Split

by Tara Moss

  She checked her watch. It was time. She dialled the number.

  “Clinic. How may I help you?” came the voice on the other end.

  Mak swallowed nervously. “Hello. Is Dr Morgan available, please?”

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “Makedde Vanderwall.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  She hoped she had guessed right. Mak had called at nine fifty-five, knowing about the medico’s fifty-minute hour, and hoping that Ann was between appointments.

  She answered. “Dr Morgan speaking.”

  “Ann. Hi. It’s Makedde.”

  “Mak. Hello. Good to hear from you.”

  “I’m, ummm. My Dad gave me your number. I feel a little uncomfortable about this, but, I’m going through some stuff and I would like to see if maybe you could…Maybe I could make an appointment?”

  God this is embarrassing.

  “I was hoping you’d call. An appointment would be fine. I’ll fit you in as soon as I can, unless you think you would be more comfortable if I referred you to someone else?”

  No. No strangers.

  “No, I don’t think I would feel comfortable just talking to anyone about it. I would rather talk to you. I understand if you are too busy.”

  “Not at all, Mak. I have to be in the office late this afternoon, so perhaps you could meet me here? I have an opening from five to six.”

  Wow, that was faster than she thought.

  “I have a photo shoot in town this afternoon, but it’s supposed to finish at five. I could try to bug out early. Where is your office?”

  “Kitsilano, close to you.”

  Not long before her first “official” meeting with a psychiatrist, Makedde Vanderwall was walking around a Vancouver photo studio sporting a brief, two-piece black athletic outfit and a pair of warm Aussie Ug boots.

  A large, mirrored make-up table sat in one corner of the studio, illuminated by a row of lights in the style of an old Hollywood vanity. The studio lights were hot, and she thought her face might be getting shiny. It was. The make-up artist was nowhere to be found, so Mak powdered her skin herself, and used a Q-tip to gently remove some sleep from one eye. She snuck a look at the wristwatch she had propped up beside a palette of eye shadows on the tabletop.

  Today Mak was modelling for a local department store. Simple money job—in and out and cash in the bank. It was nearing four-thirty now and she was getting nervous about the time.

  She couldn’t be late for Dr Morgan.

  Makedde picked up her Starbucks Venti-size latte off the make-up table and shook the container. Half empty. Half full? She brought it to her lips and tilted it back. Cold coffee. Her mouth left a big peachy lipstick stain on the lid.

  She thought about Roy. She thought about Andy.

  What a complete mess.

  The sound of large but graceful feet approaching her pulled her out of her thoughts…Don’t think about any of that right now…She spun around to meet the wardrobe stylist, Serge, as he approached with a white Nike sports bra and Lycra pants bearing the “Swoosh”. The colourful tags hung cheerily, oblivious to her time constraints, or her man troubles.

  “Makedde,” Serge said, stopping less than two feet from her and holding out the clothes. “Last outfit, then fini.” His distinctive accent was French-Canadian peppered with the occasional dash of Japanese. An odd mix. Instead of pronouncing her name “Ma-kay-dee” as it was meant to be, he said it like “Maka-dee” as if she were some kind of sushi.

  “The last one?” she asked.

  Serge was bald, gay and beautiful, and he’d clothed himself in head-to-toe Versus Versace, or a very good knock-off, she wasn’t sure. Simultaneously, they turned their heads to the clothing rack a few feet to their right. She counted six colour-coordinated outfits—grey, dark-blue, light-blue, red, red and grey, and finally black and grey. She was still wearing the seventh and the eighth was now in her hand.

  “Oui. The last one,” he confirmed.

  His eyelashes were long and dyed jet-black, and she found herself momentarily mesmerised by their movement—like watching black butterflies flutter gracefully.

  “Just so you know, I really should leave here in thirty minutes, max. I have an important appointment.”

  “Audition?”

  Mak could only translate his query as far as “Ah, Dijon?” which made little sense in their non-deli environs.

  “Pardon?”

  “Audition?” This time it was clear.

