by Nick Lake
I half expected that the voice would say something then. Something about me being nothing, me being beneath his attention, pathetic, a ****** disgrace, all the things the voice so often said. But it said nothing.
And then I remembered: the voice didn’t speak when you were there. It seemed like it was really true.
“Hmm,” I said, which along with “what?” was becoming something of a catchphrase for me.
You could see I was upset, I think. I don’t know what it was—just the mere idea of Jane, who had betrayed me, or the fact that you called her beautiful. You lifted the book again. The awkwardness surfaced between us, smooth gray back of a whale breaching the water. “Anyway … back to Pygmalion,” you said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“See you around,” you said.
“Uh-huh.”
Then you got into your pickup and drove away.
I am only telling you this, from my side, because I get it now.
I do.
Jane didn’t betray me. She helped me.
And you weren’t talking about Jane, were you? I have always been good at reading, but I have never been good at reading between the lines. When you said that thing, about her being one of those girls who doesn’t know how beautiful they are. You were talking about me, weren’t you? I think, maybe, you were. And I was thinking how you were crushing on Jane, and meanwhile you were probably thinking I’m really obviously flirting with Cass and she’s just constantly knocking me back.
Sorry.
I wish I’d been more perspicacious.
I wish I could reach into time, to its secret levers and wheels, and turn it back to that afternoon, so that I would get it, what you were saying, and not hurt you. Because it must have hurt you, when I seemed so standoffish at the end, didn’t it?
Of course, I hurt you much worse than that, later.
DR. LEWIS: Cookie?
ME: No, thanks. (I show him my EpiPens.)
DR. LEWIS: Ah.
ME: The voice is still hurting me. Telling me to hurt myself, I mean.
DR. LEWIS: And you? Are you hurting it?
ME: Huh?
DR. LEWIS: Try to remember for me what happened when the voice came to you for the first time. It said you were disgusting, right?
ME: Yes.
DR. LEWIS: And you. What did you say in return?
ME: I said … I think I said, “Shut up.”
THE VOICE: You did. You ****. You ******** did.
DR. LEWIS: The voice is speaking now?
ME: Yeah. How did you know?
DR. LEWIS: You get a look in your eyes. What did it say?
ME: She.
DR. LEWIS: She. Yes. What did she say?
ME: She agreed with me.
DR. LEWIS: Interesting. One of the theories we work with is that the hearers of voices are damaged, yes, but they also damage their voices. Because they are scared, because they are freaked out. They set the tone early on, by reacting aggressively.
ME: But the voice started—
DR. LEWIS: It’s not a schoolyard. I am not establishing blame. I’m merely saying that you may need to recalibrate the tenor of your relationship with the voice.
ME: Meaning?
DR. LEWIS: Meaning be nicer to it.
ME: Hmm.
DR. LEWIS: Tell me about your mother.
ME: (blinking) What?
DR. LEWIS: She died, yes? Three years ago.
ME: (silence)
DR. LEWIS: That must have been hard for you.
ME: (quietly) What do you think?
DR. LEWIS: How did it happen?
ME: She … There was a robbery at our pizza restaurant. She was killed.
DR. LEWIS: I’m sorry.
ME: (silence)
DR. LEWIS: I don’t mean to pry. I am interested in the idea that this event may have been the trigger. For your voice.
ME: It was years ago.
DR. LEWIS: This is often the case.
ME: (silence)
DR. LEWIS: Were you there?
ME: Excuse me?
DR. LEWIS: When your mother was killed. Were you present?
ME: (silence)
ME: (silence)
ME: (silence)
ME: Yes.
DR. LEWIS: I see. That must have been very upsetting.
ME: (silence)
DR. LEWIS: (looking at watch) Okay. Well, we’ll leave it there for the moment. The others are due.
2. ACCEPTANCE. Acknowledge your voice as real, both a real part of yourself and a manifestation of your feelings about yourself.
This was not easy, but I tried, and it did make a kind of sense to me.
