Pieces of Me, page 6
Me: Can’t wait to see you.
Dad: Me too. Bella’s first trip to New York. You’ll have to spend a day with us—or more.
Bella is my stepsister. She’s five and such a force of nature. I’ve spent time with her before, but mostly we interact when I video-chat with Dad. She’s finally old enough to remember stuff we’ve done or talked about, and she gets excited about talking to me and Mark. She’s like chaos in a cute package.
Me: Done. We’ll take her trick-or-treating.
Dad: Awesome. Guess what? Travis is going to meet us for a few days.
That’s a surprise. Travis is my uncle—Dad’s brother. I haven’t seen him in years. Haven’t thought about him in forever. Once our parents divorced, Uncle Travis slowly dropped out of our lives. I always liked him. He spent a lot of time with us when Mark and I were little. He used to buy me a lot of presents.
Me: It’ll be great to see him again. Where are you staying?
Dad: We found a great Airbnb in the Village. There’s an extra room if you want to stay over. I want to have time with both you and your brother—together and one-on-one. I want to hear about everything going on with you.
He wants to know about my “episodes.” I’m getting tired of talking about it, but I guess he deserves to hear it from me.
Dad and I text a little while longer. He tells me about the show he’s working on, part of the reason he’s going to be in New York for a couple of months. They’re filming in several different locations in the city.
Dad: Gotta run. Dinner’s ready. Take care of yourself, kiddo. I’ll check with you in a few days. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
After, I plug my phone into the charger. I pack up the textbooks and sketchbooks I need for tomorrow, along with my pencils and other supplies. Then I grab some clothes out of my closet. There’s a long black sweater with the tag still on it that I don’t remember buying. It’s cool, though. Mom must have bought it for me. I pair it with some leggings and boots—toss the tag in the trash.
I contemplate texting Connor, but I have work left to do for class tomorrow. I send him a funny GIF instead, put my phone on silent, and sit down to work.
By eleven thirty I’m ready for bed. I’m frigging exhausted. I barely have the energy to wash my face and brush my teeth. By the time my head touches my pillow, it’s already spinning toward sleep.
I dream.
I walk down a long gravel driveway, canopied by tall maple trees, their leaves brilliant shades of red, peach, and gold. At the end is a large Victorian house—rose stone with black trim. Overblown garden plots are everywhere, sprouting flowers of impossible colors and size. I stop to admire giant teal lilies spotted with orange and pink. A fuzzy black bee with oil-slick eyes glances at me before flying away.
There’s a flutter of movement in the corner of my eye, and I turn toward the building to see someone duck behind the curtains in a second-floor window. There’s a black feathery wreath on the front door above a knocker shaped like a crow skull. I move toward the veranda and climb the steps.
There’s a woman curled up on a covered swing, reading a book. She has a granny-square afghan over her legs, and her dark red hair is piled up on top of her head in a way that looks like it might fall at any second. She looks up as I approach, her gold eyes widening in surprise. She sets her book aside.
“Hi,” she says. “What are you doing here?” Her voice is rich and clear and familiar to me in a way that makes me smile.
“Just visiting,” I reply. “Can I go inside?”
“It’s your house. Knock yourself out.”
I turn to the door—it’s open. I walk inside. The interior of the house is as eclectic and awesome as the outside. The furniture is Victorian, but bright—very pop-goth. The walls are covered in art of various styles and eras. I look at it all in awe as the frames build toward the high ceiling.
“Hullo.”
Standing on the bottom stair of the wide, winding staircase on the left side of the room is a little girl. Her braids and the way she’s dressed remind me of the Wednesday Addams costume I loved as a kid. Her eyes are huge—almost too big for her face—and her mouth is a perfect little cupid’s bow. Her skin is flawless porcelain, with shades of blue and rose just below the surface.
“Hi,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“Guess,” she challenges with an impish smile. “I bet you can’t.” Her cuteness is only accentuated by her English accent.
I smile. I know the answer. “Alyss. Your name’s Alyss.”
Her eyes lose some of their sparkle. She’s not pleased I guessed so easily. “We’re all mad here,” she says.
I take a step toward her. “Like in Wonderland.”
“Maybe.”
My gaze travels up the stairs. At the top, someone jumps back from the railing before I can see them clearly.
“What’s upstairs?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“I want to look.” I move closer.
Alyss steps in front of me, blocking my progress. She only comes up to my chest. “You’re not allowed up there,” she tells me.
I smile at her. “But it’s my house. I want to see them.”
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t want to fuck with me, Dylan.”
“What are you going to do?” I challenge. “Bite me?” She’s only a kid.
Suddenly, she smiles. Only, it’s more like a baring of teeth. Her mouth and teeth start to grow and keep growing, stretching her face to impossible proportions. Her teeth morph from perfect and square to sharp and jagged, glistening under the chandelier. Her jaw opens, unhinging as her mouth keeps growing, until there’s barely anything left of her except this gigantic, gaping maw of wet, threatening mouth.
I can’t move. “What the hell?”
Alyss lunges, teeth snapping.
