Pain never brought about the best results. No, severe pain only triggered shock. A doomed catatonia, silence as the last refuge of a mortally wounded animal playing possum. Only dread and terror brought out a marketable recording. A masterpiece.
Her voice reduced to a whisper, hushed as if she were praying, the girl said, “Two fried eggs…an English muffin…”
Mitzi tore open a small plastic package containing two foam rubber plugs. With latex fingers she twisted one until it would fit inside of her ear.
The girl stopped after “…orange juice.” Her eyes intent on Mitzi, she asked, “Will this be noisy?”
Mitzi nodded, twisting the second earplug into a small, tight cylinder. It wasn’t lost on her that this army of microphones would continue to record even as the sleeping pills short-circuited her own memory. She struggled to recall the girl’s name and how they’d met.
Before Mitzi could insert the second earplug, the girl asked, “Would you do me a favor?” Maybe she was still high, or it could’ve been denial, but the girl said, “I hate loud noise. Can I have earplugs, too?”
The monitors, their needles bounced softly with the request.
Mitzi was tearing open the express package, about to remove and unwrap the knife. But she considered the request. There was no reason the poor girl should have to listen. Mitzi drained her glass of wine. Swallowed another Ambien. She tore open a new package of foam plugs and twisted each before inserting it into the girl’s warm, soft ears.
The face, the girl’s blushing, teary-eyed face, mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
Mitzi answered, “You’re very welcome,” but neither woman could hear the other.
Only the huddled microphones heard, leaning in, ready to collect the sound of what would have to happen next.
Foster asked to be seated with his back to the door. So he could hear her before she came into sight. For that same reason he’d arrived early and chatted up the maître d. He’d drunk half his Scotch when a voice behind him said, “Hello.”
A young woman said, “My name is Lucinda, and I’m meeting my father for lunch.”
He didn’t turn, but waited.
“He’s very handsome. Very distinguished,” the voice added.
A man’s voice, the maître d’s, said, “Right this way, please.”
It was worth the wait when she came into sight. Her mother’s auburn hair, Lucinda wore it down on her shoulders the way he liked it best. His own blue eyes looked back at him as he stood to greet her. She was wearing the dress he’d bought for her in Singapore. The one she’d modeled on Instagram. They kissed cheeks. To the maître d, Foster said, “Alphonse, you’ve met my daughter?”
The gentleman stood by, saying, “So charming a young lady,” as Foster seated her.
For the maître d’s benefit, he asked, “Lucy, do you remember the time you stepped on the bee?” He smiled at the memory.
She was a quick study. “Of course.” Quick on the uptake, she asked, “How old was I?”
“You were four.” Foster loved how she knew to echo, never to ad-lib. If she wasn’t an actress, she ought to be. She was so gifted at spontaneous role-playing.
The waiter arrived and took her order for a glass of wine. Foster asked for another Scotch. Keeping to their long-established script, he asked about her classes in college. She was on the dean’s list, of course. She asked his advice about graduate school. Her hand ventured across the table, and he reached forward and squeezed it with his own. She said, “It’s so good to see you!”
Foster winced in pain. The bite mark on his hand. She didn’t ask.
Unseen, his fingers pressed the usual fee into her palm. Two hundred in cash, plus another couple hundred as a tip. Their agreed-upon rate for a one-hour lunch. It might seem expensive, the dinners, the trips together, but it was better therapy than he’d gotten from any psychiatrist. To simply look at her filled him with joy.
How many years had it been? He’d used the latest age progression of her from the side of a milk carton. He’d gone online and surfed escort sites until he’d found an exact match.
A silence fell over the dining room, and all heads turned. The restaurant lighting dimmed. A waiter had entered from the kitchen carrying a small, elaborately decorated cake on which several small candles burned. No one sang, it was far too elegant an establishment, but muted applause erupted as the waiter delivered the birthday cake to the beautiful young woman. Lucinda beamed appropriately. She brought her fingertips to her lips as if to stifle a cry of joy.
“Happy birthday, my darling,” Foster said. He reached under the table to where a shopping bag waited. He brought out a small box wrapped in pink foil and frothing with ribbons.
Ignoring her candles, she slipped the paper and ribbons from the box and opened it to reveal a gleaming double strand of natural pearls. She gasped. Everyone watching gasped.
“They were your mother’s,” Foster said regarding the pearls. “And your grandmother’s.”
Not acting, not for the moment, she looked at him with genuine affection. He knew the difference. In this moment he hated the mourning support group for putting a stop to this sweet fantasy. The necklace coiled in its box. A satin-lined box not unlike a casket.
He nodded toward the cake, saying, “Make a wish.”
The pink-polished fingertips of one hand touched the pearls. She regarded the cake before whispering, “I want to be in the movies.” And as she followed her instructions, the tiny flames winked out, and a ghost of bitter smoke wafted over him.
The next sunrise wasn’t her enemy. The Muzak in the elevator wasn’t torture. Minus a hangover, odors, people’s colognes, even the faint stink of bleach on her own hands, didn’t cramp her stomach and spin her mind dizzy with pain. Without sunglasses she could sit in the waiting room and read the trades. Even in the Southland, only a few doctors’ coffee tables offered the Hollywood Reporter and Variety, but Dr. Adamah wasn’t just any doctor.
She’d awoken with no memory except the dream of assembling a complex something made of brass. All curves and shining, polished curlicues, accented with porcelain knobs hand painted with pink roses. It wasn’t an unpleasant dream. It was a bed, a masterpiece of an antique brass bed.
As she sat waiting for her name to be called and thumbing through Entertainment Weekly, her phone chimed. A new text from a private number said: Magnificent results. Per usual.
Her inbox showed one new file. An audio file labeled Praying Girl. Those words, those and the whiff of bleach on her fingers brought back a dream. Something butchered. Someone slaughtering a pig. Something she must’ve seen on the television as she’d drifted off to sleep. The squealing shrieks, ghastly, and blood everywhere. Her shoulders ached as if she’d spent the night chopping wood.
As she turned a page, her phone chimed again. A new text asked: Yur $1M holler still avail?
Before she could text a response, a voice asked, “Mitzi?” She looked to where a young woman sat behind a carved and white-lacquered desk. This woman, the receptionist, said, “Dr. Adamah will see you now.”
As Mitzi gathered her things, a door opened and the bearded doctor met her with the usual warm smile. They crossed a hallway to the open door of an examination room. Inside, a paper-covered table sat opposite a stainless-steel sink and a bank of glass-fronted cabinets. The doctor nodded for her to take a seat on the table.