1
Twenty-six years ago
It’s dark in my room and there’s no light coming from the little 1×3 window above my bed. The moon must not have come out tonight, I think to myself. I’ve been told that I must go to bed without any lights on tonight so my mother must also control the moon. Kevin, our babysitter, told us that my mother didn’t want any lights on tonight so we had to shut them all off. My brother was okay with this because he hates it when I have the bathroom light on so that I can sleep. Kevin let us stay up until way later than my mother would likely allow so I decided that I would try to handle the darkness for one night. My brother fell asleep while we were watching movies so he was carried to bed. That left me alone and awake just after midnight to be sent to carry myself off to my room.
Covered up in two blankets on my twin-sized bed, I feel like a fly; freshly caught in a spider’s web and writhing with anxiety to be free. I pick at the edges of my thin quilt and look uneasily into the darkness of my room. Blackness and vague shapes stare silently back.
Think of something else, I tell myself. Just change the channel!
Tomorrow is my friend’s eighth birthday and she’s invited me to her party. It’s going to be a great party! I try to imagine the noise of all of our friends laughing and playing at the roller skating rink; as if my thoughts could somehow drown out the silence of my bedroom. Sure, it will be the first time that I’ve been roller skating but I think I could do a pretty good job of guessing what it will be like. I imagine the cake, brightly decorated with a halo of smoke from the candles. My friend, Autumn, will get one more candle on her cake than I had at my last birthday party so it’s going to practically look like it’s on fire. There will be music and laughing and lots of presents.
…And my brother, I realize. I feel something inside my chest get suddenly heavy and drop a little in my tiny body. I can see his face, in the happy crowd of girls from the neighborhood. Smirking at me with his I’m-better-than-you, wise-alec look. He says that I won’t be able to skate because I don’t know how and I’ll just fall down all the time. I know that I’ll be able to skate because I’ve practiced with my socks on the kitchen floor. We watched the ice skaters during the Olympics and it didn’t even look that hard so I know I can do it. But his face, lurking there among the happy balloons, just staring at me, waiting for me to fall so he can laugh at me turns my imagined scene sour.
With an audible humph, as if he can somehow hear my disgust, I turn myself dramatically over toward the wall, and plop myself back down onto my bed. Staring into the blackness of where I know the wall should be, I gingerly reach out my fingers to find it. I almost expect my fingers to keep on going, arm’s length into the blackness, but I find the cold bumps of the paint with my index finger. Just as I’m sliding my finger sideways, in the dark, I hear a loud crack come from somewhere outside of my room. Instantly, the little hairs on my arms respond and stand at attention. My ears strain to listen but there’s nothing but a static sensation in the air. I try so hard to hear that I can almost hear the air itself undulating through the darkness.
I lift up on my elbow so that I can peer over my shoulder at the doorway. I carefully go over every shadow with my eyes and try to make sense of any shapes. The big one that looks like a pregnant lady with a funny hat is my dresser. Her hat is made out of a pair of shoes that I put on top of my jewelry box. The troll under the bridge, that sits on the other side of the door, is my little yellow chair in front of my plastic kitchen. To the right of that is the doorway to the bad side. I know there’s not supposed to be bad things on the other side of it and that no one believes me but there really is. In the daylight and with the lights on, it’s still dark inside that doorway. If you go in there, you’ll find a big tank that makes noises and groans. Next to that is a metal monster that clicks and hisses. My mother says these are normal and that they won’t hurt me but she’s never been in my room, in the dark, for very long at night to see the things that come out from that room.
Finding every shadow familiar and explained, I roll back over to my other side away from the wall so that I can face the doorway. I don’t dare make a sound or plop down hard. I just gently place my head on my pillow and fight against the sting as my eyes try to close. Alternating between my bedroom doorway and the door to the bad side, I watch and I wait.
A low and quiet hiss comes from somewhere near the end of my bed and the mattress bumps and wriggles from side to side as if someone has just sat down on the end of it. Very slowly and deliberately I pull my feet up and away from this intrusion.
Think of something else, think about the party, think about Brother, think about anything… Change the channel!
Desperately, I clench my eyes shut tight and pull the blanket up over my head. A soft pumping sound whispers in both of my ears and I can feel the tips of them tingling. A plastic rattling followed by a few notes of music comes from the living room outside of my door and I instantly know that it’s one of my music boxes. For a brief moment, I recognized the chords to Somewhere Over The Rainbow and I forgot all about the visitor at the end of my bed. I let my breath out of my body and slowly breathe in a new one. The bed shifts slightly to the wall and the mattress under me bends upward as the unseen visitor comes closer.
I hold tightly to the edges of my quilt and feel the burning in my eyes start to cool as tears form. I want to cry out and call for someone to help me but all I can do is wait as puddles form between the crease of my cheek and my pillow. The soft rustle of carpet comes from the doorway to my room and I know that there is someone walking out there, stopping just in front of my door.
Every part of my body is now alert and paying attention to the two strangers that are now in my room. My lungs don’t dare to breathe in case it should make any sound and give away my position. Just wait, just wait. Maybe they’ll go away, I tell myself. But they don’t go away. The visitor on the bed leans toward me and I feel the mattress go down as their hand comes closer to my hips. Their other, unseen, hand comes up to rest upon my leg and I can feel their icy fingers through the blankets. In the doorway, I hear the carpet rustle again and the soft swish of cloth brushing against cloth, almost in sync with my heart beat.
A hiccoughed sob escapes my throat and a spray of snot comes out of my nose. Still holding the quilt with one hand, I use the other to wipe my face with the blanket underneath, happy that this didn’t make too much noise. The hand on my legs has been removed but it was so cold that I can still feel where it was and the mattress is still depressed where they’re sitting, back against the wall. The visitor from the doorway has stopped just in front of my bed, staring at me. I listen with every part of my body, hoping that I’ll hear him turn around and leave or just disappear into the darkness. But he doesn’t leave, just stands there and my body feels like it’s on fire with an icy handprint tattooed on my thigh.
