by Alice Bell
I circled the block twice, and found the address on a skinny brick building behind the old hotel that was rumored to be haunted. The parking lot was torn with potholes and chunks of asphalt. I decided to park on the street.
There was a dank smell in the stairway, as I went down.
I knocked on a red door with the name plate: Dr. Arnold Ashbury. When no one answered, I tapped my foot eight times (stop it), and went in. My pulse fluttered in my throat.
The room was cramped and square. It reeked of incense. Three green cracked vinyl chairs lined the wall, across from a high counter with a bell. A gold lamé curtain covered a doorway.
I shivered.
Just leave, Ruby, while you still can.
I rang the bell.
A short, balding man came through the curtain. He wore khaki pants and a gray plaid shirt, which didn’t go with the décor. I noticed he had fat hands and fingers like small sausages.
I wondered why I got myself into these situations. There was no reason I couldn’t turn around and make a break for my car. Yet, I was rooted to the floor.
“Ms. Rain?” his voice was deep and rich.
He can make anyone do anything with that voice, I thought. What if he did? Bent people to his will, while they thought they were being cured of smoking?
“You’re here for memory recovery?” he said.
I nodded.
“It’s a hundred and fifty dollars for the first session. Seventy-five, after that.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Payment up front.”
“Oh … oh, I see.” I had the perfect excuse for backing out, but I pawed through my bag and found the bills I’d folded into the side pocket.
His fees had been clearly stated in his ad. He didn’t accept checks, credit cards or health insurance, so I’d stopped at the ATM machine earlier, which was my trouble. Once I got obsessed with an idea, it was hard to become un-obsessed.
He led me behind the curtain, into a bigger room, with no carpet to cover the cement floor. There was a glass counter, containing jars of what, at first, I thought were dried spices, like sage and basil. But a sign on the wall, with a green cross, told me it was medical marijuana.
“Go ahead, take a look around,” Dr. Arnold suggested in his honeyed voice. “I’m not the fanciest dispensary in town, but I have the best weed,” he chuckled, like I would appreciate his lack of professionalism.
“I just want to be hypnotized,” I snapped. I hoped he wasn’t stoned.
“Well, then, this way,” he took me into a hall, and into another room, surprisingly pleasant, with light blue paneling.
There was an old wooden desk, a mini fridge, and two brown recliner chairs with a coffee table, like a living room. He gestured for me to sit. I perched on the edge of one of the chairs. I expected it to be musty, or stink of cigarettes, but it had a nice smell.
Dr. Arnold opened the fridge and got out two bottles of water. He gave one to me. It was cold. “Sessions can be dehydrating,” he said.
There were two framed diplomas on the wall; his hypnotherapy license and a degree from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Even though I knew they could be fake, I felt somewhat reassured.
He’d taken care to make the room homey. There were green leafy (silk) plants in the corners, a blue curtain over the high basement window. A thin slant of daylight came through.
He opened his water, took a swig and sat in the other brown chair. “Do you mind if I call you Ruby?” he said.
I shook my head.
“What’s your favorite color, Ruby?”
I shrugged. “Pink?”
“Pink is your code word. Once you’re under hypnosis, you can end the session at any time simply by clasping your hands together, like this,” he interlaced his fingers to show me. “And saying pink. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Why don’t you drink a little of your water, and relax into your chair.”
I did as I was told.
“Take a few deep breaths, Ruby. Good. Now, pick a spot to focus on, across the room … bring your gaze a little back, about half way, and stop. I’ve put on some music. It’s very soft. Can you hear it?”
There was a low melodic hum.
“Close your eyes. I will be next you, in this chair, Ruby. You are safe. You know how to bring the session to an end whenever you want. You are in control. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Imagine yourself on a beach. You are lying down, comfortable. The sunshine is warm on your face. You are calm. I am going to count backwards ...”
