Mirage(26)

My mom wipes her eyes with fingers that are smeared with dried blood. I relent and let the doctor pour the pills onto my palm.

“I’ll stay with her until she falls asleep, Uncle Nolan.”

Gran is woken up and led to the door but stops and turns her head my way. “I dreamed you were waiting for me when I die,” she says, her Caribbean accent even heavier with sleep. My mom bites her lip to keep from crying.

Yes, die, girl, the malicious voice whispers to me. I’m waiting for you.

I can’t react. Must hold still, even though I want to cover my ears and scream. I lie down and pull up the quilt that Gran’s mother made many years ago on the island. It wraps me in the blues and corals of the tropics. Palm trees, fish, and the cascarilla plants they farmed for shipment to Italy to flavor Campari all depict the life of the family. There’s something comforting about enfolding myself in what came before.

Avery tries to make small talk as the sedative tugs at my grasp on consciousness. It pulls hard at me. Whether it’s taking me deeper into myself or away from myself, I don’t know. My hold is slipping, and that’s what scares me the most. I feel like I could float away.

“Dom is one mopey, lovesick bastard,” Avery says. Her voice sounds far away. “He walks around the DZ with his sketchpad, drawing and scribbling. It’s sad. You’d better pull yourself together and get back. There’s a line of girls circling like sharks, who’d be more than happy to comfort him.”

“Hmm,” I mumble. It takes effort to talk. “He’s hurting. Someone should comfort him.”

“That’s crazy talk.” Her hand swoops to cover her mouth. “Are you saying you don’t care if someone moves in on him?”

I can’t answer. I loved him more fiercely and openly than I’ve ever loved anyone besides JoeLo. I gave Dom all of me. He was my first. Why are all of our memories in my head but disconnected from my heart? Pictures scroll by, but I feel no attachment to them. Instead of heartache at being separated, I am emotionless.

It’s like I’ve been born again, without a heart.



The next morning, we drive in stony silence into town. My body feels a hundred pounds heavier. “You could cut the tension in here with a knife,” I say, and realize too late what a careless thing I’ve said.

Nobody responds, but I can see Nolan’s jaw working like he’s chewing on a gristly piece of reply. I probably should keep my mouth shut.

We continue our slow bounce down the road to see Dr. Collier for his assessment and also to see my regular doctor, who is going to remove the bandages today. Any sane person would be more worried about the permanent disfiguring scars on her face, but all I can think about is how I’m going to manage to seal the vault around my mind.

What’s completely frightening about the questionnaire Dr. Collier hands me when I sit down in his office is that I could check off nearly everything on this list.

Yes, I have hallucinations.

Yes, I’ve been guilty of skipping showers or brushing my teeth, but not on purpose. I just . . . I forget, until someone remarks on my appearance or my teeth feel like wool.

Yes, there are strange things going on that I can’t explain.

Yes, there is someone else inside my head who no one else seems to hear.

Yes, I often feel void of emotion.

Yes. Yes. Yes.



There’s no way I’m agreeing to any of this.

I’m not crazy. I know I’m not, and there’s no way I can let them medicate me. Just the thought of medication causes the most severe case of nausea to rise from my stomach. My aversion to it feels phobic in intensity. Desperate. They can’t flatline me. They can’t turn me into the walking dead. Whatever they gave me last night has made me feel so untethered from my body that I fear I’ll plummet right out of it. It’s like I’m the rider on a horse with a loose saddle that keeps slipping sideways. I’m afraid it will take all the fight out of me, and I need my fight to combat her.

In order to keep from being medicated anymore, I have to convince them that what my mom suggested was true. What I’m experiencing are flashbacks from the LSD, and I need time. I just need time.

After the physical examination, the written test, and the doctor trying very hard not to look frustrated as I give him as little information as possible, I am led out into the excessively beige waiting area. I wonder if they purposely leave it colorless so as to not provoke emotions in people. The receptionist glances furtively in my direction every few seconds while shuffling papers as Dr. Collier talks to my parents privately. She’s acting like she’s not watching over me, but I know she is. Everyone is watching me.

My parents come out of his office, ashen-faced and grim. My dad gives a tilt of his head that conveys his displeasure.

“Well?” I whisper to my mother as we head to the next appointment right across the street.

“Honestly, Ryan, I don’t know what you told him?—”

“Or didn’t tell him,” my father interjects. They flank me as we walk: wingmen to the cuckoo bird.

My mother roots around her purse for something, then answers while dabbing fuchsia lipstick on her generous lips without a mirror. “He says he can’t conclusively diagnose you at this point.”

“You sound disappointed.”

Ayida stops walking and whirls toward me. “I am not disappointed he didn’t diagnose you with bipolar disorder or paranoid schizophrenia or any other mental illness! I am disappointed you weren’t honest with him! I have no agenda but to see you well, to see you get back to yourself.”