The Drowning Girl

by Caitlin R. Kiernan

  All my telephones keep ringing, but I know better than to answer. I know what seeps through telephones. I know the Messieurs would have me answer, and I know they’re lying sons of bitches. Liars very much count on our not recognizing a lie when we hear one. Even when, like a lost wolf, we are lying to ourselves.

  I ran poor, poor Eva Wolf a bath with iodine water the color of Coca-Cola tins straight from Scituate and so come indirect from the sea. Abalyn went for a walk and a smoke, hating what I’d done, afraid and we hate what scares us, what we don’t understand, and she couldn’t fathom Eva any more than she could fathom me. I was careful the water was warm, to chase away the chill shot through her crystalline veins, through otherwise unblemished lacteous calcite veins. I helped her into the tub, and she folded up easy as a Japanese fan, all knees and elbows and those xylophone ribs showing from beneath her filthy bleached hide. It pained me to see anything that starved. I’d have to learn what ghost wolves eat. I used Abalyn’s peppermint soap to scrub her clean. I found cuts, scrapes, scratches, welts, offal and twigs matted in her chestnut hair, and I took all that away and left her purified as if I’d used salt and holy water. I made her baptism in chlorination and shampoo. But, deceive the deceivers thus neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of what I know to be the truth. Not even Abalyn, however much she knows I still love her.

  That’s it. Or that’s all I’m allowing for now. The story of the wolf who cried girl when there was no one but me to finally show up and hear her. Once upon a time, she got hunted down and nailed to a wall, and I wrenched the cold iron spikes from her pelt and a thorn from the callused pad of a bloodied paw. There is more, yes. That’s no decent conclusion. But I have been typing now for so many hours I can’t count, but a long time because the sun was going down and now it’s rising. I’m sleepy. I can’t recall ever before having been half this sleepy. But here it is, here I am, here I am, and I can see it, and this undoes all Abalyn’s lies that there was only ever one Eva Canning.

  Go away, crow tapping at my window. One brings only sorrow; it takes too two for mirth.

  Don’t think I don’t know that. Don’t think I can’t see you there. Before I go to bed, I’ll seal the window with seven mustard seeds and seven bottle caps and seven bay leaves, and I won’t even have to dream of you, Abalyn.

  7/7/7/7

  7/7

  7

  seven

  7

  7/7

  7/7/7/7

  8

  (LITTLE CONVERSATIONS)

  Selected telephone messages, last week of October 2010 (offers of aid, concerned voices neglected):

  “Imp, look [pause] I know this is weird, calling and all. Especially after that scene in the parking lot last week. It was awkward, and I’m sorry about that. Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I said. Anyway, hey [pause] I’m worried about you, Imp. Let’s talk, okay. I think it would be good if we could talk.”—Abalyn Armitage

  “India, this is the receptionist from Dr. Ogilvy’s office, calling to remind you of your appointment at five p.m., day after tomorrow. Please let us know if you can’t make it and need to reschedule. Thanks.”

  “Hi, Imp. You can’t keep missing work like this. I can’t continue to ignore it. You’re not even bothering to call in sick, and I can’t keep letting you slide. You know that. You need to call me, as soon as you hear this message. We have to talk.”—Bill, my ex-manager from work

  “India, it’s Dr. Ogilvy. You missed your five o’clock yesterday. We’re going to have to charge you for the session, since you didn’t cancel. You’ve never missed and not let us know ahead of time, so I’m just a little concerned especially after our last session. Give me a call when it’s convenient.”—Dr. Magdalene Ogilvy

  “It’s Bill again. I’ve left messages on your cell and your landline, and you haven’t called back. I don’t know what’s going on. I hope you’re okay, but I don’t have any choice but to let you go. I’m really sorry. You gotta know I didn’t want it to come to this. You’ve always been a great employee. But you’ve left me no choice. Anyway, come by when you can and pick up your last check. Thanks.”—Bill (fourth call in four days)

  “Imp, it’s Abalyn again. Please call me.” (second call)

  “India, it’s your aunt Elaine. I got a call this morning from your psychiatrist. She says you missed your last appointment, and didn’t even bother to call. That’s not like you, and she agreed. She’s worried, and so am I. Call me, baby. Let me know you’re okay.”