As he counted, warmth spread through my entire body. I was filled with a sense of well-being, like I’d never had before. I wanted to stay there. On the beach.
“You are very, very relaxed, Ruby. I want you to remember, as you are lying on the warm sand … just remember what you did yesterday, and tell me.”
I licked my lips. The image was clear in my mind, and pleasant. “I woke up, in the morning. I went to work. I saw my shrink.”
“Yes. Good. Now, let’s go further back, to what took place just before the time you can’t remember. See yourself. What are you doing, Ruby?”
I swallowed. “I’m in my classroom. My girls are there. The workshop girls.”
“Is this an ordinary day, Ruby?”
“No,” I whispered.
“What is different about it?”
“I’m upset with one of my students. I’m angry at her. But I shouldn’t be angry. It’s wrong.”
“Why is it wrong to be angry?”
“Because … because …” A tear slid down my cheek.
“Don’t cry, Ruby.”
“I read her diary. I was jealous.” I rubbed my temples. “My head hurts. I feel sick. I’m so eaten up by these … awful feelings. Oh,” I groaned. “I hurt so much.”
A hand pressed my arm.
“You are on the beach, Ruby. You don’t hurt. The sky is blue. There are no clouds. You are remembering something that has already happened, and it’s okay. It’s over. Take a drink of water … there.
“Breathe deeply. When you’re ready, I want you to open the diary and tell me what it says.”
I slumped forward. The diary was small and black. I stared at Scarlet’s writing.
“What does the diary say, Ruby?”
“Nothing. I can’t understand a word of it.” And yet, my mind raced.
Memories scattered like old photos; my mother’s torn wedding dress on the floor in the attic, bloodstained sheets, a box of knives.
One knife missing …
I gasped. I clasped my hands together. “Pink. Pink …”
6. Devon
I WOKE.
I remembered darkness. And coming apart inside it. But that was all. There was nothing else to orient me. I had no sense of time or space.
After a while, I opened my eyes. I have eyes, I thought.
There was a ceiling. Smooth, metallic.
I licked dry lips. Moved a hand. Wiggled fingers.
I am breathing.
I am alive. Inside a body.
I sat up and found myself on a narrow bed in a room filled with what appeared to be daylight. Only there were no windows. I swung my feet over the side of the bed. My thoughts tumbled and veered.
I stared at my hands. They were my hands, the ones I’d always known.
I am inside my own body.
My fingernails were encrusted with dirt, like I’d clawed my way out of a grave.
I touched my face. My heart pounded. I tried to take slow, deep breaths. So I could think.
God, I was wearing the same clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt but they were in tatters. Somehow I’d lost my black motorcycle boots, the only shoes I’d owned back on Earth.
Was it true? I was no longer on Earth?
I glanced around the room. There wasn’t any furniture, except the bed I sat on. I couldn’t detect the source of light. There were no recognizable fixtures, just seamless gray walls. It was cavelike an
d sleekly modern, at the same time.
I gazed down at my bare feet on the marbled floor. Same ugly toes, I thought. The floor wasn’t cold. It was the perfect temperature, in fact. And I realized I felt no discomfort. No part of me ached. I wasn’t hungry.
And then, a second later, my stomach rumbled, and there I was, remembering my favorite foods; cheeseburgers and fries, vanilla milkshakes, tacos from the street stands in Mexico, caviar … champagne.
My human life played across my mind, like a movie.
I was Devon Slaughter, a tiny baby with dark hair in my mother’s arms; an only child, unexpected even, born to parents who had already started the long process with an adoption agency.
I saw myself again, as a boy, in my Little League uniform, hitting the ball and dutifully running the bases, while my lawyer father cheered louder than anyone. I had done so many things to please him. I cared nothing for sports and yet, I played every one.
I saw my mother, standing behind me, while I sat at a table and worked an algebra problem.
Oh. Black Forest cake. Another favorite food. So many layers, eighteen candles.
I stiffened. My breath caught.
