Whisper to Me

by Nick Lake

  ME: You think I’m … doing this to myself?

  THE VOICE: Who is this man? What are you doing? You ******* worthless piece of ****. When you get home you’re going to bleed. I’m going to—

  ME: (screams)

  DR. LEWIS: I’m sorry. I don’t mean to distress you.

  THE VOICE: ******** ***** this ******* ******.

  ME: (puts hands over ears)

  DR. LEWIS: The voice is speaking to you now?

  ME: (nods)

  DR. LEWIS: Okay, okay. Let’s leave it there. Listen. I don’t know if I can help you. But I would like to try. Would you accept that?

  ME: (nods)

  DR. LEWIS: I’d like to think we can get you off the meds too. They’re not necessary, if you can cope with the voice. Control it.

  ME: (looking up, feeling the voice recede into quietness) You think?

  DR. LEWIS: Oh, I know it. There are many in this group who take no drugs at all, yet their voices, if they still hear them, are managed. They come when the person wishes it, and not otherwise. They are no longer aggressive.

  ME: (inside: This sounds too good to be true.)

  DR. LEWIS: I promise it’s true. If you’re willing to try. And to talk through some things. Wherever this voice comes from, it is most likely in your past. Some recent studies say that in somewhere around sixty percent of voice hearers, it’s triggered by a past trauma. Usually childhood. Not an underlying mental illness. You might be in the other forty percent of course, those who really are schizophrenic, or what have you. But I suspect not. And then, some of my colleagues would argue that even those who are ill are often made so by abuse. Or neglect. Or whatever. Sorry. I am rambling. It’s a tendency of mine. What I mean is: you can help yourself. I assure you of that.

  ME: So what do I do?

  DR. LEWIS: Come here. Once a week. You can talk or you can listen or you can do both. That’s it.

  ME: And that’s going to help? Just talking?

  DR. LEWIS: It’s a support group. It will support you.

  ME: Like … therapy?

  DR. LEWIS: No. This isn’t a treatment. It’s a circle of survivors. The source of therapeutic change is the social contact itself. The talking about the problem. A problem shared, et cetera.

  ME: Right.

  DR. LEWIS: I’d also like you to come fifty minutes before the group starts for the first few weeks. So we can get a handle on your particular voice experience.

  ME: We’d … we’d have, like, one-on-one sessions?

  DR. LEWIS: Yes. To begin with.

  ME: And … what would that cost?

  DR. LEWIS: Cost?

  ME: What would you charge?

  DR. LEWIS: (laughing) I don’t charge.

  ME: Seriously?

  DR. LEWIS: Seriously.

  ME: Oh. Okay. Why not?

  DR. LEWIS: Well, for one, as I said, this isn’t a treatment group. It’s a support group. And I am a support facilitator, not a clinical psychologist. Or rather, I am. But not in this context.

  ME: Oh now I’m clear.

  DR. LEWIS: (laughing) It’s just talking. And some guidelines for dealing with voices, which we have found to be helpful.

  ME: And for two?

  DR. LEWIS: Pardon?

  ME: You said, “For one, as I said, this isn’t a treatment group.” So what’s for two?

  DR. LEWIS: I think … I think I was probably going to say that the other reason I don’t charge is that I’m not here for money. I want to help people.

  ME: (staring blankly, unable to compute)

  DR. LEWIS: Turn up, we talk, that’s it. (pause) Oh, and tell your doctor you’re talking to me. You’re seeing … ?

  ME: Dr. Rezwari.

  DR. LEWIS: Inform her you’ve joined the group. She knows about us. She might not absolutely agree with us, but she can’t deny the data. The recoveries.

  ME: But you think she’s wrong to prescribe drugs?

  DR. LEWIS: Whoa! I didn’t say that. I think the overriding prerogative of the health care system is to protect the public and the patient. Which they do well. Just sometimes … the cost is … a certain quality of life.

  ME: (thinking of my constant need to sleep, my loss of appetite, my inability to read) Uh-huh.

