Come Closer (11 page)
“Shh.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Everyone’s fine. You must have been terrified, poor baby.”
I looked up at the sky. A flock of birds was circling high above us, flying in and out of a V formation. One by one one they left the V and then regrouped, flying into place one at a time to spell out a name, perfectly as a pen on paper.
NAAMAH.
BACK AT the house Ed took the car and drove out to the bay to buy dinner, fresh steamer clams and corn on the cob, which he cooked himself. He asked me what I thought of dinner and if I was having a good time and I just kept saying “Mmm,” which he took as a positive response.
After dinner we lay on the sofa. We had been planning on going back to the beach for the sunset but I needed to rest. After a few minutes Ed fell asleep again. I went to the bedroom and got out
The Encyclopedia of Demons,
which I had hidden in the bottom of my bag. With a sick feeling in my stomach I flipped through until I got to the N’s. There she was, with a few pages in
The Encyclopedia of Demons
all to herself.
The Encyclopedia of Demons,
which I had hidden in the bottom of my bag. With a sick feeling in my stomach I flipped through until I got to the N’s. There she was, with a few pages in
The Encyclopedia of Demons
all to herself.
NAAMAHThe most famous stories of Naamah come from the Kabala, the Jewish mystical texts formerly available in full only to Jewish male scholars over the age of forty. Her name is thought to mean “charming” or “pleasant” in her native Aramaic, a reference to her desirability to men. Due to the occult nature of Kabalic wisdom, there may be much more attached to the name than we can know; especially one wonders about its origins and its numerological significance. Like most of her type, she is made stronger by water (especially salt water), sexual desire, and other impure thoughts.Naamah’s story begins at the beginning of time, as Adam’s second wife: Adam’s first wife was Lilith. While Adam was made from pure earth she was made from filth and sediment, and she could not be a mate for Adam. Adam wanted Lilith to be submissive, but Lilith refused, and she went to live by the Red Sea and became the mother of all demons. So God made a second wife, Naamah, and this one he made in front of Adam, starting from scratch, in order to meet Adam’s specifications. He started with the bones, then the organs, then the muscles, blood, et cetera, and by the time God was done, Adam was so disgusted he would have nothing to do her. And Naamah, along with Lilith, was banished to the banks of the Red Sea. In another story, Naamah’s origins are vague but her purpose clearer. After Cain kills Abel, Adam is so horrified by his children that he refuses to sleep with Eve for over one hundred years. During this time, Naamah comes to him in his sleep and, preying on his dreams, impregnates herself with his semen. This is the source of the Jewish preference that men, especially rabbis and scholars, be married—unless a man made love to his wife regularly, what he thought was a simple nocturnal emission could really be a demon making love to him, impregnating herself with his seed. In Genesis, we see Naamah yet again. In this story she’s the daughter of Lamach and Zillah. This Naamah wasn’t a demon, just a human. But oddly enough, this Naamah married her brother, Tubal Cain, and then gave birth to a demon—Asmodeus, who we still know today. Hence her reputation as a fierce and proud mother, whose secondary goal—after seduction—is to eliminate any children that are not her own. In Kings 3:16, she appears again (along with Lilith), as one of the two harlots sent to test the wisdom of Solomon. Posing as two mothers arguing over the maternity of a child, the demons attempt to trick Solomon into making a foolish decision; instead, Solomon offers to cut the child in half, knowing the true mother will give up her claim. Defeated, the two demons go back to whence they came. As with all stories concerning Solomon, this myth figures in Freemasonry legend as well.In addition to these, there are far more instances of Naamah’s unfortunate influence throughout Christian and Jewish history.
The next morning I told Edward I didn’t feel well—sun poisoning—and that I ought to stay home while he went to the beach. Once he was gone I read some more from the book:
If only the average person knew the early warning signs of possession, much heartbreak could be averted. The most common first sign is an unusual noise in the household, perhaps a scratching, a tapping, or footsteps ... Once inside its victim the demon will usually start off with small mischief—petty theft, arguments, and the like. Its usual MO is to slowly work its way to a stronghold over the victim before revealing its true nature, thus insuring it will not be recognized and exorcised while its grip is still weak. Unfortunately, we see and hear of too many cases where, by the time the demon is discovered, the victim is so far under its control that he or she cannot be brought in for a voluntary exorcism. The chances of recovery from possession in these cases are small.
Ed came back from the beach that afternoon in a wonderful mood. He wanted us to drive out to a seafood restaurant on the bay that he had seen the day before.
“I still don’t feel well,” I told him. “I want to stay in bed.” He pouted. “Hon, come on, this is supposed to be our vacation.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. “I feel like shit. Ed, I think I—”
Ed, I think I’m going crazy,
I was going to say.
I think I’m possessed.
But he cut me off.
I was going to say.
I think I’m possessed.
But he cut me off.
“Christ!” he said. “Can’t we ever have any fun anymore? Can’t we even have one fucking nice weekend at the beach?”
He scowled. The demon’s voice screamed in my head, and the next thing I knew I was screaming at Ed.
“You want to have fun!” I shouted. “LOOK at me!”
“I just wanted—”
“YOU wanted! All you think about is yourself! Can’t you see I’m sick, can’t you see there’s something WRONG WITH ME? YOU’RE SO FUCKING SELFISH!”
By now I was standing on top of the bed, and I caught sight of myself in the mirror on top of the bureau across the room. My arms were flailing like an animal’s, my eyes were wide, my lips dark pink, and my hair in knots, almost dreadlocks.
I looked just like her.
Ed stood in the doorway, disgusted. He turned and walked out of the house.
