M.I.N.D. (8 page)

“How new?” I ask, my pulse racing. Maybe my relief was a tad premature.

“The first time I saw her wearing it was the Sunday before the field trip. I assumed it was a gift from Brendan.” He looks up, his mouth a tight line. “Why are you asking?”

Sunday. The day after the hit-and-run.

You have to turn around! We have to go back!

“She was acting crazy on the bus,” I reply, my voice a little shaky. “I'm trying to fill in the gaps. Trying to figure out exactly what happened.”

His face darkens. “Yeah, well, I'm still trying to figure out why you were wearing her locket.”

A hush falls.

His sudden coldness feels like a slap in the face, and I shrink back. “I…I'm sorry. I wanted…I thought I could feel her. I miss her.” It's not the reason, but it's the truth. I can't pretend she didn't ditch me or that I wasn't hurt, but we were once best friends, as close as sisters, and I can't pretend I don't still care.

“That's pretty funny coming from someone who hasn't talked to her all year. You know what else is funny? That day she was brought into the hospital, I found her backpack opened in the ER, under a chair. The contents were lying all over the floor. Now how do you suppose that happened?”

“You think I stole her locket? You really believe I'd do that?” He's not thinking straight, I tell myself. He's tired and he's stressed. But it doesn't soften the sting or make me less angry. “Let me rephrase,” I say. “Do you really believe I'd be stupid enough to wear it in public?”

I've been called a lot of things, but never a thief. Of course, it's possible he's right and I'm a stupid, amnesiac klepto.

The red door bursts opens. “Your turn, Cassie,” Tattoo Girl sings. She smiles sweetly at Ethan. “They're taking Amanda back to her room. She's all done.”

Ethan won't look at me. He's clutching the locket so tightly, I'm afraid it might break. My heart, too, is in danger. In danger of crashing through my chest.

I grab my purse, hold my head high, and walk toward the door.

Except…isn't this what I'm accusing Amanda of? Stealing the locket? But that's not the worst of it. What if she's an accomplice to murder?

I know it's crazy, I have no proof, but all my instincts are screaming that Amanda was involved in that hit-and-run. It's possible my imagination is getting away from me, but in my universe, that's as real as anything.

Seven

The Cradle Will Fall

“Take out your dentures,” Tattoo Girl says.

“Excuse me?”

“Your hearing aid too,” she says, louder.

“I don't have a hearing aid,” I answer, a little indignantly. “And these are all my own teeth.” It's embarrassing enough when asked for your ID at an R-rated movie, but this is insane. Do I look like a geezer?

“No extraneous parts allowed,” she says, looking at me with suspicion. “Please remove your accessories. The MRI uses a strong magnetic field, so that means no zippers, no jewelry, no coins, no hair clips.” She peers at my face. “Are you wearing makeup? Some makeup contains metal powder.”

It sure is tricky, looking in someone's brain. What if I was wearing lip gloss? Would it melt through my skin and make me look like the Joker? What if I had implants like Leanne's Aunt Jodie (dental, not frontal)? Would they rip right through my jaw?

“I de-accessorized in the waiting room,” I reply. But did I really? What about my anti-frizz? What about my deodorant? Are they extraneous? What if the patient is unconscious? Should everyone be required to carry a card listing their accessories?

“Are you pregnant?”

She's kidding, right? Though to be honest, I'm kind of flattered that someone actually thinks it's possible. To be pregnant implies having done it, and doing it implies that someone thought about me in that way.

“I've been very careful,” I reply smoothly. Ha. If I were any more careful, I'd be in a coma. Which makes me think about Amanda. Which makes me sad. I glance back at the massive machine in the middle of the room. It's crouched like an animal eager to devour its prey—its prey meaning me. Great. Now I'm sad
and
scared.

I strip down to my undies and put on a starchy white gown. Next, I'm instructed to lie on a table that looks like a long grotesque tongue. While fumbling to keep the gown closed, I suck in my breath and climb aboard. “For your ears,” Tattoo Girl says, handing me two small white foam cylinders. “It gets pretty noisy.” The tongue begins to slide into the gaping mouth behind me, and I start to squirm. “You're going to have to keep perfectly still,” Tattoo Girl says as slowly, inch by inch, I'm swallowed away. “I'm going on back with the technician,” she calls into the tunnel. “By the way, are you claustrophobic? Holler if it gets to be too much. There's an intercom inside.”

What? She's asking me this now?

Wait! Stop! Can we talk about this?

Okay, so maybe I am a tad claustrophobic.

I feel like I'm in a really bad horror movie. This is my eighth MRI, and it's exactly like I remember: cold and narrow with no ambience whatsoever. I'm trying to ignore the squeezing in my chest, but I swear, I can feel the tube getting smaller and smaller, closing in on me, sealing off my air. I want out. Now. Please? Besides, this is a total waste of time, it's all my mother's doing, she's a crazy paranoid. She should be having her brain examined, not me. I shift my gaze to the left. Whew. There it is. The intercom. All I have to do is scream and I'm outta here. I mean, come on! Aside from a mild case of switshetshela, my brain is just fine, thank you very much. When I happen to be in it, which isn't all the time.