  DR. LEWIS: So, tell her, and stick to whatever she tells you when it comes to drugs. She knows her business. If we make some real progress, you can discuss it with her again. Oh, I’ll also need to speak to your parents. Get their permission for you to come. It’s boring, I know. Sorry.

  ME: (inside: ****.) Um … It’s just my dad. My mom is … That is … It’s just me and him. And you can’t talk to him.

  DR. LEWIS: I can’t?

  ME: I don’t … I don’t really want him to know if I … if I come. Here.

  DR. LEWIS: I’m afraid it’s not an opt-in, opt-out kind of situation. If we’re talking, he needs to know about it. (shrugs apologetically) It’s the law.

  ME: (shaking my head) No. He’d … he’d freak out. He’d be angry.

  DR. LEWIS: Your father gets angry often?

  ME: Yeah.

  DR. LEWIS: Any particular reason?

  ME: He was a SEAL. In Afghanistan. He got hurt. And … And he hates me. I mean (**** Cassie why did you say that?) he doesn’t hate me. But he’s always ****ed with me. I have to be super careful, or he kind of explodes. Even little things set him off. If I told him about this …

  DR. LEWIS: He seeing anyone about that—his anger I mean?

  ME: No. He used to have some kind of therapist, in the Navy, but he didn’t like it.

  DR. LEWIS: Let me get this straight. It sounds like you’re telling me that your father has untreated post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in the Navy, that he has a temper that is triggered by even small things, and that if he knew you were pursuing this treatment, he may harm you or jeopardize your recovery. Is that a correct summation?

  ME: I don’t know about harm. He wouldn’t … hasn’t … hurt me. But yeah. Apart from that.

  DR. LEWIS: Apart from that, you’d agree with my statement? This is important.

  ME: Yes.

  DR. LEWIS: In that case my view is that it is in your best interests that he should not know.

  ME: Mine too.

  DR. LEWIS: Okay then.

  ME: Okay? Seriously?

  DR. LEWIS: (nods)

  ME: You called it a treatment though. I thought it wasn’t a treatment.

  DR. LEWIS: (smiling) You’re right. I can see that these are going to be interesting sessions.

  ME: I—

  But then a guy comes in the door, trailing Paris behind him. He’s skinny, nervous looking. Maybe thirty. He’s wearing Dockers and Timberland boots, a denim shirt. My first thought is, construction. I am wrong about this. I am wrong about so many things.

  “Hey,” says the guy.

  “Sorry, Doc,” says Paris. “It’s five after.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well. Time flies. Cass, this is Dwight. He comes every week.”

  Dwight nods at me. “Nice to meet you, Cass,” he says. He still has a little acne on his cheeks. I’m thinking now more like twenty-two.

  “Uh, you too.”

  “I think,” says Dr. Lewis, “that the group may be a little much for your first day, Cassie. Come back next week?”

  “I … Yeah, I think so.”

  He smiles. “Good. Welcome to the group.”

  Dwight winks at me. “It’s like a family, but better.”

  “Nothing that’s like a family is good,” says Paris.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  Dr. Lewis turns to Paris. “Are you joining us?”

  Paris shakes her head. “I’ll walk Cassandra home. Like a gentleman.”

  “Of course. Well, we’re always here. Should you need us.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” says Paris. “But I think I have it under control.”

  “Excellent. You’re kn
ocking them dead at Rutgers, I hear. Professor Jenkins told me they’re thinking of recommending you for a grad program at Harvard.”

  Paris shrugs.

  “Well, go with my blessing. And bring that girl back next week. You’re going to do amazing things, Paris French.”

  MOST WRONG STATEMENT EVER.

  I gave Paris a little curtsy when we got out the door.

  “Thanks for escorting me home,” I said. “Thanks for being my gentleman.”

  She bowed, twirling her hand. “You’re welcome.”

  “But seriously,” I said, “you don’t have to. I mean, I’m grateful. I am. But you don’t have to walk me home. You probably have better stuff to do.”

  Paris frowned. “There’s a serial killer on the loose,” she said. “You think I’m letting you walk home alone in the dark?”

