Pretty Girl-13

INTEGRATION




“READY?” DR. GRANT ASKED.

“Maybe.” They’d done all the work they could on the cabin—a wall and a porch with no interior. At least, Angie couldn’t open or see past the doorway to the inside. She couldn’t walk around the corner to the other three sides, assuming they even existed.

“Watch the light,” Dr. Grant said softly. “Watch the light and relax. Sink back into that place, the meeting place. How does it look?”

“Beautiful. Cheerful. Ready for company.” Bright sun beamed on the red and orange flowers. The yellow railing sparkled with morning dew. A broom leaned up against the corner, but there was nothing left to sweep away except the walls between the girls.

“Has anyone arrived?” Dr. Grant’s voice came from a distance.

Angie looked again. Tattletale leaned against the porch railing, dressed for riding in a miniature riding suit.

Angie spoke aloud for the doctor’s benefit. “Just Tattletale so far. I think today’s the day. She looks ready to move on.”

“Are you?”

Angie thought hard. This was what they’d been building toward—unity. Would she still feel like herself? Would she feel smaller or larger? Losing Little Wife and Angel had been abrupt, and their private knowledge had been stripped away. This would be completely different.

Angie extended her hands to Tattletale, who smiled shyly and stepped into Angie’s arms. Angie hugged her. “No one’s ever going to hurt us again,” she promised. “And you don’t have to take care of me—we’ll take care of each other. Okay?”

The little girl raised her face to the sun. The wind lifted a strand of golden hair and blew it across her lips. With soft fingertips, Angie brushed it away and felt the brush across her own lips. It was her own hair, and the little girl was her and she was the little girl and they were apart and they were together, standing in the rays of the morning sun, hearing the meadow birds singing, touching the dew on the railing with ten fingers, not twenty.

Angie was dressed in the blue jeans and pink sweater she’d worn there, but a riding crop was in her hand and tall boots were on her legs. “Yes, we’ll ride today,” she said, but of course there was no one else to hear her.

She probed the new memories gingerly. Yuncle. Somehow she didn’t hate him. Or fear him. Of course there was confusion and pain and embarrassment and even boredom. Now she remembered the day when he left for the army. Her tenth birthday, and he’d promised her a special present. He looked so handsome in his uniform. Grampy and Grandma were so proud, they said, that he had found a calling after drifting through high school—whatever that meant. It was her birthday, and everyone was making such a fuss about him. No fair.

Grampy took pictures of the family in all the different possible groups. Angie wanted one just of her and her soldier, like the pictures she’d seen of ladies sending their boyfriends off to war.

“Ready, Grampy? Take this!”

She threw her arms around Yuncle’s neck and kissed him like the pictures, arched backward, one foot up, long and hard. She clung to his lips and waited for the sound of a click, but it never came. Yuncle pushed her off him, and she fell on the floor.

Everyone was staring at her with strange, disgusted looks on their faces.

Mom gave a nervous giggle. “Too much television, I guess. Gives them crazy ideas.”

Yuncle left for the war without speaking directly to her again. She never found out what the special present was. And that was why she had cried for a week.

Tears of childish regret rolled down her cheeks in Dr. Grant’s dark office.

“Angie, how do you feel?” Dr. Grant’s office came back into focus.

Angie rubbed her cheeks and answered hoarsely. “I feel, um, enlightened.” In both senses. Lighter and informed. “I have this irresistible urge to eat sugary breakfast cereals.”

Dr. Grant’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“No, just kidding. I … it’s great, though. She’s part of me now, but woven into me everywhere instead of apart. I can’t describe it. I just feel more settled. But I don’t understand why Girl Scout didn’t come.”

“Maybe she’s still scared of losing her independence,” the doctor suggested. “Or maybe she has unfinished business.”

Angie picked a loose pill off her sweater and rolled it in her fingers. “She’s the only one who never took me over except in therapy. Or redoing my homework.” The pill dropped to the carpet. “At least that stopped. You know, she’s never been out in the real world.”

“That’s an interesting point. She lived her whole life in that rustic kitchen. What do you suppose she would like to do?”

Angie wracked her brains and immediately heard the answer shouted at her. “Go to a restaurant!”

Dr. Grant broke into unexpected giggles. “Of course,” she said. “Let me see what I can arrange for tomorrow.”

For the rest of the week, therapy was scheduled during the lunch hour. Angie got only thirty minutes for lunch, but her after-lunch class was studio art. She could easily make up the work with a long day at the easel, so Mom agreed to let Dr. Grant pick her up from school right after morning classes. “I can’t exactly say I understand it, but Dr. Grant seems to know what she’s doing. You’ve been so much calmer lately.”

Angie swallowed a snippy retort. She didn’t want to blow it.

Tuesday was the best Italian spot in town. Angie sat across the booth from her therapist, feeling self-conscious. “How will I make sure Girl Scout gets to enjoy the food instead of me?”

“Look at me,” Dr. Grant said. She lifted her spoon and twirled it slowly to catch the light.

“Now what?” Angie asked. “What’s that supposed to do?”

Dr. Grant smiled. The table was covered with empty dishes, and Angie’s stomach felt hugely distended. Her top jeans button was unsnapped.

“Oh my God. Don’t tell me she ate all that!” Angie wailed. The taste of oregano and thyme hung in her mouth.

“Should we go for a walk?” the doctor suggested.

“Yeah. Like a 10K,” Angie said. “Better yet, let Girl Scout walk it off.”

