by Janis Thomas
I lean forward and type furiously onto the keyboard, calling up FamilyTree.com and inputting Delilah Amherst’s name. Relief floods through me as I scan her family tree. Four children with Ronald Clayton, their names matching perfectly with those of Richard’s offspring. Six grandchildren to date.
So. I have not killed off an entire clan. I backtrack to the picture of Delilah with her current (only) husband and gaze at her celluloid image. The reason I hardly recognized her is because she appears to be something she never was when I knew her. Happy.
Valerie steps into my (Richard’s) office and sets a cup of coffee on the desk. The color is just right. I quickly close the browser and look up at her.
“So, we have SoundStage at ten. Are you ready?”
I have never been less ready for anything in my life. I should ask Valerie to cancel the meeting. I should run from this office, this building, this city, and not look back. My spine is a steel rod; my jaw aches with tension. What do I do now? I’ve never run a meeting—the idea was never even considered by my boss or by me. I was always grateful to be allowed on the periphery, an invisible woman, quietly tucked in the far corner of the conference room, silently taking notes she would never share with another soul. Listening and learning and contemplating the ways in which she might do things differently.
“You’re going to kill it,” Valerie says and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I love how you use KONGOS in the presentation. Very hip.” She winks at me. “I’ll bet you five bucks they sign with us before they leave the building.”
SoundStage. KONGOS. This is the proposal I would have presented to our would-be clients had Richard given me license. He didn’t. But he’s not here. It’s possible he doesn’t exist.
I have no choice but to navigate my way through the meeting.
And I do.
I am not an actress, but somehow I manage to preside over the pitch meeting with savvy and aplomb I never knew I possessed. Words, phrases, sentences pass my lips that I seem to be accessing from a new memory cache, a file on my mental hard drive that was created long before this morning, however impossible that is. For one hour and fourteen minutes, I am in command of myself and others around me, free of panic and fear and confused disorientation. I revel in it, because in the back of my mind, I know it won’t last.
Richard Stein is a youngish forty-something with a stern countenance contradicted by an easy smile. He listens to me as though I am an expert, as though I know what I am talking about, and nods continuously like a devout parishioner to my portrayal of a PR priest.
Stein and his SoundStage compatriots sign with us before they take leave, just as Valerie prophesized.
“Do I have anything before Peters?” I ask her as we tuck away our papers and pretend not to be surprised by our success.
“No,” she replies. “Bidwell rescheduled.”
Bidwell. Chain of women’s gyms. Misanthropic CEO.
I’ve never heard of them before.
“I’m going to run a couple of errands, then.” She nods. “I’ll be back before Peters.”
She smiles. “Congrats. The big boys are going to be impressed. The first woman partner at Canning and Wells. I can see it now.”
I shiver with delight and remorse.
“I’ll be on my cell,” I tell her, then stride from the conference room, and moments later, from the building.
The fresh air burns my lungs.
When Joshua was an infant and I had no idea how to care for a child with cerebral palsy, and I was overwhelmed to the point of utter self-destruction, Colin suggested we see a therapist. A colleague of his at the local college where he teaches creative writing and literary theorems lost a child to SIDS. This colleague recommended a psychoanalyst who helped him and his wife though their dark days. The therapist’s name was (and is) Lettie Barnes. If it weren’t for her, I might not have survived those first few years with Josh.
In the space between my frenzied computer search of Richard Green and the meeting with SoundStage, I reached out to her. I haven’t seen Lettie for a decade, so I was relieved to hear her familiar voice on the outgoing message of the phone number I dialed. I left a frenetic voice mail that suggested I might be losing my mind, and she called me back almost immediately. After a few catching-up pleasantries, she told me to come see her at noon.
Ironically—or not—Dr. Barnes’s office is downtown, in one of the second-floor apartments of a brownstone three doors from Paw-Tastic Pets. I experience a kind of déjà vu when I pull up to the curb at a meter on Main Street. I can’t seem to quicken my pace when I walk down the sidewalk. My feet betray me, grinding to a halt in front of the pet store window.
There he is, Charlemagne, curled into a ball in the corner of the kennel, motionless in the midst of the merry chaos of his cellmates. He doesn’t look up at me pleadingly, nor does he lift his head. His eyes remain downcast, focused on a piece of urine-soaked newspaper. My chest tightens.
Still here because of me . . .
No. It was a dream.
And the tree? Was that a dream? And the existence of a horrible, sadistic man, was that also a dream?
I take a step back, then another and bump into something soft. I whip around to see the little woman—what was her name?—from the next shop down.
But if yesterday was a dream, then how do I recognize this old woman?
“Oh, dear, excuse me.” Her voice is like tinkling glass, high and light, with a trace of a British accent.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” I say.
“That’s one of the problems with being profoundly petite.” She giggles at her use of alliteration.
“Yes, well . . .” The day is warm, no breeze, yet a chill courses through me, leaving a trail of gooseflesh along my arms. I rub at them awkwardly and turn to go.
“He’s an adorable little moppet, isn’t he?”
I follow her gaze to the window. Her focus is unmistakably on Charlemagne.
