Diary

  Again, Misty says, “Tabbi honey?”

  And there's no sound, nothing. Just the hiss and burst of each wave on the beach. With her fingers spread, Misty reaches out and feels the air around her. For the first time in days, she's been left alone.

  The two strips of masking tape, they each start at her hairline and run down across her eyes to curve under her jaw. With the thumb and forefinger of each hand, Misty pinches the tape at the top and pulls each strip off, slow, until they both peel away. Her eyes flutter open. The sunlight is too bright for her to focus. The picture on the easel is blurred for a minute while her eyes adjust.

  The pencil lines come into focus, black against the white paper.

  It's a drawing of the ocean, just offshore from the beach. Something floating. A person floating facedown in the water, a young girl with her long black hair spread out around her on the water.

  Her father's black hair.

  Your black hair.

  Everything is a self-portrait.

  Everything is a diary.

  Outside the window, down on the beach, a mob of people wait at the edge of the water. Two people wade toward shore, carrying something between them. Something shiny flashes bright pink in the sunlight.

  A rhinestone. A necklace. It's Tabbi they have by the ankles and under the arms, her hair hanging straight and wet into the waves that hiss and burst on the beach.

  The crowd steps back.

  And loud footsteps come down the hallway outside the bedroom door. A voice in the hallway says, “I have it ready.”

  Two people carry Tabbi up the beach toward the hotel porch.

  The lock on the bedroom door, it goes click, and the door swings open, and Grace is there with Dr. Touchet. Flashing bright in his hand is a dripping hypodermic needle.

  And Misty tries to stand, her leg cast dragging behind her. Her ball and chain.

  The doctor rushes forward.

  And Misty says, “It's Tabbi. Something's wrong.” Misty says, “On the beach. I've got to get down there.”

  The cast tips and its weight pulls her to the floor. The easel crashing over beside her, the glass jar of murky rinse water, it's broken all around them. Grace comes to kneel, to take her arm. The catheter's pulled out of the bag and you can smell her piss leaking out on the rug. Grace is rolling up the sleeve on her smock.

  Your old blue work shirt. Stiff with dried paint.

  “You can't go down there in this state,” the doctor says. He's holding the syringe and taps the air bubbles to the top, saying, “Really, Misty, there's nothing you can do.”

  Grace forces Misty's arm straight out, and the doctor drives in the needle.

  Can you feel this?

  Grace holds her by both arms, pinning her down. The brooch of fake rubies has come open and the pin is sunk into Misty's breast, her blood red on the wet rubies. The broken jar. Grace and the doctor holding her to the rug, her piss spreads under them. It wicks up the blue shirt and stings her skin where the pin is stuck in.

  Grace, half on top of her, Grace says, “Misty wants to go downstairs now.” Grace isn't crying.

  Her own voice deep with slow-motion effort, Misty says, “How the fuck do you know what I want?”

  And Grace says, “It's in your diary.”

  The needle pulls out of her arm and Misty feels someone rubbing the skin around the shot. The cold feel of alcohol. Hands come under her arms and pull her until she's sitting upright.

  Grace's face, her levator labii superioris muscle, the sneer muscle, pulls her face in tight around her nose, and she says, “It's blood. Oh, and urine, all over her. We can't take her downstairs like this. Not in front of everyone.”

  The stink on Misty, it's the smell of the old Buick's front seat. The stink of your piss.

  Someone's stripping the shirt off her, wiping her skin with paper towels. From across the room, the doctor's voice says, “This is excellent work. Very impressive.” He's leafing through her stack of finished drawings and paintings.

  “Of course they're good,” Grace says. “Just don't get them out of order. They're all numbered.”

  Just for the record, no one mentions Tabbi.

  They're tucking her arms into a clean shirt. Grace pulls a brush through her hair.

  The drawing on the easel, the girl drowned in the ocean, it's fallen onto the floor and blood and piss is soaked through it from underneath. It's ruined. The image gone.

