by Fiore, L. A.
“He and I are like that soufflé. It takes a lot to get us together, timing, the paths we’ve chosen, but when we do come together, it’s like your soufflé. I would wait forever for him.”
His old hand covered hers. “Then perhaps you will allow me to wait with you.”
“You know he is just a manifestation of your illness. You are thirty-two years old and you have been with us since you were ten. There is no man waiting for you in France or in a meadow; there are no past lives, no lessons to be learned, and no fairy tales but the ones you create.”
I knew Dr. Ellis was right, that the man was just a dream, but he came to me in my dreams so often I wanted so much to believe he was real. “It feels so real.”
“Because for you it is, but that is the illness speaking. Your fantasy feels like reality.”
“I prefer that reality.”
“The good news, we all have realities we prefer from the ones we are living. That is normal, but when those desires become inhibitive to your functioning in the world that is when it becomes a problem. They are a problem for you.”
I didn’t agree. I was stuck here. Who cared what reality I lived in? “Why does it matter? I’m not going anywhere. Who cares if I see purple rabbits and green dogs? If I believe I’m the child of Cher and Elvis. Who am I hurting?”
“Yourself.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“Well, I’m not. I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I didn’t try to make you well.”
By medicating me and keeping me numb to the world. I think I’d rather walk around in my crazy like Emily did. Why couldn’t I be more like Emily? I didn’t ask because he’d go into detail…painful detail.
“I have to see another patient. Why don’t you get a book from the library? You like reading.” He studied me before he added, “Are you okay? Do you want something to help take the edge off?”
Take the edge off. Dr. Nelson used that phrase too. It must be a doctor thing. “I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine, but I said I was because I didn’t want him to add to the nearly lethal dose of narcotics he was already prescribing me. The drugs kept me from dreaming, but it was only in my dreams where I found happiness.
The Many Faces of Evil. I hadn’t seen this book before and I thought I’d read them all. Who the hell thought this was a good read for this library? Despite the title, I found it compelling. According to the author, evil could appear in any form, the temptation of a sweet when you were dieting to the murderous intent of a killer. Emotions like fear and anger fueled it, growing stronger with ignorance and intolerance. There was a school of thought that believed the devil was evil incarnate, while others believed evil was more like a plague…unseen as it corrupted those predisposed to it.
“Now what are you reading?” I almost jumped right out of my skin.
“For crying out loud, Tristan!” Then I realized I shouted that. Glancing around the room, I didn’t even get a head turn. “A warning please.”
“Sorry.”
It took a minute for my heart to stop galloping in my chest. “I’m reading about evil. I’m not sure of the advisability of a book like this in a place like this, but it is thought provoking. Did you know that good and bad isn’t a battle, but a balance?”
“According to who?”
I glanced at the front of the book. “S. Steiner. His theory is everything is balanced, so times of great happiness are balanced by episodes of darkness. He believes you cannot have one without the other, and he even argues that the creation that sparked humanity, also sparked the opposite…the existence of evil.”
“Not a unique theory.”
“I’ve never heard it, but then I don’t get out much.”
“Good point.”
“Makes sense though. Newton’s third law, every action has an opposite reaction so why not apply that to good and evil. He says there are signs, warnings.”
“And what are these signs warning about?”
It wasn’t real, just some author’s imagination at work, but I still shuddered when I said, “The end of days.”
Silence for a beat before Tristan said, “You’re being awfully philosophical today.”
I closed the book and rested my head back on the sofa. I wanted to get lost in my head, lost in a café in France or on a lane carrying flowers heading toward a man I’d give it all up for even though I didn’t know him, but I wanted to get better too. I wanted to walk out these doors a free and semi-healthy person, wanted a chance to find in real life what I dreamt so often about, so I was doing as the doctor prescribed. Letting go of the dreams and trying to focus on what was real. “Dr. Ellis suggested I read.”
“So you read that book?”
“I know, probably not the best choice. Do you think he’s right, this Steiner guy?”