  “India, it’s Dr. Ogilvy again. I spoke with your aunt yesterday, and she says she hasn’t talked to you in a couple of weeks. I know you need refills on two of your prescriptions. And, well, you’ve always been so good about getting in touch when you need to reschedule. Please call.” (second call)

  “Abalyn again. I guess I’ve pissed you off. I’m not going to call again. I feel stupid, leaving all these messages. I truly did not mean to upset you that day. If you’re pissed, I probably have it coming. [long pause] So, yeah, I’m not going to call again. I can’t stand being a pest. But I still wanna talk. Call me, or don’t. Either way, I hope you’re okay. I’m not just saying that.” (sixth message)

  “India, just a reminder that the rent check was due last week. Just a reminder. We’d hate to have to charge you the late fee.”—Felicia, my landlord

  “Baby, I still haven’t heard from you, and it’s been days since I called. If something’s wrong, you need to let us know. I talked to Dr. Ogilvy again this afternoon. She said she’s still not heard from you, and we’re both worried. I’m thinking about dropping by. Call me.”—Aunt Elaine (second call)

  “India, please pick up if you’re in. I spoke with your aunt again about an hour ago. If you’re off your medication, we need to know.”—Dr. Ogilvy (third call)

  “Hey, I know I said I wasn’t going to call again, but I had a really fucked-up dream about you last night.”—Abalyn (seventh and final message)

  “India, about the rent…”

  Part of me always thought no one would much care if I ever dropped off the face of the earth. Obviously, I was mistaken. People kept calling until the answering machine and voice mail were full. I was only half-aware the phone kept ringing. That was two and a half weeks ago. Halloween came and went; I’m not sure I even noticed. Now it’s the middle of November, and the trees along Willow Street are almost bare. Willow Street has no willows by the way. Oak Street has no oaks. Maybe they did once upon a time. Like I said, lots of things in Providence have names that no longer fit.

  On the twenty-sixth of October, the day after I ran into Abalyn outside the children’s museum, I stopped taking my meds. At first, I just forgot. I’m not bad about forgetting, ’cause it’s been so many years, me and the meds. But after a day or two I was aware I wasn’t taking them because I didn’t want to take them. I was getting paranoid. That can happen pretty quickly, and I thought…well, it’s there in the stuff I wrote during the relapse. I got it in my head the pills were messing with my memory. After Abalyn said what she said, I panicked. Someone tells me I can’t remember what I definitely do remember, and sometimes I panic. I’m not as used to it as I often pretend. As I pretend to be used to it, I mean to say. The false memories. That hasn’t happened in a long time, a full-on bahooties return to the worst it can get. I’m trying not to dwell on what might have happened, because it didn’t, and nothing good’s gonna come of fretting over spilled milk, right?

  Anyway, here I am on the other side, and I put people through shit, and I lost my job, and I feel like an idiot. Maybe it was something I had to do. I read back over what I wrote, and I can’t help but think maybe it was necessary, a trigger for a thing I might never have managed otherwise. But I still feel like a heel for having done it. I don’t like to frighten people who care about me, and now I’m out of work and owe $125 for a missed session, and I can’t afford that even more than usual because Bill fired me. I don’t bl
ame him, but I have no idea what I’m going to do until I can find another job. Money’s gonna get tight fast, trust fund or no trust fund.

  Dr. Ogilvy apologized, but said she can’t make an exception. The hospital sets the rules, not her.

  Finally, Abalyn stopped calling and came to see what was wrong. Someone let her in the house, though they’re not supposed to do that. Let in people who don’t live here anymore. Maybe whoever did it, the college students upstairs or the mathematician from Brown who lives downstairs, maybe they weren’t aware Abalyn had moved out. She says she stood outside my door knocking for almost half an hour, then she used her key. I never asked for it back, and she never volunteered. Neither of us thought about it, I suppose. My car was in the driveway, and though she’s aware I often walk and take the bus, she knocked and knocked and waited, then gave up and used her key. I’m not going to be cross with her about it. I know how shitty it would be if I were. To be cross with her over using the key. Oh, she’d lost her key to the building, but not the one to my apartment.