  Oh yeah. That.

  “Anyway,” she added. “I have nothing better to do.”

  It was when we were nearly back to my house that it finally clicked. We were passing a slushie machine outside a corner store, blue and red ice churning, glowing in the half dark of sunset. Already you could hear the shushing of the ocean, as if it were trying to quiet our voices. I think it was her saying that thing about families that made it fall into place.

  “Your trauma,” I said. “What was it?”

  She looked at me.

  “He said it comes from trauma. Usually.”

  The slushie machine turned and turned. I thought how weird it was that people were happy to drink it. After it had been in there for who knew how long, just spinning over and over, the color bright like a chemical solution, radioactive.

  “Nosy all of a sudden, aren’t you?” said Paris eventually.

  “Sorry. It doesn’t matter.”

  I started walking again.

  “Someone … did stuff to me. When I was a kid.”

  “Someone?”

  She paused. “My dad.”

  I stopped. There were wide cracks in the sidewalk; grass was growing through. Above us, tattered clouds were lit bloodred as the sun set somewhere over the great landmass of America.

  “It stopped when I was twelve. When I finally spoke to my mother about it, she left. Not immediately. But she packed her bags the next day. Said I was a liar and a whore and she couldn’t stay in the same house as me. Moved to an apartment in the West Village.”

  I turned around, very slowly. Like there was a baby deer behind me, and I might startle it off into the dusk.

  “Jesus, Paris,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I still speak to my mom sometimes. On Skype actually. Sometimes I worry that I might get mixed up and, like, send her one of my cam videos instead. ‘Hey, Mom, like my ass in these panties?’ ”

  Paris winked. I half laughed, shocked.

  “Sorry,” said Paris. “Humor is my defense mechanism. Apparently. Anyway … if I try to mention it now, when I’m speaking to my mom, she just goes blank. A laptop going into sleep mode, you know? That on its own is enough to drive a person crazy.”

  “She never … confronted your dad?”

  She laughed. “No. As far as she’s concerned it never happened and he never happened.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah. It’s ****ed up.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He and I are not on speaking terms,” said Paris. “That’s why I want to stop taking his checks as soon as I can. I mean, he’s paying my tuition and allowing me to learn, and I don’t have to see him. That’s almost acceptable. But not really.”

  “Hence …”

  “Hence, yes, the side work.”

  I took a step forward, and she flinched when I put my arms around her; her body was thin and hard against me, barely any flesh there to clothe her, to protect her. Then a kind of shiver went through her and she hugged me tight, before letting go.

  “I will never speak about this again,” she said. “Just so you know.”

  “That’s cool,” I said. An impulse overtook me. “Who cares about your sob stories anyway?”

  She stared at me for a second. Then she burst out laughing. “I knew you were friend material,” she said.

  I put my hand in the air, solemnly. “I swear never to speak to Paris again about her childhood.”

  “Or my dad.”

  “Agreed.”

  I thought. “Paris. I’m scared.”

  “Of what?” she asked. Her face was serious again now.

  “Me.”

  “Oh, baby,” she said. “Yeah. That’s normal.” She took my hand and began walking briskly. “I’m not even going to ask about your trauma because I doubt you know yet. But the Doc will help you, I do know that. And I’ll be there to support you. I’ll be looking out for you. Always.”

  NO.

  THAT WAS THE MOST WRONG STATEMENT EVER.

  Paris left me on the sidewalk outside the house. I stood there for the longest time, looking at it. I’d never noticed its squat malignance before; the way the windows seemed like eyes glaring at me. The lights were out, so I figured Dad was still at the restaurant.

  After a while, I sat down on the sidewalk. It was still warm from the sun of the day, though it was dark now and the crickets were chirping. There was a moon, and in the eastern sky I could see a gleam from where it was reflecting on the ocean.

  I heard a car and turned, and there was your F-150, pulling up by the curb. You killed the engine and got out.

  “Going inside?” you said.

  “No,” I said. You were wearing a short-sleeved shirt; I noticed that your arms had got more muscular already. Lifting those bags of plush. There was a scent of flowers on the air.