Perhaps another MRI isn't such a bad idea.

I twist my head and stare at the intercom, but I remain silent.

“Keep your head straight,” comes a voice from the speaker. A male voice, I realize. Is there a camera in here? Funny, I don't remember a camera in my last MRI. I smooth my hair. Not an easy feat, considering the lack of wiggle room.

“Please stay still,” says the voice in the walls.

I can do this, I tell myself. I take a deep breath.
Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop…
I close my eyes and imagine I'm a tiny baby lying in a cradle, loved and protected, safe and snug.

And down will come baby, cradle and all…

I take another breath. “Bombs away!” I call down to my feet. My very cold feet. I'm not just speaking figuratively—it's like the Arctic in here. At least Tattoo Girl let me keep my socks on. I wiggle my toes, not that it helps. A shiver passes through me, under my antiseptic gown.

Then comes a machinery noise, like something you'd hear after being abducted by cannibals—cannibals preparing to grind you into sausage. Do cannibals use cutlery? Forget “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” hello “Hey Diddle Diddle.” Did the dish really run away with the spoon? Can you tell I'm nervous?

Must distract myself! What about MRI jokes? For instance, I'm never flying this airline again. The in-flight music sucks, and no one's come by with drinks and peanuts.

Not funny. This isn't working. Must think pleasant thoughts, happy memories from my past…

1. Me kissing Zack. Except it wasn't really me kissing him, and it wasn't pleasant.

2. Me and Leanne, age six, playing in the schoolyard:

My mother and your mother were hanging up the clothes.

My mother gave your mother a punch in the nose.

Too much violence. Moving along…

3. That time in seventh grade when Amanda got her period for the first time. I stood in front of her, Leanne stood behind, and the three of us sandwiched our way to the nurse. Okay, fine. Not exactly what you'd call pleasant, at least not for Amanda, but it's one of those memories you can look back on and laugh about. Except thinking about Amanda is making me sad again, so moving along…

4. Hanging out with my dad. A marriage and family therapist who worked from home, he always seemed to have time on his hands. My mother used to criticize him for having no ambition, but I think she was glad he was around so much. So was I. Except back then I didn't realize it.

My father's office was off the kitchen, with a separate entrance at the side of the house. I used to look out my bedroom window and watch his patients arriving. Sometimes I'd see a man and a woman, sometimes a whole family, and I'd wonder why they needed help in the first place. Sometimes I'd make up stories, like I did for that little man with the big wife. I turned him into a jockey with a fear of horses (equinophobia) and gave her a fear of small things (microphobia). Thanks to my dad, I knew all about phobias, not to mention psychoses, though I doubt he saw much of that. He dealt mostly with the usual stuff, like messed-up families. Who knew that one day I'd be coming up someone else's walkway with my mother, seeing some other therapist? Maybe a little girl was looking out
her
bedroom window, wondering what was wrong with
me
.

Maybe taking a trip down Memory Lane isn't such a good idea, I think. But I can't seem to stop, can't turn back…

After my father died, I used to imagine him everywhere. Once, when I was eleven, I ran after a man in the mall. He was wearing a brown suede jacket just like my dad's. “Daddy! Daddy!” I yelled, but when he turned around, I saw that he looked nothing like my father at all. His wife was sympathetic. My mother was embarrassed. Of course, that was one of my therapist's favorite topics at our sessions. My “father delusions,” he called them. The thing is, when you lose someone you love, you tell yourself stories. You pretend he's playing games like hide-and-seek, or he's in the Witness Protection Program, or he's running from the law. Anything but dead.

I still miss him, but I'm not sad anymore. Usually when I think of him, I get a sense of comfort, like he's right here beside me, assuring me that everything's going to be all right. Usually, but not always. I don't want to go there, don't want to think about that last day, but I do anyway. Here in the tunnel, alone with my imagination and my fear, I can't stop the memory from exploding in my head.

It was the last Saturday in May, and my mother was setting up for her book club. After baking and dusting and vacuuming, she'd decorated the living room with spatters of violet and purple. Hovering in the air, the sweet scent of freshly cut flowers was so thick it caught you by the throat.

That scent was lilac.

My mother loved lilac. We used to have masses of it growing in the front yard. The hedges were so tall you could barely see the road. Even in the summer when all the flowers were gone, you could still catch a trace of their fragrance, like a lingering ghost.