I collapsed on the bed and started to sob. You see, the satiny voice told me,
this is how much he cares. This is the huge love
you
were so proud of. The one you thought would last forever.
this is how much he cares. This is the huge love
you
were so proud of. The one you thought would last forever.
Ed, however, suffered from no confusion whatsoever. He came back late that night, hours after I had been pretending to be asleep, and went to bed on the sofa without even checking the bedroom to see if I was alive.
When I woke up the next morning he was already awake, sheepishly drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. I sheepishly joined him.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“I love you.” He said it first.
“I love you too.” I started to cry.
“Oh honey,” he said. He scooted his chair closer to mine and put his arm around my shoulder. “Honey, did you ever think—I mean, you just seem so unhappy lately—maybe it’s me, it just seems—I just think—well, maybe you could find someone to talk to. You know, like a therapist or something.”
I looked up at Edward and saw his worried face and a strong love swelled in my belly and spread through me. For a moment the love eclipsed the demon’s snaking thoughts. A therapist! I loved the idea. I wasn’t possessed—I was insane! I would go to a shrink, maybe even to a mental institution for a while, but that was preferable to the alternative. A mental disorder I could handle. I could work with it, accept it, and eventually cure it.
“You’re right,” I told Ed with a smile. “I think I’m going crazy.”
“No, honey, I didn’t mean
crazy,
I just meant—”
crazy,
I just meant—”
“No, it’s okay You’re right, call it whatever you want. I’ll call Dr. Flynn tomorrow and get the name of a shrink.”
Ed smiled. I smiled. There we were, husband and wife, one crazy, we thought, and one sane, as happy as happy could be.
T
HE NEXT MORNING I called Dr. Flynn first thing, and without giving her the details told her I needed an immediate visit with a psychiatrist. She gave me the phone number of Dr. Gerald Fenton, a personal friend of hers who, she assured me, was the best psychotherapist she knew.
HE NEXT MORNING I called Dr. Flynn first thing, and without giving her the details told her I needed an immediate visit with a psychiatrist. She gave me the phone number of Dr. Gerald Fenton, a personal friend of hers who, she assured me, was the best psychotherapist she knew.
“Tell him I sent you,” she said before she hung up. “He’s very selective. Booked for years. Tell him I sent you.”
Dr. Fenton’s receptionist told me he wouldn’t have an appointment free for a new patient for at least a month, and I almost gave up before I remembered the magic words.
“Dr. Flynn sent me,” I told her.
“Well
that’s
different,” she said. “Let’s see ... Come in today.”
that’s
different,” she said. “Let’s see ... Come in today.”
“When?” I asked.
“Whatever,” she said. “You can come right now, if you like.”
I liked it, and I went right away.
Dr. Fenton’s office was in a prewar apartment building in a quiet part of town near the park. The streets were lined with trees and women with baby carriages. I smiled at the babies. None smiled back. No living creature looked at me favorably anymore—babies scowled, dogs growled, cats hissed, even chipmunks and squirrels ran away. And other adult humans—well, forget about that. Yet here I was on my way to a psychiatrist’s office, trying to convince myself that I had a regular psychological problem.
At Dr. Fenton’s building I got buzzed in by a doorman and was then ushered into his office by a young, fashionable receptionist. I was told Dr. Fenton would be with me in a moment. The room looked like I had always imagined a psychiatrist’s office would: a leather and wood Eames armchair for the doctor, a leather department store sofa where the patient could sit or recline. An oak bookshelf with psychiatric texts was interspersed with pre-Columbian reproductions and a few African masks propped up on stands. A nice botanical print, lavender, on the wall. A window that looked out to the apartment building across the street.
In a moment or two the doctor arrived with a smile and a warm handshake. Like the office, he fit well with my preconceived notions. Bearded, fortyish, bifocals, plainly dressed in a beige cardigan, white button-down shirt, and black slacks.
“I’m Dr. Fenton.”
“I’m Amanda.”
He smiled. I smiled. We beamed at each other.
“So Amanda,” he said. “Tell me about why you’re here today.”
I selectively told him about my strange behavior over the past two months. I told him about arguing with Ed, about the new voice in my head, about the messiness and the new attitude at work. I left out the part about the dog. I left out the part about burning Ed with the cigarette. I especially left out the part about the girl at the beach, which I had already convinced myself could not have happened. In my new, psychiatric world view, these were unrelated coincidences, with no relevance to the topic at hand. The doctor took notes on a yellow legal pad as I spoke.
“So,” he said when I was done. “What’s the problem?”
I looked at him. “Huh?”
“What is it about these changes that upsets you?”
“This isn’t me. I mean of course it’s me, it’s not like it’s someone else. What I mean is, it’s not my usual personality. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well,” he said, “it sounds to me like you’re coming into your own. You’re not a girl anymore, you’re an adult woman and you need to become more assertive.”
“But I fight with my husband,” I said. “We’re fighting all the time.”
He gave me a slightly condescending look. “Fighting,” he said, “is a part of any relationship. Fighting is a part of growth.”
“But I’m not happy,” I said. The snaky voice in my head agreed with the doctor.
Don’t argue,
it said.
Don’t argue,
it said.
“That’s a problem,” the doctor said. “But maybe the problem is that you’re resisting growth. The problem is that you’re not being open to change.”
“But what if I don’t want to change like this? What if I don’t like what I’m becoming?”
We’re growing,
the voice said.
We’re becoming better and better.
the voice said.
We’re becoming better and better.
“You can’t fight time,” the doctor said. “Amanda, you’re thirty-four years old. You’re coming into your own.”
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