The Shimmering State

by Meredith Westgate

  * * *

  Back to Fleur. Bougainvillea lining the driveway, fallen petals up to the door. Her living room is bright from the empty walls reflecting across the bare wood. But no one is there. No one is inside. He rushes back to the den, where the other nurse, Gloria, is on the phone looking through the window shade. Trina sits beside his grandmother’s chair.

  When Trina turns, she wipes wet tracks from her cheeks.

  “Lucien, I’m so sorry. Your grandmother, she just—a few minutes ago.”

  Trina gets up and moves toward him, but Lucien steps toward his grandmother.

  “What? No. No!” he insists, as if he could argue it untrue. “No one called me.”

  “It just happened, we were just about to—we had the paramedics on the way, but it’s too late. It came out of nowhere. But it was peaceful.”

  He kneels down beside her, still reclined. Her eyes are open, empty. Finally so. He takes her hand and feels it now, just a body. He had thought so before, but how wrong he had been.

  “This was something we were cautious of,” Trina says, looking to Gloria for help, but she is still on the phone. “None of us anticipated—we thought she was fine on the machine.”

  Was was was. Say it enough times and it stops making sense.

  “I know,” he whispers to Florence. “I know.”

  He wants to squeeze her cold hand and tell her he knows what she kept all those years. How it must have been lonely, but she wasn’t alone with it anymore. He wants to ask if his mother knew. He wants to hold on to her forever, but instead of squeezing, he lets her go.

  “That’s them,” Gloria says, rushing back out to the front. Trina follows her.

  Lucien’s mind is still catching up. His grandmother is gone. Gone and he’s still here. He’s done it again. He missed it. He used her and now she’s gone, too. He feels dizzy. The room is spinning. This, again. What is he doing here, without her? What good is anything he learned, without her living? What do his promises mean to anyone?

  Florence’s eyes stare straight ahead. The bottle of Memoroxin sits in its usual place.

  * * *

  When Lucien gets back to his apartment, texts from Liv light up the phone in his pocket. He turns it off and tosses it to the floor. The paper he had so frantically written notes and names on taunts him from the kitchen. All of his stupid promises. He lights a burner and dips the corner of the page until it catches. Then he drops the handful of flames into the sink.

  Lucien pours all of Florence’s remaining pills onto the countertop, where her life had just lain in words on the page. The pills dance glimmering until they find their place on the laminate. He grabs a handful and swallows them, dry.

  A hammer still lays on the trunk that Liv found for him at the Rose Bowl. As promised, she found things to clutter his apartment. So that he could finally empty the contents of his few boxes from New York—books, a cast-iron skillet, his winter clothing that felt like skin he had shed and would never fit into again. And all for what, so he could find himself here?

  He grips the leather handle and raises the hammer above the rest of the pills. He hits them one after another, watching them crack then crumble into iridescent powder. He swipes his hand across the counter, forming anthills that he levels, one by one, with each nostril.

  Lucien reels back, eyes watering, his entire body quaking. His arms pull in close, hands twitching. One leg jolts with the memory of motion, then another, the seizure of Fleur’s life shocking his own. He hardly feels her in the frenzy of moments cut together into milliseconds. There is no more yellow, but every color all at once. And then he is flat on the floor.

  Then he is vibration.

  Then he is light.

  Chapter 25 BEFORE

  Sophie blinks fluorescent, eyes sore from the pain meds. She glances down at her arm. Two IVs enter at the crease of her elbow. Bandages cover her wrist. She hears a low, guttural moan before realizing it is her. She lifts her hand to her face and feels a dull, wet pain.

  Each hurt makes itself known one by one. Her eyebrow stings under its bandage. Her face must be swollen; it is visible through the corner of her eye in a way it shouldn’t be. Another bandage pulls at her shoulder when she tries to sit up farther. Her entire body feels taped together. She glances down at her legs, two sticks under the sheet. She panics. She taps her thighs, her knees, her body tingling with terror. When she finally focuses, she sees the bedsheet wiggle above her toes.

  “Don’t try too much,” a nurse says from the doorway. “Those pain meds are doing their job; move too much now and you’ll regret it later.”

  Sophie can’t find the words. Her throat closes.

  “You’re lucky. You didn’t break a single bone. God bless last year’s rain, you landed in some thick undergrowth.”

  “Ah.”

  “Somebody up there likes you,” she says. “Come on now, don’t strain.”

  The thought that anyone up there is looking out for her makes her prickle; if the nurse only knew who—or what—they had saved. Why is she even grateful for her feet, her legs? Why does any of it matter now? She tried to escape, and instead she is immobilized, flooded with drugs. The darkness merely sedated by opioids swirling in her blood. None of it would change what is still inside. None of it would fix her mind.

  “I’d like to rest.”

  “Can we call someone for you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “We need to—”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Well, I can talk to them, or I can talk to you.”