My question was answered with silence. “Tristan?”
“I’m thinking,” he huffed.
“Well, you could say that since I can’t see you.” It wasn’t lost on me that I was arguing with a voice in my head…further proof that Dr. Ellis was right about me.
“Sorry,” Tristan said. “He could be onto something. In my experiences, when times are bad, there are those who feed off the bad. Not everyone does, so maybe some are predisposed.”
His experiences? He was a figment of my imagination. I had a wicked imagination.
My focus shifted to the windows, longing filled me. I wished I lived out there. I wished I could learn about the world not from books but from living it. It seemed unlikely, but I held onto the hope that one day I would.
It was just a glance. Passing through the subway stop, he was leaning against the concrete pillar reading a paper. His head lifted as the train passed, his eyes connecting with mine. Blue as the summer sky. It was just a glance and yet chills moved down my arms.
I’d not seen him before, but every day after that first day, he was leaning against that pillar. And every day, he looked up as the train passed and somehow managed to pick me out in the crowd.
The people around me changed; the seasons came and went and still he waited.
For the first time I really saw the beauty in the world. I listened to a baby cry and watched as a young man gave up his seat for an old woman. A couple sat across from me, their fingers gnarled from arthritis and still they held hands. School students heading to a field trip piled onto the train, their excitement almost palpable. The smell of coffee and the scent of the apple fritter the man at my side was eating had my stomach growling. So many lives converging every day on this train, people you might never see again and, yet, for that brief time they became part of your story. And life was like a story, always being written, never ending until...
It was just a glance, but I knew I was the one he waited for. I hadn’t been ready, but I was now. Tears burned my eyes, but none fell. The train stopped, and I stood. It was empty: no children, no babies, no laughing couples or stressed-out businessmen. I glanced down at my body and the gunshot wound. It happened so fast, in a blink of an eye and my story was over. I stepped off the train and he held out his hand. I said goodbye to the life that had been far too fleeting and slipped my hand into his. I was being called home.
In the darkness of my room, I rolled over, buried my face in my pillow, and cried.
I slouched in a chair in Dr. Ellis’ office, twice in as many days. We didn’t have a session, but he asked to see me. I wasn’t sharing about my latest dream, particularly since it wasn’t the first time I’d dreamt about dying. That was morbid, even I thought so. Dr. Ellis’ response would be to dope me up.
The place was a hospital, but there were reminders that it had also been a home once, like the windows that distorted images when you looked out them. The heavy wood doors and thick trim work. The floors in here were wood, the walls a soft gray, and there was a stone fireplace.
Dr. Ellis had pictures of his family through the years. I had witnessed the last twenty-two years, and he looked remarkably unchanged in that time. His daughter, Clar
ice, on the other hand, had only been a toddler when I first arrived; now, she was a college graduate heading to medical school. She wanted to be a vet. His wife, Susan, he met in college. They’d be married for thirty years this winter. They had a house in the Garden District, a sailboat they sailed on the Mississippi every summer, a golden retriever named Buster and a cat named Sam. He had a complete life outside of these walls. For him, this was work. I moved to the window and looked outside to the black iron gate that looked crooked through the old glass. For him, those gates represented freedom, but for me, they were my prison—the barrier keeping me inside these walls, away from the world and a life in that world. I wanted a house in the Garden District and a dog. I wanted a husband; hell, I’d settle for a first kiss. He said I didn’t feel anything, so what was the aching pain in my chest knowing that all those things would forever be out of my reach?
“Ivy. Please have a seat.” Dr. Ellis strolled into his office and settled at his desk.
I took the seat across from him. “What’s going on?”
He dropped his elbows on the scarred wood and stared intently for a few seconds. A weird vibe was coming from him. “I received a call from the New Orleans sheriff. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I wasn’t sure what part of his sentence to focus on first, that the sheriff wanted to speak to me or that the sheriff was coming here to speak to me. Excitement made my stomach jump. Dr. Ellis was looking at me expectantly. “About what?” I asked.
