Come Closer (15 page)
Blackouts became common. Ten minutes on the way home from work, an hour, then two or three, then whole days. Ed’s birthday came and went and I didn’t remember a moment of it. Apparently it didn’t go well—the next day he wasn’t speaking to me.
Most of the time I was in between the two extremes. I would start a thought—“I really ought to let this person merge in front of me”—and she would finish it—“but why should I?” Or she would start—“We won’t go to work today. Instead, I think, we’ll get dressed up and go back to that little bar where the bartender had those strong legs.” I would scream and cry and beg and fight every way I could imagine, but she would always win. She was stronger, and so she always won.
M
Y NEW PSYCHIC vision, which had seemed like nothing more than a clever parlor trick before, started to turn on me. In early November I was in the Fitzgerald house alone, double-checking the measurements of a wall where a closet would go. I was on the third floor, measuring, when I noticed a dark brown stain on the plaster, one big splash surrounded by an increasingly finer spray. It looked like blood. I tried to avoid the marks but while pulling a tape measure across the wall I couldn’t help brushing the side of my hand lightly against a splatter of the stain. The dry skin on the side of my hand, under my smallest finger, barely brushed against the smallest dots of the stain.
Y NEW PSYCHIC vision, which had seemed like nothing more than a clever parlor trick before, started to turn on me. In early November I was in the Fitzgerald house alone, double-checking the measurements of a wall where a closet would go. I was on the third floor, measuring, when I noticed a dark brown stain on the plaster, one big splash surrounded by an increasingly finer spray. It looked like blood. I tried to avoid the marks but while pulling a tape measure across the wall I couldn’t help brushing the side of my hand lightly against a splatter of the stain. The dry skin on the side of my hand, under my smallest finger, barely brushed against the smallest dots of the stain.
When my hand met with the cold wall the world stopped. It all stopped and was instantly replaced with another world. Same room, but it was crowded with cheap, fading clothes. The air was hot and smelled like dirty laundry and cigarette butts. Summertime.
The room was quiet except for the grunts and footsteps of two men grappling in what looked like an equal struggle. The two were of similar size and shape and looked alike. Both were black, of medium build, and dressed in cheap pants and sweat-soaked shirts with wide collars. I couldn’t see their faces clearly but their backs looked alike. They could have been brothers.
The man closer to me had something shiny in his right hand. I focused on his hand and my vision zoomed in, like a camera. It was a small knife, an open penknife with a black textured handle. In one lightning-quick motion he freed his right arm from the other man’s grip, drew his arm back, and stabbed his brother in the side of the neck. The dying man fell against the wall, where his blood shot out against the plaster and sprayed to where my hand had touched ...
And then it was over. I was back in the empty, quiet room. I let out a little yelp, ran out of the house, ran to my car, and drove away as quickly as I could.
It didn’t end there. The Chinese vanity I had loved so much now had to go. Each time I touched it I was overwhelmed with a flood of sadness that the previous owner had left behind. He was a miserable little man, an antique dealer living alone in the back of his shop, whose main occupation was buying and reading porn. I traded the wardrobe for a plain Shaker-style dresser which carried no emotions at all, just a general sense of industry. A vintage yellow dress I had saved for special occasions now made me nauseated—its previous owner had been a drunk, and when I wore it I felt my liver burn with cirrhosis.
ON THE first day of December I set out to buy Ed a Christmas present. Over the summer he had admired a little silver salt bowl in a ridiculously overpriced shop uptown, and I wanted to see if it was still there before I bought another blue sweater.
I was amazed at how quickly we’d fallen apart after the weekend at the beach. Even peaceful moments were glazed over with anger and resentment. No more laughing at bad movies. No more pet names. No more talking in our own secret code. Our time together was all very formal now.
“Are you going to the store?”
“Yep. You want something?”
“Can you pick me up some orange juice? The one—”
“Yeah, I know. Sure.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I was walking down a quiet, tree-lined street on my way to the store. The air was cold and dry even though the sun was bright. On either side of me were the huge gingerbread limestone and marble houses that made the neighborhood famous. Most of them were apartment buildings now, or private schools. I walked and daydreamed. She would leave me, eventually. She would grow sick of me, get tired of the fighting, and leave me alone. I would finally be able to tell Ed the truth and he would have to forgive me.
A door to my right opened up and a crowd of girls poured out, nine or ten years old, each seemed to have the same fine creamy skin, and thick hair held back in a ponytail. A few were wrapped in scarves and gloves and earmuffs, but most wore their coats open. I stopped to let them go. I wasn’t in a hurry. I lit a cigarette and watched the girls pass. Behind the crowd were two women—teachers, I guessed. They looked at me pointedly. Just doing their jobs, I thought, the girls were their commodity, to be guarded with their lives. One of the girls was running in my direction, to catch a bus or an after-school dance class, and she turned her head around to call to a friend—“Call me tonight! Don’t forget!”—And ran right into me. I grabbed her elbows to keep her from falling. She was momentarily stunned.
“I’m sorry!” she said. She was a brunette with a worried look on her little face. It was clear she expected a talking-to. I let go of her elbows and gave her a smile.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “No harm done.”
She smiled with relief and went running on her way. To my left I saw Naamah’s shadow, standing behind me.
