Lucid (32 page)

I throw back the comforter, my feet hit the floor, and then I remember. This is Saturday. There’s no school today. I can calm down. I can slow my breathing. Everything’s fine.

Then I realize. I’m not Sloane. I don’t go to school. Ever.

I sit on the edge of my bed and try to swallow back the panic. This is worse. Things are getting worse. I can’t let them.

I have to get up the courage to go to the bathroom because what if it’s Sloane in the mirror? What if it’s her bathroom? What if I can never find my way back? But I can’t sit here all day. I have to take the chance.

I walk to the bathroom so slowly. I open the door a crack. It’s
still my bathroom. I enter and look bravely into the mirror. It’s me.

On the wall are all these framed family photos: my first carousel ride, Jade and I building a sand castle, my mom and dad skiing. My school play. I was a cucumber. I was so cute.

And suddenly, I feel blind, utter panic. What school was that? I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything about any schools. Suddenly, I don’t remember anything before I was like twelve or thirteen. I mean, nothing. No Christmas, no best friend, no stomachaches where Mom kept me home and made me pudding. I called her Mom, not Nicole. Like Sloane calls her mom.

I can remember Sloane’s mom making her egg drop soup and rubbing her back when she was getting over the chicken pox. I can remember everything about Sloane’s childhood. Why can’t I remember mine? There’s only one reason.

I’ve been waiting in Emma’s stupid, fussy, little waiting room for forty minutes. My heart pounds so hard, I know I’m going to throw up. I keep trying to remember. Back to age twelve, I know everything. My God, it’s actually true. But how can it be? How can a person not be real? It would mean that nothing and no one in my world is real. Even Emma. So of course, she’ll defend this world with everything she’s got.

She opens the door, gives me that phony, sweet smile. As I enter, she tries to give me a hug, and I just can’t let her today. I flinch at her touch, and I know this offends her. And I don’t care. Not today.

I tell her everything. I am Sloane’s creation, nothing exists before I was twelve, that must be when Sloane’s dream started.

Emma remains calm. I hate her so much in this moment.

“Calm down. It’s only a panic attack. And luckily, it’s one I can solve in a heartbeat. I know everything about your childhood because you’ve told me everything during our three years together. You went to Calhoun on the Upper West Side because you lived near Columbia, where your father worked. Your favorite teacher was Ms. Wallace in fourth grade. You made a clay turtle and fired it in the school’s kiln. The glaze was maroon, I think you said. Can you remember the turtle?”

“Shelly.” Suddenly, I remember everything. I wanted a pet like Eloise’s turtle, Skipperdee. So I made my own. My best friend was Ashley Goldberg; we swam in a fountain somewhere and got into heaps of trouble. Central Park. It was the one with the boats.

For one blessed moment, I am so relieved and overjoyed.

And then I realize Sloane is making me remember. This is her dream. She would be scared that I am figuring things out. The game would be over. So I say all of this into Emma’s complacent smile.

“You have to stop this, Maggie. You act as if you have no control over the situation. And the truth is since neither I nor any of the doctors that I have consulted with have ever seen anything like this before, none of us really know how far you can push it. But we all agree on one thing. You have to take responsibility for yourself. You have to try to hold on to reality.”

“But I am, don’t you see? How ridiculous for me to ever think that the girl who doesn’t go to school, who lives in Manhattan, who’s an actress moving to Los Angeles with a plum role waiting for her, that this person could be real and the small town high school girl squabbling with her girlfriends and flirting with the cutest guy in class would be the fantasy. There’s no way you can defend that.”

“If I try,” she says, “will you listen? Will you give me a chance to save your life?” And in that moment, I feel she cares, even loves me, and I say yes. I will listen.

“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Maggie. The starting point is which of you has the creativity, the imagination, the individuality to create something like this. An entire world, populated with well-defined and realistic people. It’s an achievement of will, of need. You are the one who makes up stories. You see strangers everywhere, and you invent entire lives for them. You are so devoted to maintaining a second life for yourself that you refuse to see the obvious. This invention is what you do, even in your waking life.”

“Sloane doesn’t have to do this in her waking life; she does it every night in her dream. And the only way she can keep from knowing that I’m the fantasy is to give me exactly the kind of behavior you’re talking about. See, we can play traits in either direction; none of that proves anything.”

