing. Just give me the shot.”
2
When it comes time to go to Kaitlyn’s parents’ home, I chicken out. If my shots are going to be this bad, I’d better not venture too far from home.
Back in my room, I’m tempted to log back in to student records, but not during regular working hours, because who knows what kind of trouble that might bring? The FBI perhaps? My temperature spikes a degree or two, to the point of distress, but not so much that I’m overly concerned. Regardless, my new pills are within reach. My second pass at Kaitlyn’s file proves to be less interesting than before; the next logical step isn’t a third read but some real investigative work. Any journalist would question her disappearance. They’d want details about her death. My brain can’t stop thinking about the word “Deceased” printed on top of her medical records. Like some notarized stamp authorizing everyone to get on with their lives. To just leave well enough alone.
I Google her parents’ address, print directions to their home in Auburn, and think, the hell with it, as I head for my car. There’s nothing worse than a coward, I think to myself. So, time to go. In the parking lot, the minute I see Rover I know why Julie and Cameron were giggling. My legs buckle. Carved into the side of my SUV in foot high letters are the words, “Disgusting Pig.” I can’t breathe. Is my heart stopping? I can’t breathe! The message is scratched so deep into the metal, they must’ve used a screwdriver instead of a key. The two words cover three panels and they’re etched so deep I’m certain the panels will all need replacing. Assessing the damage, feeling sick for Rover, I break into a cold sweat, my insides swimming, my skin clammy with dread, or rage.
Now I can breathe, and every breath is crackling with rage.
Puke in a box or on a door, that could be cleaned up. Scrubbed to get the stink out. But this? This is so much worse. My father has to know about this. I wonder if he knows someone who will kill Julie and Cameron for a fee. I’m about to do it for free.
Standing there in the late afternoon, with a light breeze washing over me and the smell of pruned roses, pine trees and the warm asphalt permeating the air, I start trying on lies to tell my father. Then the most amazing thing happens. Tracing my finger through the scrawled words, I realize my eyes are dry, and my stomach has once again settled. This act of revenge is perhaps one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me, and I’m not crying. I’m not puking.
Forget about lying to my father just yet, or getting even with Cameron and Julie (though I will avenge Rover and whatever I do to them will be worse than what they’ve done to me), me paying a visit to Kaitlyn’s parents is more important right now.
I follow the directions to the Whittaker’s home in Auburn, about a fifteen minute drive from campus, and park out front of what looks like a modest home for junior millionaires. Based on the outrageous tuition fees Astor charges, I expected more. The house is maybe three or four thousand square feet, a single story done in an English Tudor style with decent landscaping and about fifty feet of front yard from the street to the front door. A Toyota Camry sits out front in the driveway, a gold one with hubcaps that looks about five years old.
Not a Bentley, or a M5 Beamer or even a full bodied Benz.
A shitty ass gold Camry.
A rush of nausea passes through me. Weird. Then a flush of heat. What’s this? Nerves? No, it’s something else.
As I get out of Rover, my stomach seizes, nearly sending me to my knees. The most awful cramps twist in my lower abdomen, but then they pass leaving behind a scratchy, radiant he
at. What the hell was that? PMS? My period is still weeks away. Is the shot working early? Struggling to compose myself, I gather my pad and pen and head to the house to conduct my interview.
I ring the bell and a chime sounds inside, melodic, unappealing. Suddenly a new wave of fire and physical torment plows through me, followed by another series of fiery, twisting cramps. This is way worse than PMS. I double over, my muscles constricting hard, then expanding in a watery release. My overheated body starts to sweat. Every single pore tasked with three or four or five beads a piece.
Dear God, I’m thinking, not now.
The pad and pen fall from my hands. My hands knot into my stomach. It’s like a rabid dog chewing through my guts and I can’t help thinking the shot Gerhard gave me is causing this, that something is really wrong. The dosage maybe? The shot itself? He said it would be worse. This is worse! Having spent half my life on medication—thanks to Margaret—I’ve had my fair share of debilitating side effects, but nothing compares to this brand of punishment.
I sink to my knees as the front door opens. Everything is reduced to a blur. A panicked woman says something to me, but my brain won’t respond. She speaks again. Nothing. Just my body falling into a state of catatonia. Strong arms lift me, carry me inside. My mouth is at work, saying “It’ll pass,” but my mouth has gone rogue and my brain is no where to be found.
