“What’s going on?” he says, his stride long and purposeful, a worried look on his face.
The sun is fading from the sky, the air muggy around us as I sit on a bench outside the hospital doors. “Emily isn’t Emily.”
His dark eyes search mine, a crooked smile appearing. “What? What do you mean, Emily isn’t Emily?”
“I mean…” I rub my neck. “That she isn’t really Emily Brandt. Her real name is Ivy.”
“Ivy?”
“Yeah.” I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light it, taking a long drag. “Ivy Hobbs. We went to school together.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re trying to say. Why is she here?”
I blow a puff of smoke into the air, and flick the ash from my cigarette. “She’s been living a double life.”
He listens as I tell him the whole story, disbelief heavy in his eyes. “Wow, um … are you sure? That’s—that’s some Fatal Attraction shit.”
I laugh. I don’t want to laugh, but it feels good, because for the past two hours I have felt nothing but devastation and despair. “That’s what Eliza said. And yes, we’re sure. Deacon’s father checked her out. Through public records, her name change was easily found.”
He sighs heavily before leaning back against the bench. “Damn. How could you not know?”
“She had a good plastic surgeon. Cigarette?” I hold one out to him. He takes it, and I light it, the smoke floating into the air, flooding our immediate space. “She’s gone crazy. Really believes she’s Emily.”
“Fuck.” He pauses for a long time. “Well … how long will she be in there? What are they gonna do?”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know. You know as much as I do now. They won’t talk to me. Not without verifying everything—making sure there’s no family that can be responsible for her.”
He laughs. It starts out slow and hesitant, and then evolves into a hysterical fit. My head surveys the sidewalk and parking lot, searching for eyes that may be on us.
“What’s funny about this?”
“I don’t know … it’s just … the bitch is smart! You gotta … give her that,” he says, convulsing.
I laugh, too, but then suddenly we both fall silent. “It’s fucked up. I don’t even know what to think.”
His face hardens, his eyes staring out into the parking lot. “I don’t know, but you know...”
I take another puff, the smoke invading my lungs. “What?”
“No matter what … as—as fucking crazy as this all is … I think she loves you.”
The smoke blows through my teeth before I bite down hard on my lips.
I thought I was fucked up when I found out Eliza cheated, but I have never felt this level of fuckery before. It has been two weeks, and Ivy is constantly on my mind—a leech sucking my attention away from work, from normal everyday activities. No matter what I do, no matter how many cigarettes I smoke or how much alcohol I drink, I can’t stop thinking about her.
I haven’t told anyone about what she did. Not yet. I can’t bring myself to do that. I feel like such a fool to have been played for months. Eliza is embarrassed, too. At first, she was intent on telling everyone, presumably because of the grudge she harbors for Emily exposing her affair, but then she changed her mind—said Ivy embarrassed her once, and she didn’t want to let her do it again. Dr. Sanders told me she would keep it a secret, that she would let me tell Deacon myself. So, I invited him out for a drink. Enough time has gone by that I think he has cooled down, and I can face him.
The bartender drops another Corona on the bar for me as I light another cigarette. The stool next to me is pulled out before Deacon sits down.
“So? I’m here.”
I don’t meet his eyes. “You gonna order a drink?”
Peripherally, I see him rub his forehead. “Whiskey,” he calls to the bartender before he props his elbows on the polished wood. “So, what’s up? What could you possibly have to say to me now?”
“I need to talk to you about Emily.”
“Obviously. Should we start with where you fucked her or how many times you fucked her?”
“She’s in the hospital, man.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah. She’s sick.”
The bartender places the glass in front of him, and he picks it up. “What do you mean, she’s sick? Like cancer or something?”
I shake my head. “No. Nothing like that. She had some kind of mental breakdown, and—”
He laughs. “Well, she did downgrade, man. I mean—”
“Dammit, Deacon, this isn’t funny. She isn’t the person you thought she was, okay?” I chug the rest of my beer in two swallows.
“What do you mean? Can you just spit it out, because I don’t feel like chumming it up with you right now.”
“You know that drawing? The one the girl I went to school with did?”
He nods, his fingers pulling through his beard. “Yeah. What about it?”
“Emily is Ivy.”
He stares at me, confused, before he laughs again. “Are you fucking with me, dude?”
“I wish I was.”
“But how?”
“A lot of lies, and even more plastic surgery.” My face falls into my hands like I can actually rub away the stress.
“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”
I nod, my eyes sweeping up to the television on the wall.
“But what about her and me? That makes no sense.”
“I don’t know for sure. I don’t know everything yet. But I think you were a stepping stone, man. God, it’s fucked up to say that, but...” I shrug.
Deacon pulls in a long breath before throwing back the rest of the whiskey. “Wow. Fucking wow.”
“How’d you find out about us, by the way?”
He shrugs. “Isabel. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
I roll my eyes. “Figures. Anyway, I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry about everything, I—”
“Dude, no worries. Don’t apologize. Seriously, this is fucked up.” He slaps my back. “You should come to the apartment. Hang out awhile.”
