by Dan Noble
7
MILLIE
My lasting physical memory of Dr. Pinocchio is an intense and skinny man with a ridiculous name, a big nose, and a hushed voice that underlined the importance of everything he said.
“Under the current system, there are people who have no hope,” he said to me that first time in his new office, where a lithograph of Shakespeare hung on the wall. “They aren’t going to pull out from beneath the ugly thoughts that drown them. They’ll never step outside the constructs they’ve created to hide from their own grief.”
The words hit close to home. Couldn’t those words be said for me? I tried to shake it off; he didn’t know me. Besides, Pinocchio struck me as someone more interested in the science of how this occurred and the study of how it might be fixed, than the suffering of the people themselves. And yet, he had that vulnerable look that made him approachable. He’ll get it, people would think. But I was brought up to be skeptical of vulnerability, to respect strength.
He did have modern ideas, and this was better than the alternative I often thought. He always had his nose in The Oxford Companion to Emotion and the Affective Sciences, and from that first meeting, he shared with me tidbits of his research in the field.
“Simulation is a key operation of the mind. Imagining how a scenario—say a public speaking appearance—might play out, creates in the brain a series of triggers in the same regions that would be triggered during the real thing.
“A similar thing occurs when we read stories. It’s less intense than the real thing most of the time, but I’m sure there’s a way to amp this up, so we aren’t just trying scenarios out ‘off-line’ without the risk, but actually experiencing them without the risk.
“Hold on, Doctor P,” I said, trying out the nickname I heard the staff and patients use. “This sounds like what dreams do. When I dream, everything seems so real and my body responds as such. I wake up screaming or sweating sometimes. Same reactions I would have in real life. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly. Think of all the dangerous scenarios people could get out of their systems without actually harming themselves in the real world. Or conversely, think of the fears that could be overcome, the careers tried out before thousands of dollars in student debt. Anything we want to do in real life but can’t.”
“Sounds like science fiction. Would virtual reality therapy fit in here?”
“Not exactly. It’s a lot more low tech than you might think.”
“Interesting. Are you telling me this because you think Mother might have some contribution to the research?” Even as I asked the question, I didn’t believe it as a possible reason for this talk. She would hate all this scientific speak. She’s all about instinct, beauty, the mystery of how everything works, giving yourself over to the experience. Imagine her giving me a step-by-step walk through like Pinocchio was doing! My own instinct was to look inward for blame. Was he about to justify my self-flagellation? Had Mother already made known to him my shortcomings?
Pinocchio jolted in his chair and dropped the ballpoint pen he’d begun massaging. I eyed the door behind him. The knob wasn’t even properly engaged in the frame. I could be out of here in a flash. “Yes. She’s key. Her brain is primed to a vastly larger degree than 99 percent of the population to be perceptive to simulative journeys. The initial scans are remarkable. Never seen anything like it.”
I should have pretended to be more surprised. That’s when I gave myself away. He knew I knew there was something strange she could do. He wasn’t denying it. But wasn’t saying it either. Why was he being so cagey? Why didn’t he just come out and say it: Mother could magically travel into the world of her books? I couldn’t see Mother trusting someone like him.
Instead he spoke of terms I hadn’t heard of before. “We place all our emphasis in this society on rationality. We treat the mind like a computer, collecting data. We think in terms of rational and irrational. But there’s something else, something that taps into our instinct, and this is called suprarational thinking. And we don’t pay attention to developing this kind of thinking that allows for intuition—something people can’t quite explain—though it’s been proven again and again that tapping into it has extraordinary benefits.
“We need the conventional proof to show the world that suprarationality is real. And this is where a collaboration between your mother and myself comes in.”
I felt a thrumming in my head. It quickly spread throughout my limbs. It pulsed through me so deeply that I felt like the world was putting all its feeling into my one body, and then suddenly, I felt nothing.
I didn’t realize, but I had put myself at his mercy because he understood people, he had the records, and he knew I’d never mentioned a connection between her disappearances and her reading. And so, he must have known I was hiding it. Which meant I was unsure, scared most likely, of what I suspected. I waited on the edge of my seat for him to say it—something magical was happening here. Wouldn’t this have been the moment?
One thought led to another: Was I imagining the subtext of this meeting? Was there any subtext? Was there even a Dr. Pinocchio or was this one of those amped-up dreams he was speaking of? After all, his name was ridiculous, especially given the circumstances. Still, maybe this was a signal that he been planted here?
That last thought presented as a red flag. Anyone could see I was manifesting symptoms of paranoia. How much of all of this had I imagined? Would it be so impossible to imagine a young girl from a broken home, whose mother tried to repeatedly kill herself, coping by creating some fantastical reason for it all? Something that in the end would make it meaningful? No. I thought of the dedication—to the exclusion of all else—that Mother had given to this cause. And the fact that Pinnochio was singling her out now backed this up: the book world was real.
Pinocchio kept talking, but I was only half absorbing his words. I sat on my hand, which had begun to shake.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I nodded. But I wasn’t so sure. His voice, the sound of the duct heating, the squeal of medicine carts wheeling by, were deafening. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, he was in front of me, on my side of the desk, the colors of his shirt too bright.
