Exposed (Madame X, #2)(12)

I thank the woman and return to the bench in front of the Sargent.

Thinking.

I have memories, distinct memories of being here with you, and you wheeled me from this to the Starry Night.

But how can that be? They aren’t at the same museum.

I’ve distracted myself well enough, thankfully. I am no longer seeing over and over Rachel with you, your eyes on mine, no longer feeling my arousal and disgust and sense of betrayal.

I have pushed those emotions down, deep down where I won’t have to deal with them just yet.

And then I feel you.

“I knew I’d find you here.” Your voice is quiet, like the rumble of a subway train below the streets.

“I have nothing to say to you.” I do not look at you. Scoot to my left so there is a foot of space between us.

“Too bad. I have a lot to say to you.”

“That would be new.”

A sigh. “X, you don’t understand—”

“If you say that to me one more f*cking time, I will scream,” I hiss.

I like cursing. It makes me feel powerful and free.

“Why did you spy on me?”

“I do not know. I wish I hadn’t, yet also I am glad I did.” I struggle to breathe past the subtle power of your cologne and your presence. “I understand now what I mean to you.”

“You mean more to me than you can possibly comprehend, X.”

“Which is why you never even bother to take off your clothes when you’re with me? Why you never stay with me, afterward? Why you treat me like I’m . . . delicate?”

“What, X? You want me to do that shit to you?” You say this a little too loud, glance around, and lower your voice so it is barely audible. “You want me to treat you like I treat the girls? You want me to come on your face? You want me to pull your hair and hurt you? Is that what you want, X?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want that. I don’t know, Caleb! I just know, watching you with her, I felt jealous. And angry. I felt . . . as if you enjoy her more than you do me. I don’t want to be just another girl among many for you.”

“I can’t give you what you’re asking for, X. You don’t—I know you hate it when I say this, and I’m sorry, but you really don’t understand.”

I groan in frustration, loudly enough that other visitors stop and stare at me. “Then help me understand!”

“How, X? What am I supposed to say to you?”

“The truth?”

“What is the truth? The truth about what?”

“About me? About us? Why you keep me locked up in that f*cking tower like . . . like Rapunzel.”

You do not answer for a long time, staring at the Sargent painting for which I am named. “How many hours have we both sat in this spot, staring at this painting?”

Apropos of nothing, that. But also . . . relevant. I am here of my own volition.

“Many indeed.” I hesitate, and then continue. “My memories are faulty, it seems. I distinctly remember being here, in the wheelchair, with you. Looking at the Sargent, and then you’d push me through the museum and we’d look at the Van Gogh together. I remember this, Caleb. As clearly as I am standing here, I can feel it, see it. But now that I’m actually here, I’ve discovered that what I remember isn’t possible. Because the Van Gogh is at a different museum entirely. And I . . . I don’t understand. How can I remember something falsely?”

You breathe out through pursed lips. “I did some research on memory, while you were in rehab, learning to walk and talk again. The storage and recall of memory is a subject we understand very little about. But one thing I remember reading was that most of our memories, from childhood and things like that, we aren’t actually remembering the event itself, we’re remembering a memory of a memory. Make sense? And the farther we are away from the core event, the more distorted the actual memory becomes, so what we are remembering might actually be very inaccurate when compared to what really happened.”

This rocks me. I have to remember to breathe, remember to stay upright. “So . . . the few memories I do have, they may not even be real?”

I cannot trust my own memories? How is this possible? Yet what you say makes far too much sense.

“That’s what scientists say, at least.” A shrug, as if it’s inconsequential.

“I have so few memories. You, Logan, Rachel and the other apprentices, Len . . . you all have lifetimes of memories. A linear identity that you can hold on to. I do not have this. I have six years of memories. That is all. My identity is not . . . linear. It is . . . fractal. It is disrupted. False. Created. I am not me. I am a me that you created.”

“X, that’s not fair—”

“It is fair, Caleb. It is the truth. You created me. You gave me my name. You gave me my home, my apartment on the thirteenth floor. You bought all my books, and if I have any identity of my own, it is in those pages. You taught me manners and poise, bearing and comportment. You asserted upon me my identity as Madame X, the woman who schools idle, entitled rich boys. What have I chosen for myself, Caleb? Nothing. You buy my clothes. You buy my food. You structured my exercise routine. I exist entirely within the sphere of your influence.”

“What are you saying?” You speak carefully, slowly.