Whisper to Me(26)

“You like reading?” asked Dr. Rezwari. Her voice was soft.

Almost reflexively, the voice said,

“Speak and I remove your feet.”

So I didn’t say anything.

Instead I looked at the plaque on the desk. On it was written: A CLUTTERED DESK IS A SIGN OF GENIUS.

I did not know what to make of it. I looked at the desk. It literally could not have been tidier. There were only three objects on it, not counting Dr. Rezwari’s elbows, which were propped there, her hands under her chin.

Was it a joke? Was it supposed to be ironic? Or was the desk usually a mess, and so someone had gotten her the plaque, and then she cleaned it? It bothered me and so I opened my mouth to ask—

“Your feet,” said the voice. “And your father goes under a bus.”

So I closed my mouth again.

Dr. Rezwari was studying me, but she made it seem friendly and curious, not detached and scientific. She picked up the pen and spun it around her thumb. That surprised me. It’s usually guys who do that.

“I like reading,” she said. “I think Middlemarch is my favorite novel. Don’t you just love it? It’s like she created a whole world, totally real and believable. I don’t think I have ever loved fictional characters more.”

I very much wanted to reply to this. I wanted to say that Middlemarch was my favorite novel too, but I couldn’t. Dr. Rezwari must have seen something in my eyes though, because she smiled.

“Of course I love Stephen King too,” she said. “I’m not snobbish. Bag of Bones, that’s an amazing book.”

YES! said my mind.

My mouth said: .

She kept spinning the pen. “Your father seems to think you have been speaking to people who aren’t there.” It was a statement, not a question.

She waited, then when I didn’t say anything, nodded.

“I’m here to help, you know,” she said. “I would dearly like to help you. I can see that you have been through some very traumatic times. You must borrow any of my books, anytime you like. I know from your father that reading is a great hobby of yours.”

She paused. Then she said something totally unconnected—I learned that this was one of her tricks. “Tell me, Cassandra, do you ever hear voices?” she asked.

The voice said,

“I’m warning you. Do not speak to her about me. I will make sure you burn in hell.”

I closed my eyes.

“You can answer yes or no, Cassandra,” said Dr. Rezwari. “You can even just nod or shake your head. I’m only trying to ascertain what we’re dealing with here. But we’re good, and we have good drugs. I’m good. I can help you. It occurs to me, from things your father has said, that perhaps you may be afflicted by this voice-hearing, which is what we call it.”

I wasn’t listening now, I was focusing on those words: NOD OR SHAKE YOUR HEAD. I opened my eyes again.

Did the voice have access to my thoughts? Would it know if I tried to use this loophole?

I waited. Nothing from the voice. I remembered how I had waved at Jane, and the voice had not punished me. Perhaps it only knew what I said and did, not what I was thinking?

Dr. Rezwari just went on spinning that pen. “Sometimes,” she said, as if it was a passing thing that had come into her mind, “sometimes, people hear voices that tell them to hurt themselves. It’s important to know that these voices are not real. They don’t exist. They are fictions, created by the mind. Of course this may not apply to you. Although you could nod if it does. We would protect you. We would not let anyone hurt you. Or anything.”

I was trembling with fear and hope. I wanted to nod, I so desperately wanted to nod, but I was terrified of what the voice might do to me. Truly, I don’t know when I have ever been more scared. I felt as though my heart might burst and splatter Dr. Rezwari with blood and fragments of rib.

Please let this be over, I thought.

“These drugs,” said Dr. Rezwari in that way of hers, that way she would go silent for ages and then say something as if it were some incidental piece of information she was passing on because it might, just might, be of interest. “They make the voices go away. Always. I can guarantee that.”

I looked at her. The twirling of her pen seemed to slow, the room seemed suspended in time, as if we were held in an invisible, viscous fluid.

I took a deep breath.

And I nodded.





Dr. Rezwari took a breath too. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, thank you. That is helpful. We will start you on risperidone right away, while we try to establish a diagnosis. I am thinking psychotic dissociation, perhaps brought on by … what happened with your mother. But this is not a worry. You will be fine, we will help you. And you must borrow any book you like.”

“What did you do?” said the voice.

I sat there, a mouse between two cats. “What did you do? She will take me away. She will take me away, and you will be defenseless. You know how ****** pathetic you are. You ****** idiot. Take it back. Take it back and I won’t rip out your nails; take it back, you ******* *********** ************** ************** ************** **** ******* ***** ******.”

I put my hands over my ears, but it didn’t stop. The language—I have never heard anything like it, before or since. There was something strange, though: the voice sounded afraid.