The visitor on my bed whispers harshly, “RUN!”
I shriek as I try to pull myself up away from it. I get to my knees and find that I’m staring directly at a shadow the size of a man, right in front of my bed so I scream. I stand up and have nowhere to go so I back into the corner, stumbling over my pillow. I look from the man shadow to the bed and see that the one that spoke is now gone. The man shadow reaches out and grabs me with both arms, pulling me toward him.
“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s me. It’s Kevin. I’ve got you, just calm down.” Struggling to get free of his grip and still shrieking wildly, I feel a slight sense of calm now that I know who he is but still terrified at the thought of where the bed visitor may have gone. In the back of my mind I have a vague feeling that something still isn’t right because Kevin shouldn’t be in my room.
He’s the babysitter, he can if he thinks he’s supposed to. It’s okay. Besides, he saved you.
Crying more freely now and gasping for breath, I relax and look up at the shadow of his face. I can’t see him but he feels familiar so I sit back on my bed and motion toward the former position of the bed visitor. Finding my voice, I tell Kevin,“There was someone… Someone was on my bed and they were scaring me.”
“It’s okay, they can’t get you now. I’m here and I’ll protect you. Do you want me to protect you?”
Laughing a little through my tears at this silly question I say, “Yes, please. I was scared.”
Kevin sits down on the bed and moves the blankets out of the way. “Here,” He says. “Lay down and get under the blanket and I’ll lay down here with you.” As I do as I’m told, he picks up my pillow and flips it over so that the wet side from my tears won’t be on my face. He pulls the blanket up to my chin and then climbs into the bed with me. “See, you’re going to be okay. I’m here with you now. I won’t let anybody hurt you because I think you’re special.” As he says this, I feel him shift under the blankets and warm lips heat up my cheek.
2
Clark and I had been living together for a little over six weeks and things were finally starting to get put away and a routine was becoming established. A lot of the boxes from my previous ‘office’ had been stored in the garage; in hopes of finding a better place for them in the future. Clark’s place wasn’t very big: a three bedroom with a sad excuse for a kitchen and an equally small back yard (of which, the hot tub took up the majority). After a few days of mourning, following the funeral of Noel, Clark had said to me, ‘You’re not going to help anyone, least ways yourself, if you just sit on the couch and accept defeat. You can’t win the war if you won’t even fight the battle.’
His statement had stung and I had immediately felt reproach as if I were being scolded. But, as time had taught me, I didn’t open my mouth until I had broken down and analyzed his words. I realized that he was absolutely right. There was no one that was going to help me, no sleep-study clinic that would take me on pro-bono, no neuro-analyst that would study my brain for anything less than the cost of a new car. The only people that were going to help me were Clark, myself, and Miles. I also had to face the stinging realization that I had completely bailed on Miles and that he had no idea if I was even alive or how to contact me. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to even turn on my computer lest he should somehow discover that I was online and ask me questions that I wasn’t prepared to answer.
The memories of what happened to Noel (and how I could have potentially helped her but didn’t) were shameful and depressing. But, Clark’s statement had reminded me of my old mantra: ‘even a small victory is still a victory’, and I realized, there can be no victory, or even nobility, in sitting around and waiting for your own defeat. Sleeping on the couch, in the daylight, and being too afraid of the dark at night was simply giving up. It took his slightly harsh but honest words to recognize that I was forfeiting what little control of my life that I actually had. His statement couldn’t have come at a better time because I was due at Dr. Marie’s, that week, for my next appointment.
I had been honest with Dr. Marie about how I’d misplaced my pills and how things had just gotten worse with the stress of no income, moving, and the death of a friend. I had glossed over the nature and details of Noel’s passing; explaining that I wasn’t quite ready to talk about it but would during our next session. Marie had given me a prescription for a 30 day supply, in the hopes that I would locate the missing pills but, not wanting to alert Clark to yet another failure on my part, I didn’t mention to him or anyone that I didn’t want to pay for the new prescription until I had had an opportunity to make a little more money. I had enough to buy them but I was more worried about spending that money and then not being able to help pay the bills; sleeping at night is really just a bonus compared to feeling like a grifter.
Clark didn’t ask if I had actually picked them up when I explained that I had a new prescription so I didn’t tell him. I felt a little like I was lying but it seemed a much easier route to take than admitting that I was a deadbeat and couldn’t afford both my half of the water bill and the medicine that keeps me sane. I had hoped that, by the next session with Marie, I’d have a few more bucks and be able to pick them up.
That next session was scheduled for two o’clock, today. A version of me, inside my head, subtly came up with every possible action that could potentially cause a delay in my getting to the office because that particular part of me was not looking forward to the conversation that would inevitably occur.
~~~~
“Hello, Johanna! It’s so nice to see you again!” She says, ushering me into her office and politely not mentioning that I’m ten minutes late.
“Hello, Dr. Marie. I’m sorry that I’m late,” I offer, “It just took me a little longer to get out of the house than I’d planned.”
“Not a problem, dear.” Dr. Marie says as she seats herself behind her massive, book covered desk. Her long, brown hair, streaked with grey, sways forward as she looks down at an open file. Without moving her eyes from the papers, I can see her right hand digging in a drawer of the desk. For a moment, I have a flashback of Dr. Kirkland and when he called the receptionist for a file, only to be calling a care provider to lock me up in a ‘behavioral health clinic’. The fear passes as I see her un-manicured hand rise back out, carrying a pair of reading glasses.