For example: when I got back to my room after talking to you about Ovid, about Jane. The voice said,
“He doesn’t see you. Just as you deserve.”
“Who?”
The voice laughed. “Like you don’t know. You are invisible to him. You are worthless. He sees only Jane.”
I cried then. I wish I could say I was strong and always stood up to the voice, but I didn’t.
“He invited me to go see the plush warehouse,” I said.
“He is being polite,” said the voice. “You are a piece of nothing shaped like a person. You are Echo, after she dies, speaking only the words of Narcissus back to him. You may as well be dead.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Please. Don’t say that.”
“I will say what I please.”
“I can make you go away, you know,” I said.
“Oh yes? How?”
I flicked on the radio, turned the dial to find static. But I wasn’t fast enough. I caught a snippet of conversation—the Houdini Killer appears to have struck yet again, with local prostitute Shayna Jennings reported missing two nights ago, only a week after—
I kept turning the dial, let the words sink into:
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
But I couldn’t keep it up forever. Eventually I had to turn it off, and the voice was waiting. The voice was always waiting.
“See what you did?”
“What?”
“You let another girl die. You failed. You were supposed to be finding him, right? The Houdini Killer? But what have you done? You’ve done NOTHING.”
“What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to—”
“You’re supposed to TRY.”
“I …” I shook my head. I felt like I really was going crazy. “Why me? Who do I have to—”
“BECAUSE YOU’RE LETTING THEM DIE. BECAUSE OTHERWISE HE GETS AWAY WITH IT. Don’t you see? Just like the guy who killed your—”
“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.”
Silence.
Then, a voice like a gust of cold arctic air, frost hanging in it, crystals, capable of getting into the lungs, into the ears and freezing you from the inside out.
“Wash your face,” it said. “Ten times. Maybe if you deal with those zits he will be more interested. Maybe it will make you less disgusting.”
Yeah.
At times like those, I thought maybe Dr. Lewis was right. I mean, I looked in the mirror, in my bathroom—the en suite that Dad had made for me when we moved in—and I saw two pimples, one on my cheek and one on my chin.
And I felt disgusted by myself when I saw them.
So even though there was a part of me that still thought the voice might be supernatural, might be some kind of ghost or something, I could see the logic of the Doc’s position.
I.e.: everything the voice was saying was really what I was saying. My own hatred of myself, my own desire to punish myself, to make myself pay�
�
And then my thoughts would stop, would come to a brick wall that didn’t let them go any further, a barricade in my memories. I know what it is, now, that barricade.
But I didn’t then. I genuinely didn’t.
Anyway, yes, I could see that maybe the voice was me. I mean, I could understand it intellectually, as an abstract concept.
It was the concrete aspect I had difficulty with.
That is: the voice was not my voice. It was someone else’s voice, a woman’s, and I heard it through my ears. You have no idea what that feels like, when you hear a real voice that seems to be from outside you, and it hates you too.
At least, I hope you don’t.
“Wash your face again.”
“You said ten times.”
“Again.”
I looked at myself in the mirror. The dark circles were gone from beneath my eyes, but the pimples were like the size of the moon, blotting out my whole face, they were so enormous.
Disgusting, I thought.
But Dr. Lewis had made me believe I could control this thing, at least. Even if it was hard. So at the same time I was thinking about the next precept, the one about dialogue and conciliation. “If I do, can I read a bit of a book?”
“What book?”
“I don’t know. The one Jane gave me.”
“That *****? You want to read her book?”
“It’s not hers. It’s the library’s. It’s by Haruki Murakami. He’s Japanese.”
“The ***** called your dad, and he took you to the hospital, and that’s where they killed me again with those pills. I already died once and you did NOTHING to stop it. Then she killed me again.”
I closed my eyes. “Please,” I said.
ALL TOGETHER NOW:
“No,” said the voice.
3. DIALOGUE AND CONCILIATION. Welcome the voice, instead of ignoring it or telling it to shut up. Encourage more positive interaction and negotiation.
