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Derek says, "Why aren't you getting ready?" Moira sits on the red leather couch and watches the ash grow on the end of her cigarette. She stares at it, transfixed, watching the red glow. Derek says, "Damn it, Moira. Baxter said he'd hold a table for us. It's after six as it is." Even though Moira is trying very hard to be motionless, she can see the curl of ash begin to crumble. She waits, watching it, trying to will it not to fall off. The white rug looms below. She tries not to breathe. "Jesus. Will you at least look at me?" A crack appears atop the tube of gray ash and the whole thing, half a cigarette, slips soundlessly to the carpet below. If Derek notices this, he doesn't say anything. Moira lifts her face and finds Derek's eyes. "You're so pale," he says. "What's wrong with you?" * * * Moira is standing outside of Saks, holding a shopping bag, waiting for a taxi. The weather is windy and cool and she pulls her small wool coat more tightly around her. The last time she was here, she thinks, it was warm outside. She tries to think if things were better then. She can't remember. A man in a brown suit approaches her. "Excuse me," he says. "Can I have your autograph?" He holds a pen up to her, a scrap of paper. Moira looks at him closely, thinking she'll recognize him, thinking this might be a joke. She studies his face. She doesn't say anything. "You are Christy Turlington, right? The model?" Moira smiles at the man. She doesn't recognize the name, but she understands it's someone important. "Yes," she says. "Of course." "Wow. It's so cool to meet you," the man says. "Could you make it out to Jim?" She takes the pen and scribbles, holding the paper in her palm. She writes: To Jim. Nice to meet you. Kristy Turkington. * * * "There's someone living in my apartment," Moira says. She's sitting in a plush leather chair. Across from her is her therapist. The room is mahogany and brown. Someone has smoked a cigar in here, but not very recently. Odors linger. "You mean someone other than your boyfriend," her therapist says. "Derek doesn't live with me," she says. "So someone else." "Derek has his own place. He just sleeps over. Sometimes. Not very often." "Who else is living in your apartment?" "I don't know." "Moira. What makes you think someone else is living there?" "I don't know. Sounds. Movements. Little things. Nothing. Forget it." * * * On Tuesday, Moira spends the whole day sitting on the red leather couch, watching television, sometimes watching the wall behind the television. For sixteen hours, Moira watches soaps, game shows, news programs, sitcoms, talk shows, infomercials. In that time she only moves three times: twice to urinate and once to make popcorn. She does not answer the phone; she does not speak to anyone. * * * On the other end of the line, she can hear the phone ringing. "Hello?" says a voice, a man's voice. The voice is choked, almost muffled. "Daddy?" Moira says. "Moira?" Moira doesn't say anything. She can't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound pathetic. She holds the cordless against her ear and twists a lock of hair. She stares at the hardwood floor. "Baby, are you all right? What's wrong?" She thinks of Derek, of her dead mother, of the fact that she spent all yesterday doing literally nothing. She even thinks of telling her father she's in therapy, knowing full well how much that would set him off. It's all pathetic. She can't lie to him. "You okay, Moira? Do you need some more money?" "I --" she starts, then almost gives up. She decides to tell the truth. "I just wanted to hear your voice." Now it's her father's turn for silence. Thirty seconds goes by before he speaks. "Do you realize what time it is, baby?" She hears a noise and turns around. She watches her bedroom door close. There's no one else in her apartment but the bedroom door closes. She hears the soft click as it shuts all the way. * * * "Are you an actress?" The man who says this has introduced himself as Bruno. He says he's a film director. He has salt-and-pepper hair, high cheekbones. He's wearing gray chinos, a black sweater. His tan is unquestionably fake. Moira can see Derek from where she sits on the terrace. He's speaking with a blonde girl and an elderly woman. They're holding drinks and laughing. "I'm Julia Roberts," Moira says. Bruno laughs at this. "Seriously. Are you an actress? Are you looking for work? I know some agents." A crowd of well-dressed people move in front of her, blocking her view of Derek. The air is cool but not quite cold. There are stars in the sky. The city is beneath her. Everything, even her drink, seems to sparkle in the cool air. "I want to ask you a question," Bruno says. Moira sips her champagne, smokes her cigarette. "All right." "What would it take to get you to sleep with me tonight?" Moira smiles lightly. She thinks she's drunk. The crowd of people disperses before her and she sees Derek is gone. The blonde girl is gone, too. The elderly woman is still there. Moira downs the rest of her champagne and tosses the glass off the balcony. Look out below, she thinks. "A gun," she says to Bruno. "Fuck off." * * * "I don't know what you're talking about," Derek says. "A blonde girl," Moira says. "Tall. Thin. Kind of pouty." Moira and Derek are inside Derek's Jaguar, waiting at a stoplight. A black kid on inline skates whizzes by on the crosswalk. It's four-thirty in the morning. "Yes, Rebecca, okay? Her name's Rebecca. I know who you're talking about, I don't know what you're talking about." "You disappeared. With Rebecca." "I can't believe you're saying this. You're not saying this." "Where