“This is where the books come in,” he continued, as if he didn’t notice how off I was. “It’s so clear, I don’t know why science hadn’t discovered it earlier. We are programmed to learn, to comprehend and interact with the world through story,” he continued. “That’s nothing new. It’s been established through various disciplines, eons ago.”
With a wicked sense of déjà vu, and of course, that ever-present possibility of paranoid delusion on the edges, I suspected where this was going. Mother was as important as I’d always known her to be. What had looked like suicide attempts were errors, or occupational hazards, or cover-ups, as I’d always hungered for them to be.
Still, I was skeptical that Mother’s personal journey could mean so much to so many people when she’d only ever taken it in the privacy of her own thoughts. If I knew anything about Mother it was that she believed in the individual’s journey, no matter how cruel or unhelpful. Magic or not, I was clear on this: it was the reason I’d begun to hate her. This Dr. P did not jive with her credo. Despite the difference in application, I heard him and felt sure I knew where he was going; the term suprarational seemed to fit my theory perfectly: the words erupted from within me. “What she does, it’s something not art, not life, but a new dimension entered via the combination of the two—perhaps even the real dimension.” My palm clamped over my mouth. The doorknob called out to me. I’d said too much.
He didn’t say anything, just dipped his chin slightly, then pressed a button on his desk. My desperation was a wash over the whole room. Dr. P saw my hunger for Mother’s extraordinariness, my shameful normalcy, and he was abusing me for some reason, saying the kinds of things I’d always longed to hear. I yelled as I made my escape, and felt several pairs of hands secure me before everything went blac
k.
8
MILLIE
The day after lunch at Kennedy’s parents’ place, I break the news about the cancer to Angie, who takes the day off and comes by for lunch.
“Where’s my book?” Rose asks even before Angie puts her bag down.
“Rose!” I scold. “Angie doesn’t always have to bring you a new book.”
My daughter does not look the least ashamed. That’s probably because Angie is rolling her eyes in my direction, frowning, and pointing as if I’m from another planet: Disappointment, a holdover from Mother. “Of course, I do. Does your mother see how cute you are? How could I not buy you a book?”
Rose’s face turns up in a frenzied smile that bobs her ponytail back as she reaches out for the flat package Angie pulls from her handbag, her stubby fingers tear and crinkle the paper. She pulls out a beautiful hard backed picture book packaged with a stuffed animal: Diary of a Wombat. “I know you guys love all this Australian stuff,” she says, dismissively.
Rose tries to sound out the letters. “What’s a womb-bat?” and looks to Angie for guidance.
“It’s what your mom’s got in her belly,” she says. “It’s for breaking all your toys and stealing your parents’ attention.”
“Mom has that in her belly?” Rose points to what looks like a sleeping baby bear on the cover.
Angie and I exchange smiles. “At least I will be able to tell you two apart,” I say. This seems to satisfy Rose’s concerns.
“Shall we take it outside and see just what this wombat can do?” Angie asks, pulling the cardboard tabs, freeing bits of Styrofoam and plastic.
“Mom says the ground is wet and the spiders will bite your hiney.”
Angie eyes me suspiciously. She sets up Rose to pre-choose the best illustrations. When Rose is consumed on the sofa, Angie and I retreat to the kitchen where she doesn’t beat around the bush.
“Now, what the fuck is going on?” She doesn’t realize her mouth has come to be sculpted in a permanent frown. “And, hey: spiders will bite your hiney?”
“Sometimes you have to say these kinds of things to kids.”
“Spiders. Will bite your hiney.”
“Well, when you say it like that.” Lying to Angie is like lying to myself. Pointless. But marriage makes you pick sides.
“Millie, you have a family history of mental illness. You can’t walk around telling people there are spiders outside your house that will bite your hiney.”
I grimace. The psychiatric trained part of me responds to this logic, likes the idea of stringing it out to the logical conclusion in a way I haven’t had to in a long while: I didn’t do anything wrong to Mother. I have an anxiety disorder that makes me think I did. Still, I can live with the possibility that I did, not concentrate on the feelings.
“Do you remember me reading Robinson Crusoe?”
She taps her cheek. “No. No, I don’t. This is what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Yes, you do. I talked about it nonstop. If I remember correctly, I even went through a stage of wearing a bandana, thinking I looked adventurous. And no, that’s not all I’ve got.” Adventure. That’s why I’d been thinking about it in conjunction with Kennedy’s Kancer. Power, independence, resourcefulness, bravery. I could use a taste of that.
I don’t mention the memory that sticks out most about the Crusoe days. When Angie and I had been reading together outside, on our stomachs, our legs kicking in sync, and it began to rain. We’d run in through the kitchen and right down to the basement to grab an old tarp because we wanted to make a fort, be like Crusoe himself. But down there, she found dad’s old hunting rifle. She pointed the gun at my forehead. I remember panicking, like she might kill me. But after a long stare off, she lowered it to the ground and began a huge Roxanne style belly laugh. “You totally thought I was going to shoot you, Millie! You should have seen your face.”
