But I need to survive this, somehow. And the truth would destroy me.
So I simply must continue to live with this ghost, to grow accustomed to her face lingering on the backs of my eyelids. We must find some other equilibrium of coexistence that does not involve my giving her the only thing she wants.
I’M WRITING IN A BOOTH AT SAXBY’S ONE AFTERNOON WHEN A FLASH of emerald green catches my eye. I look up through the window and see her, windswept locks floating around her face, staring right back at me. She’s wearing the same shawl, the same high-heeled boots. Is this not proof she is a ghost? The living change clothes, do they not? The dead stay the same.
Our eyes meet. She whirls about to flee.
I jump up and sprint out of the coffee shop. I don’t have a plan; I only want to pin down this apparition, to shake its shoulders and demand answers. What are you? What do you want?
But by the time I weave around irritated patrons and out the door, she’s already a block away. Her heels clack rapidly against the pavement; her shawl billows in the wind. No, she is no ghost. She’s a person, flesh and blood, as mundane and solid as I am. I sprint as hard as I can—two strides and I’ve caught up to her. My hands reach out, grasp for her shoulders, and meet solid flesh—I have her—
She whirls around. “What the fuck?”
It’s not Athena.
I take in her bright, hard eyes, razor-thin brows, the brilliant gash of red lipstick across thin, angry lips. My stomach drops.
It’s Diana Qiu.
“June?” She flinches back as if I’m trying to bite her. Her hand flies to her purse, whips out a canister of pepper spray. “Holy shit—stay back—”
“I caught you,” I breathe. “I caught you—”
“I don’t know what you want,” says Diana. “But stay the hell away from me—”
“Don’t gaslight me.” I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. My face feels terribly hot, tight; my head dizzy. Reality is careening away from me, and I’m only hanging on by a thread. All I know—all I can hold on to—is the revelation that Diana did this to me. It’s been Diana all along. “I know what you’re doing. I know it’s you—”
“Jesus Christ.” Diana’s arm trembles, but she doesn’t spray me. “What are you talking about?”
“Those are her boots. Her shawl.” I almost choke, I’m so angry. Was it Diana that first night at Politics and Prose? Was it Diana at Coco’s? Has she been fucking with me for months? I think back to that rant she gave at the panel in Virginia, to all those interviews and blog pieces she’s put out about me since. The woman is obsessed with me. Is this all some perverse art project for her? The Haunting of Juniper Song?
“Hold on.” Diana lowers the can. “Do you think I’m trying to dress up like Athena Liu?”
“You can’t pretend,” I insist. “You’re dressed up like her; you’re stalking me—”
“These are my boots,” says Diana. “These are my clothes. And I’m walking by Saxby’s because I fucking live here, you psycho.”
“I’m not a psycho—”
“Not all Asian women look the same,” Diana snarls. “Is that so hard to comprehend, you crazy bitch?”
I almost slap her then. “I’m not crazy.”
But up close, all the resemblances fall apart. Those aren’t Athena’s boots—Athena’s favorite Uggs were brown, with tassels. Diana’s are black, with buckles and stiletto heels. Diana’s hair is blunt and straight-edged, not loosely curled. She’s wearing hoops, not emerald danglers. Her lipstick is far, far brighter than anything Athena would ever wear.
She doesn’t look like Athena. She doesn’t look like her at all.
What on earth did I see in that café window?
“I’m not crazy.” But I can think of no evidence otherwise. I can’t trust my eyes. I can’t trust my memory. All the fight goes out of me then, and my chest sags; the air lets out. My voice cracks. “I’m not.”
Diana watches me for a long moment, her face a mix of curiosity, pity, and disgust. At last, she places the pepper spray back in her bag.
“Jesus,” she mutters, then hurries away from me, glancing over her shoulder with every other step as if making sure I don’t follow. “You need help.”
SOMEHOW I MANAGE TO COLLECT MY THINGS FROM SAXBY’S AND head home. My Uber driver must think I’m drunk—I’m breathing hard and I can’t stop reeling, clutching the armrest like it’s the only thing that will keep me from toppling over. My mind keeps replaying the encounter with Diana. My fingers digging into her shoulders. Her pepper spray. The disgust in her eyes, the fear.
For a moment there, she really thought I was going to attack her.
I can’t believe I did that. There’s no excuse. No explanation. I accosted someone in broad daylight.
I run for my bathroom and dry heave over the sink, shoulders quaking, until my breathing steadies. A thin stream of saliva trickles into the porcelain. I look up at the mirror, and what I see there makes me want to cry.
My cheeks are hollow. My hair’s unwashed, my eyes bloodshot and sunken against dark, mottled bags. I haven’t slept. I haven’t talked to anyone who wasn’t my doorman in days. I’ve been living a haunted existence from hour to hour, trying to distract myself with my manuscript so that my thoughts don’t torture me, and I can’t do this anymore. I’m so fucking tired of it all—the visions, the paranoia, the nightmares. I’m tired of seeing Athena around every corner, hearing her voice, her laughter. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to witness Athena’s death in the first place. I didn’t even want to be there that night, but she insisted, and there I was, and it’s clearly fucked me up even more than I realized.
I’m tired.
I’m so tired.
I just want her to go away. I want to be okay.
I call Rory. She won’t understand anything I’m talking about, but I’ll explain it all from the beginning. It doesn’t matter for her to know the details, it only matters that she listens, hears me, hears how much I’m hurting. I need someone to know that I’m not all right.
The phone rings and rings. I call a second time, and then a third, but Rory never picks up.
I search Dr. Gaily’s name in my phone. I haven’t had an appointment with her for years, not since I graduated, but I still have her number saved. She answers in two rings. “Hello?”
“Dr. Gaily?” My words spill out, too eager, too desperate. “I don’t know if you remember me—I’m June Hayward, I was a patient of yours a few years ago, I was at Yale—I was the one who, um—”
“June, of course. Hello.” Her voice is kind, if puzzled. “What can I do for you?”
“I know it’s been a while—” I have to stop then, take a deep breath to keep my sobs from overwhelming me. “But you said to give you a call if I ever needed therapy again, and, um—I think I’m really not all right—a lot has happened recently, and I’m not dealing with it well, and I think it’s bringing up a lot of, um, past trauma—”
“Slow down, June. One thing at a time.” Dr. Gaily pauses for a moment. “Would you like to schedule an appointment with me? Is that what you’re asking?”
“Oh—um, sorry, I know you’re probably busy, but if you have any availability now—”
“We can look into that.” She pauses. I hear a drawer open; I think she’s just sat down at her desk. “But I need to know if you’re still living in Connecticut.”
“I’m in Rosslyn. Virginia.” I sniffle. “But I have insurance—well, I guess you’d be out of network, but I can pay out of pocket—”
“It’s not about that, June. I can’t give you telehealth care if you’re not in Connecticut. I’m not licensed to practice in Virginia.”
“Oh.” I wipe my nose. My hand comes away streaked with snot. My mind feels very blank right then. “I see.”
“But I can set you up with some referrals.” I think I hear papers shuffling. “You said you’re in Rosslyn, right?”
I can’t do this. “Actually, Dr. Gaily, it’s all right—I can look up in-state therapists myself. I’m sorry for wasting your time—”