“Your past.”
My past? Unease moved through me. What about my past? Did he know what I did that got me sentenced here? “I don’t remember my past.”
“I know. I told him, but he still wants to talk to you.”
“And you are okay with that?”
“I’ll be there. If I think things are heading in a direction I don’t like, I’ll stop the interview.”
That surprised me, his easy acceptance of a visitor when we never had visitors here…like ever. I was more interested in what he knew about my past because we never discussed it. “What do you know about me?”
He looked uncomfortable, glancing down at his desk before he said, “Only that there was a fire. Your foster parents died. You lived.”
I could sense from him that he was holding back. That he knew more. What else did he know and why had he never shared it? I didn’t realize I had spoken that thought out loud until he replied, “I feared knowledge of the night that caused your psychotic break would be detrimental.”
And yet he shared it now so casually. Weird. It was the other part of what he said that made me feel sick. My foster parents died in a fire. Given my attempt to summon it the other night, I was a little freaked out. “Did I start it?”
“Allegedly.”
I wasn’t sure what to think. Fantasy and reality were colliding. “And the sheriff wants to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to him. I don’t think I can help, but it will be nice to talk to someone from the outside.”
Dr. Ellis emphasized his next words, “There’s no telling how you’ll react to a stranger, especially when discussing a topic we’ve not addressed. Do you think you can stay cool?”
I wasn’t going to lie. I was annoyed. Dr. Ellis was keeping things from me, but I wasn’t messing up a chance to have a visitor. “Yes, I can be cool.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Thinking about what I read earlier and hearing about my foster parents I asked, though I was afraid of the answer. “Am I evil?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I was reading a book. People died by my hand. Does that make me evil?”
An emotion I couldn’t read swept his expression. “Allegedly by your hand and no, you are not evil.”
“How do you know?”
He steepled his fingers and looked pensive for a moment. “Evil isn’t that cut and dry, and the perception of evil is subjective. Not every bad thing that happens is evil; in fact, if you look throughout history, many times great things are accomplished on the back of evil deeds. I don’t know what happened when you were younger, but I have known you most of your life. You aren’t evil.”
I couldn’t lie. It felt good knowing he didn’t think me a monster. “Thank you for that.”
“So you will stay cool?” he asked again.
“Yes. When is he coming?”
“He’ll call when he’s got the time. There is no rush because you’ll be here.”
I would, but his words still stung. “Yes, I will.” I stood. “Is that all?”
“Yes. Oh and Bart will be collecting your blood later. We need to make sure the medication isn’t having any unwanted side effects.”
I was surprised I had any blood left with the amount of times they took it. “Okay.”
I escaped outside, needing to think. The sun was full in the sky; the heat felt wonderful. Those black wrought iron gates kept me from straying. I studied the old stone mansion that had been home for the last two decades and rubbed at the ache in my chest from a familiarity that stemmed from more than being my prison. The circular drive had a crumbling fountain, but I could imagine the whimsy of the water cascading down the sides. Large stone urns flanked the aged wooden door, empty now, cracking from age and the weather, but I could so easily see them lush and healthy, bright flowers and trailing vines, the occasional humming bird zipping by for a taste. Gas-lit lanterns flanking the door, the glass cracked and wrought iron casings damaged but there was beauty in the broken.
The walls were covered in vines, but I had long ago found a hidden door. It led to the courtyard I often stared off into from the rec room. The vines grew on the inside too, weeds choking out the flowers in beds that were overgrown. Crumbling archways encircled the garden and perched high up on the tips of the roofline were stone gargoyles. Sometimes I swear they moved, like sentries keeping watch. I drew comfort from those guardians.
