Chapter 11
11
The next morning, Lydia accosted me by the break room. “She’s back. Your friend.”
My friend? Before I could say anything, she went on. “Why is she still here?”
“Catherine? It’s because she needs help.” I said the words gently.
“This place isn’t for fucking rich girls.” Lydia’s blue eyes narrowed.
I sighed; I hadn’t even had coffee yet. “She’s having a hard time, too, Lydia.”
“Oh, I get it.” Lydia sneered. “You rich girls stick together, huh?”
“You think I’m rich?” I scoffed, unable to keep the irritation from rising. “So I just work here for fun, right?”
“You won’t be here long.” Lydia crossed her arms. “You’ll get your practice hours or whatever and then you’ll jump ship. I know how you see us. You look down on us.”
The words stung. I put a lot of effort into making it clear that I respected the clients here, even the ones who sometimes challenged me. I understood how dehumanizing it could be to survive here, when you had no other choice.
And yet. There was something to her words, a truth deep down that I could only catch a glimpse of. Maybe I didn’t look down on patients, but in some ways, I did distance myself. Because of my role, I got to stay on the side of helper versus helpee. And in the process of helping those with mental health challenges, I was able to plant myself firmly in the category of: sane.
Lydia grinned, as if she could see my discomfort. “Guess what, Red. You’re just as crazy as any of us. You just hide it well.”
The words caused a sliding sensation, like I’d been standing on a cliff and the ground was dissolving under my feet. My heart pounded as panic spread through my chest. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed past her into the break room. I sucked in a deep breath. My hands were shaking.
What was happening? I hadn’t had a panic attack since college. This wasn’t a full-blown one—it was more like hovering on the edge, but still. I took deep breaths as I poured a cup of coffee, relieved when the distress started to abate.
It was just stress, that’s all. I’d been attacked two days ago, for god’s sake. Plus all the Adam and Pastor John stuff had gotten kicked up by Melissa’s messages and the twenty-year reunion. Throw in this confrontation with Lydia, and of course I was a little on edge.
I’d never been good at conflict. Growing up, my parents never fought in front of me; in fact, the angrier they got, the more polite they became. But I wasn’t an idiot. I could always sense it, bubbling just below the surface. Mom had been a fiery-haired small-town beauty queen who’d wanted a full household of kids. But they’d run into fertility issues after having me, and my dad had declared that it was God’s will for them to stop trying. Her postpartum depression had never really gone away, and she spent her years as a homemaker cleaning the house to what I now knew was an obsessive degree. Dad seemed not to notice; he was often traveling for his pharmaceutical managerial job anyway.
When fighting, they’d retreat to different parts of the house—Mom to their bedroom, Dad to the living room. Sometimes I’d hear Mom crying behind her closed door, on the phone with her sister. But Dad, relaxing on the couch with a newspaper, was always stoic. After all, he was the man, and in our Christian family, that meant that he automatically won.
On my rounds, I stopped at the conference room. Inside, Catherine sat across from Amani, listening to her large headphones. Seeing her gave me a burst of energy. Catherine had stayed! It wasn’t because of me. That would be ridiculous. But maybe it had a tiny something to do with it?
Amani was scribbling on a piece of paper, looking bored. She looked up and spotted me, then motioned me inside.
“Hey.” She smiled as I approached. “You just get here?”
“Yup.”
Catherine acknowledged me with a nod but kept the headphones on. Her face was less swollen, back to sharp lines and planes. She still had a fragile air to her, but appeared worlds different from the dead-eyed Jane Doe of the last two weeks.
Amani noticed my stare. “She said podcasts calm her down. Diane told us to draw, but we’re not six, so…”
“Is she—does she need to call anyone, or—”
“Her parents are picking her up tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”
“Oh.” Disappointment flooded my chest. Which was absurd—it was a good thing, a great thing, that Catherine was going home.
“They’re in Hawaii, so it’s taking them a day to get here.” Amani cleared her throat.
With a sigh, Catherine pulled off the headphones and handed them back to Amani.
“What were you listening to?” I asked.
She grinned, the full beam of her perfect smile startling me.
“Just a podcast,” she said. “They really chill me out.”
“Hey.” Amani got to her feet. “Thea, would you mind staying here while I do my morning rounds?”
“Of course.” The prospect thrilled me—one last private conversation with Catherine. Though it also made me a little nervous. At thirteen, despite my grand fantasies, I’d known that if I ever met Catherine in person, I’d go speechless with overwhelm.
Catherine studied me as Amani left. It gave me the same prickly feeling as the day before, as if she were searching for something specific on my face.
“So.” She grinned again, but this time it felt like an offering, vaguely pleading. “Someone in my room told me about how I attacked you.” The smile dropped. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I picked at a crayon wrapper. “Do you remember… what you were thinking?”