Did she wear glasses before? I ask myself. Think… I’ve seen her a few times but don’t remember glasses. Is there a camera in here and that’s the cue to call Carly from Death Regional?
Placing the glasses on her face in an ungraceful and almost stabbing motion, she continues to review the papers in front of her. The voice in my head that handles fashion faux pas’, pipes up, Ya’ know, those glasses don’t fit correctly, they’re the wrong shape for your long face and hair and, instead of adding to your features, they make the scar on your forehead more pronounced. I bite the side of my tongue and try to shut down any and all communications between my brain and my mouth.
“Okay!” She says, exhaling a breath. “I’m ready to begin. Sorry about having to go over your file, Johanna, my brain’s a little muddled after a particularly difficult session with a young man…”
My mouth opens as my brain says, Aren’t you not allowed to talk about patients and particularly TO patients that may pass them in the waiting room or something?
Instead, after a split second, I say, “Sure, no problem. Take your time.”
It’s moments like this that I’m thankful that my brain can communicate within itself faster than it can allow my mouth to speak! If our brains were linked directly to our tongues, I’d’ve been locked up a LONG time ago.
“Well, thank you for that but I really don’t want you to feel discounted or not as important, Johanna.”
Why do you keep calling me by my real name instead of the more familiar, shortened version? As an educated person, shouldn’t you realize, by now, that the continued use of my full, first name, implies that you may not like me or that I’m in trouble for something? Didn’t they teach you about moving from rapport to a trusted level of friendship at whatever school you attended?
Not-so-absent-mindedly, I say, “No problem,” as I look for any reflective surface that could show her framed degrees behind me and lend insight into which school she had actually attended.
“Well, now I can sort of sense that, when you say, ‘No problem’, there may be something there. Is something bothering you, Johanna?”
Yeah, you are. “No, not really. Well, not particularly. I mean, I’m bothered by certain things but you go ahead. I’m just distracted but we’ll probably get to that soon.”
With a show of slight concern that I can’t tell is real or feigned, she sits slightly more upright behind her desk and tilts her head slightly, “Do you feel discounted or less important?”
I want to laugh but know that I can’t so I try to control my lips into a cool smile and say, “No, not at all. A friend of mine once told me that ‘everybody goes through stuff, just not necessarily in my flavor’.”
“That’s a very wise friend you have there.”
Had. “Yes, she was a wise friend.”
One eyebrow raises slightly as she says, “Why do you use the word ‘was’? Are you no longer friends?”
I exhale fully and feel the tears beginning to come. “She died recently.”
“Oh, my! Honey, I’m so sorry to hear that! Are you ready to discuss your loss?”
My eyes narrow and I feel the cold, cruel voice of my real self angrily speak up inside my head, I didn’t LOSE anything. It’s not like I MISPLACED my friend. Didn’t you hear me? She fuckin’ died, okay? I didn’t LOSE her, I was ROBBED of her. The whole WORLD was robbed of her and, what’s worse, no one can even tell who committed the theft! Didn’t you learn anything at psych school?
The peace-keeping, steer-clear-of-danger voice takes over my mouth and I hear myself saying in a cold, dead-pan, “I don’t know that I’m ready to share my feelings but I would discuss it, should you feel it is pertinent to my treatment. If you don’t feel that it would be a beneficial endeavor, I’d prefer to leave it alone, for the time being.”
A new and unused facial expression passes over Dr. Maries face; unamused, as if she can sense the sleeping dog she should have let lie. The red-flag bearer begins waving frantically in my head, and timidly saying, in a subdued and scared voice, Um… I don’t think you should have said that…
For the first time, Dr. Marie looks at me with a sense of caution and I can feel the red-flag-bearer combusting into sparks of shame as the doctor says in a clipped tone, “Okay, Johanna, that’s perfectly fine. Let’s try a different subject. Have you written in your journal since your last visit?”
My already-narrowed eyes turn to pinpoints, seething in her direction, and I can feel the anger of the voice, employed with responding to idiots and injustice, take the pulpit of my mind. A cynical smile and a bitchy twist of my head finish off my reply, “Some other events have taken precedence over writing in my diary, lately, so all I have to say is: Nope.”
3
“Okay,” Dr. Marie continues more softly, “You’ve had a great deal on your mind; stress, a recent loss, moving in with someone new. That’s perfectly alright if you haven’t written anything. Is there anything else that has been bothering you lately that you would like to talk about?”
Her sweet and caring tone is so disarming that I immediately feel guilty, again. I exhale a little louder than I had intended and feel my shoulders slump. “Well, I don’t know. I’m sorry for being rude. I just feel… Out of sorts, I guess.”
“Hey, it’s okay, honey. We’re just here to talk, not judge.”
I look back up at her and allow myself a quick glance at her eyes as I offer a half-smile in condolence for my previous behavior. “I appreciate that. It’s just… Well, like you said, I’ve had a lot on my mind. I moved in with my boyfriend… Um, my gentleman friend (I’m pretty sure he’s my boyfriend but I’m a little old to be calling him a boy). Because of my—Because of the night terrors, it has been a difficult adjustment. I’m not used to there being a live body next to me in the middle of the night and he’s not used to being randomly awoken by screaming or kicking.” I offer a little laugh in hopes of lightening the mood.
Marie smiles at me with what appears to be genuine empathy, “Yes, I could only imagine how much of a difference it makes for the both of you. Does he seem to be adjusting okay or do you think he’s finding it to be a challenge?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess. I mean, I think he’s actually taking it better than anyone I’ve ever known but the relationship is still new so we’ll see. People can only handle so much before they leave.”