“Really? You wanted to kill me before, and now you’re over it just like that?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I still wanted to kill you up until I walked in here. But you’re my best friend, and to be honest, I don’t want anything to do with that level of crazy, so any feelings I had left for her pretty much just vaporized. What are you going to do? When does she get out? Is she okay now?”
“I don’t know the answer to any of that. I am kind of numb. I don’t really feel anything.”
“Well, come to the house, man. We can talk more about it. Snort some coke or something.”
I cut my eyes to him.
“Bad joke. I’m gonna try to quit, okay?”
“Good for you.” I nod. “Anyway, I can’t. I have to stop by her friend Jared’s house. He has been visiting her, communicating with her doctors and stuff—you know, because her parents died. Everything about her family having that sex toy business was a lie, too, of course. Anyway, I have to get over there. He wanted me to swing by, wanted to talk about some things in person.”
I stand up and leave a twenty on the bar, covering both our drinks. Deacon stands, too.
“Well, let me know if I can help or anything. I mean that,” he says.
“I will.”
When Jared opens the door for me, I sense something is wrong. He hasn’t updated me as to what has been going on with Emily, insisting he didn’t know anything new until this morning when he asked if I would come over. He leads me onto the balcony, and we sit, my patience waning as he seems to collect his thoughts.
“Well? Have they told you anything?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“Basically, her doctor said she snapped—that she’s experiencing dissociative amnesia.”
“Okay. What exactly is that?”
“In layman’s terms, they believe she had a psychotic break an
d has forgotten huge chunks of time. Her doctor says it can happen after a period of extreme stress or a traumatic event. He believes the catalyst leading up to this was her parents passing away.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay, but she didn’t change her identity until much later.”
“Right, but it affected her psyche to the point that she was in a fragile state, and she wasn’t able to cope with anything. The consensus is that maybe losing them dredged up memories of losing you.”
“Go on.”
“And she was probably unable to deal with that after a while. After digging around, it was realized she literally had no one in her life. You appear to be the only person from her past who she had a friendship with. So, she went crazy and came up with this solution—to be someone you could love again. She created another life because her own was something she couldn’t emotionally handle anymore.”
“I can accept that part, as crazy as it is. I guess I just don’t understand how she forgot. I mean, is she lying so that I don’t hate her for everything?”
“She’s definitely not lying. That argument you had with her right before she passed out was probably the icing on the cake. The way it was explained to me was that her brain effectively compartmentalized every wrong thing she’d done as Ivy because she couldn’t handle the reality of the situation anymore. She couldn’t backpedal from the lies. It’s like she’s experiencing selective amnesia, because you saying it was probably over after everything she’d gone through to be with you pushed her over the edge.”
I say nothing, but take out a cigarette, offering one to him, his hand waving it off.
“You okay?” he asks.
“It’s a lot to take in.”
“How do you feel about it all?”
I shake my head before pressing the cigarette to my lips. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that out. Psychotic break or not, she did a lot of crazy shit.”
“But it wasn’t her. She wasn’t well. That’s what the doctor tried to explain. From the moment her parents were killed, she entered this alternate reality. And when she thought she’d lost you, too, she forgot all the bad shit she did. She kind of turned back into herself, just with a new name and false memories. She basically believed every lie she’d told was the truth and forgot the rest.”
I sigh. “I would like to talk to her soon. Is she up for it? I just want to get some more insight. This is all I am thinking about.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, but I don’t think that’s a good idea—not now. She still won’t accept that she’s Ivy. They’re working on it, though. They’re trying hypnosis and some other therapies. But I’m afraid seeing you would be hard on her after everything that happened at your house. Plus, you need to heal. You shouldn’t see her until you’ve really let this all mellow out for you. I’m still getting over it myself.”
“I guess you’re right. I don’t want to make things worse. Are they hopeful she will remember eventually?”
He stands and leans over the railing as I thump my cigarette over the edge. “Luckily, that’s usually the case. But they can’t say for certain. They’re doing everything they can.”
I nod.
“I know it’s tough to handle. I know you cared about her—both versions of her. Just don’t hate her, all right? She may be missing a few marbles right now, but she’s a good person.”
I put out my cigarette and stand up. “I used to know that.”
Joseph sits across from me, his face firm in concentration as his hand hovers over the chess board. We’ve been playing since I was admitted, his insistence on chatting annoying at first. He is good-natured, despite his occasional outbursts that seem to come out of nowhere.
“Tick tock,” I say.
“Give me time!” he shouts, but then his mouth turns up in a smile. “Sorry.”
“Ms. Hobbs?” Nurse Lisa says to me. “It’s time for you to see the psychiatrist now.”
I nod, telling Joseph to leave the board as it is, teasing him not to cheat, and I follow her through the maze of the building until we approach the door that reads: Dr. Caldwell.
