Finding Alice (23 page)

“There you go,” she announces, pointing to her mirror.

“I feel like Cinderella,” I tell her as I stare at the strange woman in the mirror. “Do you think I look silly?”

She soberly shakes her head. “Not at all.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” I admit.

“Then I think it’s about time.”

Just then we hear the doorbell ring, and I jump and let out a little shriek. She laughs. “It’s only Simon, dear. I’ll go let him in.”

I nod nervously, then turn to check my image in the mirror again. I reach up and touch my cheek and am certain that this is someone else, perhaps someone on the other side of the looking glass. Just play the game, I tell myself. Tonight you will be Cinderella. Who knows what or where you’ll be tomorrow.

“Simon is here,” she calls from the living room, and suddenly I know I cannot possibly walk through that door. My heart is racing, and I cannot breathe. I know this is a big mistake.

“You fool!” Amelia yells at me. “You stupid little fool!” She sounds like one of the ugly stepsisters condemning my hope on the way to the ball.

I press my hands over my ears and tell her to leave me alone, but she continues to rant at me, calling me foul names and accusing me of all sorts of nasty things. I don’t hear the door open or see them standing there, but soon they are both beside me, and I feel Faye’s hand on my arm, and Simon is looking into my eyes and speaking in a calm tone. “Just relax, Alice. It’s going to be okay. Trust me.”

I take a deep breath and look at him and then at Faye. Somewhere deep inside I think they don’t really want to hurt me, at least I don’t believe they do, but even so I realize from experience that they might.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Faye speaks softly, and I hear him agree.

I want to be normal, I’m thinking, but maybe I have said this aloud. For then I hear Simon saying, “Normal is highly overrated, Alice. I’d rather you just be yourself. Okay?”

I look into his dark eyes and mumble, “Okay.” I will play the Simon says game again.

Now Faye is handing me her beaver fur coat. “I know it’s not as nice as it used to be, but it’ll keep you warm. The weatherman said it’s dropping to the twenties tonight, and it might even snow.”

I allow the two of them to help me into the heavy coat. Then Faye puts both her hands on my cheeks and pulls my face toward her. She looks me in the eyes and says, “You
are
a princess, my dear. Your heavenly Father is the King of kings, you know.” Then she kisses me on the forehead.

Tears sting my eyes when we step out into the cold, but I try to calm myself as I allow Simon to guide me to the car, which is not a pumpkin. He opens the door and waits as I clumsily crawl in. He even stoops down and helps to push the full skirt inside before he closes the door.

I take a deep breath and count to seven as he walks around and slips into the driver’s seat. “You okay?” he asks, peering at me as he fastens his seat belt.

“Okay,” I repeat, reaching for my seat belt too. Simon says, I tell myself as I take another deep breath.

“I realize this is really hard for you,” he says as he drives away from the security of Faye’s little house.

I nod, suddenly noticing that it’s dark out here. I am surprised at how many homes have Christmas lights.

“I’m glad you didn’t change your mind.” He turns on the radio
now, a soft jazz station, and I force myself to lean back in my seat and breathe. I remember Faye’s words and repeat them to myself. I am a princess. I am a princess.

“Faye helped me to get dressed up tonight,” I explain, worried that he might think it’s a little over the top.

“You look really beautiful, Alice.”

I glance over to him. I haven’t even noticed how he looks, and now it’s too dark to see anything but his dark pants and what appears to be his old bomber jacket. “You look nice too,” I say, still trying to play the game.

He laughs. “Well, if I’d known I was taking a princess to the ball, I’d have rented a tux.”

“Did you know that Faye wore this dress fifty years ago?” I hear myself say these words and am surprised. It almost sounds like a normal conversation.

“Really?”

“Yes. She and George went to the Twilight Room before he went off to Korea.”

He nods.

“I wonder if they still have the Twilight Room. I know Portland pretty well, but I’ve never seen it before.”

“I’ve never heard of it. But that was a long time ago.”

“Yeah. My mom wasn’t even born fifty years ago.” The fact that I can do this kind of mental math just now impresses me, and I think I’m actually beginning to relax some. “I’m sorry about how I acted at Faye’s. I was just, well, you know, kind of nervous.”

