“You do know why you're here, Mr. ---”
I pronounce my name for Dr. Bradley. There is little possibility that he’ll get it right without a lesson, and I really don’t feel like getting into it right now. I tell him he can call me Thomas, if he likes.
“Would Tom be okay with you?”
"I prefer Thomas, if you don’t mind. I’m here, in your office, sprawled across this carefully worn, viridian chesterfield, because my ovaries hurt, and I’m too stubborn to go to a gynecologist. I hate when I decide to be this stubborn, so I chose to do something about it, and went to the gynecologist myself. It was a lot of pain, you understand; I felt I should do something about it. I’m here because the pain made me forget the obvious."
“That you’re a man?”
"Well, yes, of course, but that generally isn’t a problem when I can bring my ovaries along with me."
I see the waitress heading back to my table with another pot of the tastes-like-an-ashtray brew they call coffee here, and get my hand over my cup just in time. It doesn’t stop her from splashing my hand with scalding hot ‘Columbian.’
"SHIT!"
“Thomas, are you okay?”
"This happens sometimes when the pain bleeds over. Nothing to worry about."
“I’m so sorry, Miss. Can I get you some ice for that?”
I smile, grimly, and say "Just the check, please." The waitress scurries off. Honestly, I think, poking at rubber eggs with my fork, I don’t know why I keep coming back to this place. The food is terrible on a good day, there’s never anyone worth talking to, and I invariably get indigestion afterward. "Maybe I just like to punish myself."
“Thomas! I need you to focus. What are you thinking about?”
"Eggs. I probably have ovarian cancer, and I’m thinking about eggs. What kind of sense does that make, Doc?"
“You do know that it’s not possible for you to have ovarian cancer, right Thomas?” Bradley asks, flipping through his case file. Probably double-checking that I’m not a pre-op. I give him a moment to reassure himself that I have checked all the ‘M’ boxes, and none of the ‘F’ boxes on the survey the receptionist gave me in the waiting room.
"I think we have a language barrier here, Doc. I’ll try to be more clear. I’m not concerned that ‘Thomas’ has ovarian cancer – that would be impossible. I’m deeply concerned that ‘Andie’ has ovarian cancer, or at least something nasty. These cramps are excruciating."
“Who is Andie, Thomas?”
"I am Andie." It’s the name I sign on the receipt, just under the three-dollar tip JESSCA (according to the receipt, although I suspect this is a typo) has just received, a tip she really does not deserve. I shudder to think what the service would be like here, if they were trying to screw it up, if she remembered me the next time I come back. Food poisoning? I want to make myself miserable, but I’m not willing to kill myself to do it.
“You’re not dissociative, Thomas. You don’t score high enough on the SCID-D.”
"Dissociative. That’s ironic, considering I’m not talking to myself these days. Nobody ever gets this, so maybe an analogy would be helpful. Are you familiar with the effects of a corpus callostomy, Doc?"
“Of course, but why don’t you tell me anyway.”
"So kind of you, Doc. One of the interesting things about the human brain is that it is separated into two essentially discrete hemispheres, each of which is responsible for largely disjoint tasks: the left side of the brain controls speech, the right side handles visual perception."
“Not entirely true, but please go on.”
"I’m making generalizations, Doc, but that’s not the point. Continuing: the left side of the brain controls the right side of the body, and vice-versa. The two halves communicate across a bridge of brain tissue called the corpus callosum. When everything works correctly, we have something we call a ‘personality.’ But do you know what happens when we sever the corpus callosum?"
“Please tell me.”
"The brain still works; it just doesn’t realize that it's started working as two almost completely separate entities. If you see something with your left eye, only your right brain will know about it. If you see something with your right eye, only your left brain will know about it. So in theory, if I arrange things so that your right eye sees a cat, your right eye sees a dog, I can whisper in your left ear to tell me what you see, and you will say dog, but if I ask whisper in your right ear to draw what you see, you will draw a cat. Follow me so far?"
“I do. What does this mean to you, Thomas?”
"I think I have a hyper-developed corpus callosum, Doc."
“Will you do me a favor, Thomas?”
"Sure."
“Will you try looking at me when you speak?”
“Like this?” I ask.
“Yes.”
"No. It’s not comfortable. I can’t."
“That’s alright. Please go on.”
"I don’t know if that’s the right way to describe it, but it’s the best metaphor I’ve found, Doc. It’s like everyone else in the world is missing a part of their brain similar to the corpus callosum, except me."