  Sophie turns her head, the bandages pulling at her hair. She hardly feels the pain, but her eyes water nonetheless. She hopes the meds have dulled everything else, too. Though she feels that anger—Auguste’s throat in her hand—as the nurse steps closer. Sophie debates ripping out the IVs; maybe that would ground her more clearly, and cleanly, to her body. Maybe it’s the pain she needs, not the meds. She wouldn’t need to cut herself if she were torn up at the seams.

  “The blood work we ran showed Memoroxin.”

  “Oh.”

  Sophie glances out the window to the hallway, for police.

  “Yes, oh. Here’s the thing. In California, we have something called deferment of entry for the first-time offense. Didn’t see anything on your record, or any illegal substances in your belongings. Are you following me?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “So, you can do the work—rehabilitation clinic or classes, temporary probation.”

  Sophie swallows, pain. How did she get here? She heard these listed for her brother before, never understanding them. Never understanding a world with these options.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “At Cedars we have a partnership. Anyone admitted with illegal traces of the drug Memoroxin, and displaying signs of self-harm, is eligible for a voluntary extended rehabilitation. It’s a lottery, I don’t know that you’ll get in—but it’s something you should consider.”

  “For how long?” Sophie asks. “The program, I mean. How long is it?”

  “Long as it takes.”

  She has nothing anyway. No upcoming performance, no job.

  “Just like that? Is there a catch?”

  “No catch. Once you’re stable, medically, we’d send you on your way.”

  “Is it covered by health insurance?”

  “It’s no cost.”

  Someone is always paying the bill, Sophie thinks. Money reflects interests; whether or not that information is public changes nothing. And there is, almost always, a catch.

  “You’re wincing, let me give you a little more. It’s about time anyway.”

  The nurse adjusts her drip. There is always a catch, Sophie thinks again as the room floats around her. But there are other questions to ask when you’re falling.

  Chapter 26 TODAY

  Lucien sees Sophie every time he closes his eyes. He cannot forget how her delicate features turned sharp; how he is now the one who hurt her, not t
he one to help. He knows the best thing is for him to stay away. He can’t risk her progress by upsetting her any more. But when he falls asleep, he is beside her again with the illusion of a second chance. He feels the anger off the back of her head, the side of her cheek. He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. No matter how hard he strains, only silence leaves his mouth.

  Why hadn’t he told Sophie he recognized her the first night in her bedroom? And when he finally did, why hadn’t he told the truth? That all this time he hadn’t mentioned Liv because he didn’t want to lose any time with Sophie. He hadn’t mentioned her friend because, honestly, he hardly thinks about Liv, and admitting that out loud makes him feel cruel. More cruel still, that even before coming here he hardly thought of Liv. Distraction requires no commitment, no loyalty. And once diverted, returning to it seems pointless, problematic even. Love had never crossed his mind.

  He tries to conjure the earlier moments with Sophie when they were together, him touching her, and neither of them wanting to stop. But the memory disappears as soon as it comes, back to the reality of what happened next. Why can’t he see all the times he caught her gaze in passing, the very sight of her giving his days at the Center meaning? The excitement of a new beginning. Why torture himself, with the end?

  His mind wanders back to Sophie’s face when she first turned to him, her body pressed into his. Her expression was flickering. He felt the potential even then, the photographer seeing the full array of looks. In one second, the human eye can process ten to twelve distinct images before the illusion of continuity connects them into a larger movement. Seconds become minutes and there are multitudes within a moment. Lucien knows the way a thought can skew this way or that; the power of an expression to do harm. And he knows how one second turns a moment.

  He looks back at the chances he had to say the thing he meant, to change the conversation’s course. What becomes the story. In the moment, he missed it. He simply couldn’t see it. They were each having their own conversation, totally missing the other.

  The irony is that being with Sophie finally made Lucien want to look closely again; with her he was collecting moments that he wanted to keep. And, he had felt like himself again.

  * * *

  Lucien heads to the common room early, to wait there before his session with Dr. Sloane. Sophie sits away from the fireplace, in a chair along the far glass wall. Lucien walks up behind her. He hasn’t seen her since two nights ago, when she told him to leave. He catches her glance in the glass before she shifts away from him. He doesn’t want to push, or cause another fit. But he does want to talk. He needs to explain.

  He kneels, his head hovering at her level. Surveying the shoreline, the water. Then he turns to whisper in her ear, if she’ll let him, and her hair brushes his nose as she turns away. He waits in the closeness, eyes closed. He even thinks she leans into him, almost imperceptibly. Just then, he hears his name. Sophie’s lips are pressed tight. He hears it again, repeated from far away. Lucien looks up. He looks around.

  The room is still quiet that early, but then—through the glass to reception, he sees someone. Standing at the desk. Looking right at him.

  Liv.

  Sophie pulls away and curls her legs in. She hasn’t seen. Lucien stands and walks toward the entry, toward reception at the other end of the room. Liv, if it is her, looks frozen. Shocked to see him there, though he’s the one who should be. He squints and keeps walking. She shows no sign of recognition. Could she be a manifestation of his guilt? Halfway there, a nurse steps in front of him.

  “Dr. Sloane is ready for your session,” she says.