  “Uh…yeah,” she said vaguely. Something like that.

  Serge assumed she was a fledgling actor. People often did. They credited Makedde with movie-star looks and seemed to assume that it somehow came hand in hand with the desire or ability to act. Model-turned-actors were common in Vancouver, or North Hollywood as it was sometimes called. Mak rarely bothered to correct the assumption any more, mostly because it inevitably brought up the topic of her studies. Her present job and her dreams of the future were seemingly incongruous, and she rarely spoke of one in the presence of the other. Like Kipling’s Ballad of East and West, never the twain shall meet.

  Besides, correcting Serge would bring up the question of the true nature of her appointment, and she certainly wasn’t about to discuss that.

  Just get this shoot over with and get on to making some progress.

  Back in model-mode and avoiding conversation, she turned away from Serge and headed for the flimsy change room. In this case the change area wasn’t so much a room, but a small space divided from the rest of the studio by two tall slabs of styrofoam held together with black masking tape. Ah, the glamour. Posing for department store catalogues and changing behind styrofoam wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she started modelling at fourteen, but here she was, over a decade later, doing just that.

  There was a lone metal chair sitting in the tiny change space, and a wire hanger, bent out of shape, balancing from the seat back. A mangy-looking chartreuse scarf had been folded over the hanger, and Mak could read the label from where she stood: 100% Polyester. Made in Hong Kong. Fashion TV’s Jeanne Becker once described the colour as “fashion designer green”. Today it didn’t look very fashionable.

  She stripped off the black athletic top and shorts she had just modelled, and for a moment stood naked, save for a bland, skin-coloured G-string—the uniform model undergarment. She took the change scarf off the hanger and placed it over her head and face, using it to shield the white sports bra from her make-up while she slipped the final outfit over her head.

  When she was changed, Mak walked up to the make-up mirror and bent over to move the Lycra into place. She liked the style of the Nike work-out gear, and thanks to her running regime and recent hours spent in the gym, she was looking suitably fit to wear it. Makedde had also slapped on a careful coat of Clarins self-tanner the night before to combat the impending moon tan that marked the approach of every Canadian winter. Now her skin had a subtle golden glow that contrasted well with the stark white top. Hours spent sitting in libraries and at computer terminals could be hazardous to one’s modelling career. Preventative measures were necessary.

  She pushed a lock of long golden hair behind her ear and looked at herself in the mirror for a moment. She was worried that her lack of sleep and other troubles would get back to her agency, but the only visible clue that Miss Makedde Vanderwall wasn’t the picture of health was her slightly bloodshot eyes, which no longer responded well to Visine, and the barely noticeable under-eye circles. Mak was relieved that she didn’t look much worse. She had donned a layer of concealer before arriving at the studio, and more again while she was being made up for the shoot. She was exhausted, but she and Elizabeth Arden were conspiring to hide that fact. Starbucks were in on it too. She was up to five Venti lattes on some days; fully five times her normal, pre-insomnia dose.

  She doubted that concealer and caffeine would fool someone like Dr Ann Morgan though.

  Therapist. The-rapist.

  Damn, Mak. St
op it. Think about clothes. Think about modelling. Or rather…stop thinking.

  Just when Makedde finally managed to steer her mind back to the job at hand, the door blew open beside her, and a waft of smoke and cold air blasted in. It was Monica, the make-up artist.

  “Have a seat and I’ll give you a touch-up,” she squeaked in her candy-floss voice. She made Melanie Griffith sound butch.

  Mak looked at her watch again—four-thirty on the dot. Hopefully there’d be no traffic.

  As if in slow motion, Monica popped a wad of Dentine gum in her painted mouth, put one hand on her hip and contemplated her palate. Purple ringlets hung over her eyes, and she flipped her head to one side in an attempt to move them. They promptly flopped back to blur her vision. Eventually she turned her hands to Makedde’s face, pointing her fingers outwards and running her thumbs along Mak’s high cheekbones. After some pointless pawing and fussing about, every movement executed with irritating deliberation, something deep inside Monica evidently concluded that the best course of action was to reach for the powder puff…slowly.

