Dream Girl(34)
He should yearn to believe this doctor, but he finds himself wondering if anyone this good-looking can really excel at his job.
“Are you sure it’s not my meds? Or something worse? I have to be mindful that the disease that killed my mother does have a genetic component.”
“Look, the good news is that delusional disorder is exceedingly rare. Exceedingly. And these are not the sort of delusions a person normally experiences. They’re almost too logical, too consistent. My hunch is that they really are dreams. You’re experiencing a kind of déjà vu. Do you know what déjà vu really is? It’s a sequencing error. Epileptics often have a déjà vu experience right before a seizure. It also can be related to small strokes.”
“Strokes!”
The doctor holds up his hands. Even his palms are beautiful. “Your blood pressure is good, you’ve taken excellent care of yourself. When you’re in better shape, I’d like to get you in for an MRI, just to be sure. But I’d also like to ask—how are you feeling, Gerry?”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“Are you unhappy?”
“Well, of course, I’m not happy with the situation. The injury and these—unexplained phenomena.”
“Were you happy before you fell?”
It takes him a long time to answer. Who wants to answer such a question? It’s why he has avoided therapy all these years. Everyone’s unhappy if they have even a sliver of intelligence. Who can be happy in this world?
“My mother had died and the last months of her life were awful. I moved to Baltimore, thinking I would be tending to her for quite some time, and she died almost immediately after I closed on this apartment. I don’t like Baltimore. Well, that’s not quite right. Baltimore’s okay. But I prefer New York. I had a life there. I don’t know anyone here, not anymore; my work hasn’t been going well—I’m not sure I want to write anymore, even if I’m not on the verge of becoming a gibbering fool. I broke up with my longtime companion, which was all for the best, believe me, but I’m lonely. Who wouldn’t be unhappy?”
His words surprise him, in their specificity and volume. Unhappy is such a big word. Once said aloud, it can never be taken back. He has tried so hard never to say it out loud over the past twenty years. He is too aware of the good things in his life—the career, the money, the freedom. How could he possibly be unhappy?
Because he is.
“How do you feel about trying an antidepressant?”
Whoa. One thing to admit to unhappiness. He’s not ready to make the full leap to depressed.
“I don’t know—I’ve never used anything of the sort. I’m sorry, I don’t like medication, I just don’t. I’m practically a Christian Scientist that way.”
“It’s something to think about. If I had to make a bet, my hunch is that an MRI won’t find anything. I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with your head, Gerry. Your brain is fine. Again—Occam’s razor. What’s the likely explanation? You’re having bad dreams.”
“What about the phone calls?”
The doctor’s beautiful face clouds. “Maybe someone is punking you by phone. But the woman at the window—there’s no other explanation. For now, take notes. Don’t worry. Establish a good sleep system—less TV time, and don’t fall asleep while watching it. No screens for at least an hour before bed. But I am confident that you don’t have dementia.”
Gerry knows he should be cheered by this assessment. He is not crazy. He is not declining. He’s depressed, and who wouldn’t be? The delusions are bad dreams. The phone calls are—
Phylloh, he thinks. Phylloh knows he’s here, knows when he’s alone. Phylloh has the power to let people upstairs. Phylloh is the one who checked the security video. Or so she said. He will make a discreet inquiry about Phylloh. He has no idea why she would do such a thing, but clearly his tormentor is crazy and crazy requires no logic, no rhyme or reason.
1978
“LET’S GO TO ATLANTIC CITY.”
“Why?”
“To enter the Miss America pageant. To gamble, Gerry. Let’s gamble.”
Gerry had no interest in gambling and he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to go on a road trip with Luke. “We don’t have a car.”
“We can borrow Tara’s.”
“Won’t we have to ask her to come with us, then?”
“Would that be a problem?”
“We don’t have to do everything as a threesome,” he said.
“You dumb fucker. You did it with her, didn’t you?”
“She’s my best friend. It was—inevitable.”
“I’m your best friend. Hey, does that mean you’re going to sleep with me now?”
Luke had come out to Gerry at the end of their freshman year. Matched up by the housing lottery, they had been happy to discover that they genuinely liked each other, and they pledged to continue living together. But it was important to Luke, once they made their compulsory arrangement a voluntary one, that Gerry know he was gay. At the time, the relatively few gay students on campus tended to be flamboyant. Luke was promiscuous but discreet. He and Gerry had never worked out a code for what to do when one of them wanted the room alone because Gerry’s girlfriend during sophomore year had a single and Luke preferred to go to New York. He would take the train up on Friday night and return late Sunday. Gerry had no idea where Luke went or what he did, if he had a steady man or if he preferred having sex with lots and lots of strangers. And he had no vocabulary with which to inquire.