“What does this extra piece of your brain do, Thomas?”
"I’m sure you’ve pieced that together for yourself, Doc."
“It’s important that you tell me in your own words.
There are advantages, and disadvantages, to looking like a twelve-year-old girl. It’s disturbing, but it really does make hailing a cab that much easier – but then you have to deal with conversations with cabbies that are at their very best condescending or patronizing.
“Where to, Sweetie?”
I ignore the ‘Sweetie.’ I’d never get anywhere in this city if I told off every cabby who addressed me with something similar. I say ‘34th street, Gramps,’ and this one laughs, a weird grin on his face now. "I just want to go home, sleep."
"It connects me to myself."
“To Andie?”
"Exactly."
“Are you suggesting it’s some sort of telepathy, Thomas?”
"No. If I meant it was telepathy, I would say it was telepathy. That’s not what it is at all. Look, let’s try the metaphor again. I have a box with an object in it."
“Describe the box.”
"It’s a box. Cardboard. Just a box. Except it has a flap you put your left hand into, so you can feel the object inside. Are you picturing this, Doc?"
“Yes. I put my left hand inside the box. What do I feel?”
"That’s the question. Except you’re not going to tell me what it is, you’re going to draw it, with your right hand."
“Okay. So I feel the object with my left hand, and draw it with my right.”
"How does your right hand know what to draw? Is it telepathy?"
“Obviously not. The nerves in my left hand send signals to my brain, which sends instructions to my right hand, telling it what to draw.”
"Exactly. Thank you, Doc."
“But the problem with your metaphor, Thomas, is that my left and right hands are both part of my body. This Andie, if she exists, is not part of you; she has her own experiences, her own personality –“
"Her own abilities, her own dreams, her own thoughts. No. Doc, you’re just not getting it. Are you right or left handed?"
“I’m left handed, Thomas.”
"When you write your name with your right hand, does it look the same as when you sign it regularly?"
“No. It looks less practiced, sloppier.”
"So you might say your hands have different personalities?
“That’s an interesting perspective. Okay, let’s run with your metaphor, then. When were you first aware you had another self, Thomas?”
"I was born a second time when I was seven. You have a boring ceiling, Doc. I couldn’t work in an office with a boring ceiling. Is this cabby insane? You can’t just make a left turn in front of a string of traffic like that."
“You were seven…”
"Right. I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I was. The weird thing was, I was in a hospital anyway – my dad had gotten drunk, and he was always mean when he was drunk, but this time he hit my younger brother really hard. Shit."
“Take your time, Thomas.”
"It’s not that – I never remember to carry small bills. Cabbies always get pissed when they have to change a fifty. Some of them won't even do it anymore. I think I do it just to piss them off."
“I have another request for you, Thomas.”
"Sure."
“When you’re talking about your Andie half, could you say ‘she’ instead of ‘I’?
"That would be kind of weird for me, Doc."
“It would make it easier for me to understand what’s going on, Thomas.”
"I’ll try, Doc."
“What happened to your brother?”
"He died. Brain hemorrhage. I was sitting there in the waiting room, with Mom, and right when the doctor came out to tell us the bad news, I was born."
“What did that feel like?”
"Pretty much what you’d expect; it’s this incredible pressure on your head, lots of pain, bright lights, unfamiliar voices. Not something I ever want to do again. I guess I did a lot of screaming and thrashing, though, because I found myself strapped to a bed a little while later. Oddly, I also found myself lying on a thin mattress in a kind of clear plastic crib, with lots of people in scrubs fussing over me. I didn’t really understand too much of what they were saying, though I did get the impression that I almost didn’t survive. Trouble with the umbilical cord, I think."
“That must have been traumatic for you.”
"It was weird, but it was kind of nice, because I wasn’t alone anymore."
“How do you mean?”
"Robby was dead, Dad – Dad took off before the cops found him, and Mom, she just checked out mentally after that. She’d answer questions if you asked her, dress herself in the morning, cook meals for us, but otherwise, she just sort of sat, staring off into space. Until she killed herself, anyway."
“Can you talk about that?”
"Twenty dollars" I tell the cabby, but now he’s pretending he doesn’t understand me. Spoke perfect English back when he thought he might have a chance to get in my pants, but now – well, I wouldn’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure out he’s counting on this stupid charade to score himself an extra twenty dollar tip. When I give him the look, though, he gives in, and gets me my change.
What the hell, I think, tossing him an extra five. At least he didn’t call me Sweetie again.
“Thanks, Honey!” he says, already rolling away.