“They’re all cute,” I say.
“Yes.” She nods slowly. “But there’s something about that little one in the corner, isn’t there? Something that brings to mind Western Europe and the Middle Ages.”
My head jerks so violently toward her that a spasm of pain stabs my neck. The woman watches me closely, then her lips spread into a knowing grin. She winks.
“Charlemagne,” I whisper.
“Though Charlie seems more appropriate, don’t you think?”
I’m suddenly struck with vertigo. The sidewalk expands and contracts beneath my feet, the brownstones seem to breathe, the air pressure shifts as though all the oxygen around me is being sucked into a vacuum.
“Oh my, are you quite well? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
She reaches out and places her palm on my hand. The warmth of her touch steadies me.
“I’m . . . I’m just not myself today.”
“Why don’t you come into my shop for a few minutes,” she suggests. “I’ve just made some tea. We can have a nice chat.”
I shake my head and pull my hand away from hers. “I c-can’t. I have an appointment.”
“Well, that’s a shame. But I understand.”
I move past her, forcing myself not to look at the puppy. The swirling patterns in the concrete dance before my eyes, making it difficult for me to walk in a straight line. I sense movement beside me. The woman has fallen in step with my strides. She stops in front of her shop.
“This is mine,” she says, gesturing to the window. Again, I follow her gaze. The house, the miniature of my own, still sits in the front display.
From where I stand, I can see it clearly. Where yesterday there was only fake grass lining the yard, today a Lilliputian tree stands in the center of it.
TWELVE
Dr. Lettie Barnes takes one quick look at me and ushers me straight into her office.
The years have been kind to my former therapist. She has given up dyeing her hair auburn, and the result is a mass of love
ly, silky silver locks framing her oval face. The lines around her dark-brown eyes and mouth have deepened, but they do not age her as much as they add a degree of wisdom and worldliness to her aura. Her hips and torso have widened fractionally, but she still wears her uniform of jeans and open-knit sweaters with the same confidence she did when she carried less weight.
“Please don’t ask me if I’m okay,” I say before I sit down.
Her inner sanctum is much the same, although she’s had it painted recently. The leather couch has been traded for a newer model, as have the overstuffed chairs, for patients who prefer to sit up, but they are each in the same place as when I was last here, couch beneath the window, chairs catty-corner to Lettie’s desk. I recognize quite a few of the family photos on the wall, but there are a great many additions due to the expansion of her clan—the collection now includes her children’s spouses and her grandchildren.
The familiarity of the room fails to calm me or restore my sense of order.
“All right,” she says. “I won’t ask. Where would you like to sit?”
“I don’t know.” I wring my hands, then realize what I’m doing and force myself to stop.
“How about if I tell you where to sit.” I nod and she points to the couch.
“I don’t want to lie down.”
She nods. “You don’t have to lie down, Emma. I am merely suggesting the place, not the position.”
Lettie Barnes’s voice is low and breathy like that of a smoker, soothing as a cup of warm milk and honey. Her sentences are measured, delivered slowly and methodically, but they never come across as rehearsed. “I can see that something is upsetting you,” she says.
I shake my head back and forth as a wave of panic sets in.
“I’m not upset. I. Am. Not. Upset. I’m going insane, Lettie. But not the okay kind of insane, not the way most mothers of teenagers and special-needs kids feel—overwhelmed and overwrought and distraught and delirious. I’m the bad kind of insane, the straitjacket kind.” I still haven’t taken a seat.
“Emma, take a breath. Please.”
“I can’t. I can’t breathe deeply or exhale on a sound or clear my mind anymore. I’ve tried. All I’ve done for the past twenty-four hours is breathe, but it’s not helping.”
“Emma!” Her tone is sharp. I swallow hard and meet her eyes. “Emma.” Softly this time. “Sit down.” I comply. The cushion beneath me is a million miles away, but after a long moment of descent, I feel the leather against my butt and upper thighs. I fold my hands in my lap.
Lettie drags her chair around the desk and sets it next to the couch, less than a foot from me, then lowers herself into it. She reaches out and takes my hands in hers and looks at me intently.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been here, Emma, so I’m going to remind you that whatever you share with me is strictly confidential and will never leave these walls unless you give me permission to disclose it.”
Her words, slow and mellifluous, seep into me, and I feel myself, finally, unwind. I am safe here, if only for the time being. When 12:55 comes, I will be thrust out into the world, into my false life, my perpetual hallucination. But for the next fifty minutes, I’m safe.
“Okay, Emma,” she says with her milk-and-honey voice. “What’s going on?”
I tell her the tale, beginning with my wish the night before last and Charlemagne’s subsequent disappearance; the tree and my fall against the brick pavers; Richard’s attack and this morning’s denial of yesterday’s sins; my ascendance to an un-abdicated throne, my internet search, my meeting with SoundStage, the revised memories at war with the originals. She listens patiently without interruption, without ever donning a skeptical expression, without ever loosening her grip on my hands. When I finish, I lean back against the couch, slip my hands from her grasp and press them against my face. Hearing myself relay the events of the last thirty-six hours confirms what I already suspect. My story is a fantasy, a fiction. Madness.