My pills are in the SUV, but I can’t say this. My jaw snaps shut, the muscles seizing. My fingers dig inside my pocket and wiggle out my iPhone, but the phone slips through my cramping fingers and drops to the floor.
“Georgia,” I groan through gnashing teeth. “Call Georgia.”
The woman’s voice is telling her husband to call 911 but my mouth is saying, “Pills. Call Georgia.” I squeeze my eyes shut against waves of aggravation in my organs. How is Gerhard’s shot working so fast? Most of me wants to tell the woman to get my pills from inside Rover, but then I’ll have to explain Gerhard’s information on the bottle, and if she calls 911, I’ll owe them an explanation as well. Gerhard will kill me. My father will kill me.
Fingers tickle the insides of my throat. My eyes feel like they’re growing fur. The voice in my ear is crisp—a woman’s voice that’s flush with panic. She’s on my phone, giving Georgia directions to the house. She’s asking questions. Not getting answers. Her husband still wants to call 911. He’s practically insisting on it.
“Friend of Kaitlyn’s,” I say, my entire face cramping. “No 911.”
I must look and sound like a lunatic, a foreigner speaking in tongues. Or the Riddler having possessed a stupid teenaged girl with the Disgusting Pig-mobile as her getaway vehicle. A cold washcloth spreads across my forehead, forcing the hot agony back a bit. I feel my face relaxing, the arthritic curl of my hands unwinding. My eyes begin to clear. The woman’s face comes into focus. She isn’t pretty, but she isn’t unattractive either. She looks like every other fifty-something housewife. Except for her fearful eyes.
A man enters my field of vision, restless, uncertain, then disappears. The woman says, “Your friend Georgia will be here in a couple of minutes. She says you must’ve forgotten your pills.” I give a nod, make a crooked smile.
The cramps in my stomach don’t get worse, but they don’t get better either. I close my eyes, feel myself melting into the couch, drifting off for a second and then jolting awake once more to the sound of the man’s voice. This must be Kaitlyn’s father.
Oh boy, did I just pass out? Is it that bad?
“I think she’s here,” he says after a long spell. “There’s her car, I think.” The air of uncertainty swirls around him, weighted and dark. He removes the washcloth from my head. “I’ll freshen this up.”
With open eyes, I realize Kaitlyn’s parents moved me into their formal living room. The couch is stiff, but wide. Across the room is a large stone fireplace, pre-cast and unpainted, with several large pictures framed and displayed. Family pictures?
Then, oh my God…what the freaking hell? My eyes focus, then blur and then they focus again with sharp intensity.
I struggle to sit but the pain roars through me anew, drowning me in dizziness, hitting me with fatigue. My mind is fogging over. I collapse against my will. Back to the couch, I shut my eyes to reset my brain, opening them a minute later to the front door opening. I hear the woman stifle a cry.
Georgia’s voice says, “Is Savannah here?” The woman moans a tortured response, which confuses my blistered brain, and I hear Georgia say, “Savannah.” Suddenly she’s beside me, her knees pressed on the decorative rug. Kaitlyn’s mother appears moments later, her face white and wrecked with disbelief, or perhaps horror.
Georgia says, “Where are your pills?”
“Rover,” I say, finding my capacity to speak slowly returning. “Keys in my pocket.”
Georgia fishes them out and I see the watery-eyed woman reaching for Georgia, almost like she can’t be real. As Georgia is moving past her, she says, “Who are you?” and the words sound pleading, almost accusatory.
“Georgia,” she says. “Georgia Quick.” Then she’s gone.
The woman falls to her knees before me, tears bubbling in her eyes, streaming down her face. She tries to speak, but the torment of revelations and unspoken words ages her ten years. Whatever she wants to say, it won’t come out. I thank her for taking care of me, because I mean it, but also because I know she’s completely losing her mind. Any minute and she’ll crawl inside herself and die. Maybe her brain will save her; maybe it will give her another personality.
She asks if I’m really a friend of Kaitlyn’s and I say we went to the same school together. Astor Academy.
