Guild Of Immortal Women

by David Alan Morrison

  “ABBEY DOESN’T NEED YOUR FUCKING SHITTY BIRTHDAY CUPCAKE!”

  Edna tenderly kissed Abbey’s forehead and whispered in her ear, “I love messing with that girl’s mind!” She giggled and shuffled to the door. As she turned the handle, she whispered over her shoulder. “Happy birthday, Abbey. I love you.” Abbey nodded.

  “Edna, be nice to Heather. She’s just doing her job.”

  Edna nodded and smiled. “If that airhead girl had wings, she’d fly backwards. But you, Abbey, you’re an angel.” Abbey shrugged. “I’ll see you in group?” Abbey nodded. Edna smiled and grabbed the door handle.

  “BACK AWAY FROM THE DOOR, YOU WHORE, I’M COMING THROUGH!” Edna winked at Abbey before opening the door and exiting.

  4

  Lynn Swanson hit SAVE on the keyboard, leaned back in her chair and toppled a pile of papers with her elbow. Reaching down to pick them up, she farted. Great. She sighed in resignation. This whole month had sucked, so why not have gas, too? When she kicked off her fortieth birthday by playing Cribbage with her parents and their seniors group, she should have known the year was going to be a bummer. The day after her birthday, a wasp bit her when she pursued the neighbor’s cat into the garden in hopes that the gorgeous, barrel chested blond would be impressed by her gusto. He was. So was his boyfriend. Yesterday, a cop cited her for both a non-functioning tail light and for not wearing a seatbelt. Normally a uniformed police officer would add a thrill to her catatonic sex life, but he was one of those who wore mirrored sunglasses and swaggered. As he took his place near the driver’s door, he stood with his crotch at her eye level and with one look, Lynn realized why he was so angry: he was still waiting for his testicles to drop.

  That excitement paled in comparison to last night, when she spent two hours staring at her keys hanging from the ignition while waiting for the automobile club to arrive, which meant she had to be at work by six o’clock this morning to finish paperwork she should have done last night.

  She no longer believed that her life sucked worse than anyone else’s. She was positive of it. Actually her life had skyrocketed out of suckiness, past depressing and shot into “pathetic.” And she had only been over the hill for two days.

  She looked out her window at the single-story brick building that housed the patients. Another fun, fabulous day had dawned here at ‘The Meadows’ which, ironically, was hidden deep within thick woods. Most of the patients in the facility were rich people from richer families whose only psychological problem was a mild case of sleep disorder. She did get to treat the occasional addict, anorexic or nervous breakdown, but those patients never stayed. They had the gall to recover and return home, full of chipper glee, with their Mercedes-driving, Gucci-wearing, sympathetic family members.

  She sighed and logged off her computer.

  All this contemplation didn’t change the fact that she was a forty year-old, unmarried woman with the uncanny ability to attract dorky cops and dust bunnies. Not to mention she worked in a loony bin.

  She scooped up the files on her desk, grabbed her plastic travel mug, and headed out of her office. She had just enough time to grab a refill (with any luck, the new C.N.A. —what was her name? Harriet? Heather?—brewed the Starbucks instead of the Folgers), review her case notes, and make it to group with plenty of time to spare.

  After triple checking the office door to ensure the lock engaged, she headed left down the hallway of the remodeled manor. Her life could be worse. She could still be in graduate school, scraping up enough cash for tuition by mowing lawns at the wastewater treatment plant. At least here there’s no smell of excrement stuck in her nostrils making everything smell like shit. Or she could still be working with the sweet old woman on the hill who turned out to be a glue-sniffing, enema-loving Harpy.

  At least at The Meadows (or as the newly hired CEO called it: “Your Home Away from Home” —yeah, right, YOU come live here!), you stood amongst one hundred beautiful acres of Vermont countryside, complete with duck pond, walking trails and ancient folklore. Lynn had snagged the corner office from that presumptuous PhD candidate after she creamed the bitch’s ass in the now legendary “Ping-Pong Death Challenge.” Plus, the therapists’ offices were in the same hallway of the main building as the administration staff—a richly decorated, brightly painted Tudor-style English manor that once housed the estate owner’s British family. Lynn loved the heavy mahogany staircases and horsehair plaster walls. She loved the slight squeak of the wooden floors under her feet and the doors of the meeting room that slid silently into their pockets in the walls. It sure beat the hell out of the oily garage floor of the wastewater treatment plant.