  Abalyn let herself in, and she found me holed up in my bedroom. I’d locked the door, so that was another barricade she had to get past. I’m not sure how long I’d been shut away in there, hours or days. I don’t remember, and I don’t have any way of finding out. It doesn’t matter now. She said I was crying, that she could hear me crying and talking to myself. She went to the kitchen and got a butter knife, and she was able to use it to jimmy the lock. She found me in nothing but my panties, hiding in a corner by the window. She didn’t say I was hiding, but I believe I must have been. Corners have always felt like safe places. Nothing can sneak up behind you in a corner, even a corner near a window. She found me with my back to two walls, squeezed into a corner, but I’m not going into detail. It’s too embarrassing, how she found me, what I was doing, the state I was in. But I was dehydrated. I hadn’t eaten in, I don’t know, days. I hadn’t been flushing the toilet. At first, she was angry, but then she held me and cried. Don’t know for how long, but I remember telling her to stop a bunch of times. I struck her, too. I have to admit that part. I hit her several times while she was trying to calm me down and find out what was going on, and I blacked her right eye. I wish she’d hit me back, but she didn’t. She just held filthy, hysterical me there in my corner until I stopped freaking out. Later, she stood near the fridge, silent, calm, holding a bag of frozen peas against her face. Every time I remember that, her standing there, I wish all over that she’d hit me back.

  Anyway, then the chain of events went something like this: Abalyn called Dr. Ogilvy’s emergency number, and someone, whomever she talked to, told her to try to get some Valium in me and call my aunt. But I didn’t want Aunt Elaine around, and apparently I told Abalyn that. She did call Aunt Elaine, but convinced her not to come to my apartment, got her to agree that she wouldn’t so long as Abalyn kept her in the loop. The clinic said if someone would stay with me, and if I didn’t seem like a danger to myself or anyone else, it wouldn’t be necessary to call an ambulance (again, again). Dr. Ogilvy phoned. I said something to her, but I don’t for the life of me know what I said. Abalyn agreed to stay with me, and Dr. Ogilvy told her to wait twenty-four hours, then get me back on my drug regime. She also told Abalyn to try to figure out how long it had been since I’d stopped taking my meds. Either I couldn’t remember, or I just wasn’t willing to tell anyone (back to the paranoia, I didn’t want Abalyn or anyone else near me). The best she, Abalyn, was able to do was find my pillbox, which holds a week’s worth of pills, Sunday through Saturday, contained in their own discrete plastic compartments—S, M, T, W, T, F, S. There was six days’ worth in the box, which only told her it had been a minimum of six days. She knew it might have been quite a bit longer.

  Abalyn called Margot, the new girlfriend, and they had a big fight. Margot said none of this—meaning me—was Abalyn’s responsibility, and I was being manipulative. They fought some more, and eventually Abalyn told her to fuck off, and now they’re not together any longer. So, I scared Abalyn half to death, punched her in the eye, and made her lose her girlfriend. Way to go, Imp. You’re a peach, you are.

  She’s staying here, because she didn’t have anywhere else to go, and it was the very least I could do after what she did for me and what it cost her. She’s only staying with me; she isn’t living with me. I can see it’s hard on her. We try to keep out of each other’s way. You can care about someone deeply, but not be able to live with them, not easily. I look at Abalyn and I see how true this is; before the relapse, I probably didn’t understand how true that is. I made a joke about her being my knight in shining armor, but it wasn’t funny, and neither of us laughed.

  There hasn’t been much of that, laughter, around here since she found me cowering in that bedroom corner. I live in a house where people upstairs laugh, and people downstairs laugh. I hear them through the floorboards, laughter going down, laughter coming up.