  Misty can't make a fist. Her eyes keep falling shut. The wet slip of drool slides out the corner of her mouth, and the stab in her breast fades away.

  Grace and the doctor, they heave her onto her feet. Outside in the hallway, more people wait. More arms come around her from both sides, and they're flying her down the stairs in slow motion. They're flying past the sad faces that watch from every landing. Paulette and Raymon and someone else, Peter's blond friend from college. Will Tupper. His earlobe still in two sharp points. The whole Waytansea Island wax museum.

  It's all so quiet, except her cast drags, thudding against every step.

  A crowd of people fill the lobby's gloomy forest of polished trees and mossy carpet, but they fall back as she's carried toward the dining room. Here's all the old island families, the Burtons and Hylands and Petersens and Perrys. There's not a summer face among them.

  Then the doors to the Wood and Gold Room swing open.

  On table six, a four-top near the windows, there's something covered with a blanket. The profile of a little face, a little girl's flat chest. And Grace's voice says, “Hurry while she's still conscious. Let her see. Lift the blanket.”

  An unveiling. A curtain going up.

  And behind Misty, all her neighbors crowd around to watch.

  August 7

  IN ART SCHOOL, Peter once asked Misty to name a color. Any color.

  He told her to shut her eyes and hold still. You could feel him step up, close. The heat of him. You could smell his unraveling sweater, the way his skin had the bitter smell of semisweet baker's chocolate. His own self-portrait. His hands pinched the fabric of her shirt and a cold pin scratched across her skin underneath. He said, “Don't move or I'll stick you by accident.”

  And Misty held her breath.

  Can you feel this?

  Every time they met, Peter would give her another piece of his junk jewelry. Brooches, bracelets, rings, and necklaces.

  Her eyes closed, waiting. Misty said, “Gold. The color, gold.”

  His fingers working the pin through the fabric, Peter said, “Now tell me three words that describe gold.”

  This was an old form of psychoanalysis, he told her. Invented by Carl Jung. It was based on universal archetypes. A kind of insightful party game. Carl Jung. Archetypes. The vast common subconscious of all humanity. Jains and yogis and ascetics, this was the culture Peter grew up with on Waytansea Island.

  Her eyes closed, Misty said, “Shiny. Rich. Soft.” Her three words that described gold.

  Peter's fingers clicked the brooch's tiny clasp shut, and his voice said, “Good.”

  In that previous life, in art school, Peter told her to name an animal. Any animal.

  Just for the record, the brooch was a gilded turtle with a big, cracked green gem for a shell. The head and legs moved, but one leg was gone. The metal was so tarnished it had already rubbed black on her shirt.

  And Misty pulled it out from her chest, looking at it, loving it for no good reason. She said, “A pigeon.”

  Peter stepped away and waved for her to walk along with him. They were walking through the campus, between brick buildings shaggy with ivy, and Peter said, “Now tell me three words that describe a pigeon.”

  Walking next to him, Misty tried to put her hand in his, but he clasped his together behind his back.

  Walking, Misty said, “Dirty.” Misty said, “Stupid. Ugly.”

  Her three words that described a pigeon.

  And Peter looked at her, his bottom lip curled in between his teeth, and his corrugator muscle squeez
ing his eyebrows together.

  That previous life, in art school, Peter asked her to name a body of water.

  Walking next to him, Misty said, “The St. Lawrence Seaway.”

  He turned to look at her. He'd stopped walking. “Name three adjectives describing it,” he said.

  And Misty rolled her eyes and said, “Busy, fast, and crowded.”

  And Peter's levator labii superioris muscle pulled his top lip into a sneer.

  Walking with Peter, he asked her just one last thing. Peter said to imagine you're in a room. All the walls are white, and there are no windows or doors. He said, “In three words, tell me how that room feels to you.”

  Misty had never dated anyone this long. For all she knew, this was the kind of veiled way that lovers interview each other. The way Misty knew Peter's favorite flavor of ice cream was pumpkin pie, she didn't think his questions meant anything.

  Misty said, “Temporary. Transitory.” She paused and said, “Confusing.”

