A part of me is so sure that I went to America, and that I was enrolled in Richmond U. All the things that happened…the good and the bad… They can’t be a dream, canthey? I couldn’t have made up the formula for Envy, the people I know and care about…right?
But there's this other deep, tiny, insidious part of me that wonders if I did make everything up, if Iwasin some kind of delusion for over four months like Stoke says I was. I haven't mentioned anything about it directly in the mandatory meetings, the circle of chairs that I'm forced to attend with the other residents twice a week, mostly because I’m afraid they’ll provide me with some kind of irrefutable evidence that I never left The Heath at all, but I’m beginning to unravel just the same.
I can’t trust my brain anymore and it’s horrifying me.
The hallway swirls around me a little and I try to get it together.
Mercifully, I hear Stoke say, 'Enter,' at that moment. I walk slowly into his office where he gestures for me to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of his desk. I do so carefully, keeping my back straight and crossing my ankles, following all the rules. I look at him expectantly, right between the eyes. He regards me impassively.
'How are you feeling, Marguerite?' he asks.
'Very well. Thank you,' I say, trying not to sound monotone because he'll mark it down in my notes that I've regressed.
I offer a small smile. ‘Pudding today is treacle tart, one of my favorites.’
As if that’s all I’m worried about, as if my world has always been this tiny, that my only problems are what I’m eating at mealtimes.
He gives me a smile, sedate and calm. Eerie. I want to smack it off his pompous face as I scream at the top of my lungs.
'You've been responsive for several days now,' he begins.
'Several?' I ask.
His lips turn downward. I notice because I’m looking for it. It’s not concern for my mental wellbeing, it’s because I interrupted him. He doesn’t like that.
'You don't remember?'
I almost shrug, but it’s considered rude and I’ll get a demerit, so I don’t do it. Instead, I refresh the pleasant smile.
‘I’m given medicine in the mornings,' I remind him, so he doesn’t start writing notes about me that aren’t true. 'Sometimes I'm not sure what day it is. What dayisit, if you don’t mind me asking?'
'Tuesday,' he says.
'And I got here…' I trail off.
'Eleven years ago at the end of March.'
Did his eyes just narrow?
'Of course,' I say.
I should have known I wouldn’t be able to trip him up. The deeper part whispers that he’s not lying because I’ve always been here and my stomach clenches unpleasantly.
‘How are you feeling, Marguerite?’ he asks again. ‘You know where you are?'
'I’m very well, thank you,’ I answer. ‘I'm at The Heath where I live.'
'Very good,' he says condescendingly, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.
It’s very hard not to do it.
'You'll be seeing the OBGYN later on today.'
'What for?' I ask, shivering a little.
I don’t like the OBGYN. She’s even more condescending than Stoke, and that’s saying something,andshe’s invasive in practically every way.
He shakes his head a little and shrugs.