There, next to me, clapping as I blew out candles—a girl. The girl. Such pale blonde hair against even paler skin, coffee brown eyes, the most exotic girl I could find.
Zadie. The one thing I didn’t do to please my parents.
How my mother had hated her.
I closed my eyes. Grief hit me.
Back then, I figured no one was good enough for me, in my mother’s eyes. I was her miracle, the answer to her prayers. But now I remembered what she’d said about Zadie. “She will hurt you.” The words slammed and echoed against the walls of my mind.
I raked my hands through my hair.
My breath turned ragged, like I was running. I tried to bring the one memory that still eluded me into focus. Who had turned me? All I could catch were snatches of vivid color, images and texture, the touch of cold lips, fractured starlight.
It happened with a kiss. This I knew, but I couldn’t identify the culprit, the villain. I had spent my last days on Earth trying but the demon inside me had fought against any human memory.
In the end, through process of elimination, I pinned my loss of humanity on Zadie. Why would she do such a thing to me? We had truly loved each other, no matter what anyone else thought.
There was a pressure in my head, a kind of humming, like a memory about to burst open. I rubbed my temples, and my eyes.
I wanted to scream. Tear up the room. But there was no furniture to throw.
I still couldn’t see the face of the person who had kissed me.
What about Zadie?
Was she here? Or had she died of natural causes and gone somewhere else? Like Nicaragua?
Zadie.
She will hurt you …
I jerked at the sound of movement.
The wall in front of me slid open to reveal a bathroom. I stared. White tile gleamed. I glimpsed a ceramic toilet with a curtain to pull around it, in the case, I supposed, I needed to void. At that particular moment, I did not. And I was grateful.
When a disembodied voice spoke, I leapt to my feet, pulse pounding.
“Please proceed to the facilities and use the shower,” the voice was female, computerized.
I stood there, disconcerted. Anxiety gripped me. Sarah’s face, Sarah screaming (as the earth shook) came back to me: “Go! Let go!” she had cried.
What other choice did I have?
“Please take a shower,” the voice commanded again, none the less pleasant.
I entered the bathroom and heard the swish of metal doors closing behind me. I whirled around, searching for a sign that there was a way out.
And there was. A green button blinked. “Open doors,” it said. Naturally, I pressed the button, just to make sure.
The doors stayed shut.
“Please take a shower before exiting.”
Was there a hint of annoyance in the voice now?
My gaze swept the room.
A pitcher of what appeared to be water sat on a metal stand, along with one tall glass. On seeing it, my throat throbbed with desire.
I crossed the room and drank glass after glass, until the pitcher was empty. The water was cold and sweet and pure. I felt sated afterward. But I also felt a little like Alice in Wonderland, swigging from the bottle that said Drink Me.
On a marble counter, there was a spread of everything I needed: a bar of soap, thick white towels, and a pile of clean clothes, which I unfolded; an olive green T-shirt and matching pants.
What about shoes? I peered under the counter to find a pair of what could only be called slippers. They were made of black canvas with rubber on the soles. Non-slip. How sensible.
I peeled off my shards of clothes and dropped them on the floor. Dirt streaked my skin and gave off a mossy odor.
I took the bar of soap and opened a glass door which I assumed led to the shower. It was spacious and laid with round stones that comforted my feet. There was a tap, which I turned (like gullible Alice).
Hot water rained down from invisible spigots. Steam filled the vestibule.
7. Ruby
I WIGGLED into a black skirt and had trouble zipping it. My new medication increased my appetite and I’d gained a few pounds. I didn’t mind. I felt more solid, like I wouldn’t just float away.
Before leaving the house, I forced down a slug of green tea, like it was medicine. I preferred coffee but it wasn’t doctor recommended.
When I pulled into the school parking lot, I looked for Henry’s red Jeep, something I did every morning. I didn’t see it.
He usually arrived at seven to run laps on the track. We met up in the teacher’s lounge before our first class.