I’ve touched on this already. And the weird thing is, it did kind of work. Not right away, but it did.
So:
I was sitting on my bed, the room full of red morning light. The room was spotless. Here’s something freaky: I really liked that. I mean, it was the voice that had me always cleaning up after myself, but I had come to realize I enjoyed the feeling of space and order.
This, essentially, is what the Doc meant about the voice being part of me.
Anyway. I was sitting there feeling half-awake. This must have been a week and a half after I started seeing the Doc? Maybe. I was in my SEAL TEAM 5 EATS SHARKS FOR BREAKFAST T-shirt of Dad’s that I always slept in.
From downstairs, the smell of bacon came creeping up, I visualized it like tendrils of vapor, reaching out for me, luring me. Dad, cooking for me. It was how he showed his love. He’d also been very noticeably keeping his temper under control, never lashing out like he used to, never hitting things. That must have taken a lot of effort because Dad was an angry person.
Mom’s … Mom’s death made him that way.
The voice said,
“No bacon for you if you don’t clean your ******* room.”
“It’s clean!”
“Clean it again. And then clean your bathroom.”
I took a deep breath and thought about the steps. “Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly. How are you?”
Silence.
“Are you okay? I didn’t hear you last night, and I worried about you.”
Silence.
“It’s good to hear you again anyway.”
Silence. But a pregnant one. I could sense the voice there, invisibly breathing.
“Clean,” it said finally.
“With pleasure,” I said.
Then I thought: negotiation.
“If I clean extra well, can I read some of my book?”
“What book?”
“The novel.”
“The one the ***** gave you.”
I held my tongue. “She is a *****, we have established that. But if I clean, can I read a chapter?”
Silence.
“Can I?”
“No.”
“It’s just a book.”
“Yeah, and that boy in the apartment just broke your heart when he turned his sights on that ****** ***** ******.”
“He didn’t break my heart. Please. I’m not some princess in a story. I’m not, like, in love with him or anything. I barely know him.” Though even then, another voice in my head, not the voice but a little, quiet fantasizing voice, said, He dreamed about you.
“Yes. You are. I saw you looking at his arms. It’s pathetic.”
I tried to keep calm. “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about the book. You want me to clean the bathroom. Fine. But then I want a chapter of my book.”
“No.”
“Please.”
And then …
And then I WOULD LIKE YOU TO TAKE A MOMENT TO APPRECIATE THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS:
“Okay,” said the voice. “But not a chapter. Ten pages.”
“Fine,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
THE VOICE: silence.
Unimportant lowercase spoiler:
Dad’s bacon was awesome. So were his pancakes. His bacon and pancakes are always awesome. This is, to be honest, a good reason on its own to forgive me, and to forgive him.
You do not want to miss out on his breakfasts.
4. SCHEDULE. Allot a regular time at which the voice can speak to you. Refuse to engage if the voice tries to speak at any other time.
I was surprised by how well this one worked.
This is what I did:
Every time the voice came to me, I followed a script in my head, like a telesales operative.
Here’s an example from the shore:
EXT. DAY. A SOUTH NEW JERSEY BEACH. THE SUN IS HIGH IN THE SKY. THERE IS THE BARNACLED AND SEAWEED-FESTOONED PILLAR OF A PIER TO THE LEFT OF OUR HEROINE, WHO IS STRIPPING OFF HER T-SHIRT AND JEANS TO REVEAL A SWIMSUIT. IT IS THE FIRST TIME SHE HAS BEEN DOWN TO THE BEACH SINCE SHE FOUND A HUMAN FOOT THERE. IT IS ANOTHER WARM DAY, THOUGH THERE ARE CLOUDS GATHERING IN THE SKY, AND LATER IT WILL RAIN. THE SEAGULLS ARE CALLING, CALLING, CALLING THE GIRL’S NAME.
TAUNTING HER.