did you go?" "You had sex with her, didn't you?" "Jesus Christ," Derek says. The light turns green. Derek puts the car in first and it glides forward. "Do I have to say it? I didn't have sex with her, Moira. I didn't even speak to her for more than five minutes. What the hell has gotten in to you?" Moira watches the colors from the street reflect off the Jaguar's glass. The engine thrums. "I'm sorry," she says. "I guess I'm just drunk." Moira can feel her pulse in her temple. The heater in the Jag is going full blast. She wants to crack the window but is too lazy to reach for it. The world spins by, out of her control. Moira hasn't had a period for two months. * * * "Maybe you need a job," her therapist says. "Maybe you'd feel better working." "Why?" "Get your mind off things. Get you interacting with people." "I had a job." "When?" "Last year." "What did you do?" "Derek got it for me. I worked in a bank. I was a teller." "Really. What did you think of being a bank teller?' "I didn't like it. It was a lot of pressure. Everyone always seemed to be in a hurry. And there was the money. I worried about the money." "What was wrong with the money?" "Nothing was wrong with it. I was what was wrong. I worried about miscalculating, about giving money away, about doing something wrong. Every evening, when I had to count my drawer, I would get sick to my stomach. Cold sweats. It was horrible." "How long did you work there?" "Four days." * * * It's three-twenty in the morning, and Moira wakes up. Her stomach is sour, her head pounds. She feels hungover but hasn't drunk anything. She swings her legs out of bed and walks to the bathroom. At the end of the hall, just before the bathroom door, she hesitates. There is someone watching her. She can feel it, him, whatever. The eyes, the staring, on the back of her neck. She turns slowly and looks behind her. A shadow stands at the other end of the hall. It is a man, clearly a man, but silhouetted, without features. He is motionless; watching her. Moira stares at him, blinking, hoping he'll go away, but he doesn't. A full minute goes by and finally he steps slowly out of view into the living room. The apartment is still. Neither of them have made a sound. Moira goes into the bathroom. She feels like retching but the urge to pee is greater. She slips off her underwear and sees that for the sixty-first day she is not bleeding. * * * Moira walks in from getting her mail and finds the phone ringing. "Moira?" "Yes?” She collapses on the red leather sofa, cradling the cordless in the crook of her neck. She sifts through her mail. "Moira, it's Gretchen." "Hi, Gretchen," Moira says. In her hands is a catalog, some coupons. A bill. A letter. She flips the letter over. The return address is her father's estate in Houston. "I'm sorry to bother you, I hope you weren't busy." "I'm not." "I'm having a little get-together on Sunday. A brunch thing." "That sounds nice." Moira opens the letter. The envelope feels very light. "Baxter will be there. And Emil and Leslie. Think you and Derek can make it?" She dumps the contents of the envelope out onto her lap. She finds there a small scrap of paper and a check. The check is made out to her for the sum of ten thousand dollars. The scrap of paper has her father's handwriting on it. "Don't feel so down," her father's written. "Love you, baby." "Moira?" "What?"
"Look, I can't lie to you. Derek asked me to call you. He's worried
about you. He wants to make sure you're all right." * * * Moira sits by the window in her living room. It's late afternoon, and she can hear the hum of rush hour traffic on the street below. She spent the afternoon cleaning her apartment, thoroughly cleaning it, or at least thoroughly pretending to. Really she was searching the place, scanning every nook and cranny, every possible hiding spot, looking for any sign of him, it, her intruder. It took her all afternoon. She turned up nothing. At length, she gets up and goes to the bathroom, pulls out a box of Tampax tampons. She begins peeling them out of their wrappers, one by one, discarding the applicators, flushing them down the toilet. This is a guarantee, she thinks. A magic spell. This will ensure bleeding. * * * "I had a nightmare last night," Moira says. "What was it about?" her therapist says. "It was horrible." "Was it? Describe it." "I was giving birth to a baby. I was in the hospital. I was in the stirrups. I was pushing and sweating and straining." "And?" "When the baby finally came out, the doctor held it up so I could see it. He was smiling, the nurses were smiling, like I should be very proud. But there was something wrong with the baby." "What was wrong with it?" "The baby's arms and legs were lifeless. They dangled. It's face was wooden, literally wooden. It smiled at me. It had painted features. At first I didn't recognize what it was, but then I understood. It was a ventriloquist's dummy." "I see." "Do you suppose it meant anything?" "I don't know, Moira. Dreams don't always mean something. And even when they do, the dreamer is often better capable of understanding the meaning than I am. So, a better question is, what do you think it meant?" "I think it meant ... " "Yes?' "I don't think it meant anything." * * * "I'm sorry, Moira, I have to take this," Derek says. He picks up his ringing cell phone and extends the tiny antenna. Moira and Derek are at a cheerful restaurant two blocks from Moira's apartment. Derek has agreed to meet her for lunch. While he talks on the phone, Moira sips her iced tea. She watches the people eating lunch around her. At a table adjacent to hers there is a young woman with a