  At the end of the hallway, she paused at the large maple desk with the brass nameplate reading MARTHA MALONE – ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT and, after a quick glance to ensure the short, silver-haired Hitler was nowhere in sight, she snatched the notepad from the desk and scanned it. Martha meticulously notated any phone calls, e-mails, snail mail, visitors, gossip, stray glance, or telepathic alien contact with the merciless detail of an anal-retentive FBI agent on the trail of a serial killer. Lynn learned the hard way to never—and she meant NEVER—touch Martha’s book without Martha’s permission. Murder may occasionally be justifiable, but touching Martha’s schedule book without permission wasn’t.

  Satisfied nobody had tried to infiltrate the bowels of this facility during her time in the office, Lynn turned and walked through the high archway which separated the manor from the clients’ quarters. Just as the manor reflected the tasteful elegance of the era in which it was built, the building that housed those quarters reflected the society of its day. The rectangular brick building was composed of four long corridors running the interior perimeter of the structure, with the apartments opening into these main arteries. The hallways twinkled with brightly colored fabric runners and ornate trim. Delicate sconces lined the upper parts of the walls, spilling their light onto the ceiling for maximum bounce.

  These apartments ranked better than her own, thanks to her crappy salary.

  The group meeting rooms lay on the opposite side of the symmetrical building. While Lynn strolled down the western hallway, she flipped open the file containing today’s assignments. At the top of her ‘to do’ list, was, of course, group—which was at the top of every day’s ‘to do’ list. Second on the list was Martha’s bold, thick, perfectly printed handwriting with the name: EMERSON, ABBEY—DISCHARGE INTERVIEW. Lynn’s heart sank.

  Lynn knew all about the Social Worker code of ethics, of course, and would refuse to admit it publicly, but Abbey was her favorite patient and she would be terribly melancholy to see her leave The Meadows.

  The twenty-five-year-old was brought to the Funny Farm (she must stop saying that. If she let it slip out during a staff meeting, she’d be sacked for sure) by her Aunt Eleanor, a stately woman who, by her own account, must be about eighty, although she didn’t look a day over sixty. Eleanor said that Abbey’s semi-catatonic state was trauma due to a terrible crash several months ago. While Eleanor had done her best to look after Abbey, the girl needed professional help. She cried when she left Abbey that first night; Abbey herself remained in a near-catatonic state and reacted very sluggishly to any stimulus.

  Over the next several days, Abbey steadily improved at a surprising rate and within a month, she appeared to be a normal, social and energetic young woman. Abbey had a mystique about her, a depth, which Lynn could only describe as ‘spiritual.’ It was as if Abbey didn’t communicate with people as much as she peered into their soul.

  Abbey was wise beyond her twenty-five years.

  During this time, the family visited often. In the beginning, Eleanor was accompanied by another woman, identified as Aunt Ruth. Ruth was so maternal in her actions that Lynn wondered if she wasn’t actually Abbey’s birth mother, disguising herself as a relative. Then Lynn decided that idea was insane and the logical explanation was the most simple: Eleanor and Ruth were lesbians and the co-parents of Abbey. After Ab
bey’s sudden and unexpected improvement, Eleanor visited with a rotation of other women: Aunt Tommy (now that was a lesbian name if she ever heard one), Aunt Zen, and someone called “Livia.” As wonderful as the visitations were, Lynn wondered why Abbey required so many lesbians to raise her.

  It was during the time following her lucidity that Abbey’s dreams manifested. She reported that her dreams were so vivid that she often awoke unable to discern dream from reality. Lynn addressed this issue during her individual sessions.

  “These dreams…are…they feel real,” Abbey related, getting up from the overstuffed chair Lynn had bought at a second-hand store because she forgot to submit her furniture request form. “I want to know why I suffer from them.”

