Phoebe frowns. “None of that explains why you’re taking an anti-psychotic.”
So I tell her about the hallucinations, beginning with the one at the Baxter Building. Seeing the cops and suppliers together, mixed up in some nightmare terrain, killing people. Backtrack to a few years before, when my brother died. I’d seen his car going off the bridge, again and again. Not just in my head, but in front of my eyes. I couldn’t go over the bridge without seeing it, like it was happening for real. I’d almost had an accident myself.
“Have you had any hallucinations since going off your meds?”
I hesitate.
None of your fucking business, lady.
Zoe’s words decide me. I tell Phoebe about my vision on the Riverwalk. About Victoria’s murder. About the almost-vision in Daniel Chandler’s office. About the voice of my alter ego that I can’t seem to silence. That, in fact, is getting stronger every day.
“I need help, Phoebe. All this is interfering with my work, my life. I can’t function when I don’t know if I’m about to go over the edge, if I don’t know what’s real. But I don’t want drugs. They make me feel like I’m a ghost in my own life.”
“Do you ever feel like harming yourself?”
“What? No.”
Phoebe leans forward, elbows on her desk and hands in a pyramid. She’s frowning. Not as though she is angry, but as though she is perplexed. She slowly resettles herself.
“Do you hear voices?”
“No. I never hear anything. Except in conjunction with a vision.”
“Do you feel like someone is telling you to do something? Sending you a message?”
“No.”
“What about Zoe?”
“Oh. Well, I guess I kind of hear her, but she’s not associated with the visions. She’s more like a running commentary in my head. But she doesn’t give me orders. Just snide remarks. And she’s not…outside, if you know what I mean. I don’t hear her - hear her. Not like for real.”
“Do you ever talk back to her? Or initiate conversation?”
I squirm in the chair. “Sometimes I talk back to her. Is that — is that crazy?” I laugh nervously.
“It’s probably best that you don’t respond. The more energy you feed to this delusion, the stronger it will grow.”
Well, shit. I swallow hard.
Phoebe says, “Do you ever feel anything, or smell anything, in conjunction with the visions?”
“Yes. I feel physical pain, and falling. I feel the water as it closes in. The cold. And Phoebe, this is what terrifies me. I think — no, I know — that I experienced Victoria’s death. For real. Before I knew anything about her, or it.”
Phoebe doesn’t say anything for a few moments, which triples my anxiety. Is she going to say I’m at a level of crazy that only survives in a nuthouse? That she’s going to forcibly commit me right now?
Finally, she says, “Audrey, there are some aspects to your symptoms that don’t make sense to me. You are definitely seeing things that aren’t there, but most psychotic hallucinations aren’t a replay of events like you are describing.”
I sink back in my seat and close my eyes. I’m so done with all this. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“I believe you, Audrey.” She constructs a short chain of paperclips while she thinks. Delilah gets up from her corner and sits beside me, pressing her body against my leg. It feels strangely good; warm and supportive.
Phoebe pushes her paperclips away and says, “All right Audrey. I’m going to go out on a limb here. I think you may have been misdiagnosed. In that case, your prescribed medication may have done more harm than good. But with your permission, I’d like to consult with someone else. I’m not sure your problem is entirely psychiatric in nature.”
I open my eyes. “Wait, what? Are you saying I have some other problem? Something else wrong?” This is a nightmare. One I can’t seem to wake up from.
She holds up a hand. “I’ll need to get more information before I commit myself.”
“Or me?” I say weakly.
“Or you.” She smiles. “But Audrey, take heart. Whatever it is, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Phoebe shows me some exercises, ways to curb my anxiety and generate a feeling of safety, and insists I do them twice. She knows I’m alone, so she gives me permission to get in touch if I need to. Her overprotectiveness raises my hackles, and I think the exercises are hooey, but I do appreciate her concern. Sometime soon, when I’m not too busy, I’ll give them a try.
I feel better after talking to Phoebe, but also worse in some ways. I’ve exposed my craziness for someone else’s judgement. The fact that it’s to someone who is trained to diagnose and understand craziness adds another layer of fear and trembling. What if she insists that I go back on drugs, like ones that cut me off from reality and made me feel as though I were wrapped in a layer of lead? I won’t be able to do my job if I can barely think. And who was this other person she wanted to talk to, about my other problem? Now my own symptoms, my own mental health, are out of my control. I imagine all sorts of dire things from cancerous tumors to brain-eating worms.
I hate having to rely on other people.
We should just blow this joint. Never trust a shrink, if you ask me.
Except I didn’t ask you, did I? You’re just another part of me, some submerged shard of my undercover identity, my legend. You don’t even exist, not really.
Belatedly, I recall I’m not supposed to give her any energy.
The Legend of Zoe. Sweet. There oughta be a video game.
Maybe it isn’t surprising that I decide to walk down to the Portway Tavern.
“How are you doing, Claire? Are you coping with all this?”
The light from