“Hey, no problem. We all have panic attacks sometimes.”

“Panic attacks?”

“You know, when you suddenly freak out and think that the very worst is going to happen.”

“You do that too?” I look at him and wonder if he’s pulling my leg.

“Sure. Sometimes it happens when I’m driving, and—well, I won’t go there just now. No sense in inviting trouble.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But I’ve tried to reroute my thinking when I feel an attack coming on. Dr. Golden has helped me to retrain my thoughts not to go down those rocky roads. I’m learning to control my brain.”

I consider this with my usual skepticism. Is it really possible to
control
your own brain? What about all those thoughts, feelings, impulses that come raging out of nowhere and assault you from behind? These past few months have felt like a wild carnival ride to me, like I’ve been strapped in and have absolutely no control as to whether I’m going up or down or sideways. One moment I’m upside down, and then I’m inside out. No control whatsoever.

Oh sure, I’d like to believe it’s possible to control your brain, but once again, it sounds too good to be true. Or maybe it’s just not for someone like me. It seems pretty obvious that my brain, or the voices, or whatever you want to call these forces that drive me, are extremely controlling. Most of the time I am helpless in their grasp, and on the rare occasions I do have some control, it seems I have very little.

I remember how I started to freak in Faye’s room earlier tonight. It’s like this thing just came barreling over me, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. Overwhelming. And, yet, I sternly remind myself, I am here now. I am riding with Simon, in his car, to a Christmas party of all things. Okay, so it’s a Christmas party at a nut house. But then who am I to complain? I should fit right in. Right?

chapter
TWENTY-FIVE

Another Mad Tea Party

T
he hill looks dark and foreboding tonight, with a pale blanket of icy fog creeping upward from the river. The towering evergreens look sinister as they hang over the road like gigantic fingers that want to reach down and snatch up Simon’s car and then toss it downward, spinning like a toy down the steep incline. My heart is pounding in my throat again, and I’m afraid I’m about to scream. I want to tell him to stop the car, that I can’t bear another minute, but somehow I remain silent. I’m sure my hands have made permanent imprints into the seat’s upholstery.

My teeth are clenched so tightly that my jaw is beginning to ache. But I am determined to do this thing. I try to focus my mind on the jazz music, but even that sounds jarring and harsh as it grates against my rattled nerves. I wish, oh how I wish I could be normal. I don’t care if it’s highly overrated or not. I would gladly welcome it right now.

Finally I see the lights of the house as we’re passing through the security gates. Now I feel this mixture of increased anxiety that we are here and huge relief that the terrifying car ride is over. Sometimes
I can tell that I’m overwired. Too many impulses hit me all at the same time. I wonder how it is that this mysterious Dr. Golden, whose name even sounds phony, is able to teach his patients to think differently. As if it’s possible to control your own brain!

Simon is opening my door now. Reminding myself of Faye’s words—that I am a princess—I try to emerge gracefully. Unfortunately the high heel of my left shoe gets stuck in the doorjamb, and I am forced to remove it, tug it out, then shove it back on my bare foot.

Simon is laughing. “You okay, princess?”

I narrow my eyes at him, but then I see that he’s smiling in what appears to be a genuine way. I don’t think he’s actually teasing me, and I tell myself to lighten up. We step through the tall front door and are immediately greeted with the sounds of Christmas music and the chatter of voices. I wait in the foyer as Simon takes both our coats somewhere unseen. Looking around, I realize I should’ve done a little decorating in here as well, but before I can feel too bad about that, Simon is back. He smiles and takes my arm. “Right this way, princess.”

I’m not sure what I think about his calling me princess. I liked it when it came from Faye, but hearing it from Simon makes me slightly uncomfortable. I glance at him as we walk in and think that he seems fairly happy to be with me. Or am I imagining this? I notice now that he has on charcoal gray pants and a black V-neck sweater over a white shirt and thin red tie. Although he’s not as formal as I am, he looks quite nice. I wonder if I should tell him again since I really mean it this time.

