The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(35)
Dr. Shedhorn paused. “Eventually you’ll be ready for the deep end.”
Dorothy thought about the possible merits and potential hazards of opening a Pandora’s box of familial tragedy. The conceit of addressing the pain and sorrow of others in the past—the whole uncanny idea—gave her hope. But as Nietzsche argued, “Hope is the most evil of all evils because it prolongs man’s torment.”
As Dorothy nodded she felt a burning sensation in her arm that dissipated as it spread through her body. What would Louis think? He might use this against me. He could say it was another example of how unstable I am. That he can’t trust me around Annabel. He’d argued that before, on her twenty-seventh birthday, when she’d been so depressed she couldn’t leave their apartment and hadn’t showered for days.
“Wait. Stop, stop, stop.”
“I’m sorry, Dorothy,” Dr. Shedhorn said. “Is there something wrong?”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Dorothy removed the chest strap as the lights in the ceiling came on. She squinted beneath waves of colored fractals as she stood up and tore the electrodes off. She pulled the IV out, ripping tape from her skin as she stumbled from the room.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I just can’t.”
Dr. Shedhorn was calling out to her as Dorothy found her way back to the lobby, then outside, to the world of traffic and typhoon season, of distress and dislocation. Dorothy thought about what she’d say when she returned to her old therapist, defeated and scared. What could they do now? Dorothy felt as though they’d been stitching up her wounds for as long as she could remember. Perpetual triage on her emotional well-being. She began to hyperventilate, noticing that the air was warmer than when she’d gone inside and it stopped raining. The city smelled different too, more beer and urine than Seattle’s normal bouquet of pine needles, evergreen trees, and low tide. She looked down at the cobblestone street and wondered if the tidal surge from last week’s storm had somehow eroded the concrete, revealing what lay hidden underneath. She remembered that when the city tore up the streets in the International District to put in light rail, the engineers found old rails and brick avenues that had been used by streetcars a century earlier. Dorothy felt a wave of remembrance as she noticed horse-drawn carriages. Not the hansom cabs that worked the waterfront during the heart of the summer tourist season, but surreys and wagonettes with teams of draft horses. There was even a polished hearse, pulled by black horses who shook their heads and flapped their ears, chasing away flies as they clip-clopped back toward the center of an old city that she no longer recognized. Dorothy froze when she saw the men and women coursing up and down the boardwalks dressed in vintage finery, the men in wool suits and derby hats, the women in flowing dresses with bouffant sleeves and tightly cinched bodices, who carried lace parasols as they strolled. The buildings that Dorothy walked past en route to Epigenesis had been replaced with stately row houses and brick colonials with gas-lighting. Through watery eyes she looked up at the sky, cloudy and raven, as coal smoke hung above the treetops like the dark silk lining of a coffin. Disoriented, she leaned against a cold brick wall, watching the strange world pass by. Then she noticed something moving in a dirty, garbage-strewn alley. A fat tomcat hissed and scurried away as she stepped into the narrow passageway, shadowed by clotheslines with drying garments that waved on the breeze like prayer flags.
In the alley, Dorothy smelled soap, fermenting malt, rotting garbage, discarded beef bones and offal from a butcher, mingled with the stench of human waste where chamber pots had been emptied. The alley smelled like poverty and desperation, fleetingly interrupted by the pleasing fragrance of vanilla-scented tobacco.
Dorothy heard sobbing as it began to rain.
When she looked, she found a young Chinese woman with bound feet sitting among the piles of garbage, leaning against the wall. She looked to be in her late teens, her hair dark and wet. Despite the Western dress she wore, a green frock that was tight around her pregnant belly, she was clearly Asian. As she held her knees and gritted her teeth, crying out, Dorothy realized that the woman’s dress, her many layers of fabric and petticoats, were soaked with the ruddy ochre of blood. Next to her was a disheveled sack of her belongings and a tin cup.
Dorothy’s heart raced as she shouted for help but was ignored by the men walking by. A few well-heeled ladies slowed and looked pityingly at the woman in the alley, then continued their strolling, moving swiftly to get out of the downpour.
When Dorothy turned back to the woman, a man was there, dirty and disheveled.
“Here, Dorothy, drink this, it’ll help you wake up.”
Dorothy heard a vaguely familiar voice and saw that the tin cup was now plastic. She picked it up. It was warm. She held it in her hands and felt as though she’d been sleeping, dreaming. The lights came back on and she realized she was still at Epigenesis, in the chaise, which was mechanically adjusting, gently easing her to a sitting position. The grid of lights faded and the smells of the alley and the sound of trotting horses vanished from her senses into a place of memory. She no longer felt cold, damp from the rain, and her mouth was dry. Her feet tingling as though they’d both fallen asleep. It would be a moment before she could stand, let alone walk.
“Welcome back. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” She heard the soothing voice of Dr. Shedhorn. “That’s valerian root tea, it eases residual anxiety and wakes you up a bit. It would appear that this treatment method works quite well for you. Not that I’m too surprised. I’ve found that people who work in the arts have an easier time accessing old memories. I’ll make a few neurochemical adjustments, then next week we’ll go deep.”