Not that anything big had happened yet. I was still a twenty-one year old virgin. I guessed I wasn’t the oldest virgin in the world but sometimes I wondered if I was the loneliest.
Strangely, I dreamed about sex. A lot.
I knew how it would feel to be touched, in that way, by someone who knew where to touch me, and how. Sometimes, I’d burst awake in the middle of the night, slick with sweat. I’d be tangled in the sheets, my body trembling … with pleasure.
I waited around the teacher’s lounge as long as I could, glancing out the window, scanning the parking lot, even going past Henry’s classroom. It was locked up and dark.
The whole morning dragged on, with me wondering about him. I was afraid he was avoiding me.
I had no other friends.
Between classes, I chewed my nails. They had just started to grow out too.
At lunch, I couldn’t eat a bite of my pita sandwich and drank a fizzy soda instead, to settle my stomach.
Whenever I had a downward slide, I told myself I would start over tomorrow.
Not tomorrow. Right now.
I grabbed my gym bag, one of those cavernous Louis Vuitton bags from the 90s that had belonged to my mother.
I’d started working out. Exercise was highly endorsed by Dr. Sinclair. It did help with my nerves, I had to admit.
The sun dazzled. It had melted the frost that dusted the asphalt earlier in the morning. Overhead, the sky was azure with only a few wispy clouds. I couldn’t see the mountains that edged the desert but I knew there was snow on their peaks.
My gaze swept the parking lot once more, looking for Henry’s Jeep.
Don’t worry about it. Quit being a stalker.
I headed for my own car.
At the gym, I used an old Stairmaster in the corner. No one else used it. The machine didn’t track my miles or anything. I just climbed and climbed, going nowhere, staring at the wall and not thinking about much. It was weirdly soothing. One time a guy asked me, “What level are you on?” “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t care. I just like the way I feel afterwards. Loose and tingly and thirsty.” He gave me a weird look, like I’d said something dirty. It made me a tiny bit mad, which Dr. Sinclair sai
d was healthy. “If someone is rude to you, Ruby, it doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Most of the time, it isn’t about you. And if it is, so what?”
When I got back to school, there was still no sign of Henry.
I parked my pink boat of a Cadillac. It was a vintage De Ville that had belonged to my grandmother and I loved it. I felt safe inside it. I also felt guilty about driving a gas guzzler. It was one more thing that could torture me, if I started worrying about it.
As I crossed the parking lot, I ended up going out of my way to find Georgie’s car. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t skipping school too. If she and Henry were absent at the same time, it would be highly suspicious. She had some kind of history with Henry I couldn’t figure out. He was so evasive whenever I asked about her, I couldn’t shake the idea they had been lovers. Or she wanted to be lovers. Or the other way around.
I spotted Georgie’s car on the east side of the lot.
I made sure no one watched, before trotting over. She drove a yellow Mini Cooper. When I tried to peer in the window, the sun glared and bounced back my own reflection.
What did I hope to find?
Nothing, that’s what. But I was terrified there’d be some kind of awful evidence. Of what, I didn’t know. But I would when I saw it.
I glanced at my watch, out of habit. My wrist was bare.
I went around to the rear of the car. The scratches I’d left were gone.
Had I keyed Georgie’s car?
The memory was clear in my mind, vivid in detail, right down to the sound of scraping metal. Shame over doing it had plagued me for weeks.
You didn’t make it up, I told myself. Georgie had her bumper painted, like anyone would. But I was confused. There were so many holes in my mind where memories should be. I felt angry at the hypnotherapist for taking my money.
I was mad at Dr. Sinclair too, for refusing to hypnotize me, and forcing me to a hack.
Cupping my hands, I pressed my face to the driver’s window. A sparkly necklace hung from the rearview mirror, a McDonald’s bag lay crumpled in the seat.
Across the lot, an engine started. I scurried away, my heart racing.