I watch her gather her thoughts. My panic is rising again. She has no answers. What am I going to do?

“Here’s why you’ve created Sloane. You have lost your father, the most important person in the world to you, the one person you could trust with your problems. Your relationship with your mother is so disconnected that she’s basically a girlfriend and not even a terribly close one. You adore your sister, but she needs you and you feel the weight of that responsibility. You have no truly close friends except for Andrew, who wasn’t around when you started this.”

Andrew. He’s not real either. Sloane just made him up.

“You haven’t made up Sloane to exchange your life for hers. What you’re doing is adding her life to yours. You get to have your
career, your sister, your freedom, everything you love, and you get to have a close-knit family, girlfriends, all the comforts of a so-called normal life. It’s like having a weekend house. Who wants to live in the city every minute? You’d go crazy.”

“It’s your fault!” I’m suddenly screaming. “I mean everything’s Sloane’s fault, of course, you’re not even real. But she put you here to keep me in line, to keep telling me, convincing me that I’m a flesh and blood person who’s just crazy. If you weren’t here, I’d have been out of this long ago.”

“Good. This is progress. You’re down to blaming me…”

“Fuck you! Shut up! Just shut your mouth!” I jump up, but she opens her mouth to say something. “No!” I scream at the very top of my lungs, and grab the nearest thing, a table lamp, and just throw it as hard as I can against the wall. She shouts my name, like a schoolteacher who feels this is the time to be firm, but she’s way too late.

I’m out the door, pounding down the stairs, and out onto the street, straight into two-way traffic. The cars aren’t real. I’m not real. It won’t hurt. They honk and swerve and pretend to be real. Even the people shout all the predictable pretend-to-be-real things. They can’t fool me anymore. I get across the street, and see, I’m fine. Nothing’s touched me. Nothing here can. Sadly, nothing anywhere can.

I start running. I don’t know where I’m going. But of course it can’t possibly matter. It’s my last chance to feel my lungs bursting for air and my legs burning with the effort. I turn toward the river and there’s a line of traffic at a dead stop.

The bridge must be up. I slow down. I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll
grab a muffin at the Green Marble. I’m not that far from home; maybe Mom will make me some waffles. I don’t want to see her right now. That’s right, it’s Saturday, she’s picking up Max from soccer anyway. I turn down the alley at the Army Navy Store, but somehow there’s the Hudson. I’m in New York. I stand still and blink. I look down at my body. It’s Maggie’s body. So of course I’m in New York.

I walk slowly, just trying to keep it together. I can’t really be Sloane, even though I am. This is my last chance to be anything at all. It’s so sunny out. Maybe Jade is walking Boris. I hate Boris. I had a bunny growing up, but Tyler was allergic, and I had to give him to Uncle Fred to keep on his farm. No, the bunny’s mine and the uncle is Sloane’s. Bunny, mine. Uncle, Sloane’s. That’s easy. I won’t forget again.

If I don’t turn a corner, I can stay out of Mystic, and I can stay Maggie. This is lucky because Riverside Park runs down the whole island. I can just go from one end to the other, and when it gets dark, I can sleep under a bench; it’s not that cold. Of course I shouldn’t sleep at all. So Sloane can’t take me away. As long as I’m awake, she’s screwed. Which is exactly what she deserves.

I stare out at the water. Across the sound, Fishers Island, where Gordy and I will build our dream house. Of course, that’s crazy. Gordy is only my friend. I’ll build my dream house with James. Maybe in Spain; he loves Spain. It goes with his guitar. There are pheasants on Fishers. I like their feathers. I wish my ears were pierced.

Oh, that’s right, they are. If I’m Maggie. So I touch my lobe. And I smile. I am Maggie. The Circle Line boat goes by full of German tourists, taking pictures of Manhattan’s skyline and all the
German tourists on the shore, who are taking pictures back at them. Germans are the new Japanese. They’re everywhere, but of course, since they’re not real, they’re nowhere.

I sit down on a bench and comfort myself with this reality. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing I say or do matters. I realize that I’m safe.