  All this seemed to confirm Mak’s suspicions—Monica was straight out of make-up school. She had disappeared without a trace hours before, and Mak could only hope she would disappear again, very soon.

  “I’m in a hurry,” Mak said firmly. She could feel a headache coming on.

  Monica seemed not to hear. She pummelled Makedde’s face with a soft powdery puffball and said, “I think they want hair up for this one.”

  Oh, good Lord.

  Mak tried not to roll her eyes. “I have to leave in—” she looked at her watch again “—twenty-six minutes.”

  Without warning, her hair was hitched upright into a tight ponytail. Her eyes watered, and the impending headache made a grand arrival.

  “God, it’s so thick!” Monica exclaimed, pulling and yanking.

  Makedde had big hair. It wasn’t flat and bone-straight like her sister’s. She knew that. She woke up looking like Linda Evans in Dynasty every morning. It might have been great if she were born a decade earlier, but she had spent most of her career trying to flatten her blonde mane. Now it was the new millennium and she finally had it under control—which of course didn’t mean that others did. Especially this girl.

  “That’s okay, I’ll do it.”

  The make-up artist continued her fruitless pulling and combing.

  Deaf as well as inept. Fabulous.

  “Honestly, I’ll do it myself,” Mak repeated.

  The hands continued to struggle.

  That’s it!

  Mak turned her head sharply, hair follicles just barely holding rank, and gave Monica a long, hard look. The hands let go. She thought she actually saw a glimpse of fear in her eyes.

  I’ve been doing this for twelve bloody years. I think I can manage a simple ponytail, thank you very much!

  In no time at all Mak had brushed her own hair, thrown it into a high ponytail and secured it in place. She took one last look in the mirror, touched up her lips with a fresh coat of gloss and strode off towards the backdrop. Monica was speechless and looked on the verge of tears. Out of the corner of her eye, Mak saw her rush out the door.

  CHAPTER 33

  Mak stepped out into a rainy street in downtown Vancouver and crossed to her car. She stole a look at her watch—it was almost five. If she hurried, she might still make it.

  As much as she was dreading the meeting, she didn’t want to be rude considering Ann was so generously offering her valuable time. She wasn’t looking forward to discussing her recent past with anyone, not even a professional, but the time had come. Lack of sleep was affecting things with her friends and family. God, she had even used Roy to try to get over Andy and it hadn’t even come close to working!

  Damn.

  Makedde gave Zhora a pat, unlocked her and jumped in. She threw her model bag onto the cracked, white leather bench seat.

  Driving through the city towards the Burrard Bridge, she kept asking herself the same questions. Am I going crazy? Do I really need a shrink? Why can’t I stop these nightmares? Why has Andy come back into my life?

  She made good time across the bridge and down West 4th Street. When she saw the unmistakable giant cutlery at the door of Sophie’s Cosmic Café, she slowed down, keeping one eye on the street names and declining numbers. Mak had to circle the side streets several times to find a decent sized parking spot for Zhora. After hoofing it up a small hill to get back on the main street, she steered herself towards the clinic.

  DR A. MORGAN, M.D., FRCPC. Psychiatrist

  Psychiatrist. I can’t believe I am doing this.

  Her name was one of three doctors on the small sign. Mak pushed through the single door to the clinic and glanced at her watch as she walked up to the reception desk. It was one minute to the hour.

  The reception area was clean and modern. A curved dividing wall separated the waiting area from the reception desk at hip level. Mak saw a neatly combed black ponytail shifting back and forth beyond the divider, and heard the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. When she got close, the receptionist looked up. She was a beautiful woman, mid-thirties, with flawless Japanese features enhanced by glossy lipstick and expertly applied black eyeliner.

  “May I help you?”

  “I have an appointment with Dr Morgan.”

  “Mak-eddie Vanderwall?”

  “Ma-kay-dee,” Mak corrected her.

  “My apologies. Please take a seat, Makedde.” She relayed the name perfectly the second time, and went back to her typing.