  When the nurse moves, the figure is already halfway out the door.

  * * *

  Dr. Sloane sits in the private, jutting glass room with a folder in her lap. She looks pleased, though she has looked that way ever since her daughter arrived. She lets him sit on the couch first, then hands him the folder from her lap.

  “Good news today,” she says brightly. “The nurses and I all believe you’re ready to begin the discharge process. You’ve proven that your memories have implanted, you don’t display any signs of continued contamination, and we don’t believe you’re at an elevated risk of relapse.”

  Lucien is shocked. He had forgotten, for a moment, about leaving.

  “What do you think?” she says with a rare smile. “Speechless?”

  His mind goes to Sophie, still not talking to him.

  “I am, truly.”

  “Well, with a case like yours, this can be a smooth process. Now that you’re stable, there’s very little we can offer. I thought you’d be thrilled. To get back to your life. I know you have things to do. Now, if I don’t see you again, best of luck with everything.”

  He remembers his grandmother and feels guilty for needing the reminder. What is it in the waiting that makes the end feel sudden?

  * * *

  Back in his room, Lucien opens the folder. A single-page survey follows, with basic and leading questions. He considers sabotaging himself so he has to stay longer, so he has more time to fix things with Sophie before leaving. And yet, the idea of tricking a treatment center capable of extracting your memories seems somewhat flawed.

  I do not feel that I am a danger to myself or others. 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10

  I am excited to start another day as myself. 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10

  I feel like I have much to live for. 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10

  He lies on the third question. All of them actually, just enough to make it seem realistic. He assumes that is what they want anyway. This survey seems more for the Center’s records, a disclaimer should something happen once a patient is discharged.

  * * *

  Dr. Sloane was right: things would move quickly.

  The next day, Lucien looks for Sophie in all the common spaces, but she is nowhere. He just wants to say goodbye. In this place where they had shared something. Lucien already feels he has abandoned her; he can’t bear the thought of leaving, too. Shut out, he worries how Sophie is doing. What she does alone in her room. But then, by her own words, maybe he is wasting both their time. Maybe she really is better off without him. He who hurts everyone he loves.

  He spots his friend in the wheelchair sitting in his usual position by the window.

  “I’m leaving today. No fanfare, can you believe it?” Lucien says. “Dr. Sloane didn’t even mention it during the circle.”

  “She doesn’t mention much, does she?” the man says, still staring out the window. “I thought you might be, soon.”

  “Well, keep an eye out for me, when you’re out of here. Maybe we can go to the beach one day? Yell our names into the wind for even the whales to hear.”

  “I’d like that. But I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “Look, I’ve got a view that changes every moment, and I’ve got my wife and son on the inside. Not much more for me than that.”

  He glances down at the man’s legs, then regrets it. When he looks up, his friend holds out his hand. Lucien takes it in his, wrapping their fingers together for a moment. Here in this space, the simple contact feels more intimate than a hug. He stares into his eyes. The fog of resignation. Lucien never noticed it before.

  They have spoken so little, and Lucien knows nothing about him, per the rules, but he will miss him deeply. Lucien squeezes his fingers one more time, to say goodbye.

  Of all the things they never forbid, touching.

  On his way to the reception desk, he passes Dr. Sloane’s daughter. Her hair is dyed a darker shade of brown that looks simultaneously wet and fried. She looks lost even standing in the middle of the main room.

  He remembers the phone call with Dr. Sloane in her office, how she had talked about her daughter, never imagining she might one day be there, too. Dr. Sloane mentioned her losing a boyfriend and how she was derailed, a feeling not unfamiliar to Lucien. The only consolation he felt after losing his mo
ther was from people who reached out with their own loss. He didn’t want to hear from those who loved his mother, too. He wanted to hear from more people who had lost theirs. And who, like him, didn’t want to feel better yet.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It gets easier, though it never gets better.”

  She looks back at him with a blank stare, as if he had spoken in another language.

  * * *

  Lucien’s clothing is stacked at the reception desk just past the glass. His dark flannel shirt, stiff jeans. He runs his hands down his jumpsuit and thinks that he might actually miss it. But then he’s at the glass wall and a car that must be waiting for him sits just outside the door, its wheels visible past the fern in the window. He takes his stack of clothing, pressing it to his chest and smelling it. He signs the release form on the desk and turns toward the door.

  A delivery hits the pavement outside, and the car drives away.

  For Lucien, there is one more waiver to sign.

  I understand that, prior to my release, I will dress in my clothes and undergo one final treatment, during which my memories of the Center will be removed, and after which I will leave through a separate side door, without passing the main building.

  The form goes on to say this is for the purposes of protecting the patient’s persistent, unaltered sense of self; for providing a clear, simple concept of memory, and to clear any doubts. Nobody wants to see behind the curtain. If Dorothy could forget the Wizard, wouldn’t she? Lucien understands now why Dr. Sloane did not press on his relationship with Sophie, and did not worry about them together once it seemed inevitable. How cruel of her to let them continue building something she knew she would only take away.