He puts his hand on my thigh. I like that. I turn to see who he is. It’s the love of my life. James kisses my neck, right in the perfect spot. I melt into him and he engulfs me. I’m warm and tingly. I look at him. He’s so beautiful. He’s actually perfect. In every way. I lean in to taste his mouth. He teases me, nibbling my lower lip. And then he kisses me full. Pulls my thigh up to rest on top of his lap so he’s between my legs.

He rests my head back on the bench seat. And I open my eyes, wanting to see just his face and sky above him.

He’s Tyler.

I kick and hit him, and he tries to block my fists. He stands up, bewildered.

“What are you doing?!” I scream. And everyone in the park looks at me.

“Whoa, I’m sorry. I thought you were into it.”

“I’m your sister!”

“No, you’re not. Why are you saying that?”

But before I can ask him what he meant, he isn’t there anymore. No one is there with me, and no one was there at all. Only the people staring. Of course, they aren’t real either. So it hardly matters. I pluck a piece of my hair. It’s black. So I’m Maggie, who is not his sister. So there.

I start walking home. I’ll risk turning corners. I just need to be alone. If an imaginary person can be alone. I want Bill to walk with me. To take me home. Bill has such long legs, it takes two of my steps to meet one of his. I’m running through all of my favorite jokes because I want to make Bill laugh when he gets here. My most favorite joke, at least of the ones Sloane hasn’t told him, is the parrot joke. Parrots live forever. They’re mean. They bite, even if you own them for a hundred years. Even Sloane doesn’t like parrots all that much.

I turn onto my street. Someone’s waiting on the steps. Maybe it’s Bill. Wasn’t he supposed to walk me home? Hold my hand?

It isn’t Bill. It’s my dad. He’s got that stern face that used to scare me so much. How can he be angry at me? Maybe he’s embarrassed that I’m crazy. Blaming himself that this all started in the first place. When, of course, it was Mom’s rule. She started it all. I don’t hate her. She thought it was best.

I sit on the stoop beside him. He’s tying his running shoes to go for his jog before work. Oh, wait, it’s Saturday.

“Sloane, your mother and I had a talk about, you know, your confusion in New York.”

We are in New York, but I feel it would be rude to point that out.

“We’re going to take you to a very good doctor. Gordy’s parents recommended him…”

“You told them?! Don’t you know they’ll tell Gordy, and everyone will know!”

“Of course they won’t. They understand and they’re worried for you. And if Gordy did ever hear something, he would never ever spread anything like that. He loves you.”

I know he does. It just gets sadder and sadder.

“We’re all going to talk to the doctor together. Then they’ll give you some medication and you’ll feel better, and they’ll shave your head and lie you down on the table and strap your arms and legs tight so you won’t hurt yourself when the electricity starts.”

He smiles and I know he loves me.

“Thanks, Daddy. I’m so happy we get to go together. But let’s not bring Max; he might not understand.”

“Who’s Max?” Benjamin asks. It’s Benjamin now. He looks fine, not dead at all.

“He’s no one, just someone real I made up.”

Benjamin understands. Dads always do. At least my dad.

“I can’t stay long,” he says.

“Because you’re dead.” I want him to know I understand.

“I miss you,” he says. And there are tears in his eyes. It’s good to know that you can cry when you’re dead.

“When Sloane makes me go away, will I be dead?”

“No, it’s different.”

“Will I get to be with you?”

“Of course,” and he kisses my head.

Maybe that’s the soft landing.

He isn’t there anymore, and I go up to the apartment.

I have to pee. It’s good that the toilet is in the darkroom because I realize that my deadline for yearbook is Monday. This is Saturday, I think. I take the next print and begin to swish it in the stop bath so that it won’t overdevelop. It’s taking longer than it should. It’s my favorite picture of Bill. But I can always reshoot it when I’m dead.

I go to hang the print on the line, but there are no pins. I
start opening all the drawers, rummaging. Where are they? This is crazy. Who would do this? Take all the pins and not replace them? It must’ve been Thomas. It’s just like him.

I rip the drawers free and turn them upside down. Stuff clatters everywhere, but no pins yet. I throw open the medicine cabinet…

“What are you doing?”

I see Jade’s face in the mirror. I whirl around. “Shut the door! You’ll ruin all the film!”

She’s shocked somehow. Confused. Poor kid.

“What film?”

I hold up the print. “It’s my best picture of Bill. For the tribute page. I can’t let you spoil it.”