“No. Nothing.” She stared into space. “All I remember is waking up yesterday tied to a hospital bed.” She rubbed at her right wrist. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“I can imagine.” I didn’t want to push, but I couldn’t help it. This was my one chance. “Do you remember what happened before coming here? Why you were walking on the expressway?”
She glanced down. “The last few months… I guess I have amnesia or something? Is that what it’s called?”
“It is.” She’s lying. She was a good actress, of course, but somehow I could tell. She remembered something —whether it was part or all of it. She just wasn’t going to say.
“Yeah, I was in LA, everything normal, and just…” She trailed off, looking down at the table. The silence stretched out.
“You know…” I tapped the crayon against a sheet of paper. “I do art therapy here.” That was innocuous enough.
She looked up. “You do?”
“I do. Every week.” I pulled Amani’s paper towards me; it was full of childish flowers and plants. “Sometimes people like to draw things, even if they don’t want to talk about it.”
“Are you an artist?” she asked.
I paused, unsure how to answer. “Well, I used to be.”
“What kind of art?”
“Drawing and painting, mostly.”
“What did you draw and paint?”
I smiled at her questions. “Mostly people. Portraits, nudes. It was fun, but… I couldn’t really make a living at it.” Catherine wouldn’t be able to relate—her family was loaded. “I went into arts nonprofits, and then the art stuff just kind of dropped off.”
She nodded, picking up a blue crayon that had rolled out of the box. “I get that. Wanting to make art but people not appreciating it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I was an actress.” Her hand went to her chest, as if to play with a necklace that wasn’t there. It dropped again. “When I was younger. But I was typecast.”
“How so?” I had to play it cool, though my chest tightened with excitement. I was literally sitting across from Catherine O’Brien, talking about her acting career.
“Oh, they had me playing these kind of sexy roles from a young age. And then when I actually grew up, I guess everyone found me too old?” Her lips pressed together. “It’s a brutal industry.”
“Sounds like it,” I said.
She stared at me, her gaze calculating. “I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but… do you know who I am?”
I nodded, feeling a small rush of relief. “I do.”
“You recognized me?”
“Well, not at first. When you came in, you looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out how I knew you. And then I just happened to talk about Stargirl with Amani and…” I stopped. Lydia’s words came back to me: Maybe you blew up her spot.
“So you figured it out.” Catherine nodded.
“Yeah. I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner. I watched that movie so many times.” Suddenly, I wanted, needed , Catherine to know my connection to it. “I think it helped me because I was going through something similar in my own life. You know how Thuya was connected to the pharaoh and the guard? Well, I was going through this weird thing with my pastor and religious studies teacher. And there was also this guy my age, Adam, that I…” My mouth snapped shut. What the fuck was I doing? Even if Catherine was a famous actress, she was also a patient. Not someone I should be spilling to about my trauma.
But Catherine just nodded, casually, like she’d been expecting to hear this. “That totally makes sense. Can I tell you something kind of strange?”
“Of course.”
“I think we’re connected.” She held my eyes, as if expecting me to agree.
“In what way?” I was connected to her, certainly, but why would she feel connected to me?
“Our birthdays… You’re October 24, right?”
After a moment, I nodded.
“We look alike. I met you here randomly.” Her hands were folded on the table, almost professional.
“So what are you saying? We’re long-lost twins?” That had been my fantasy. But I’d always known it wasn’t real.
She considered. “Do you think that’s a possibility?”
“No way.” I barked out a laugh. “I look just like my parents. Who would not have given away their child. And also—I was born in upstate New York. You were born in California, right? It’s just not possible.”
She tapped a finger against her lips. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“Um…” I blanked. How to describe the cloud of confusion that had replaced my once-fervent Christian faith? It was something I’d managed to successfully avoid for many years. Since eighth grade, really. I wish I’d been able to slide neatly into atheism, the other end of the confident belief scale. But that had never felt quite right to me either. How did atheists know ? Or Christians? How could anyone know?
“Your parents are Buddhists,” I said finally. “Right?”
She looked down, like I’d given the wrong answer. But then she glanced up and her stare again felt physical, like tiny hands pulling me towards her.
“Don’t you feel like we’ve met before?” she asked.
“You’re saying we met in a past life or something?” I tried to follow the thread, but it was starting to dawn on me: Maybe this was a delusion breaking through her assured, sparkly surface. Maybe she really did need to be institutionalized. She opened her mouth to respond, but then the door creaked opened and we both turned.
“Catherine, ready to fill out the discharge paperwork?” Diane stood in the doorway.
Please, no , not at this moment, not when Catherine was going to tell me more about our past life connection, which was obviously a fantasy but also incredibly interesting.
Catherine reached out and squeezed my hand. Hers was bony and cold. “Can we talk more later?”
“Of course.” She looked nervous enough that I squeezed her hand back.