I enter the small, drab room, and sit in the squeaky leather chaise across from him. Nurse Lisa smiles at me as I look back at her before she pulls the door shut. I turn my eyes back to Dr. Caldwell, his bald head shining under the fluorescent lights. At first, I hated seeing him. Refused to talk to him. But now I’ve become acclimated to the fact that he’s trying to help me, even though I don’t feel like I need help. I think everyone else needs it—not me.
“Good morning, Ivy.”
Ivy. I hate the name. I’m tired of hearing it. It feels foreign, and I remain rebellious against the idea that something is wrong with me—that I’ve imagined my entire life, that I didn’t grow up along the sunny shores of California, that I don’t have a grandmother named Sarah. This entire thing feels as if it’s one colossal joke, and I’m stuck waiting for the punchline.
“Morning,” I mutter.
He taps his pen against a notepad in front of him, lines running along his forehead, before he asks, “How are you feeling?”
“As well as can be expected, considering I’m a prisoner in here. Today was pancake day, so that was the highlight of the week. Or no, actually, it was playing chess with Joseph today and him not hurling the board off the table in one of his angry frenzies.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Any thoughts of harming yourself since yesterday?”
“You mean my real self or this Ivy chick everyone claims I am? Because I kind of fucking want to hurt her so I can get back to being me.”
He frowns, deep creases settling next to his mouth. “Fair enough. So, I take it you haven’t remembered anything at all since we spoke yesterday?”
“No...”
“Okay. Anything you’d like to ask?”
“When can I leave?”
“You know that I would love to let you leave, but we have some work to do first.”
I roll my eyes. Straighten in my chair.
“What are your thoughts today?” He leans over his desk.
“My thoughts are that any moment now I’m going to wake up in my bed and this will have all been a terrible, awful, horrifying dream. And then Brooks will come over, and he’ll tell me he can’t live without me, that he forgives me,” I say, tears welling up, “and then we’ll be fine.”
He leans over, opening one of his desk drawers. “I want to show you something.” He places a square photo on the desk, and I pick it up. “Do you recognize that photo? It was found in your house.”
As I study the photo that was in my kitchen drawer—the small, mousy girl with her panda drawing, standing next to a petite brunette and lanky man with thinning hair, I’m overcome with emotion. For reasons that evade me, I suddenly begin sobbing, the photo shaking in my hands.
“Are you all right? You’re emotional.”
No shit, I think. I shake my head, dropping the picture back on the desk.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Do you recognize anything about the picture?”
“No,” I say truthfully. I don’t recognize it other than when I first saw it. But for some reason, I connect with it. Thoughts swirl through my mind as I try to place it. I push up from the chaise. “I’m done today. No more.”
“Sweetheart, you haven’t touched your dinner.”
My mother regards me from across the table, Deacon’s worried eyes simultaneously glancing at me. “Sorry,” I sigh. “Not much of an appetite lately.”
Her lips press together before she and my father exchange looks. “You have to eat something,” she urges.
Dr. Sanders chimes in, “You look like you’ve lost weight. Have you?”
“Mom,” Deacon says, dropping his fork.
She lifts a shoulder. “We’re all concerned about you, Brooks. That’s all.”
“Yes, darling,” my mother says. “We want to make sure you stay healthy
.”
I grit my teeth, pushing up from the table. They all know the truth about Ivy now—the whole story. Even my brother knows. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I needed to talk to someone, someone other than Deacon.
“Brooks … son,” my father says. “Sit back down. Let’s talk. It might help.”
My eyes sweep around the table. I feel like a giant “L” is stapled to my shirt for the loser that I’ve been. “Why? So you can all laugh under your breath about how stupid I was?”
“Brooks!” My mother throws her napkin down. “You know that’s not true. When have we ever mocked you?”
“Yeah, come on, man,” Deacon says. “We all care about you. We know it’s taking a toll on you.”
“Do you?” I squeeze my fists, anger rolling through me. “You knew her for a few months. I knew her for years. Or I thought I did.” His head turns back to his plate, his jaw clenching. Reluctantly, I sit down again, everyone’s eyes avoiding mine. “I just feel so stupid. How did I not know?”
My father speaks up. “Son, you aren’t stupid. She went to great lengths to make sure you thought she was a brand-new person. Eliza didn’t recognize her, either. You have to let it go.”
“I can’t.” My fist slams on the table. “I could have helped her sooner. Maybe I could have prevented her from ending up in there. They don’t know when she’ll get out.”
Dr. Sanders sighs. “Has she still not remembered anything?”
I shake my head, my nostrils flaring as I stab the asparagus on my plate. “Not a thing. Not that I know of.”
“Hmm,” she says. “What a shame.”
My eyes flick to hers, and for a second, I think I see a tinge of enjoyment brush her lips. It never occurred to me, but she has to harbor some ill feelings toward Ivy. Dr. Sanders has always been overprotective of Deacon.
“I’m gonna take off,” I say, standing again. “I need to be alone for a while.”
“I remember,” I tell him, his eyes brightening with my words, the subtle scent of dog in the room. He must have a pet, I think.
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 27