The crowd of girls thinned out and I went on. But further down the block I was hit again, this time by a woman a little older than me, barreling down the street in such a hurry I couldn’t jump out of her way quickly enough. She stumbled a bit when she ran into me, and I took her arm to steady her. Her blonde hair was crisply fluffed around her face and over her forehead, arranged to hide her wrinkles.
“Excuse me,” she said, cold and sarcastic. She tried to pull her arm back. I wanted to let go of her wrist. I wasn’t that angry. But my hand wouldn’t comply.
“You shouldn’t talk to strangers,” I told her. “You should look both ways before you cross the street.” My eyes shifted out of focus and the world turned a hazy black streaked with red as I heard myself speak.
Finally the words slowed to a stop and the haze cleared back into focus. The woman lay on the ground, sobbing. I had snapped her wrist in two.
I TRIED to tell Edward. I tried to tell anyone who would listen. But now, I found, it was too late. I opened my mouth to speak and the wrong words came out.
Edward, help me,
became
Edward, pass the salt. I’m possessed
turned into
I’m tired.
Edward, help me,
became
Edward, pass the salt. I’m possessed
turned into
I’m tired.
I tried to catch her off guard, to scream out the truth at an unexpected moment. But you can’t surprise a thing that lives inside you. The screams came out of my throat as long, dry coughs. Help me, I was screaming inside, save me—but all anyone heard was a long
ahem.
ahem.
Each day I would wake up and say to myself Today, no more of this nonsense. Today I am going to put all this craziness behind me and be a normal human being.
And she would answer:
But I love you, Amanda. I love you and I’m never leaving.
But I love you, Amanda. I love you and I’m never leaving.
Go! I would silently scream at her. Get out!
Oh no, she would answer,
I’m not going anywhere.
Then, first thing, she would start a fight with Ed. He would say “Good morning” and I would try to say “Good morning” back and nothing would come out. I would struggle and twist and try to use my vocal chords to speak and I couldn’t. My throat was hers now. So I would say nothing at all. “Well
someone
’s in a good mood,” he would say, eyebrows raised. Or maybe after “Good morning” she would say “What’s so fucking good about it?” or “Why isn’t there more coffee?” or—and this was the worst—she would say “Good morning” back, the words so swampy with sarcasm that Ed would slam down his coffee and leave for work without saying good-bye.
I’m not going anywhere.
Then, first thing, she would start a fight with Ed. He would say “Good morning” and I would try to say “Good morning” back and nothing would come out. I would struggle and twist and try to use my vocal chords to speak and I couldn’t. My throat was hers now. So I would say nothing at all. “Well
someone
’s in a good mood,” he would say, eyebrows raised. Or maybe after “Good morning” she would say “What’s so fucking good about it?” or “Why isn’t there more coffee?” or—and this was the worst—she would say “Good morning” back, the words so swampy with sarcasm that Ed would slam down his coffee and leave for work without saying good-bye.
E
VERY NIGHT NOW, after I fell asleep, she took me to the crimson beach by the red sea.
VERY NIGHT NOW, after I fell asleep, she took me to the crimson beach by the red sea.
“Why,” I asked her. “Why me?”
“Why not you,” she answered. “Who would be better?”
I couldn’t answer that. “I don’t know what you want,” I told her. “Tell me. I’ll give you anything, whatever you want.”
“All I want is you,” she said. “I can’t have fun without you.”
“What do you want?” I begged. “What fun?”
“This.”
WE WERE back on solid ground, in a big glistening room with thousands of tiny lights. Chandeliers. A party. Black tie. The noise of the party was a steady, faraway roar.
I was standing by the bar, one finger tracing the neckline of my dress. It looked like me, it was me, but it was her. I was dressed perfectly. Black dress, sheer hose, shiny spike heels. I felt a thick coating of makeup on my face and a strain on my scalp where my hair was pulled into an upsweep.
There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around; a man stood behind us, smiling. He was young and blond with a big smile. In his tuxedo he looked almost like a boy playing dress up.
“I thought you were meeting me on the dance floor,” he said.
I shrugged. “I don’t feel like dancing. Why don’t we go for a walk instead?”
“Where to?”
“Around.” I took his hand and led him across the big room to a little hallway hidden behind the dance floor. We walked; the hall got darker and the wallpaper ended and the carpet stopped. The sounds of the party were gone. We walked down a short flight of stairs to a concrete basement. The mechanisms supporting the party were hidden here—a walk-in freezer, a boiler, pipes that led from one mystery to another. The room was lit by a few bare bulbs.
“What are we doing here?” he finally asked. He smiled again but the smile was now a little nervous, a little forced. He was scared. I stepped towards him and kissed him, and he relaxed into my arms. While we kissed I began to take off his clothes: first the jacket, then the tie, then the shirt. The skin on his back was perfectly warm and smooth. I was lost in his skin and his lips, against the back of my eyes I saw a deep dark red. I was running my nails hard over his back, biting his lip, his tongue. He tried to push me away but he couldn’t, I was too strong. Blood was trickling down his chin from his lip. He tried to scream but I muffled it with my mouth. I dug my nails deep into his back until the perfect skin was ripped. He tried to get hold of my arms, tried to do something, anything, but Naamah was stronger. She was bringing one hand up to his neck when we were interrupted.
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