"Mother-fucker."
“No need to get upset, Thomas. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
"It’s not that, Doc. I just don’t understand how I – how she can ignore the pain. And why give that ass a tip at all?"
“Andie again?”
"Yeah."
“Are you always in her head?”
"It’s an attention thing. Just like the way you’re probably not thinking about the way your feet feel in those expensive wingtips, or the way the air conditioning feels on your skin – at least until now, when I’ve drawn your attention to it."
“Interesting. I see what you mean.”
"Except with the pain, it’s hard not to pay attention, you know?"
“Maybe there’s a reason she’s not doing anything about the pain?”
"You think I -- she wants my attention? That doesn’t make any sense, Doc. I told you, I – Dammit. She’s not talking to me."
“Let’s get back to that in a bit, then. What happened after your mother killed herself?”
"She took a bunch of pills, locked the door, and took a bath. Probably didn’t even feel it when she drowned."
“I’m terribly sorry. No child should have to go through that.”
"I ended up in child protective services. Learned pretty quickly not to talk about Andie, too. No offense, Doc, but I don’t like psychologists. I’ve talked to way too many in my life."
“What did they tell you about Andie?”
"That she was a defense mechanism. That I’d been traumatized, and I invented a friend so I wouldn’t have to deal with being alone. They almost had me convinced, too. Except for this."
“A birthday card?”
"Read it."
“’Dear Tommy, Happy 10th Birthday to My Special Friend. Love, Andie’”
"Think about that."
“You think a three year-old sent you a birthday card?”
"She would have been about two and ten months, but yeah. I watched her pick it out at the grocery store, and then write and address it herself. I wanted someone to care about my birthday, so I figured the shrinks were right, that I just imagined it to make myself feel better. But then I actually got the card."
“Interesting. Are you sure it wasn’t someone else, though?”
"Like maybe one of my psychologist playing a cruel joke? No way. I didn’t tell anyone about this before the card arrived."
“It is possible that you wrote it yourself, mailed it to yourself.”
"That’s what I’ve been telling you, Doc. But like you said, I’m not dissociative. She is me. And she’s real. I’ve met her. What did you just write down?"
“Just taking notes. Could you describe Andie for me?”
"Short. Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Rapier wit. Great sense of humor. Brilliant. Has a laugh that would make a corpse crack a smile."
“Did you have a physical relationship with her?”
My keys clatter to the ground, fall down a couple of stairs, and I can’t help laughing. Today has been a shitty day; I needed a laugh like that. The thing that sucks about being surgeon is no matter how many people you save, it never makes it easy when you lose one. The kid today – the MRI didn’t show that many tumors. So much blood. Damn it!
"That’s funny, Doc. Feel free to write this down; I didn't know myself well enough at the time. I don’t think it would have been that good, anyway. I -- she -- I have intimacy issues."
I can be such an asshole. Home now, anyway, if you can call an apartment home. I wonder if Socrates has missed me?
“What happened?”
"I bought myself lunch... sorry, I bought Andie lunch, and we talked for a while, then she went home."
I love cats. A dog is too easy – dogs give their love to anyone who pays the slightest attention to them, but cats are more selective. You have to earn a cat’s respect, and even then you might not get their love. ‘But Socrates loves me, don’t you?’
She purrs, rubbing against my leg. Dinner time; looks like ocean fish in gravy tonight. "Maybe some bourbon for Momma."
"This is going to get a bit weird, Doc."
“Bourbon, Thomas?”
"Did I say that out loud?"
“Yes. What does bourbon do to you, Thomas?”
"I'm kind of an emotional drunk, Doc. Then I fall asleep."
“When Andie drinks, you get drunk?”
"Right."
“And do you think she knows this?”
"Of course she knows; it's why she drinks. If I don't sleep, she doesn't sleep."
I should tell him why I don't sleep, I think, pouring myself a shot. It burns a little going down, but that's how you know it's working, right?
"I thought I was ignoring myself."
"Shut up, asshole. I need sleep tonight."
"I can't drive home like this."
"Take a cab."
"Thanks."
“Thomas! Focus, Thomas.”
"Sorry Doc."
“What would you say if I told you I thought you were faking all of this?”
I watch the glass leave my hand, smashing into a bookshelf, shards raining down like snowflakes across my hardwood floor.
"I don't care what you think, Doc."
"Idiot! Bastard! Moron!"
"It's just a glass."
"My books!"
“I don't believe that you have a psychic connection to another person, and I certainly don't believe that she wrote you a birthday card at age two.”