“Ah, yes.” Marie nods her head and appears to be pondering the truth behind my statement. “Learning ways to accept and cope with a new roommate or partner can be trying for most people. Throw in some bonus character traits and you never know what you’re going to get.”
I can’t stop the small giggle that escapes my mouth and look back down at my boots in my embarrassment. If you think my character traits should be categorized as a bonus, you clearly haven’t been paying enough attention.
She continues with a half-smile of her own, “You might see this condition as a problem or a curse but one way to look at it is: this is just one more thing that makes you special, different from most people.”
“Yeah but I’m not so sure ‘special’ is a good thing where this is concerned.”
“I can understand why you would feel that way and I’m not trying to change your mind about it. But, I do want you to know that it’s okay to be different. I read an article once that stated one in five Americans were suffering from a mental illness. Now, I don’t like to call it an illness, specifically, because you’re not ill, you’re just wired different, but that might help you gain a little perspective. As you walk down the street or stop to eat in a restaurant: take a look around you. There are others that suffer; you just can’t tell on the outside.”
“I get that, I really do, but, most of the time, it just feels like I’m always the one in the five.”
“Then try and surround yourself with more people so the odds are better.” Marie laughs at her own joke and I feel the storm clouds in my brain begin to dissipate a little.
“Touché! Any more sage advice?”
Marie chuckles a little more before she can compose herself to continue. “We’ll see, we’ll see. Now, I wanted to ask you about something that you had said. You told me, ‘People can only handle so much before they leave’. Now, a statement like that makes me wonder if you’re expecting… I’m sorry, what was your boyfriend’s name?”
“Clark. And I’m not exactly ‘expecting’ him to leave but, I’ve learned enough over the years, to not be surprised if he does.” With no warning, the sunlight in my mind fades and I feel the dark clouds roll back in.
“My mother once told me, ‘Imagine the life that you want to live and then live it’. I know it’s not always as simple as that but there is some merit to self-actualization. If you believe it will fail, it failed before it started,” She says.
“While I do agree, to some extent, I have to counter with my own quote. The first and longest relationship I ever had was right after high-school. The night we broke up, he told me, ‘You ought to go join your F’n ghosts early ‘cause no man in his right mind wants broken-and-crazy for a wife.’” A weak half smile tickles my cheek. I had meant for it to sound funnier than it did when it came out of my mouth; a sort of light banter for the sake of argument. The Watcher just leaned his head against his flag pole and scratched his scalp.
My mouth opens to say something, anything, to relieve the moment but, as Dr. Marie’s eyes slightly widen and she says, “Oh dear..” the only operable voice in my head says, Oh crap.
~~~~
The rest of my visit went as uncomfortably as I could have expected. She wanted to hear more about my past relationships and what I thought may have brought about their demise. While I didn’t particularly enjoy bringing up my own past, it was better than the alternative of discussing Noel. I had thought that Marie was sufficiently distracted by my woeful tales of love gone awry and the uncomfortable recounts of a childhood babysitter in order to forget all about Noel but I was wrong. At the end of the session, she asked me to write in my journal (even if I wouldn’t read it) and to talk with myself, at the very least, about my feelings regarding Noel’s passing. I told her that I would and that I would come in a better mood for the next session.
When she asked how the medicine was working, I admitted that I hadn’t even picked it up yet and gave some lame excuses to cover my failures. A new look of disappointment was catalogued in my memory of her face as she pulled several white boxes out of the lowest, left-hand drawer of her desk. Looking over each, she chose one and retrieved seven packets from inside and handed them to me.
“I ordered these samples from the drug company just in case.” She had said. “There should be two pills in each so that will get you through for two weeks. Get your prescription filled. Ask the pharmacist if they have a group discount card. A lot of them do. They should be able to get you some meds for a little cheaper while you get back on your feet.”
I thanked her and placed the sachets in my pockets with noticeable embarrassment. After placing the last one in my jeans, I noticed that the books beside her desk had been moved and changed. The book on spirits, walkers, worlds, and whatnot was no longer there. Sensing the change in my demeanor she asked if there was something the matter. Internally debating whether or not to answer honestly, I chose to put it off, once again. Rising from her seat, as her general cue that it was time for me to leave, she wished me a happy Valentine’s day.
Not quite understanding her statement, I replied with a dumbfounded look and asked for her to repeat that. She laughed a little and clarified that today was February the 14th and it was Valentine’s day. For the second time during our session, the only voice in my head that could speak, simply said, Oh crap. I had been so caught up and absorbed in myself that I didn’t even realize that this would be the first lover’s day for Clark and I. Completely unprepared and with nothing to give him, I left the office without even setting my next appointment.
4
Sitting in the car outside the counseling office, I realize that I don’t know where to go or where to start. What do you give your new boyfriend/housemate for your first Valentine’s day? I desperately search around the car; as if I might find the answer between the seat and the center console. With nothing jumping out at me, I put my hands on the steering wheel and stare out the front windshield.
Start from the beginning. Okay, chocolate, flowers, and a card is what people usually give. Diamonds for the rich, beer for the poor. And I’m poor but I can’t give him beer. Trying to think of stuff that he likes or may be interested in, I think back over the last two weeks and it dawns on me that I haven’t really been listening to Clark lately. I don’t even know if he’s planning on celebrating. He may not have even bought me anything.
When it comes to figuring stuff out, Miles is usually pretty good at it and he helped me with Clark’s Christmas gift so I lift my phone off of my lap and swipe at the screen. Before I can call or text him, I see that he’s already sent me a message. Something between my spine and my sternum constricts with the guilty knowledge that I’m a bad friend and that he has been waiting for me to get over my drama and return to real life. Letting all of the air escape my lungs, I mentally prepare myself for whatever ‘text-lashing’ is waiting for me in his message.