Of course I laughed too. Angie was often all I had when Mother was inaccessible. I wouldn’t have her thinking anything of me that would disappoint her. I learned to go with the flow.
“Maybe,” she says now. “Why?” She rolls her eyes.
“Am I annoying you?”
She straightens her back as if snapping herself back to something. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to talk about Kennedy.”
Something about the way his name rolls off her tongue makes me want to do anything but. As if her words would somehow hurt him, make the situation worse.
“No. I don’t. He’s sick. Not much else to say.” I’d already shared what I knew so far.
“Oh, Millie. You know I’m so sorry for you. He’ll be okay. You’ll see. But you must speak to him about it. You can’t just ignore reality. You of all people should know that.”
Again it jars. His image in her hands is not right. “Let’s go see what Rose is doing back there,” I say. “She’ll be wanting to see how to torture a wombat. So she’ll be prepared.”
Angie shakes her head and shrugs, like she would have expected this avoidance from me. But she gives in and follows me out back. It’s lovely exploring the world of this book with Rose. A great escape.
At dinner, I tell Kennedy about Angie’s visit. His jaw tightens, nearly imperceptibly. But I catch it before he calms his muscles. I’m well beyond trying to get those two to like each other. I already feel terrible having shared the news of Kancer with her. Initially, it felt right to unburden myself to her, lightened the load a bit. But now it rankles.
“What did she want? Let me guess, man troubles. Am I right?”
“Of course.”
“What a shock.” Immediately, he begins to choke.
“Are you okay?” I ask, placing my silverware along the rim of the plate. “Is it a chili? Have you bitten your cheek?”
“Fine,” he says. Not I’m fine.
I let out a heavy breath and look him in the eye.
He looks handsome, hurt, like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t think he wants to. How have we become so separate? He smooths his hands over the napkin on his lap, sits straighter and picks up his silver. “Some things,” he says, “you don’t need to know.”
See Angie, you don’t understand everything. He doesn’t want me to tell him. I’ve been training for this my whole life: living in the dark, managing the possibility of imminent disaster. It’s quite beautiful if you look at it that way—all fitting together so heartbreakingly perfect.
I’m conscious of the way his muscles shift along his arms as he eats, the way his foot taps slightly before he consciously stops it. I feel him watch me.
9
MILLIE
MILLIE
I told Kennedy what happened with Mother after the third time we laid naked together, catching our breath after frantic, heightened sex. The sort that casts all other such experiences as clumsy, crass acting jobs.
I’d drunk too much sherry—the only liquor left in what I still thought of as Mother’s dusty cabinet—and he’d twirled my hair forcefully in his fist and said, “I want to know what you aren’t telling me.” The level of my attraction to him bordered on mania, and I would have done anything he asked with my eyes and hands thusly in his clutches.
Still, I was surprised to find that once I stumbled upon a way to begin the story, it was a great relief to share the burden of Mother with him. He didn’t interrupt me once until I got to the summer of ’95, after the Lorrie Moore incident.
I was telling him how I’d become suspicious of all those pungent second-hand books Mother buried herself in. There was something to them I couldn’t tap, that wouldn’t reveal itself to me. And he only stopped me then to say he wasn’t sure where he stood on second-hand bookshops. The smell had always bothered him, and he wondered whether authors should have been worked into a cut of the profits somehow.
“Authors are incredibly underpaid,” he said before going silent again. After that, he maintained his silence, rather than spewing the constant barrage of disbelief and questioning I had anticipate
d, which made the sharing far less terrifying than I’d pictured.
I told him her method for that second suicide, the one that had taken her speech, was a modern rip-off of Hamlet’s Ophelia with rocks in pockets, garland of yellow roses from our garden crowning her head, and chains and chains of those blasted rhododendrons (precisely half alive, half dead) around her neck. She’d made the attempt at the creek near the end of the next block and it was quashed by a lantern-jawed fly fisherman.
How could it be anything but tragedy? My mother shedding the parts of herself like a snake slithers from her skin.
“Or a giant, self-absorbed cliché,” he said.
No one had ever spoken of Mother that way. I didn’t know how to react until a smile planted itself on my lips. After all these years, I was surprised to find I had distilled Mother’s untold story into something quite decisive. In fact, though Kennedy’s stance was a relief, there was a part of me that instinctively defended the mystery of it all.
I continued. “Still, I know what you mean. Terrible, I told myself as I waited for a ride from my friend Angie’s mother to the hospital. Who does something like that to her child? I’d sat for fifteen minutes with the phone in my hand, considering calling my father, and telling myself those weren’t my tears soaking my shirt because I was not crying over such a ridiculous woman. Unable to act, I told myself to go to the ladies’ room, and when I came back, I would call him.”
The word ridiculous rang in my ear. It wasn’t accurate, but when I told it that way, I allowed it to feel accurate.
“Wait a minute. You said ‘ladies’ room’ to yourself at a time like that?”
“Of course,” I said.