Lettie’s first question surprises me. “How is Joshua?”
I collect my thoughts. “Fine. The same. Good days and bad days.”
“And Katie?”
“She’s a typical teenager. Hates me most of the time, and the rest of the time tolerates me.”
“And how are you and Colin?”
I understand what Lettie is doing. She’s making simple and prosaic inquiries about my life to lure me away from my delusions. It works. I relax a trifle more when recounting the humdrum facets of my everyday existence.
“Colin and I are as always. Married.”
She nods and permits herself a chuckle. Not rancorous or condescending, but an acknowledgment of all women’s occasional complacency with marital life.
“Are you making love?”
I shrug. “Not lately. It’s a phase, right? He wants to take me away for a weekend. Rekindle our passion.”
“You don’t want to go?”
I breathe, as instructed, only moments too late. “I don’t want to leave Josh.”
“But you are comfortable with his current caretaker?”
I sigh and feel the muscles in my shoulders contract. “Yes, but this has nothing to do with why I came here today. Lettie, I need help.”
Her smile is compassionate and sympathetic, not charitable.
“Emma. I am going to speak frankly with you, okay?”
I nod.
“I haven’t seen you for a decade, but I know you are the same woman who came to me more than a dozen years ago. I saw no signs of mental illness then. I saw a woman overwhelmed and stressed to the very brink of breaking. That is what I see today.”
“It’s more than that,” I say, but my voice falters.
She sits back in her chair. “Human beings are a strange lot, Emma. We are enslaved by our intelligence. Frequently, when we feel anxiety or disquiet, our minds take us places we don’t want to go, create scenarios that seem unlikely if not downright impossible. Our brains are complex computers that we don’t fully understand. Where do thoughts come from? How do we distinguish fantasy from reality? What is the basis for our certainty that a thing actually exists?”
She doesn’t believe me. And why should she? I don’t believe me, either, except that I know what I know.
“Let’s do a little exercise, okay?”
I don’t want to do any exercises and I don’t want psychobabble. I want an explanation. I want a rationalization. I want to know that somewhere in recorded history, someone has experienced that which I am experiencing now.
I nod to her in acquiescence.
“I want you to close your eyes, Emma. Breathe deeply. Whatever images are floating through your mind, I want you to let them flow, then let them go.”
So easy for her to say, so difficult for me to do. I close my eyes, and a montage of snapshots flies across my brain. Charlemagne, Richard, Colin, the tree, my discarded clothing, my ravaged cheek, the bathroom stall at Canning and Wells. I take another breath. Let them flow and let them go.
“Go back, Emma. Let the years fall away. Go back to that day when your boss Xander left your firm.”
The renegade images recede, and I see Xander’s face. I feel a smile come to my lips at the sight of him, so jolly, so ebullient and generous of spirit.
“We’re having a retirement party for him,” I murmur. Wally Holleran was new to the firm and desperate to get into his colleagues’ good graces. He brought the champagne and played bartender, filling everyone’s glass but his own.
“Tell me what Xander says to you,” Lettie coaxes.
My boss approaches, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t want to retire, but Bill Canning and Edward Wells are pushing him out. And his wife is ailing. He wants to spend time with her and their grandchildren. But he will miss the daily mayhem, the battle, the sweet scent of victory when a campaign produces a client’s success.
“Emma,” Xander says. “Thank you. I know it was you who put this soiree together.”
I
don’t contradict him. He has been my mentor and my champion for the past year. I’m sorry to see him go. Will his replacement treat me with the same respect that Xander has?
He puts his rough, wrinkled hand on my shoulder and gives me a warm, jowly smile. “I’ve put in a good word for you, Emma,” he said. “I was thinking you might take my position when I leave. Bill and Ed are convinced. Beginning next week, you will be the new director of marketing and business acquisition and retention. On a trial basis, of course, but I have no doubt that you will be a formidable successor.”
My eyes snap open. Lettie is staring at me. This memory is fraudulent, although it resembles the truth. I shake my head and close my eyes again, willing the proper recollection to materialize.
“I was thinking you might take my position when I leave, but Bill and Ed think you need a little bit more time. But they are aware. And so is Richard. They’ll do right by you. I promise.”
Both memories resonate, but I know that only one could have happened. Unless, at some point, I was sliced in half and am currently living dual lives in parallel universes. A bark of terrified laughter escapes me, and I press the heel of my hand against my mouth to mute the sound. A few seconds pass.
“How did you feel in your meeting today?” Lettie asks in front of my closed lids.
I drop my hand and let out a sigh. “I felt good.” For the first time in as long as I can remember, I felt in control, a part of something that mattered. My family, my son—they matter, of course. But the meeting in the conference room, with Richard Stein hanging on my every word and Valerie surreptitiously giving me the thumbs-up signal, was something that was solely about me.
What a selfish woman I am.
“Open your eyes, Emma,” Lettie says. The cadence of her voice suggests that our session has come to a close. “I want to see you again, at the end of the week. In the meantime, I’m going to prescribe something for you. Xanax. It will help you achieve a sense of calm without corrupting your daily life.”