Tapping the icon, I read his very brief comment. It consists of nothing more than, ‘Sent you an email, you’ll need this,’ followed by a phone number in my area code. I stare at the screen until the backlight turns off and I have to re-swipe the face to see the message again. I have no idea what the number is for or why I would need it but I do know that I can’t call or text and ask him for gift-shopping assistance until I reply to his mystery message. I tap out a quick reply to let him know that I’ve just finished with the doctor, and no, I didn’t ask about the book, and that I was on my way home to read his email after an errand.
It’s going to be a very long errand if you don’t start the car and figure out somewhere to go, the Bored Teen in me says. Listening to the voice, I start the car but maintain my position in the lot. Where can I go? What is there to get for a guy like Clark? I go back over every gift idea again but find that ‘chocolate, flowers, card’ makes an appearance more than anything else. With daylight burning and an unsolved mystery from Miles, I put my car in reverse and head to the nearest store that might carry chocolate and a card; because flowers are just weird to give a dude.
~~~~
I return ‘home’ to find that Clark isn’t there so I sneak the chocolate and card out of my car and head to fire up my laptop, in the living room. Putting off the inevitable, I check my Facebook – nothing-, recheck any texts on my phone –none-, and look again through my alternate email and LinkedIn profiles –still nothing-. Time has come to review the email from Miles and own up to the fact that I’m an awful friend and he deserves better.
Instead of a reproach for my recent absences, Miles sends me a message titled ‘Marlene needs a friend’. I click the title and take a deep breath as I prepare to read the message.
Well, so here’s this lady. I met her when she replied to our ‘about page’ on the forum we’re setting up. Her daughter, Kailie committed suicide and she’s been looking for others like us. From what I understand, she lives in your town and wants to talk to one of us. Since you guys are so close I figured you could maybe hook up. I sent you her phone number in a text. I guess Kailie’s been dead now for about ten years or something and she thinks that she was like us (her daughter, not her). Well, anyway, I know you’ve been super stoked about life with your new man and going to doctors visits and stuff but it would be really great if you would catch up with her. For her and for you. You need a new friend, Jo-Jo. Let me know how it goes… Or don’t. I don’t wanna rush you but, at some point, you either have to get back up again or just stay down. What’s it gonna be?
Hugs – Me
I can already feel the tears in the front of my eyes when I finish his message. I close them tightly, willing them to stop, but feel the liquid squeeze out and roll down my cheeks. God damnit! Why am I crying?
Because, another voice answers, You know you need a friend and you know that you’re a bad one. You know that if this lady’s kid really had what you have, you know why she killed herself, and you feel bad that she couldn’t make it.
“Oh, for the love of Pete!” I say, out loud, wiping my eyes. “Why today, Miles? Why couldn’t you challenge me to pick my ass up tomorrow or next week, instead?” I exhale deeply and look around the living room for tissues that can’t be found. My moving boxes are still sitting where we’d placed them and haven’t been unpacked. The recognition of my selfishness hits me so hard that I speak out loud again, “Why hasn’t Clark left me yet? He moved me in here and then I just inhabited his couch while my stuff takes over his living room.” As if saying it out loud would supplant the idea into the universe and end my agonizing anxiety.
Wiping more liquid from my face, I swing by the guest bathroom for toilet paper and think of my reply to Miles. I don’t want to call the lady – Marlene, I remind myself – until I’ve got better control of my voice and my emotions. The last thing this obviously still-grieving mother needs is for some random person to break down over the phone. Emailing Miles back and texting him a thank you would be a good start. That will give me some time to decide how to begin a conversation with the mystery woman. I blow my nose and deposit the used tissue paper in the kitchen garbage and head back to the bathroom for more.
Rounding the corner, I flip the light on without much thought and look straight into my reflection. Over my shoulder, I see the bloodied face of a young woman standing behind me. I shriek and turn quickly; slamming my hip bone into the counter and losing my balance. As my ankles twist and I begin to fall in slow motion, I realize that there is no body connected to the head of the damaged young lady. It’s just bloody skin with dirty blonde hair done up with pins and flowers. The feeling of a thought creeps into my consciousness as I scream again and a two-fold knowledge comes: that I can’t stop myself from falling and that this face would be beautiful if it weren’t for the shards of glass in it.
-CRACK-
The loud and jarring sound makes me flinch and I close my eyes as the sound ricochets through my brain and sends wavelengths of pain through my face and head but I still continue my downward motion to the bathroom floor. Once I’m positive that I’ve come to rest and am no longer falling, I open my eyes again and see that the floating head is gone. My cheek stings and burns and I’m momentarily sickened by the sight of the toilet base next to me. My stomach turns involuntarily and one of my inner voices says, Man! I really need to clean that!
5
Picking myself up, off of the bathroom floor, I feel the rush of adrenaline begin to fade and the tingling in every nerve of my body. For the first time (I think), in my entire life, I’m struck by the thought that I might actually kind of like it. It’s not the same rush as a roller coaster or a scary movie but it’s kind of similar; only amplified by at least ten times.
The floating head is also a relatively new experience. What the fuck was that? What is wrong with me? Why am I seeing floating heads now? I wrack my brain for any memory, no matter how distant, of anytime I’d EVER seen a floating head. The only thing my catalogue can pull up is a screen shot from a video game of a skulking head. Prince of Persia, my Nerd tells me.
Right, like I remember what that’s all about. Thanks for not being helpful, my Cynical voice responds.
With a pounding in my face and aware of the stillness in the room, the part of me that I consider to be the ‘Me’ recognizes that I’m alone in this bathroom, alone in this house, I’m over 30, I just saw a floating head, and (according to some doctors) schizophrenia is only a few years away. I can feel the scale of emotions inside of my brain weighing and contemplating these statistics. The ‘Me’ voice that comes into my head makes my mouth sarcastically say, “Awesome. Great. Just what I need.”