SHE IS IGNORING THEM. WHAT SHE FINDS HARDER TO IGNORE IS THE VOICE. THE VOICE BELONGS TO A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN WITH AN INDETERMINATE NEW JERSEY ACCENT.
A DOG RACES PAST, CHASING A FRISBEE; A SMALL YAPPY DOG, IT THROWS ITSELF INTO THE AIR, SPARKLING WATER FALLING FROM IT, AND TIME SEEMS TO STAND STILL, THE DOG HANGING AT THE TOP OF ITS LEAP, JAWS CLOSING ON THE FRISBEE.
THE VOICE: You even think about swimming in that ocean and I’ll—
ME: Oh, hi! How are you?
THE VOICE: (silence)
ME: I was wondering where you were. It’s nice to hear from you.
THE VOICE: Swimming is enjoyment. You are not allowed to enjoy yourself.
ME: I’m sorry you feel that way.
THE VOICE: (silence)
ME: (checking the G-Shock Dad gave me for my sixteenth) It’s two o’clock. I would prefer you to speak to me only after six p.m.
THE VOICE: You dare to—
ME: After six p.m., please.
THE VOICE: Put your clothes back on. Go home. People can see your body. Your ******* fat body.
ME: Okay. Okay, boss.
I pull on my Levis and T-shirt. Then I turn away from the ocean, which keeps whispering to me when my back is turned, the surf hissing onto the sand, a Greek chorus behind the calling of the gulls.
THE VOICE: Good. Now you’re not making anyone sick with your flab.
ME: Thank you. But please, don’t speak to me again till six p.m.
THE VOICE: (silence)
I never meant to swim, of course. It was a tactic. Not something the Doc taught me either.
But hey: if your father runs a restaurant, one thing you learn is how to negotiate.
So:
Same script, on
repeat. My lines, every time the voice said anything to me:
Oh, hi!
Every time:
I would prefer you to speak to me only after six p.m.
And it must have worked, because a few days after that, Dad came home for dinner and it was only then I realized I hadn’t heard the voice all day. In fact, I had read like ten chapters of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and I hadn’t even thought about it.
“Hey, honey,” said Dad. “Why are you smiling?”
“No reason,” I said.
“Well, it’s good to see.” He held up a bag. “I’m making meatballs. And …” He hesitated. Then he held up another bag, this one clear and blue. “And … I got a movie. I mean, if you want. It’s no big deal. The girl at the store said you would like it. I mean, she thought you might—”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, maybe.”
Dad blinked at me for a second. Almost every night he was suggesting TV or a movie or going out somewhere, and every night I said no. “Oh. Oh, that’s great, honey.” He turned around and headed to the kitchen, and a very small part of me noticed him wiping his eye with his sleeve like he had shed a tear, and all the rest of me refused to notice this at all because it would mean consciously realizing how much he loved me, and that was something so painful it might create a supernova right here on a New Jersey street, suck the whole solar system into it, turn it to atoms.
Even now, my fingers are white as I type.
But where was I?
Oh yes, the DVDs.
See, before the voice, box sets used to be a big part of our lives, mine and Dad’s. We didn’t talk about much, me and my dad, but we did talk about Tony Soprano and Walter White.
After the voice: there was basically nothing. I mean, Dad was into collecting millipedes. I liked books. There was really nothing we shared. We lived in different parts of the house.
But that night, we shared the meatballs that Dad made—they were awesome; please bear this in mind along with the bacon and the pancakes—and then some nut-free chocolate ice cream. Dad told me stories about work, and I told him how I had started a book that day, and he wiped his eye again so I shut up.
But then he told a joke, a lame joke about one of his regulars and I …
I …
I smirked.
Everything about that night is bright lacquered in my memory; I could almost reach out and touch it all. It was a crappy old plastic-covered table in a small kitchen in New Jersey with green cabinets from, like, the seventies, but I felt like I was in a palace. The halogen strip light in the ceiling was bathing us. I felt like the whole world was full of light.