Fielding said that you sometimes . . . hear them.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter, straining for more dark. They aren’t—you know, hallucinations, I’d told him; I just like pretending they’re here every now and then. As a coping mechanism. I know that too much contact isn’t healthy.
“And that you sometimes talk back.”
Feel the sun on my neck. It’s best you don’t indulge in these conversations too often, he’d warned me. We wouldn’t want them to become a crutch.
“See, I was a little confused, because from what you were saying it sounded like they were just someplace else.” I don’t point out that this is technically true. There’s no fight left in me. I’m hollow as a bottle.
“You told me that you were separated. That your daughter was with your husband.” Another technicality. I’m so tired.
“You told me the same thing.” I open my eyes. Light douses the room now, draining the shadows. The five of them are ranged before me like chess pieces. I look at Alistair.
“You told me that they lived somewhere else,” he says, curling his lip. He looks repulsed. I didn’t, of course—I never said they lived anywhere. I’m careful. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.
Little reaches across the island, presses his hand onto mine. “I think that you’ve had a hell of a time. I think that you really believe you met with this lady, just like you believe you’re talking to Olivia and Ed.” There’s a tiny pause before that last word, as though he isn’t sure of Ed’s name, although maybe he’s just pacing himself. I peer into his eyes. Bottomless.
“But what you’re thinking here isn’t real,” he says, his voice snow-soft. “And I need you to let this one go.”
I find myself nodding. Because he’s right. I’ve gone too far. This has to stop, Alistair said.
“You know, you’ve got people who care about you.” Little’s hand bunches my fingers together. The knuckles crackle. “Dr. Fielding. And your physical therapist.” And? I want to say. And? “And . . .” For an instant my heart leaps; who else cares about me? “. . . they want to help you.”
I drop my gaze to the island, to my hand, nestled in his. Study the dull gold of his wedding band. Study mine.
Quieter still now. “The doctor said—he told me that the medication you’re on can cause hallucinations.”
And depression. And insomnia. And spontaneous combustion. But these aren’t hallucinations. They’re—
“And maybe that’s okay by you. I know it’d be okay by me.”
Norelli breaks in. “Jane Russell—”
But Little lifts his other hand, without looking away from me, and Norelli stops talking.
“She checks out,” he says. “The lady in two-oh-seven. She is who she says she is.” I don’t ask how they know. I don’t care anymore. So, so tired. “And this lady you thought you met—I think you . . . didn’t.”
To my surprise, I feel myself nod. But then how . . .
Except he’s already there: “You said she helped you in off the street. But maybe that was you. Maybe you . . . I don’t know, dreamed it.”
If I dream things when I’m awake . . . Where have I heard that?
And I can picture it, like it’s a film, in living color: me, hauling my body off the stoop, rock-climbing those front steps. Dragging myself into the hall, into the house. I can almost remember it.
“And you said she was here playing chess with you and drawing pictures. But again . . .”
Yes, again. Oh, God. Again I see it: the bottles; the pill canisters; the pawns, the queens, the advancing two-tone armies—my hands reaching across the chessboard, hovering like helicopters. My fingers, stained with ink, a pen pinched between them. I’d practiced that signature, hadn’t I, scrawling her name on the shower door, amid the steam and the spray, the letters bleeding down the glass, vanishing before my eyes.
“Your doctor said he hadn’t heard about any of this.” He pauses. “I was thinking that maybe you didn’t tell him because you didn’t want him to . . . talk you out of it.”
My head shakes, nods.
“I don’t know what that scream you heard was . . .”
I do. Ethan. He never claimed otherwise. And that afternoon I saw him with her in the parlor—he wasn’t even looking at her. He was looking into his lap, not at the empty seat beside him.
I glance at him now, see him gently deposit Punch on the floor. His eyes never leave mine.
“I’m not sure about