I turn to the mirror and involuntarily gasp at the site. The side of my face is beginning to swell and turn bright red. I turn my head to the left and lean in a little, to get a closer view of the damage. There’s no blood… The thought is cut short by the ‘Me’ realizing that, not only was there just a floating head in here, I’m now looking directly at the drawn shower curtain behind me. My heart jumps a little in my chest but I try to tell myself to remain calm. After all, I think, it’s the things you do while alone that should probably determine whether or not you’re actually nuts.
A guttural rumbling sounds from the floor and I jump as a slow hiss follows. Refocusing on the mirror and the shower curtain behind me, I see it sway slightly and my eyes go wide, intensifying the pain in my cheek. I more jump than run, straight out of the bathroom with no toilet paper for my, now dissolved, tears. Once I’m safely on the other side of the door, I feel a blast of warm air hit my shoulders and face and realize that it’s just the heater. I place my hand to my heart and smile at my silliness; It’s just the heater kicking on.
Not leaving anything to chance, however, I pull the bathroom door toward me and reach in to flip the light off. As soon as the light is off, I place my hand on the knob to pull it completely shut. The feeling of two very icy fingers on the top of my outstretched hand stops me and I feel every hair on my body raise up.
A female voice whispers from the kitchen on my left, “It will come.”
I turn toward the voice but see nothing in the kitchen. The feeling of fingers on my hand is gone and my inner voices have vacated. I hear myself meekly ask out loud, “What will?”
No sound and no noise save for the furnace answers me but I stand waiting for another three minutes. Silently standing in front of the bathroom door and beginning to shake from the adrenaline. A small part of me wonders if the icy fingers or the disembodied voice would gain courage from watching me shake. They could think it was fear and they’d be partly correct.
During my wait, the inhabitants of my brain-space slowly creep back into their positions. I can feel every one of them looking around and listening through my ears. The one that possesses the voice of ‘Me’ turns my head to look down at my hand on the bathroom door knob. Close it, it says.
Dutifully, I pull the knob and hear the handle’s tongue click into the latch. Normally, I turn the handle when I close the door (thank you, Mom) but, this time, I wanted to hear it. Needed to hear it. Know that it was shut; for everybody inside my head. To have empirical evidence that, whatever it was, can’t get out without me seeing the door being opened. The Cynic in me speaks up at this, Right, like a closed door is going to stop them. Idiot.
I ignore the voice and head back to the couch and my computer; eyeing the dark kitchen as I walk. The house is so quiet that I’m made aware of the sound of my feet on the living room carpet. I sit down on the sofa and rock my eyes back and forth from the computer screen to the guest bathroom in the hall. My ears have a calm buzz in them; like they’ve been dosed with something to give them extra power but there’s nothing to hear save for the sounds of few cars outside making their way home. Sliding my finger on the trackpad, I maneuver up to the subject of the original email from Miles, and click to read it again.
Once I feel that I’ve got what few details he’s offered committed to memory, I look at my phone sitting next to it. One quick look at the hallway for floating heads and I pick up my phone. I swipe the screen to unlock it and see that there are, as usual, no new messages or calls. I tap the button to go to my messages and open the latest one from Miles to find the woman’s (Marlene’s) number. I tap the number and it dutifully highlights with options for what I want to do. I tap to send a message and then double check the time.
It’s five o’clock; should be fine. Do we start with, ‘I’m sorry for your loss’? I ask myself.
No, the Sardonic voice answers, We didn’t know her kid. We can’t say we’re sorry. Maybe she’s happy for her loss; less sleepless nights.
That’s an awful thing to think. I am sorry. Nobody should have to lose a kid. Especially to something that they can’t see or fight. Let alone, fucking understand without going through it themselves.
Oh don’t give me that bull. She’s probably one of those mom’s that just flip the light on from the doorway and say, ‘Get over it’, before flipping it off again and leaving their kid to deal with this hell.
You don’t know that. If she was, why would she be reaching out?
Um, duh. For attention, shame, guilt, fame, to ease a heavy conscience, because she’s just lame? Maybe… Maybe she didn’t even have a kid and she’s a hypochondriac that has taken it so far that she’s invented a kid after she read about people like us in a magazine.
“Well, we won’t know unless we find out,”I respond, out loud.
I tap the button to send Marlene a message but don’t bother saving her number, just in case:
Hi, My name is Johanna, Jo for short. Miles (from the night terror forum) gave me your number and said that you’d like to chat. I understand that you’ve—
You’ve… What? Lost your daughter? The Analyst thinks to myself, me, and us.
She didn’t exactly misplace her. If she has a daughter, at all, I’m sure she’s knows right where she is. The Sarcastic voice replies.
Okay, um… Your daughter has passed?
Passed what? The final exam? The end all, be all tests of whether or not you live?
How about: Your daughter has crossed over?
Crossed fucking what? The English Channel? If I’m not crazy, you of all people know there is no crossing to a ‘better place’, Sarcasm adds.
Jesus! Fine! Do you have a better idea?
I do, actually. Let me type it.
Accordingly, I warily allow the sarcastic voice to take over my fingers and feel the budding emotions of enjoyment at the likelihood that I will end up being the bully. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today but being bitchy seems to feel pretty good. My fingers tap swiftly over the phone’s keypad as I type the rest of my message:
“I understand that you’ve reached out to us, in hopes of discussing some issues regarding your daughter’s life. I have a pretty open schedule and would be happy to meet with you. Just let me know where and what time.”
I can’t help but snicker as I add, “The first hour is 30 dollars and subsequent hours are billed at 20.”