  “Argument with your dad?”

  I shook my head. “Just don’t want to.”

  You came and stood next to me. “Houses look kind of malignant when they’re unlit, at night, don’t they?”

  I turned to you, surprised. “Yes,” I said. “I was just thinking that.”

  Silence.

  Or rather: crickets far-off engines music people shouting.

  But silence between me and you. Comfortable silence.

  “So what’s your plan?” you said. “You just going to sit out on the sidewalk all night?”

  I shrugged. “You have a better plan?”

  You looked up at the moon. “Yes,” you said.

  You were driving.

  You crossed the last intersection, and then we were a block from the ocean, the houses falling away, replaced by dirty dunes. At the end of the block, there was a turn that you could take, but if you did you’d have to turn around again pretty quickly—it became the boardwalk.

  But at the corner, where the road curved, there was a track between the dunes, and it led onto the beach.

  You drove toward it, not showing any signs of steering. A sign said NO VEHICULAR ACCESS TO THE BEACH OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  I said: “Are you going to—”

  And …

  It appeared so. You drove right off the road, onto the track, and we bumped over tufts of grass for a few dozen yards, and then we were on the beach. You stopped. We were on the far south side—to our right, an expanse of sand and dunes, followed by houses on stilts, small from here, looking like shacks but I knew they were worth like a million dollars each. To our left, the wide strip of sand that runs the length of the town, the lights of the city and boardwalk fringing it, bright and garish against the gunmetal shine of the moonlit ocean. The piers two dark stripes connecting city and ocean, bristling with the odd shapes of fairground rides.

  And that flat, smooth beach … empty, apart from a couple of groups huddled around coolers, not wanting to say good-bye to the day.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” you said.

  “You get used to it,” I said.

  Why did everything that came out of my mouth have to come out rude? I didn’t mean it. That’s what I’m telling you now.

  “Is this allowed?” I asked. “The truck?” />
  “For me, yes. Because of the deliveries.”

  I nodded. “Cool.”

  “You want to drive?” you said.

  “Drive … this?”

  “This truck, yes. Do you want to drive it?”

  I stared at you. “My dad doesn’t like me to drive.”

  “But you have your license, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why not? This beach is three hundred yards wide, easy. And there’s no one around. Almost no one. What are you going to do, crash into a pier? They’re pretty big. I find it easy to avoid them.”

  Smart-ass, I wanted to say. But I wasn’t in that kind of place. I wasn’t ready to be joking around with you. I just sighed. “Okay.”

  “Hey, don’t be so enthusiastic,” you said.

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be … Look, just switch with me.”

  You got out and we switched places. The engine was still running—all I had to do was slide the lever from P to D and we were rolling, over that hard-packed sand, and a gull that had been picking at some leftover food went clattering into the sky, screeching at us, Cass, Cass, Cass, what are you doing driving this boy you hardly know on the beach, Cass, Cass, Cass.

  But the voice—my voice—was gone.

  I was with you, and the voice was gone, so right then I wanted to stay in that truck forever, to never have to go home.

  I pressed the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, and soon we were, well, it’s something people always say but it really was like we were flying over the beach, not like driving on a road at all, the sand so smooth below the wheels, and I turned in a long arc to avoid the first gaggle of people and then we were cruising again, between the city and the ocean, the wheel seeming to connect me right to the ground-up sea creatures beneath, to the rock under them.

  I don’t know if I have described the beach and the town properly, but I mean the beach runs the whole length of the town. It’s hard to think of a comparison for how big it is, how wide, how long. We’re not talking in football fields, as a unit of measurement, we’re talking in airport runways, and even then we’re talking about many of them, lain end to end.

  What I mean is: I wanted this to last forever, and it was like it did last forever. I rolled down my window and you rolled down yours, and the cool night air came whipping in, bringing with it fine sea spray, and I rested my left elbow on the door frame and put my hand out the window and curved it, concave, let it ride on the wind, undulating, like a bird, feeling the resistance of the air, sculpting it, and it was like one small part of me was free and flying away.