  A couple of days after Abalyn found me, we were eating Trix cereal and watching cartoons, just like the old days. Except Ren & Stimpy and The Angry Beavers weren’t hilarious like they used to be, and the cereal tasted like tiny fruit-flavored balls of paper. Halfway through a cartoon, I said I didn’t want to see any more, so Abalyn picked up the remote and her TV went black (she had to move all her stuff back here, of course). She’s been so accommodating, which helps, but which also makes me feel even more ashamed. We both just sat there a few minutes, silent, picking at dry Trix, and the street noise seemed louder than usual. The Mexican boys, passing cars, autumn birds. Abalyn spoke first, and it was a relief, dispelling that not-really-quiet hanging between us. I’d still say it was a relief, even considering the stuff we both said immediately afterwards.

  “I read it,” she said, and I nodded. I’d given Abalyn the pages I typed during the crazy spell and asked her to read them. She hadn’t wanted to, but I told her it was important.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She asked, “Did it help?” and I shrugged.

  “Probably too soon to say, but I don’t especially think so. I think it was a start, and I had to start somewhere, but I’m still scared.” I almost said something Dr. Ogilvy would have said, like “there’s still a high degree of cognitive dissonance,” but, fortunately, I thought better of it and said what I said, instead.

  “But it was a start,” she said, and I noticed she was picking all the lemon-yellow Trix out of her bowl and lining them up single file on the floor in front of her. It reminded me of something I’d do. “I can’t stop feeling like none of this would have happened if only I’d been a little more tactful that day.”

  “You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around me,” I told her. It was something I’d said to her before. “I don’t expect you to coddle me.”

  “Still…,” she said, and trailed off.

  “You didn’t even know I had those two versions of Eva in my head, Abalyn. There was no way you could have known, not if only one of them actually happened.”

  She plucked another yellow Trix from her bowl and lined it up with the others.

  “You believe that now?”

  She wanted me to say yes, I did. But she’d been too good to me, and she deserved more than a lie. So I said, “No, but I’m working on it. I mean, I see Dr. Ogilvy in a few days…and I’m working on it. I know something’s wrong now, and that’s a start. I know something’s gone wrong in my head.”

  “You’re a brave lady, Imp. I swear I couldn’t live with shit like that. You’re stronger than me.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just used to it. I haven’t ever been any other way. Not really. Besides, you’ve been through at least as much. I can’t imagine having the courage to do what you’ve done.” I was talking about coming out and her reassignment surgery, but she knew that without me having to spell it all out. “People do what they have to do. That’s all.”

  “Listen to us,” she said, and she almost smiled, and she almost laughed. “Imp and Abalyn’s Self-Congratulatory S
ociety of Mutual Admiration.”

  I smiled, but didn’t try to laugh.

  Then Abalyn said, “Maybe if you wrote. Not the way you wrote it when you were sick. I mean, if you wrote it as one of your short stories.”

  “I’m not a writer. I’m a painter.”

  “I know that. I’m just saying, it might help.”

  “I haven’t written a story in a long time.”

  “I figure it’s like riding a bicycle,” she said, then picked up one of the lemon-yellow Trix and ate it.

  “It’s strange enough, that you’ve read what you’ve already read.”

  “That was your idea,” she reminded me.

  “I know, but that doesn’t make it any less strange.”

  “You know what part surprised me most? The lines about the Black Dahlia. That’s the part that really put its hook in me. And I feel responsible for that, too. Seeing the Perrault exhibit was my idea.”

  “So, that really did happen?”

  “Unless we’re both crazy. Fuck knows, my mother and father would tell you I’m crazy as a shithouse rat.”

  “Your mother and father don’t know you,” I told her, trying hard not to think about having to be despised by one’s parents. I silently wished Abalyn could have had a mother like Rosemary Anne, a grandmother like Caroline. If I’d ever told Rosemary I was a boy, not a girl, I’m sure she’d have been mostly fascinated. Maybe concerned, too, because of the way the world treats transgender people, but mostly fascinated. She probably would have gone so far as to insist it was marvelous.

  “Anyway, yes. We went to the Perrault exhibit, and there was that Black Dahlia sculpture. I’m never gonna forget how much it upset you.”