As I reread the message, I am immediately disgusted with myself. Deleting the last line and hitting send, I have to shake my head at my own lack of shame. My Sarcastic voice takes up the pulpit and says, “What?! We need the money!”
6
One of the last things I want to do is talk to people about their kids – alive or dead – and yet here I am. Sitting at a table on the patio of a coffee shop, a brisk wind blowing in my face. It only took Marlene an hour to respond to my message. She called me instead of just answering the text and she didn’t bother answering the only two questions in my original message. Just called and said she was at a party and wouldn’t be available to chat until later tonight and asked if that would be alright. I told her that it would be fine and to just let me know where and when. She said that she would probably be leaving before too long and that she would call me to let me know. I waited for another hour and a half and decided I should see if she was still planning on meeting as I’d pretty much wasted the evening next to the phone and didn’t want to waste anymore of it, given that I was still waiting on Clark to return from his days labors. One text to her and a phone call in response that asked me to meet her at this coffee shop ten minutes ago.
My caramel breve is getting cold and I’m seriously wanting to leave but I’m pretty sure the well-dressed woman that just walked into the shop is her. Call it prejudice or whatever but this lady has a certain aloofness to her and a face that twitches as if it’s on its toes and ready to morph into whatever character is convenient or needed. It’s not just the face that makes me think it’s her.
I had sent Marlene a text to let her know I had chosen a seat outside in case she was sharp enough to pick up on the fact that our conversation may not be completely suitable to an enclosed area that really isn’t much different than a large living room but with strangers. This lady had looked right at me as she walked across the parking lot and then astutely monitored the front door as soon as she began to get closer. I mean, sure she could have been daydreaming and realized she was staring but there was something in the calculated distance at which she stopped actively looking at me and the casual change in eye direction.
I watch her as she orders inside, gingerly removes her wallet from her black leather handbag, and then pulls out her debit card with perched fingers as if she’d just received a manicure. I don’t know what she’s discussing with the barista but this supposed-Marlene keeps giving little nods as if she’s keeping time with the conversation and gestures toward the patio without turning around, gold painted acrylics catching the dying light of a rare February sun through the window.
The barista hands the card back to the supposed-Marlene and then the moment hits. The barista tilts her head to the side, places her hand on her heart, and I can clearly see her saying something. Yep, it’s her. I could be fuckin’ blind and still read the lips of the coffee girl from a mile away. Jesus, what have we got ourselves into.. I don’t need to watch her anymore. I turn my attention back to my coffee. I’ve seen all I need to see and I am not looking forward to her walking out that door when they hand her whatever she ordered, double-shot of ‘condolences’ free of charge.
“Ahem..” I look up to see her standing about five feet away. “Pardon me…” she says. A moment of silence crawls in between us and I internally debate whether or not I should give her what she wants or force her to continue to make the next move. Fuck it, the Captain wants his time to shine.
“Hi, I’m Jo,” I say as I stand, “are you Marlene?”
“Yes, I am, thank you. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” She comes toward the table I’m at and stretches out her hand. As I take the bony and cold fingers into mine, she says, “I thought you would be inside. I felt like such a leper standing in there, like a lost puppy waiting for someone to claim me!” She tinkles out a little sleigh-bell of laughter but I don’t buy it.
Uh, no, no you didn’t and I told you I was outside. This is not good. The red flag-bearer is desperately trying to get my attention.
My mind begins to race as I attempt to detangle her reasons for how she’s operating. I motion for her to sit to buy myself some time and, as our heads are bowed and closer to one another, I detect wine on her breath and notice that her lips and teeth have a slight purple hue that didn’t come from a tube and my time for determining what to say is running low so I decide to wing it. “Yeah, I’ve been out here for about fifteen or twenty minutes. There’s too many people in there and I thought we’d be more comfortable out here considering the subject matter.”
“Oh, it’s fine, I mean, I never said it wasn’t. I just expected you to meet me inside or at the door since I didn’t know what you looked like but it’s really no problem. Not a problem at all. I’ve found you and now we’ve been acquainted so I won’t have to worry next time.” She waves at the air as if half-heartedly shooing a fly and adds with golden nails and what I think I detect as a little slur, “So, why have you been sitting out here in the cold for so long? You’ll catch your death!”
Holy shit! Did she seriously just say that? Think fast! She knows damn well where I’d be sitting and what time I’d be sitting there. Do I call her on her bullshit or be considerate of the fact we’re here to talk about her dead daughter even though she clearly isn’t? …Err on the side of caution and all that… My Librarian catalogues every movement and stows them away in the reference section for future analysis.
“Well, I wasn’t really cold when I got here but, after a bit, my coffee wasn’t keeping me quite as warm as I expected and I apologize if I was wrong on the timing. I was fairly certain you had said you would be here ten or fifteen minutes ago but it must have been my mistake. I really enjoy the fresh air anyway.”
A little flash or a glint crosses her eyes and I can feel that she’s angry, like, really angry, and she says, “Well, I told you I’d be here and I’m here aren’t I?” Her cup of unwilling ‘Joe’ causes a ricochet of movement across the table and I’m instantly feeling chastised for calling her out on the fact that she is not the only person in the world.
I don’t know what to say or how to reply but the ‘respond when spoken to mechanism’ is so well geared in me that I open my mouth and start to stammer out the best response I can come up with under pressure and on the fly, “Uh, yeah, you are and I am, and, since we’re both here, maybe you can tell me a little more about why you wanted to meet me here. Well, not here, exactly” I stammer, “but the why in general… If I may ask.”
Yep, idiot of the year award, my self-loathing side chimed in. Just give in to her bullshit. Mental facepalms all around..
Marlene tufts up her golden hair with a manicured left hand, “Well, if that’s what you’d like to discuss, I suppose we can do that. Where would you like to start?”