Wednesday: Chinese. Thursday: barbecue. By Friday, Angie was scared to step on the scale. Dr. Grant assured her that the eating binge was almost done. She told Angie that Girl Scout had been taking a scientific interest in the dining experience, asking to speak to the chef, quizzing him or her on ingredients and techniques. “I saved the best for last. There’s a lovely French restaurant she’ll especially enjoy.”

Angie felt a twinge of jealousy. Her alter was spending all this quality time with Dr. Grant, and all she had to show for it was three extra pounds and garlic breath.

“I’ve booked the entire afternoon with you, Angie. We’ll have the drive over to talk and set the stage. I think this might be the right time. We’re on the verge. Can you feel it?”

“I just feel hungry,” she answered. “I used to eat salad for lunch. What have you two done to me?”

The atmosphere of the French restaurant was cheerful and formal at the same time. Crisp white linens on the tables were set with china plates and crystal glasses. The waiters wore black suits and addressed them as mam’selle and madame, thinking that they were mother and daughter. A spray of pink camellias floated between them as a centerpiece.

Angie wanted to stay. She’d never been to such a nice place. Was Dr. Grant sending the bill to her parents every day? Still, a deal was a deal.

A glimmer of reflected light caught the dessert spoon Dr. Grant was lifting to begin the transfer. Angie reached over and stopped Dr. Grant’s hand mid-twirl. “Wait.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Dr. Grant lowered the spoon. “I should have asked if you were ready.”

“I am,” she said confidently. “But I think I can do it myself.” She felt it, now, deep inside her head, a meeting place, a swinging gate. She reached for it … and there it was, and her hand was guiding. She felt the smile stretch her real cheeks on the outside as she headed in.

While Girl Scout took over, Angie waited on the porch, sitting on the railing, swinging her feet and watching swallows catch flies in the field. Funny how the real cabin had been buried deep in the woods, while her mental cabin sat in this open field. Now and unexpectedly, she remembered the first time she’d come here, thrown into pitch black, terrified and out of control, unable to move or turn her head. Gradually, light had seeped in along with the ability to get up and move around, to talk to the others. Funny also how the cabin sat like a Hollywood front, barely three-dimensional, nothing on the other side of the wall as far as she knew.

On a whim, she knocked on the door. Nothing. She tried the handle, but it was locked securely. She pressed her ear to the door. A faint creaking sound, but that might have been her feet. As soon as she noticed it, the creaking stopped. She had the oddest impression that someone was inside, holding his or her breath, hiding.

“Angie.” The voice behind her made her jump back with a guilty feeling, like she’d been caught snooping. “Don’t go there,” Girl Scout said. “We’re not allowed.”

“Why not?” Angie demanded. “What’s inside?”

“We don’t know. We can’t get in either. Only Angel could. Leave it alone. Come on with me.” Girl Scout held out her hand, taking the lead. She pulled Angie away from the door, the porch, the cabin front, and into the meadow. “Take off your shoes.”

“But the grass will give me a rash!” Angie argued.

“No, it won’t.”

“It’ll tickle.” She hated seeing her legs.

“Oh, come on.” Girl Scout took off her own shoes and socks and rolled her khaki pants up. The wounds around her ankles were raw and chafed. Angie’s were tight bands of scar tissue. She felt foolish for hesitating. The ankles were Girl Scout’s legacy, the wrists were Little Wife’s, and the burns were Tattletale’s. What a road map of pain was written on her skin. Angie released a gust of breath. She took off her shoes and socks. Then, in the warmth of the inner afternoon, alone with herself, she stripped off her clothes. She lay down in the grass with all her scars exposed to the light and said, “I contain multitudes.”

Beside her, Girl Scout quoted another line of the poem they both loved. “Who wishes to walk with me?” They turned their heads to each other and smiled.

Touching fingertips, they recited in unison: “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

They embraced, soft white arms in long green grass, and held each other so tightly that no one could tell where one left off and the other began. And with a shudder and a swelling and a joining and a sigh, there was only one girl, collapsed into herself in harmony.

Pictures flashed through her head, the man’s face both loving and angry. The heavy chains so binding for so long, then unlocked and discarded in a corner, yet still binding. The familiar handle of the well pump. The chipped brown pitcher. Her iron pots and skillets. A book tucked in the pocket of her apron. The bottle of oil for refilling the lamps. The scant pantry filled with canned and dried goods and spices. The mossy pine trunks that led her down the mountain, away from the cabin, away from the cabin, away from the cabin, clutching a bag of a few precious items. The store where she stole the map, having no money at all except the four quarters she’d found under the stove. The quarters bought a Coke to fill her hungry belly after days of walking. Nothing had ever tasted so wonderful.

Nothing had ever tasted so wonderful. Angie’s mouth filled with the sweet, creamy texture of a crème brûlée. The caramel flavor melted on her tongue.

Her eyes flicked up to meet the doctor’s. “This is amazing, Lynn. You should have ordered some.”

“Angela?” The doctor’s eyes were filled with tears.

Angie’s brow wrinkled. “Why did I call you Lynn?”

Dr. Grant grabbed a napkin and dabbed away the damp shimmer. “Girl Scout always calls me Lynn. Is she … with you?”

“Completely,” Angie said. “Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

Dr. Grant—Lynn—sniffed. “Oh dear. How silly. In the middle of dessert, she said, ‘I’m saving this for Pretty Girl.’ She just said, ‘I’m going now,’ and here you are. I never had a chance to say good-bye.”

Angie laughed. “You don’t have to say good-bye, Lynn. I’m still here.” She devoured another spoonful of the crème brûlée and sighed.

“Oh, Angie. Welcome to unity.” Then Dr. Grant broke into blubbering tears, a totally unprofessional and hugely gratifying display of affection.