This one's smarter than you, Tommy, I think, sweeping up shards with an old tea towel. He's trying to antagonize you to redirect your attention.
I miss you.
I know.
"It doesn't seem likely, Doc, but you have to understand that Andie is a genius."
“Tell me more. What happened after you got the birthday card?”
"The card transformed my entire life. Suddenly, I wasn't fucked in the head; I was special. And more to the point, I had a real person in my life, someone to take care of."
“How could you take care of someone you had never met?”
"I could feel her curiosity, her thirst for knowledge, but I also knew her parents were poor. So I read books. Everything I could get my hands on. She absorbed everything; I practically lived at the public library, took vacations to bookstores. When I couldn't get out, I made up stories to amuse her. Which is probably how I ended up as a writer, reviewing books for the Times."
“Is Andie a writer, also, Thomas?”
"Andie does a lot of things, but she's a neurosurgeon most days."
“Because Robby died of the injuries to his brain?”
"Hadn't thought about it, but that makes a lot of sense, Doc."
“Thank you. Don't you find it a bit odd?”
"What's that, Doc?"
“That you share a mind, but you've ended up in dramatically different places in your lives.”
"Not so strange, Doc. One hand wears a watch, signs checks, the other hand picks my nose, scratches my ass. They're both still my hands."
“That was particularly vivid.”
"Bourbon," I say with a shrug.
“Ah.”
"I can't believe I'm actually going to drink bourbon out of a plastic snoopy mug."
Don't judge me.
“Focus, Thomas. Let Andie do whatever she's going to do. I need you to stay here with me, Thomas.”
"You say my name a lot, Doc. Sounds weird when you say it."
“Because
you use two different names, Thomas?”
"No. I have a hard time remembering
names. When you do
that, it sounds like you're trying to sell me something."
“Why are you really here?”
"Besides the strong-arm tactics?"
“Right.”
"I was pregnant."
“Andie was pregnant?”
I slam down the last of the amber liquor in Snoopy's head, and stumble off toward my futon. I don't want to listen to this, maybe I'll just watch the ceiling spin instead.
"Yes."
“Yours?”
"No, we discussed that already, Doc."
“So what happened?”
"I lost it."
“The baby?”
"The baby, my mind, my interest in life. I started drinking heavily, all the time."
“You mean Andie did?”
"No, I mean I did. She's stronger than I am, Doc. It's the weirdest sort of narcissism, but I really admire myself - her for how well she handles stuff. God! It's a good thing I'm already laying down, Doc."
“You seem noticeably drunk now. Does it work in reverse?”
"You mean, if I decided to drink half a bottle of vodka for lunch, will I -- will Andie start slurring her speech, and walking in loops just before she's scheduled to cut a tumor out of some kid's brain? Will she have to go through the humiliation of a breathalyzer test in her own hospital, then discuss her odd behavior in front of the board of directors? All while she's still coming to terms with her own miscarriage?"
“Wow.”
"Yeah. Wow."
“After that, I wouldn't talk to you either. But doesn't that make her drinking you to sleep a bit hypocritical, Thomas?”
"Not really. The thing about my job is I rarely have to go to the office. A laptop and a little WiFi, and I can work from anywhere. As long as my editor gets something on a regular basis -- dammit, I don't need a cab."
Yes you do, I think, after giving the clerk on the other end of the line my credit card information and Dr. Bradley's Office address. The cell phone slips from my fingers, falling maybe three inches to the floor. I close my eyes. The darkness keeps spinning, but I don't mind. I'm safe in the darkness.
“So why would you choose to drink that much, if you knew it would affect Andie so much more than it would affect you?”
"I wasn't thinking about it, Doc. I just wanted the pain, the fear to go away. There's nothing profound I can say -- don't have any excuses."
“I'm afraid we're going to have to stop here, Thomas. Our hour is up. Perhaps we can pick this up again in a week or so? Let Charlene know what your schedule looks like.”
"Sure, why not, Doc," I say, pushing myself up onto rubbery legs. I've staggered halfway to the door when Bradley clears his throat.
“Thomas, have Charlene call you a cab.”
"Don't need to, Doc, I've just called for one."
The room swims with each foot step, but I make it to the door without falling over, and I've got my hand of the knob when the speaker phone crackles to life.
Charlene says, “Tony: I've got H and M Cabs on the other line. They want to know when Mr. Wizz-serz-sky? will be ready for his pick up?”
Nobody ever pronounces my name right.