“Does that girl go to school with you, too?” I nod my head. She says, “Is Georgia really her name?” Her hands are on my arm. Both of them. They’re gripping my shirt, relaxing, then re-gripping. She’s starting to hurt me.
“Yes. And yes.” My eyes flick back to the family photo on the mantle, then specifically to a portrait of Kaitlyn. Bigger things are falling into place. Making sense. I don’t want them to, but dammit they are.
“Her name, it can’t be Georgia.” Her voice holds notes of hysteria. Her face is pleading, her eyes sopping wet, wrought with remembered pain.
“I’m sorry, but it is.” My eyes bounce back to the picture on the mantle, then back to her. I don’t know which is more unsettling.
Her sanity crumbles right before my eyes. Pieces of her lucidity sheer off one by one in rapid decay. I watch it happen, my heart breaking for her. Things inside me are cracking apart as well, and for the same reason. It’s the picture on the mantle. The family photo with the four of them. Mom and dad, Kaitlyn and the boy.
Gosh motherfreaking damn.
When Kaitlyn’s father returns, he drapes a fresh cloth over my forehead and—focusing on me—he says, “Where’s her friend? She showed up, right? That was her?” Then he sees his wife, a mess of sobbing, practically mental with grief. Her hands are still digging into my arms to the point of me crying out when Georgia comes rushing through the front door. Seeing her, startled, Kaitlyn’s father staggers backwards, as if the wind were kicked out of him.
“Kaitlyn?” he says, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“No,” she says, confused. “I’m Georgia.”
3
The pressure in my head returns, a crushing pain that compresses the backs of my eyeballs with such brute force my vision feels wet, blurred on the edges. The heat beneath my skin worsens, the fire ants marching, their torches becoming bonfires. I’m trying to make sense of things, but this isn’t possible. It can’t be. If only I hadn’t started the new shot today. Gerhard was right, that puke. It’s worse. Completely unpredictable. I can’t help being pissed off at my botched interview. Why didn’t Gerhard tell me the pain would come so soon when every other time it struck me late in the evenings?
Georgia kneels down beside me, beside Kaitlyn’s sobbing mother, and shakes out four pills. The look on Georgia’s face says she’s wa
nting to get the hell out of here. Her expression betrays her with the look of more than one concern. Kaitlyn’s mother’s hands retreat, folding into tiny, dead claws against her chest.
“Water,” Georgia turns and says.
Kaitlyn’s mother refuses to move. She’s looking sideways at Georgia, whispering words, asking Georgia in low, anguished tones to just be honest. To tell the truth. Her nose is running. Kaitlyn’s father just stands there speechless, staring at the back of Georgia’s head.
Georgia heads toward the kitchen, returns with an open bottle of water and tells me to open wide. I take the pills. Georgia hands me the bottle and I swallow a slug of water.
Georgia says to Kaitlyn’s mother, “I don’t know what you want from me, but when these pills kick in we’ll leave.”
She’s staring at Georgia. Her husband is in the corner, seething, his jaw flicking. I don’t like the way his expression is changing. If I hadn’t seen the picture, I would have thought I was in freaking crazy town, or on the set of The Twilight Zone.
Perched atop the mantle is an eight by ten portrait of Kaitlyn, but the picture could be of Georgia, Bridget, or Victoria. It seems the non-triplets are actually three-quarters of the original batch. I should start thinking of them as the non-quadruplets, minus one, because Kaitlyn looks exactly like Georgia.
“She’s on a new medication,” Georgia explains. “The last one gave her some nasty side effects.”
The woman isn’t listening. She takes my arm again, then lets go. Instead, her hands reach out and touch Georgia’s face as gently as she might touch a newborn. Georgia pulls away, levels her with a baffled, almost offended look. She says, “Baby, it’s me. Don’t you recognize me?”
Georgia says, “Excuse me?”
“Kaitlyn, dear, stop pretending.” She pulls Georgia into a hug and says, “Where have you been? We thought you were dead.”
The tears are really coming now. Kaitlyn’s mother is not only coming apart, she’s lost in her own confusion, in her own tortured memories. Then again, with Georgia looking exactly like Kaitlyn, I can’t blame her. She’s only doing what any grieving mother in her situation would do: she’s trying to make sense of the impossible.