I wake up with a cry. I sit up in my bed, gasping for breath in the dark. Seconds pass; then there’s a soft knock at my door. It’s Mom.
“You okay, honey?” she asks.
I nod, my heart still pounding in my throat. “I’m okay. Bad dream.”
She yawns. “Want to talk about it?”
“No, thanks though. Go back to bed.”
“You sure?”
Another nod.
“Okay. There’s plenty of room in my bed if you need it.” She smiles and blows me a kiss before closing the door.
As I lie back down, I consider her offer. I’m tempted to take her up on it as I pull the blankets up around my chin.
Alyss’s delighted giggle rings deep inside my head.
* * *
Dr. Zhao’s office isn’t far from the train station. There’s been a lot of renovation going on in New Rochelle lately, and she’s located in one of the older buildings close to the hospital that have been modernized and fixed up. There are other doctors there too—the whole thing is like a mental health center.
A directory inside the door tells Mom, Izzy, and me where to go. When we get to the office on the second floor, the waiting area is small but comfortable. There’s tea and coffee and a large selection of reading material. The three people staring at their phones barely glance up when we come in.
“You guys don’t have to wait with me,” I tell them.
They both give me “that” look. I sigh as they sit down, and walk over to the reception window. The guy behind the glass doesn’t look much older than me. He smiles before opening the partition. I tell him my name and give him my insurance card. Of course, he has papers for me to fill out. He gives me a clipboard and tells me to attach the questionnaire I’ve already answered.
“Do you need help with that?” Mom asks when I sit down next to her.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” I reply. Besides, I’m almost nineteen, not nine. It’s just my medical history, medications, etc. I fill out the forms as fast as I can and hand them back to the guy at the window along with my credit card for the copay.
My appointment is scheduled for four o’clock, and it is one minute past when a tall woman with shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes opens the door to the main office.
“Dylan?” she asks with a kind smile.
I stand up.
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” Mom says.
Inside, I cringe at her utter momness, but after all the crap I’ve put her through I owe her more respect than that. I give her a slight smile before walking away. She looks worried. And hopeful. So does Izzy. I feel slightly sick seeing their expressions. They’re both afraid for me.
Dr. Zhao holds the door for me and follows behind once I’ve crossed the threshold. I begin walking down a brightly lit corridor.
“Take a left,” she instructs, and I do as she tells me. “Straight ahead.”
Her office is large, with a wall of windows that let in the October sunshine and give her a view of the street below. There’s a solid wood desk facing the windows and a seating area diagonally across. My choices are one of two large armchairs or a love seat. I take one of the chairs.
Dr. Zhao closes the door. “Welcome,” she says.
“Thanks.” I curl my hands into loose fists on my thighs. I don’t know what else to do with them.
“Do you mind if I record our session? It allows me to go back and make sure I didn’t miss anything during the original conversation.”
I glance at the camera in the corner of the room. “Will anyone else see it?”
She shakes her head. “Only me.”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“Wonderful.” She switches the camera on and sits down across from me.
“Dr. Bugotti sent me your medical records and will be sending me a copy of the MRI results, but I’d like to hear from you the symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”
“I filled out the questionnaire.”
“Thank you, and I’ll take a look at that after, but right now I’d like to just talk some, if that’s okay.”
I nod. “Sure.”
“How long has it been since you’ve had a therapist?”
“Not long. I had one, but Mom and I agreed that he wasn’t doing much for me.”
“How so?”
“I don’t feel like he really listened to me. I had this voice in my head telling me he didn’t understand.”
She looks at me a second, pen poised over her notebook. “Sounds like you made the right choice for you, then. What happened that prompted you to seek therapy again?”
I take a sip from the water bottle I brought with me. Where to start? “I woke up in a strange place and have no real memory of the three days before that.”
Her expression doesn’t change, so I can’t tell what she thinks. “Was that the first time anything like that had ever happened?”
“For that long, yeah.”
“But it’s happened before to a lesser extent?”
I nod. “Everyone has those autopilot moments, but I can have hours that are just gone—or are foggy.”
“When was the last time you remember it happening?”
“The other day I woke up on the beach, standing in the ocean.”
“Woke up? Did it feel like you were sleepwalking?”
“It felt … it felt like I’d been walking around without knowing.”
She writes something on the pad. “When you have these memory losses, how do you cope?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you get upset? Try to make yourself remember?”
“I guess I get a little upset, yeah. Sometimes I can remember bits of what happened. Mostly I get mad because I’ve missed out.”
She smiles. “That would be frustrating, I imagine.”
“It can be.” I scoot forward on my chair. “I’m scared I’ve had a stroke. Mom’s friend had one when she was young.”
“Have you had any of the physical symptoms of a stroke?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, Dr. Bugotti will determine if that’s a legitimate concern. Has anything bad ever happened during one of these episodes?”
“Not that I know of.” I frown. “I met up with a girl who I think I might have … had sex with.”
Again, no reaction beyond looking at me with that direct focus. “You don’t remember the encounter?”
“No, but it was obvious she knew me.”