  Mak looked around her. There were two long leather lounges perpendicular to each other in the waiting area. A severely underweight woman sat on the far corner of one next to a potted fern, reading People magazine. She wore her hair in a tight bun and was dressed in a neatly pressed beige suit. Her nobby, nyloned knees protruded from beneath her hemline like two chicken drumsticks stripped of the meat. A brown and gold scarf was arranged carefully to mask her thin neck. Mak felt a twinge of sadness for the woman and then chastised herself for her unwelcomed pity. Who was Makedde to say that this woman’s visible problems were any worse than her own hidden ones?

  A square table between the couches held a stack of earmarked magazines. Mak grabbed a Time off the top and chose the opposite corner of the lounge to wait for her appointment. She flipped through the magazine slowly, her eyes barely registering the pages. She was lost in thoughts—the “incident” in Sydney, Andy, Roy, her father and her mother.

  She imagined Ann making calculations in her head. Let’s see, disastrous affair = ten sessions. Death in the family = twelve sessions. Death of a close friend = twelve sessions. Serial killer =…How many sessions is it for a serial killer, again?

  The sound of movement coming from the clinic corridor distracted her rambling thoughts. It was Ann, making her way toward the waiting area. She wore a dark, semi-casual pant suit with a cream-coloured silk blouse. She looked very smart, and a bit more formal than she had at the dinner table. Mak was nervous, but it was still a relief to see her. She had come to associate Ann with a last chance for sanity.

  “Good afternoon, Mak. Nice to see you.” She shook her hand. “Would you like to come this way?” Ann led Mak down a corridor to an office behind the second of four doors.

  “It’s just through here, Makedde.” She held open the door and let Mak walk in first.

  The office was simple but elegant. Ann was obviously successful, and had good taste. A modest desk sat in one corner, crowned by a stack of paper in a tray. A small, silver desk clock. A Montblanc pen. A folder was open across the desk, and an unmarked pad of lined paper waited in anticipation of the psychiatrist’s notes.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  Ann gestured to a leather easychair near the wall, and took her place at the desk. Her own chair was already swivelled around to face the room, and Mak noticed that Dr Morgan did not turn her back to her when she sat. There were only a few feet of empty space between doctor and patient,
with no desk in the way to create subconscious barriers. Mak was a fan of the set-up, but she wondered about the practicality of barriers when it came time to open her own practice as a forensic psychologist. She might find that she wanted what little barriers she could use, depending on the patient.

  Mak settled into the chair. It let air out softly under her weight.

  “Are you comfortable?” Ann asked. Her tone was gentle, polite.

  Mak took a moment to answer. Physically, yes. Mentally, no. She replied with, “Yes, thank you,” regardless.

  “Did your shoot go well? I noticed that you weren’t late.”

  Mak thought about how she practically bit the make-up artist’s head off.

  “Ah, I managed to get away on time.”

  “So, how can I help you?”

  Ann’s body language was open and attentive, knees pointing towards her patient, arms bent in a relaxed position on her thighs. Her large brown eyes were sympathetic but direct. Her gaze didn’t waver and Mak was struck by her stillness as she waited for Mak to begin.

  “I, um, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Insomnia, I guess,” she began, “and recurring nightmares. I just can’t seem to sleep at night, and when I do it is awful.”

  God, Makedde, just relax.

  “Would you like to tell me something about your sleeping patterns? How much rest are you getting at the moment?” Ann asked.

  “Well, actually I’ve been keeping a diary, so I can tell you precisely.” She pulled the little book out of her bag.

  Ann looked impressed. “A diary is an excellent idea. I often recommend to my patients that they begin one.”

  Mak opened her book and read out some of the entries: the nightmares about wearing her father’s uniform, the feeling of impotence, the devil-like creature killing her mother, the scalpel…

  “Very vivid,” Ann remarked. “It’s wise that you are recording this. So you estimate that you have had on average about three to four hours of sleep per night this week?”

  “Yes.”

  “And always the nightmares?”