I could see how it had been, the magic that remained despite the neglect…the rose garden with lovingly tended roses, flowering vines growing up the stone walls, the heavy scent of lavender wafting through the air, the happy faces of sunflowers reaching toward the sun, white hydrangeas lining the decorative iron fence. Old lilac trees gnarled from the ages laden with blossoms, the weight bending the old wood. It was nothing but a crumbled mess now, but a stone bench rested under a Weeping Willow tree and every time I gazed upon it, a whisper of déjà vu moved through me.
The connection I felt, the longing that at times snuck up on me, I didn’t know if it was real. It felt real, a life I lived before this one. People didn’t live more than one life, I knew that and still I couldn’t help but wish I had.
“Fucking hold still.”
“Your bedside manner is impeccable,” I hissed while glaring at Bart.
“Fuck off.”
“Can I ask how a person of your charm and decorum decided to work in the healthcare industry? You seem more fitted to work in a cave or a hole in the ground.”
He stabbed the needle into my arm. I yelped, but I didn’t give him any more than that. A shiver moved through me at his grin. He enjoyed hurting me.
“What are you doing with all that blood? Are you a vampire or are you cloning me?” I was teasing, but his response was odd.
“None of your fucking business.”
“In point of fact, it’s my blood, so it is my business.”
He lowered his head, lifeless eyes drilled into my own. I got a chill, and I was the sociopath. He finished and left the room. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it, but I could have sworn he licked the needle as he walked out. It was official. The nuts were running the nuthouse.
Curled up on the sofa in the rec room, I was reading through a book on the history of New Orleans. There was no rhyme or reason to the library; books just piled up on any and every topic. I knew about the summer crops in Idaho and architectural elements of that famous church in Paris. I was a fountain of completely useless
trivia, but it was a connection to the world I wasn’t allowed to be a part of.
I had read this book before, but I wanted to brush up on my knowledge because the sheriff of that city was coming to see me, and I wanted to be able to talk with him.
My finger traced the beads in the trees, the masses of people watching the parades. There was a page on King Cake. They attempted cake here; it was dreadful, but the concept was one I knew I would love had I tasted true cake.
I didn’t understand why Dr. Ellis kept us so sheltered here. Why did we never leave this place? Why didn’t we know about the world, hell, the city that was right outside these walls? Looking around the room, we really were on the outskirts and not just location. Sure, Dr. Ellis discussed his family, but current events, the world happening all around us of that we were kept ignorant. He never brought in beignets or King Cake. Why wouldn’t he treat his patients to a taste of the city they lived in? I didn’t understand and his callousness the other day…he could live in both worlds, he kept us in this one, and he had been heartless about my restrictions. I never got that sense from him before, but I didn’t like it.
I tried to shake it off, but annoyance and disappointment lingered. Flipping through the book, there was a chapter on ghosts. I studied the graveyards with the burials above ground, which I knew was due to the water table in New Orleans. Caskets would float away. The burials, the crypts, were sad and poignant, but beautiful. A section was dedicated to the most haunted places in New Orleans. I turned the page to an old plantation house and felt suddenly sick and…cold. I studied the image of the old stone house, the dirt drive lined by trees that formed a canopy. Despite the physical beauty, I couldn’t shake the sense of ugly. It was considered the most haunted place in New Orleans, but I suspected it was more than ghosts that lingered there.
I turned the page and froze. The second most haunted place in New Orleans wasn’t a place, but a location. It was only a shadow of what it had been, more an echo of what once was…the stump of an old tree, a crumbled stone weathered and aged from generations of nature battling it and still tears burned my eyes. I knew this. I studied the image, traced the stone, the hill it rested on. It hit me, like the curtain being lifted. I jumped from the sofa and ran all the way to my room. I was out of breath when I dropped the book on my bed. Rearranging the paintings I had done in Madame Fief’s class, I stood back and lifted the book. I had painted the scene, but not as it was now, as it had been…the majestic old tree on a hill, the single gravestone resting under it. Madame Fief said to paint what you knew. I knew this. Somewhere buried deep the memory broke free. Pressing my hand to my recreation of a moment from once upon a time, I closed my eyes and let it all rush back.