Dr. Zhao sets down her pen. “Dylan, do you have any problems with substance abuse? Drugs? Alcohol?”
“I used to drink a lot in high school, but I don’t do that much anymore.”
“What happened that made you adjust that behavior?”
I look away. “I blacked out at a party and came to having sex with a guy.” Does she think I’m a slut? I’m starting to feel like one. I shouldn’t shame myself, I know this.
“A boy from your school?”
I swallow. “Yeah. The captain of the football team. Not my type at all.”
That gets a reaction. Only a pause, but it’s something. She tilts her head. “How old were you at the time?”
“Eighteen.”
She nods. “What happened?”
“Um, he finished, and I took off. I haven’t gotten drunk since.” My hands shake slightly. I haven’t had any hangovers, so it must be true. “It’s pretty embarrassing.”
“I understand. Was that your first sexual experience?”
“No.”
DO NOT TELL HER THE TRUTH.
I rub my forehead as a headache begins to build. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”
“Okay. We don’t need to talk about anything you don’t want to discuss. Let’s change the subject: What was it like for you growing up?”
“What do you mean?”
“What was your childhood like? Was it happy?”
“Mostly. My parents divorced when I was young, but that’s a good thing. Though, it does suck not getting to see my dad much.”
“You and he have a good relationship?”
“We do.”
But you wouldn’t if he knew the truth, whispers a voice in my head.
She’s going to ask, warns another.
I blink. I’m suddenly off-kilter—like I stood up too fast.
“What about your mother?”
“She’s great.”
She asks me something else and I respond, but I don’t know what either of us said. I don’t like this. I feel like I’m being pulled out of my own body.
“Have you ever thought about harming yourself?” Dr. Zhao asks.
I try to focus on her. I have to blink a couple of times and really concentrate. The throbbing in my head worsens. Fuck, it hurts. I dig my fingernails into my palms, focusing on the pain.
“Dylan?”
“Yes,” I say, leaning back as the world comes into focus again. “I used to pull my hair out.” Mom bought me a bunch of awesome wigs. I still have them.
“Trichotillomania,” she calls it with a nod of her head. “It’s common among teenage girls. Do you still have the compulsion?”
“No.”
“Good.” She taps her pen against the pad. “Do you have a large social circle? A lot of friends at college?”
“Not really. I like to think I’m friendly, but I don’t make friends easily. My friend Izzy is the only one I spend a lot of time with. Oh, and I’ve started talking to Connor some.”
“Connor?”
“The guy whose house I spent the three lost days at. I thought he’d figure I was crazy and run screaming, but we’re going out tomorrow night.”
“Well, that’s nice. Are you nervous?”
“A little, yeah. I feel weird not remembering spending the weekend with him.” I cross my legs. “He probably could have taken advantage of me, but he didn’t. Most guys would have.”
Dr. Zhao gives me a little smile. “Do you think so?”
I laugh. “Yeah. Most guys I’ve known only care about getting their dicks wet.” I blink. That was crass. Honest, though.
“You don’t have a very positive opinion of men.”
“I guess not.” Before she can ask why, I say, “I haven’t been sleeping that great lately.”
She hesitates, but only for a split second. “Tell me about that.”
“I go to bed at a decent time, but I still wake up tired. I feel like I dream a lot—and I’m aware of it.”
“Lucid dreaming? You’re aware that you are in a dream and can often alter the events or surroundings you’re in?”
“Yeah. And sometimes it’s like I’m watching a movie play out on a screen inside my head, but other times I’m in the movie. It’s weird. Last night I had the freakiest dream about this amazing house and a creepy little girl.” I tell her about Alyss.
Dr. Zhao arches a brow. “That sounds like something out of a horror movie. I know you’re an artist. Are you a fan of surrealism?”
I nod. “Mostly pop surrealism.”
“Perhaps that carried over into your dream.” I have no idea what to say, so I say nothing. “What do you think was upstairs that Alyss didn’t want you to see?”
“Other people,” I reply, confidently. “But I don’t know if she was protecting them from me, or me from them.”
“You described the house as if you liked it. Did you feel safe and welcome there?”
“Yeah. I felt like it was mine. My grandmother used to say that if you dreamed about a house it was likely a representation of your own psyche.”
She smiles. “That’s one thought, yes. I lean toward the interpretation of dreams being subjective upon the dreamer, and it does sound as though this house was a reflection of your personal tastes, as was Alyss.”
“So, who are the people hiding in my attic?” I ask with a grin.
“Perhaps if you have the dream again you might give the little girl something to nibble on other than you.”
“I don’t think she wanted to hurt me. She wanted to take me inside her—you know, like when cartoon characters end up inside a whale? They’re just whole and fine inside the belly of the thing? That’s what she wanted to do to me.”
The older woman tilts her head. “Any idea why?”
I shrug, but somehow, I know the answer. “To keep the others safe from me. Or me safe from them.” As if on cue, I hear a tiny echo of Alyss’s laughter in my head.
“Do you ever have the sensation of dreaming while you’re awake?”