  Lynn said softly, “Did your family ever mention a near-drowning incident or water accident?” Abbey shook her head. “How about fire?

  Ever burned as a child?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Abbey shrugged. “But remembering is my problem, is it not?”

  Lynn grimaced. Nice one. She tried a different tactic. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember of the dreams.”

  “The water dream?” Lynn nodded. Abbey took a deep breath. “I feel myself flying. I feel good. It feels like home. Does that sound crazy?” “No. It sounds wonderful.”

  Abbey shook her head. “I want to know what happened to me.

  Abbey sighed and nodded. “The blue sky calms me. I see sparks of light all around—like diamonds in the sky.” Abbey’s smile faded. “Then…I do not know why, but I begin to fall. I remember panicking, feeling as if I can no longer control anything around me. Then…” she paused, getting a faraway look in her eyes, “Water grabs me, pulling me under and I can do nothing. I see the sun, but I…keep sinking. Then someone reaches for me. I…I think it’s God, but…” Her voice cracked and she turned away from Lynn. “Is this too much for you?”

  Why I lost my memory.”

  “That’s very brave,” Lynn reassured her.

  “These dreams scare me. I do not like feeling scared.” Without waiting for an answer, Abbey continued. “There’s a man there. Tall.

  Thin. Each eye a different color.”

  “Did he scare you?”

  Abbey shook her head. “He comforted me. Then he’s gone.”

  “Do you want to see him again?”

  Abbey nodded. She cleared her throat and continued. “The fire dream is different. I remember more of that one. Shall I tell you?” Lynn nodded.

  “I walk through a crowd. They are angry and scream at me, as if I am a criminal. Hundreds of people crowd around me, but they can’t touch me.”

  “Why?”

  “Soldiers surround me. They are my protectors.”

  “Do you remember where you are?”

  Abbey nodded. “A large stone building—like a castle—that has a huge wall all around it. People stand on the walls. They throw things at me.” Lynn let Abbey sit in silence for a moment. Then the young woman grabbed the small silver crucifix around her neck and began to speak again. “Then…the flames…”

  Lynn debated if she should stop Abbey, but decided against it. After a moment, Abbey began speaking quickly, fondling the crucifix again.

  “The flames grow all around me. I feel a burning on my feet and then I can’t feel anything below my knees. I scream, but no sound comes out. The crowd screams and points. I look up and see them.” “Who?” Lynn asked, sitting on the edge of her chair.

  “…my angels. God has sent me salvation, so I cry out to them. But they do nothing. God’s punishment for doing something wrong. Or being wrong. I wish I knew which.”

  “Then?”

  “Then I awake in my room,” Abbey said. “And Edna is patting my hand.” She looked to Lynn and added pointedly, “Every time. Every time.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to me about the two elements in general terms? Let’s begin with the first memory of fire you can recall.”

  “The first?” Lynn nodded. Abbey wandered aimlessly around the room, gently fingering Lynn’s collection of plastic Disney figurines that she either borrowed from the children’s ward or stole from her dentist’s office.

  “I was…oh…I can’t remember. Ten? Young.” Abbey’s voice became soft, “Father—we always called him Father—was standing in front of a huge fire. He threw twigs into it and I stood there watching.” Abbey replaced The Little Mermaid and picked up Snow White.

  “Did he burn you?” Lynn felt compelled to ask, although she knew the answer.

  “No, no he didn’t,” Abbey replied, her voice sounding small and childlike.

  “Why did he make the fire?” Lynn pushed.

  “I…” Abbey searched her memories and rubbed Eeyore. “I think we were camping,” she said finally. “I remember animals, a big fire and little huts like tents. The next thing I remember is smelling…burning flesh…”

  “Ah! Roasted weenies!” Lynn joked.

  Abbey dropped the figurine of Mulan.

  That was the last time Abbey spoke of her dreams in such concrete terms.

  Whenever Lynn brought up the subject, Abbey lacked the ability to be as emotionally vulnerable as she had in their previous meetings, but Lynn noted that the dreams remained consistent in their details, eliminating the possibility of false memory. Lynn empathized with the young woman, but secretly celebrated the breakthrough and sensed that any day Abbey would remember everything about her life before her untimely accident.