  Her three words to describe a sealed white room.

  In her previous life, still walking with Peter, not holding hands, he told her how Carl Jung's test worked. Each question was a conscious way to access the subconscious.

  A color. An animal. A body of water. An all-white room.

  Each of these, Peter said was an archetype according to Carl Jung. Each image represented some aspect of a person.

  The color Misty had mentioned, gold, that's how she saw herself.

  She'd described herself as “Shiny. Rich. Soft,” Peter said.

  The animal was how we perceived other people.

  She perceived people as “Dirty. Stupid. Ugly,” Peter said.

  The body of water represented her sex life.

  Busy, fast, and crowded. According to Carl Jung.

  Everything we say shows our hand. Our diary.

  Not looking at her, Peter said, “I wasn't thrilled to hear your answer.”

  Peter's last question, about the all-white room, he says that room with no windows or doors, it represents death.

  For her, death will be temporary, transitory, confusing.

  August 12—

  The Full Moon

  THE JAINS WERE a sect of Buddhists who claimed they could fly. They could walk on water. They could understand all languages. It's said they could turn junk metal into gold. They could heal cripples and cure the blind.

  Her eyes shut, Misty listens while the doctor tells her all this. She listens and paints. Before dawn, she gets up so Grace can tape her face. The tape comes off after sunset.

  “Supposedly,” the doctor's voice says, “the Jains could raise the dead.”

  They could do all this because they tortured themselves. They starved and lived without sex. This life of hardship and pain is what gave them their magic power.

  “People call this idea ‘asceticism,' ” the doctor says.

  Him talking, Misty just draws. Misty works while he holds the paint she needs, the brushes and pencils. When she's done he changes the page. He does what Tabbi used to.

  The Jain Buddhists were famous throughout the kingdoms of the Middle East. In the courts of Syria and Egypt, Epirus and Macedonia, as early as four hundred years before the birth of Christ, they worked their miracles. These miracles inspired the Essene Jews and early Christians. They astonished Alexander the Great.

  Doctor Touchet talking on and on, he says Christian martyrs were offshoots of the Jains. Every day, Saint Catherine of Siena would whip herself three times. The first whipping was for her own sins. Her second whipping was for the sins of the living. The third was for the sins of all dead people.

  Saint Simeon was canonized after he stood on a pillar, exposed to the elements, until he rotted alive.

  Misty says, “This is done.” And she waits for a new sheet of paper, a new canvas.

  You can hear the doctor lift the new picture. He says, “Marvelous. Absolutely inspired,” his voice fading as he carries it across the room. There's a scratching sound as he pencils a number on the back. The ocean outside, the waves hiss and burst. He sets the picture beside the door, then his doctor's voice comes back, close and loud, and he says, “Do you want paper again or a canvas?”

  It doesn't matter. “Canvas,” Misty says.

  Misty hasn't seen one of her pictures since Tabbi died. She says, “Where do you take them?”

  “Someplace safe,” he says.

  Her period is almost a week late. From starvation. She doesn't need to pee on any pregnancy test sticks. Peter's done his job, getting her here.

  And the doctor says, “You can start.” His hand closes around hers, and pulls it forward to touch the rough, tight cloth already prepped with a coat of rabbit-skin glue.

  The Jewish Essenes, he says, were originally a band of Persian anchorites that worshiped the sun.

  Anchorites. This is what they called the women sealed alive in the basements of cathedrals. Sealed in to give the building a soul. The crazy history of building contractors. Sealing whiskey and women and cats inside walls. Her husband included.

  You.

  Misty, trapped in her attic room, her heavy cast keeping her here. The door kept locked from the outside. The doctor always ready with a syringe of something if she gets uppity. Oh, Misty could write a book about anchorites.

  The Essenes, Dr. Touchet says, lived away from the regular world. They trained themselves by enduring sickness and torture. They abandoned their families and property. They suffered in the belief that immortal souls from heaven were baited to come down and take a physical form in order to have sex, drink, take drugs, overeat.