But it is too late. Julie, dressed in an elegant burgundy gown, is coming our way. I think that if I look like a princess, then she must
be the queen. I just hope she’s not the Queen of Hearts, for I know the outcome would not be good, and I have no desire to return to the Queen’s Prison anytime soon. As she comes closer, I can see that the fabric is velvet, very regal. She is waving to a gentleman over by a refreshment table. He has on a dark suit, very formal. I think it might even be a tuxedo. He is tall with dark curly hair and a beard—strikingly handsome, at least from a distance.

“I’m so glad you came,” says Julie, looking directly at me as she grasps my hand. “You look absolutely gorgeous, Alice. I’m not entirely sure I want Jack to meet you.” Then she winks at me as if this is our little secret. I like Julie, but the wink makes me even more nervous, like I’m missing something, some private joke. Is it about me?

“Hello, Simon,” says the tall bearded man that I assume must be Jack. He has on silver wire-rimmed glasses that seem to blend into his face. “Who have you brought with you tonight?”

“This is Alice,” says Julie. “She’s the creative genius who helped Simon decorate this afternoon.” She turns back to me now. “This is my husband, Dr. Golden, or Jack if you prefer.”

He smiles. “A pleasure to meet you, Alice.”

I wonder if I should curtsy but somehow keep myself from doing so. I can see that although Dr. Golden is nearly as handsome as I’d thought, he’s probably in his late fifties, about the age my father would be if he were still alive. I say something to him but can’t even hear myself speak. I hope I haven’t embarrassed anyone, mostly myself. Suddenly I’m having an out-of-body experience as a spectator, just watching all this transpire, but I am too far away. I can’t quite distinguish the words. Can someone please turn up the volume?

Simon guides me like a Seeing Eye dog throughout the room,
and I am introduced to all sorts of people, of all ages, and from all walks of life. So far I have met an artist, a writer, a physical therapist, a premed student, a musician, and a horse trainer, just to mention a few. I’m having a hard time keeping the names attached to the faces, but everyone seems to know that I am “Alice.” I wonder if Dr. Golden made a special announcement before we got here, trying to make me feel completely at home. So that I will fit in. Perhaps they are getting my padded cell ready for me now.

I am mildly surprised to see the “residents” are such a lively bunch. I had assumed they would be subdued and maybe even wearing their bedroom slippers. Perhaps a few, confined to wheelchairs, would sit in a stupor, overly drugged, with their jaws sagging and drooling on themselves, but there are none like that here.

This does make me suspicious, however, and I begin to imagine that all these colorful people are really actors pretending to be the “residents” for my sake. I don’t know what makes me think I should be so special that people would orchestrate all this for me, but that’s the way life seems sometimes. I realize that not everyone at the party is a resident though. Some are guests. Like me. At least I
think
I’m a guest. Who can know for sure?

There are all kinds of exotic looking foods to eat, like something right out of a Martha Stewart show, but I am afraid to taste anything. What if the brioche is drugged? What if we’re all going to go into a deep slumber, and then we’ll be carted away to labs where experiments will be performed on our unsuspecting brains, or they’ll use our livers and kidneys and hearts to perform organ transplants on people who are wealthy and influential? I believe this could happen, does happen in certain circles. Maybe even here.

“Do you want to dance?” Simon reaches for my hand.

“Dance?” I repeat. I am playing the game again.

He nods. “Do you know how?”

I shake my head no.

“Good, me neither. We’ll just have to fake it then.”

He leads me to the area where a number of couples are already dancing. Fortunately, other than one couple who are quite dramatic as they dip and dive, everyone else appears to be an amateur too.

“Are you sure?” I nervously ask once we’re on the floor.

“Sure, I’m sure.” He takes my right hand and begins to guide me to the music. To my surprise, it’s not that difficult. We dance a number of times and even exchange partners when a heavyset guy named Brad taps Simon on the shoulder. I guess this is fair in dancing rules. Anyway, Brad is a pretty good dancer, and I think I may be improving myself. But the best part about dancing is that when I concentrate on moving my feet and listening to the music and not stepping on my partner’s toes, I don’t think about anything else. It’s actually rather blissful. I think I could dance like this all night. But after a while the dance floor thins out, and people begin to gravitate toward the food tables. Simon offers me a glass of wine, and surprised that they are serving alcohol, I decline.