baby. The baby is sleeping. Moira finds herself staring at the baby. She looks for painted features, for wood grain. "Sorry about that," Derek says, clicking his phone shut. "It's okay." "So what's up? Why did you ask me here?" Moira thinks about this for a long time. Finally she says: "Nothing." "Moira. Come on. You said it was important." "Nothing. It's nothing. I just really missed you." * * * On Wednesday night, just before she goes to bed, Moira hears her bathroom door slam close. She approaches the door and can hear sounds within--movement, rustling, maybe a whisper. She tries the door but it's locked. As far as she can tell, the door doesn't open all night. * * * "When you're interpreting dreams," Moira says, "is there any specific image, any symbol, that signifies insanity?" "Why are you asking me this, Moira?" her therapist says. "I don't know. You're the expert, I guess." "I'm not a dream expert. Dreams mean much less to psychologists than they used to. We don't put too much stock in dream interpretation anymore. Nowadays it's up there with crystals and psychic surgery." "So there's no symbol for insanity?" "It doesn't work that way, Moira. There isn't a one-to-one relationship. Your brain is much more complex than that. If you see cigar shapes everywhere it doesn't necessarily mean you're sexually repressed. If you dream of ventriloquist's dummies it doesn't mean you're insane." "It doesn't?" "No." "Doesn't necessarily or doesn't?" "Well, there are no guarantees, Moira. You could say that that's what we're here to find out." * * * On Monday, Moira wakes up in the middle of the night again, sick to her stomach, her bladder full. She slips out of bed and walks to the bathroom, forgetting that the door is locked from the inside. She twists the doorknob uselessly. Inside the door she hears grumblings, soft scrapings, a quiet flapping sound. A pain pierces her side, her lower abdomen. She doubles over from the pressure. She wonders if she's finally getting her period, if it's back now with a vengeance. She wonders if she's having a miscarriage. Her breasts feel swollen, tender. If she doesn't pee soon, she thinks, she'll spray all over the floor. She slams her fist against the closed door, pounding. No one answers. She leans against the wall and half-walks, half-slides toward the kitchen. She holds her arms tightly against her stomach, as if to keep everything in. The kitchen. There is water there, ice. She feels flush, alarmingly warm. She could use some ice. The pain from her bladder is intense. Under the sink is a plastic bucket, she thinks. It will have to do. * * * The next morning, Moira rises early and dresses. She tries the bathroom door, but it's still locked, hopelessly locked. Inside the door is now just silence, a void of sound. She walks to the kitchen and sets the bucket on the tile, squats over it. Afterwards she runs hot water in the sink, pours the contents of the bucket down the drain. She doesn't like what she's doing so she decides not to think about it. It's easier that way, not thinking. She walks to a pharmacy across the street. She buys shampoo, soap, a brush, a hair dryer. She'll start over. She doesn't need a bathroom. She can use the kitchen sink for everything. After much deliberation she also buys a home pregnancy kit. The kit comes with a small plastic cup. The box says she's supposed to pee in the cup. That's okay, Moira thinks. She doesn't have anywhere else to pee. * * * When she gets home, her phone is ringing and she rushes to pick it up. In her haste, she drops the bag from the pharmacy on the floor. She grabs the cordless and glances down the hall. She has to look again: Is she seeing what she's seeing? Yes, of course. The bathroom door stands wide open. "Hello?" "Moira, it's me." "Hi, sweetie," she says. She's trying to sound cheerful and is completely failing. She doesn't want Derek to know her bathroom door's open. Open bathroom doors can't be good. Even she can see that. She doesn't want Derek to worry about her. "Moira, we need to talk. Do you have time? I'm coming over." Moira stares at the bathroom doorway, then the floor beside her. The bag on the floor. The pregnancy test in the bag. "Yes, we need to talk," Moira says. * * * The bathroom seems normal. Nothing seems moved, nothing seems out of place. It even smells normal, Moira thinks. She wonders what was in here, locked behind the door. She wonders what it did in here. She wonders where it is now. Moira takes a shower, enjoying the hot spray on her back. She washes her hair. Afterwards, naked, dripping wet, she takes the plastic cup from the box. She straddles the toilet and, holding the cup beneath her, fills it with urine. * * * Moira is lying on her bed staring at the ceiling. She watches the ceiling lamp. She waits for it to sway, wants it to sway, but it resists her will. It stays impossibly still. She lies there, breathing softly, her hair wrapped in a towel, a terrycloth robe around her damp body. Derek will be here soon, she thinks. The urine in the cup waits for her on the bathroom sink. They'll take the test together, she thinks. They'll find out together. As she lies there her closet door quietly slides open. A brawny man emerges from behind her hanging clothes. He is carrying something: something small and limp. The man has no face, Moira sees. He has skin and stubble but no eyes, no nose, no mouth. He walks over to Moira and places something beside her on the bed. Moira
bends her neck to look at it. There's a knock at the door. Moira exhales sharply. She's still smiling when the dummy takes her hand. |
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