  Then came the phone call from Aunt Eleanor. Word reached her about Abbey’s improved condition while the old woman was away in southern France. She would return to the States immediately, of course, to reclaim her niece. Lynn, aghast, explained that would be contraindicated, as it would benefit Abbey to remain in the treatment center until she fully recovered her memories.

  Eleanor would hear none of it and insisted that Abbey return to the family estate at once. No matter how Lynn tried, there was no persuading Eleanor of the benefits of continued treatment. In the end, the family won, of course. Abbey was placed here voluntarily and, therefore, could leave whenever she wished.

  Something wasn’t quite right with this whole situation and Lynn couldn’t put her finger on it. Questions sat in the back of her mind, making her increasingly anxious as the time of Eleanor’s arrival drew near. It seemed a bit too…suspicious…that just as Abbey began to regain some of her repressed memories, Eleanor suddenly wanted the girl at home. If she loved Abbey so much, why insist that Abbey leave treatment before the girl recovered? Lynn sensed there was more to this “horrible crash” than the old lesbian wanted to admit.

  Mr. Stewart, the resident clown of The Meadows, invaded her personal space and brought her out of her contemplation. Mr. Stewart’s only illness was his cheap gold-digging whore of a third wife. What is it with men? Couldn’t they figure out that the main attraction between a twenty-eight-year-old model and a sixty-eight-year-old sickly millionaire was a credit line? Then again, Lynn sighed, if I was sixty-eight and dying, I would easily exchange a million dollars for spending the last few months of life boning an underwear model.

  To be honest, she admitted to herself, she would exchange a million dollars for spending a few months with any stray erection with a pulse.

  “My peter’s dead.” Mr. Stewart’s thick southern drawl poured into Lynn’s ears. She looked up and smiled at the innocent, wrinkled face.

  “Morning, Mr. Stewart. How did you sleep?”

  “My peter’s dead,” the old man smiled, revealing a set of the most expensive white teeth a wealthy New England family could buy. “He was just standing up, and now, the darn thing fell over.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s a fact.” Mr. Stewart nodded.

  “Well, we can tell the story in group, Mr. Stewart,” Lynn muttered, continuing down the hallway.

  “Will you give my peter mouth-to-mouth?”

  “Very funny, Mr. Stewart. See you in group.”

  5

  The handsom
e, dark-haired Frenchman waited in the back seat of the limo wondering when he would succumb to temptation and kill the chauffeur.

  “YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT…YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT…” the young, lithe man in the driver’s seat bopped his head in time with the music while drumming the steering wheel.

  The Frenchman set his glass of cognac on the side table and rapped on the glass partition.

  “Yeah, man?” the mocha-colored chauffeur asked as the barrier descended. The beat of the music was pounding against the Frenchman’s chest.

  “Joshua, the music.”

  “Too loud, boss?”

  “Yes. And don’t call me boss.”

  “Sure thing, Robert.” Joshua leaned over and turned the music down. “You know that’s the Stones, right?”

  “Please do not refer to me as ‘Robert’. And, no, I did not know.”

  The young man’s eyebrows furrowed. “Um…well, then ‘Sir’?”

  Robert sighed. “Mr. de Baudricourt will suffice.”

  “How do you pronounce that again? I’m not very good with Italian.”

  “French.”

  “That neither.”

  “Of course,” Robert muttered. “When the Doctor hired you, he did not instruct you as to the pronunciation of my name. How thoughtful of him.”

  “Ah, the Doc is okay. He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  The knock on the glass answered his question. Robert looked to the rear passenger window and motioned for the thin, clean-shaven bald man to enter. The Doctor jiggled the limo’s handle to signal that it was locked.

  “Want me to let him in, Rob—uh, Sir?”

  “Yes, Joshua, please do so.” As the Doctor climbed in, Robert motioned for Joshua to close the window and Joshua nodded. “Oh, and Joshua,” he sneered, “please return the Stonies to their prior volume.” He sipped his cognac.

  “Stones.”

  “Yes, of course.”