  Essenes taught the young Jesus Christ. They taught John the Baptist.

  They called themselves healers and performed all of Christ's miracles—curing the sick, reviving the dead, casting out demons—for centuries before Lazarus. The Jains turned water into wine centuries before the Essenes, who did it centuries before Jesus.

  “You can repeat the same miracles over and over as long as no one remembers the last time,” the doctor says. “You remember that.”

  The same way Christ called himself a stone rejected by masons, the Jain hermits had called themselves logs rejected by all carpenters.

  “Their idea,” the doctor says, “is that the visionary must live apart from the normal world, and reject pleasure and comfort and conformity in order to connect with the divine.”

  Paulette brings lunch on a tray, but Misty doesn't want food. Behind her closed eyelids, she hears the doctor eating. The scrape of the knife and fork on the china plate. The ice rattling in the glass of water.

  He says, “Paulette?” His voice full of food, he says, “Can you take those pictures there, by the door, and put them in the dining room with the others?”

  Someplace safe.

  You can smell ham and garlic. There's something chocolate, too, pudding or cake. You can hear the doctor chew, and the wet sound of each swallow.

  “The interesting part,” the doctor says, “is when you look at pain as a spiritual tool.”

  Pain and deprivation. The Buddhist monks sit on roofs, fasting and sleepless until they reach enlightenment. Isolated and exposed to the wind and sun. Compare them to Saint Simeon, who rotted on his pillar. Or the centuries of standing yogis. Or Native Americans who wandered on vision quests. Or the starving girls in nineteenth-century America who fasted to death out of piety. Or Saint Veronica, whose only food was five orange seeds, chewed in memory of the five wounds of Christ. Or Lord Byron, who fasted and purged and made his heroic swim of the Hellespont. A romantic anorexic. Moses and Elijah, who fasted to receive visions in the Old Testament. English witches of the seventeenth century who fasted to cast their spells. Or whirling dervishes, exhausting themselves for enlightenment.

  The doctor just goes on and on and on.

  All these mystics, throughout history, all over the world, they all found their way to enlightenment by physical suffering.

  And Misty just keeps on painting.


  “Here's where it gets interesting,” the doctor's voice says. “According to split-brain physiology, your brain is divided like a walnut into two halves.”

  The left half of your brain deals with logic, language, calculation, and reason, he says. This is the half people perceive as their personal identity. This is the conscious, rational, everyday basis of our reality.

  The right side of your brain, the doctor tells her, is the center of your intuition, emotion, insight, and pattern recognition skills. Your subconscious.

  “Your left brain is a scientist,” the doctor says. “Your right brain is an artist.”

  He says people live their lives out of the left half of their brains. It's only when someone is in extreme pain, or upset or sick, that their subconscious can slip into their conscious. When someone's injured or sick or mourning or depressed, the right brain can take over for a flash, just an instant, and give them access to divine inspiration.

  A flash of inspiration. A moment of insight.

  The French psychologist Pierre Janet called this condition “the lowering of the mental threshold.”

  Dr. Touchet says, “Abaissement du niveau mental.”

  When we're tired or depressed or hungry or hurting.

  According to the German philosopher Carl Jung, this lets us connect to a universal body of knowledge. The wisdom of all people over all time.

  Carl Jung, what Peter told Misty about herself. Gold. Pigeons. The St. Lawrence Seaway.

  Frida Kahlo and her bleeding sores. All great artists are invalids.

  According to Plato, we don't learn anything. Our soul has lived so many lives that we know everything. Teachers and education can only remind us of what we already know.

  Our misery. This suppression of our rational mind is the source of inspiration. The muse. Our guardian angel. Suffering takes us out of our rational self-control and lets the divine channel through us.

  “Enough of any stress,” the doctor says, “good or bad, love or pain, can cripple our reason and bring us ideas and talents we can achieve in no other way.”

  All this could be Angel Delaporte talking. Stanislavski's method of physical actions. A reliable formula for creating on-demand miracles.