bitterly, “why only me?”
Dr. Brandt let out a soft sigh. The pulse in her throat glistened and ticked. “You’re already schizophrenic, Pia. Inducing you into a trance would only further your depersonalization. I treated you with the hope of grounding you in reality. For that same reason, I never hypnotized Hayden either.”
“Oh yes, you did,” Hayden said.
She clenched her eyes shut in frustration and her lips flattened into a bloodless line. “You all just make each other sicker.”
Faust said, “Southern State Parkway bear right.”
Pace thought, Perhaps it’s out of necessity. We feed off one another’s illnesses because it’s there we find what we need, what no one else can give us.
They drove in silence then for nearly two hours. Pace kept his eyes on the rearview, watching the storm only a few miles behind them coming on a straight run, chasing them east. Occasionally Crumble would bark or Pia would mutter about her father or mother or sister, all of them dead.
Faust read, “Twenty-seven A, Montauk Highway.”
They were well out in Suffolk County now, on eastern Long Island, about thirty miles past Bayport, the town where Pacella and his wife had once owned a home. Where he tried to share his love of literature with a bunch of kids who stared at him with apathy or such outright hatred that he used to shrivel beneath their gazes. His voice would crack while he read aloud from Poe, Hawthorne, Lawrence, Joyce.
Faust leaned forward and whispered in Pace’s ear. “Are you all right, Will?”
“Yes, why?”
“You’re grinding your teeth.”
“Sorry.”
“You do that when you’re upset.”
“I’ll try to watch it.”
“Feel free to discuss anything with me that you’d like. I’m your friend.”
“Okay.”
They were getting to an area of the island that he didn’t know very well.
Pace said, “Map?”
Faust scratched his beard and asked, “You want a map? I don’t think we have any in the car. Maybe you could stop at a gas station? Do they still hand out maps?”
“Not for about thirty years. I want to talk to Map.”
“You’re remembering more,” Pia said.
“Stop feeding his fantasy, Will,” Dr. Brandt said.
“We need him to live. It’s as simple as that.”
She swallowed another mewling complaint and simply whispered, “For the love of God, how did it come to this?”
“Good question.”
It took a couple of minutes before another of Faust’s alternates rose to the surface. Map was an ex-Wall Street stockbroker who’d lost everything to cocaine and insider trading. His wife divorced him and took their infant daughter to Des Moines. Now Map lived in the bowels of the Manhattan subway system. He spent most of his day panhandling or in the New York Library, memorizing every map, address, and phone number in the world.
Headlights illuminated the interior of the Chevy. Pace checked the rearview and saw Map there. He looked like he’d spent the last couple of days binging on crack. He was thirty-eight and could pass for sixty. His hands were covered with infected rat bites, head knotted with lumps and contusions from being rolled so often in the tunnels.
“Map, we’re on Old Montauk Highway on the eastern end of Long Island, about to enter Bridgehampton. Show me how to get to #11 Rudy Road.”
“You’ve gone too far already,” Map said. It was a little tough understanding him because his teeth were mostly black slivers that had slashed a fair percentage of his tongue away. He couldn’t stop sniffing and the blood sluiced around inside his sinuses. “Double back at the next street. Take your first right and head north up Long View Trail. First left, then a right into a series of curves. #11 Rudy Road is off on its own, about a quarter mile from the nearest neighbor.”
“Thanks.”
“My wife and I used to eat out every Friday night at Le Feu in Southampton, and then walk along the beach afterward,” Map said. The sorrow choked him as he coughed out
Dr. Brandt let out a soft sigh. The pulse in her throat glistened and ticked. “You’re already schizophrenic, Pia. Inducing you into a trance would only further your depersonalization. I treated you with the hope of grounding you in reality. For that same reason, I never hypnotized Hayden either.”
“Oh yes, you did,” Hayden said.
She clenched her eyes shut in frustration and her lips flattened into a bloodless line. “You all just make each other sicker.”
Faust said, “Southern State Parkway bear right.”
Pace thought, Perhaps it’s out of necessity. We feed off one another’s illnesses because it’s there we find what we need, what no one else can give us.
They drove in silence then for nearly two hours. Pace kept his eyes on the rearview, watching the storm only a few miles behind them coming on a straight run, chasing them east. Occasionally Crumble would bark or Pia would mutter about her father or mother or sister, all of them dead.
Faust read, “Twenty-seven A, Montauk Highway.”
They were well out in Suffolk County now, on eastern Long Island, about thirty miles past Bayport, the town where Pacella and his wife had once owned a home. Where he tried to share his love of literature with a bunch of kids who stared at him with apathy or such outright hatred that he used to shrivel beneath their gazes. His voice would crack while he read aloud from Poe, Hawthorne, Lawrence, Joyce.
Faust leaned forward and whispered in Pace’s ear. “Are you all right, Will?”
“Yes, why?”
“You’re grinding your teeth.”
“Sorry.”
“You do that when you’re upset.”
“I’ll try to watch it.”
“Feel free to discuss anything with me that you’d like. I’m your friend.”
“Okay.”
They were getting to an area of the island that he didn’t know very well.
Pace said, “Map?”
Faust scratched his beard and asked, “You want a map? I don’t think we have any in the car. Maybe you could stop at a gas station? Do they still hand out maps?”
“Not for about thirty years. I want to talk to Map.”
“You’re remembering more,” Pia said.
“Stop feeding his fantasy, Will,” Dr. Brandt said.
“We need him to live. It’s as simple as that.”
She swallowed another mewling complaint and simply whispered, “For the love of God, how did it come to this?”
“Good question.”
It took a couple of minutes before another of Faust’s alternates rose to the surface. Map was an ex-Wall Street stockbroker who’d lost everything to cocaine and insider trading. His wife divorced him and took their infant daughter to Des Moines. Now Map lived in the bowels of the Manhattan subway system. He spent most of his day panhandling or in the New York Library, memorizing every map, address, and phone number in the world.
Headlights illuminated the interior of the Chevy. Pace checked the rearview and saw Map there. He looked like he’d spent the last couple of days binging on crack. He was thirty-eight and could pass for sixty. His hands were covered with infected rat bites, head knotted with lumps and contusions from being rolled so often in the tunnels.
“Map, we’re on Old Montauk Highway on the eastern end of Long Island, about to enter Bridgehampton. Show me how to get to #11 Rudy Road.”
“You’ve gone too far already,” Map said. It was a little tough understanding him because his teeth were mostly black slivers that had slashed a fair percentage of his tongue away. He couldn’t stop sniffing and the blood sluiced around inside his sinuses. “Double back at the next street. Take your first right and head north up Long View Trail. First left, then a right into a series of curves. #11 Rudy Road is off on its own, about a quarter mile from the nearest neighbor.”
“Thanks.”
“My wife and I used to eat out every Friday night at Le Feu in Southampton, and then walk along the beach afterward,” Map said. The sorrow choked him as he coughed out
Similar Books