I stare at Marlene to see if there’s a hint she may be joking or if she’s seriously dragging this out in the weirdest way. She seems to be purposefully studying the skin on the back of her hand before she moves to the hem of her sleeve, and finally slides her eyes on to the face of her gold, diamond encrusted watch and I know that I have to say something. “Sure, so, um, we should maybe start with the basics.. What you know, what you’re hoping to learn, a little about your daughter.. And then maybe we can get more into the history of hers and your experiences and the disorder..”
Marlene snickers and says, “The disorder…” She drops her watch onto her slender wrist and picks up her drink cup saying, “Sorry, I just never thought it was actually a disorder. Tourettes is a disorder, Down Syndrome is a disorder… Surely you know what I mean.” She pauses just long enough to give me an opportunity to speak if I were going to respond hastily but I don’t so she continues.
Leaning just conspiratorially forward enough to give the upcoming statements the appearance of value, she lowers her voice just slightly and says, “Kailie always said she had bad dreams but it wasn’t until she was in high school that she started saying she had a disorder. I think she was just trying to stand out from her friends, what few she had, poor girl, and have something that she could try and get pity for.” Marlene must have noticed at the same time I did that my eyebrows were continuing to peak and she quickly adds, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, she was a wonderful child! She just absolutely lived for attention sometimes.”
I can’t help it. The shock of the words she just said are too much and a disgusted sound ejects itself from my mouth but I quickly recover. I want to buy time with words so I can determine how I’m going to handle this situation so I just say, “Um, okay.. Well, um, would you mind, um, telling me about some of the first experiences Kailie had?” Jesus Christ, I think, this is bad!
A dejected look and a throaty noise are followed by, “I don’t really have a lot of time to get into it, tonight, actually. I mean, it’s your basic awful nightmare experience. She’d wake up screaming and crying but she’d never tell me what they were supposably about. She wasn’t even really consistent when they’d occur. What I want to know is if you think she was most likely making it up or if you think there may have been something else going on she was trying to be clever to hide. Obviously you didn’t know her but you have that internet thing so I’m assuming you have some experience in discerning who is and isn’t afflicted. You likely have more experience than myself; I tried to do everything I could to help her and, well, if this affliction is real, I’d just like to have my mind at ease in knowing that I really couldn’t help my sweet baby girl.”
I want to vomit, “Well,” I say, raising my brows and now no longer able to look Marlene in the face, “No, I didn’t know your daughter so I can’t tell you if her experiences were real or not. I would actually need you to explain some of them to me. I’d also like to know what happened to her. I understand she took her own life?”
“Yes, she did. I don’t have time to get into the how right now, a friend is waiting for me in the car. My daughter, Kailie, posted on your little chat space quite a bit. ” She motions to the car with gold painted daggers and I simultaneously feel bad for and hate that friend. I desperately try to control my eyebrows from giving anything away as she says this. “Do you not pay attention to what people are trying to tell you?!”
You have someone waiting in the car? What the fuck, lady?! Maybe your kid didn’t kill herself, she might be fucking hiding…
I just give a brief nod as she continues, “But I’m sure I can make some time to speak with you later this week. Perhaps you can give me your quick opinion now on whether or not it sounds like it was the..” she pauses to raise her right hand to do air quotes as she says, “Real deal.”
I’m getting pretty disgusted with this lady and just want this encounter to be over. Even though I don’t like allowing my body to betray what I’m thinking, my head tips to the right and I sigh as I involuntarily shake my head. “It does sound like they were potentially real. A lot of articles on the subject suggest that children don’t remember the substance of the night terror but the reality is that, in some cases, they do.
“The events that occur in these types of..”
Time for my own air quotes, bitch
“dreams, are sometimes so horrific that speaking them out loud can make the person feel like they’re giving them even more power. It’s also entirely possible that the dreams incorporate elements about which the child or person would be embarrassed to say either out of fear that they’ll get in trouble for talking about things that are generally considered too mature for their age or because people won’t understand that it is not their conscious mind that is creating such scenarios. Quite a few children are shamed for coming up with the scenarios of their dreams and told that it’s their fault for ‘imagining’ of what they do dream. As if a kid has any real control over their imagination. There is also the idea of ‘ancestral recollection’. This is a theory that a few, gifted children have received the ability to draw on the ancestral trauma of their predecessors. There is a lot to discuss here. ”
Marlene looks thoughtful as she allows a quiet “Hmmm” to enter the cooling air between us and she fidgets with her coffee lid; running the pad of her middle finger over the embossed lettering of the brand. “Well then,” she begins, “I suppose we’ll just have to reconvene at a later date. I really do need to get going. We’re expected for a digestif with some friends. It was so sweet of you to come out and I’ll be in touch later this week.” She stands with her cup in hand and looks out at the parking lot. She gives a little wave and an engine turns over as headlights temporarily block out my vision.
“Okay, that sounds fine.”
I begin to rise from my chair but she stops me with a little fan of her hand and that look that denotes half condescension, half pity and says, “Oh, no, no, you’re fine, darling, I can make it to the car. You stay here and enjoy your coffee!”
A little stunned, I stand up anyway, grab my empty breve cup, and muster all the professionalism I can so that I can try and look her in the face to say, with just a sprinkling of irritation, “It’s been enlightening. I’ll keep an eye out for your contact. Enjoy your evening.”
“Ciao!” chimes from the middle of the lot as she is already halfway toward the running vehicle with an odd determination keeping her spine rigid and head high and I know that she didn’t hear a fucking word I said.
Ugh, I think I’m gonna puke, I need a drink, my inner voice says exhaustively as I head toward my own vehicle.
THE DISCERNMENT SERIES 