That day in May, my father took me fishing. It wasn't that he was the outdoors type; he just found it relaxing. As for me, I never understood the attraction of sitting around all day holding a pole. Plus, I hated fish even back then—the slime, the smell, the general grossness. No matter how it was cooked, it always tasted like rubber. But I loved being with my dad, and I loved boats. Loved the feeling of floating on water. Loved watching the trees on the shore as they flickered around me, their pale green leaves waving in the breeze. It was one of those balmy spring days that made you want to raise your head to the sun and drink in the rays, the kind of day that made you glad to be alive.

With its two-hundred-foot sheer drop, Dead Man's Landing overlooks a rocky bend of the Connecticut River. We were down below, in a boat in the creek, about fifty feet to the side of the rocks. That's where the trout were, according to my father. But the sun was beginning to descend and he hadn't caught a thing, and it was time to go. Standing at the stern, he pulled on the rope to start the motor, and that's when it happened. I heard a rustling in the woods and looked up. About halfway down from the landing, a doe and her fawn sprang out from the brush, an arc of brown against the dappled greenery as they vaulted into the open. “Daddy, look!” I yelled. It wasn't the first time I'd seen deer in the woods, but from down here in the creek they looked magical.

In the instant my father turned his head, the rope snapped and he fell backward, slipping on the water at the bottom of the boat. He hit his head on the side and rolled over the edge. The boat tipped up with his weight and then flipped over on top of me, and the next thing I knew, I was facedown in the water, under the boat, my leg caught in the bench. I tried to grab onto the sides, but my hands kept slipping. Not that it mattered. I couldn't stretch that far and keep my head out of water. The life vest was keeping me afloat, but every time I twisted my head, it seemed the water rose higher. “Daddy!” I yelled, but my voice was lost in the river. Lost in the river, somewhere with my father.

Breathe
, I told myself.
Just breathe.

I tried to keep my head up, but it was so heavy and the pain in my leg had spread to my shoulders. I closed my eyes, and when I did I saw my father…

…floating away from the overturned boat, mouthing the words, “Help me, you have to help me,” but how can this be? He's outside the boat and I'm underneath, yet there he is, staring straight ahead, his arms and legs moving loosely with the water, water that's rising, swirling around me. And I can't feel my fingers, they're numb from the cold, can't feel my toes, can't move, can't even breathe, and crushing my chest, my neck, my chin, the gushing water is filling my mouth. But then I squeeze my eyes tighter and everything changes. We're back in the boat watching the sunset, and my father is saying, “You have to go home now,” except he's not really talking, not really there…

…in that place again, but it's just an illusion, a dream within a dream, and wearing that red dress and the shiny silver locket, Amanda is standing next to me on the riverbank, and she's crying and mouthing, “Help me, you have to help me,” but I can't move, can't even breathe…

…in a tunnel, the MRI tunnel, and its walls are collapsing, and I have to get out, have to call for help, but when I try to scream into the intercom, my mouth won't open…

Breathe. Just breathe.

What if there's a fire and I'm left here to burn?

My clothes are in the locker. Isn't it a metal locker? What if there's an earthquake and the locker gets dislodged from the wall and comes flying through the tunnel?

Is there metal in tattoos? When Tattoo Girl comes back, will I suddenly implode?

Breathe. Just breathe.

At this moment, I'd give anything to be anywhere but here…

To be anyone but me…

Hey, Tattoo Girl, are you thinking about me too?

I want to be you, Tattoo Girl. Yes, Tattoo Girl,
you
. You with the mysterious heart etched on your wrist. You with the exciting love life. You who is nestled safely away behind the glass wall.

The tunnel fills with the scent of lilac. It's as fresh and sweet as it was in my mother's garden, and it carries me away.

***

“I love when they sweat like that. This one's a real faucet.”

Tattoo Girl is sitting at a desk and unwrapping some kind of sandwich, her mouth watering as she picks up a huge roll that's been split in half crosswise. Stuffed in each half is a thick mound of thinly sliced beef, a tangle of fried onions, a pile of pickled peppers, a glob of ketchup, Cheese Whiz, and a bucketful of grease.

Ew. What kind of food choice is that? Should she even be eating? Hello? We're in the MRI room. This can't be sanitary. (Though it's probably more sanitary than eating in the school bathroom.) What kind of hospital is this? Who eats cold fries?

She bites off a chunk of the roll, chews with enthusiasm. It's crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, the onions sweet with a bit of a zip. She savors the cheese dissolving in her mouth. A stream of grease oozes down her chin.

Ew again. Except…it doesn't taste bad. Not bad at all.

She takes another bite. She rolls the beef around in her mouth, the peppery juice making her tongue all fuzzy.

Is this heaven or what?

My mother the vegetarian would freak; the cholesterol in here could give even the Tin Man heart failure. Actually, my mother's a pescatarian, which for me is problematic, since I hate fish. Being vegetarian sure is complicated. What about fruit? What about cookies? It makes no sense. I call myself a humanitarian, but I don't eat humans.