The Blessed Page 4

  “What about him was wrong?”

  “Everything, apparently. It’s not even worth talking about.”

  “But it’s worth killing yourself over?” Dr. Frey probed. “Are you angry that it didn’t work out or that she might have been right?”

  She was starting to feel like her mom and the doctor shared a brain. He was reading her, pushing her places she didn’t want to go, and she didn’t like it. “Maybe both. But I believe in love.”

  “Did you feel pressure to have sex?”

  “I didn’t say sex. I said love. True love.”

  “Do you think that may be a bit too idealistic at your age?”

  “How old was Juliet?” she shot back.

  He paused, noting her quick-wittedness, especially under the circumstances. It wasn’t a medical diagnosis, but it occurred to him that she could probably be a handful.

  “But that’s just fiction, Agnes. Fantasy. And look how it turned out.”

  “Without dreams there are only nightmares, Doctor.”

  Agnes felt she’d schooled the expert.

  “There are other ways to solve problems, to cope with them. Therapy, for example,” Dr. Frey explained. “Suicide is not a solution.”

  She took it in, wondering seriously how much of this attempt was a suicide bid or simply a way to get revenge—to hurt Sayer for cheating, to hurt her mom for not being supportive—by hurting herself.

  “I’m not sure there would even be a need for therapy,” Agnes said, “if everyone had someone to love who loved them back equally. Unconditionally.”

  Dr. Frey smiled at her naïveté, or at least that’s how she saw it. Clearly, for him, love was not the only answer.

  “What do you think happens after we die, Doctor?” she asked, her attention shifting to the brain models neatly displayed in the apothecary cabinet.

  “I think you are in a better position to answer that question than I am, Agnes,” Frey said, feeling agitated, as if Agnes were trying to get to him. “You came pretty close tonight.”

  “I mean, you certainly talk to patients all the time who’ve tried to kill themselves or had some kind of out-of-body experience.”

  “I’m afraid the afterlife is above my pay grade,” Frey explained coolly. “I’m a scientist. I don’t spend a lot of time speculating about things I can’t observe, reproduce, or prove.”

  “Life is probably more of an out-of-body experience, I guess,” she said. “But aren’t you curious?”

  “I can only verify the biochemical processes that occur at the moment of death. The collective firing off of synapses, the death of brain cells from oxygen deprivation. If you’re looking for an explanation for the light at the end of the tunnel, that’s it.”

  “In your opinion,” she clarified.

  “That’s what you asked me for, isn’t it? I’m sorry if it’s not what you wanted to hear.”

  “I guess we all find out, eventually, who’s right. Who’s wrong.”

  “Perhaps, but there’s no rush, right, Miss Fremont?”

  The more they spoke, the more she hurt. Couldn’t be the pain meds wearing off yet; she’d just gotten shot up with a ton downstairs. Agnes thought she might even be bleeding, but didn’t dare expose the bracelet in front of him. Exactly why, she couldn’t say. Anyway, the boy had been so secretive about it and she didn’t want to get him in trouble.

  “Are you all right?” He nodded to the nurse to note her distress for the record.

  “I’m fine. Really. I can do this.”

  “We can wrap this up. . . . ”

  Agnes swallowed hard. “No. So you’re saying we’re like any machine, a car engine or a computer breaking down suddenly.” She saw a wry smile on the psychiatrist’s face. “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not very romantic.”

  “No,” he replied. “But it’s honest.”

  “Then why work in a Catholic hospital?” she asked. “Isn’t that hypocritical?”

  “It’s where I’m needed right now.”

  The pain of her wrists was searing and Agnes couldn’t continue even if she’d wanted to.

  Frey made a few notes in her file and closed it, handing a prescription order to the nurse.

  “Are you going to let me go?” Agnes asked, returning to the matter at hand. “Or is my mom going to commit me?”

  “That’s a bit drastic.”

  “You don’t know my mom.”

  “I expect you will be released tomorrow, but I will need to keep you overnight,” he said, eyeing her wrist. “For observation.”

  “Like one of your experiments?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.” He extended his hand almost to force her to reach for his. “Nice to meet you.”

  7 Lucy rubbed her eyes, tossed her keys on the table, kicked off her spiked heels, crawled onto the couch on her belly, and logged on to her laptop. She adjusted the contrast on the screen to see it more clearly and pulled it toward her. The Web address appeared as she typed it. She hit enter and waited anxiously for the screen to change. She’d been stealing Wi-Fi from another tenant’s unsecure account for ages, and access was not a guarantee. Since she’d been on her own, she’d gotten good at cutting corners and funneling all her disposable cash into her outward appearance.

  “No passwords make for good neighbors,” Lucy said to herself as the website loaded, filling the entire screen. There it was on the home page. Just as Jesse said.

  Breaking now: LUnaCY

  Has LULU really lost it? Her mind, that is? Downtown Party Girl LUcky LUcy Ambrose sure did live up to her moniker last night as she was carted from just-opened Brooklyn burlesque hot spot BAT in the wee hours by EMTs and then transported to the Perpetual Help Hospital in Cobble Hill. The pAArty girl was at the club in the VIP room celebrating hAArd at their Halloween couture costume benefit, and what happened next was downright whorrifying! Those close to her say she was found classy smashed, passed out on the floor of the MEN’S bathroom and that she received treatment on the scene. She was released from the hospital this morning for an undisclosed condition. The NYPD were dispatched to Perpetual Help to interview her. Neither the celebutante nor hospital spokesman were available for comment.

  Status: DEVELOPING!

  Click HERE for an exclusive photo gallery of LULU arriving at the club earlier that night.

  As she scanned the page, she nodded approvingly. The photos were good, which meant mainly that it was big. And they’d gotten a clear shot of her new shoes and bag. That was money. And placement, which meant more free stuff.

  “That will travel,” Lucy said matter-of-factly, uploading the link to all her websites. “Heart it, bitches.”

  Lucy began to click through all the other gossip sites. And there it was. Despite it being her best coverage to date, she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Even her favorite pastime—judging others—wasn’t comforting her. She’d had an epiphany while thumbing through the plethora of tabloids that had piled up on her comforter. Rather than just flip through the pictures of stars at awards shows, on vacation, clothes shopping, eating lunch, and getting jealous, Lucy slowed down and spent an extra second staring at each photo. The longer she looked, the uglier they became, and the more enjoyable the experience became for her.

  She measured her life in hits, and followers and status—of both the actual and online varieties—was everything. Not one to wring her hands over anything, she had taken shamelessness to new heights, crashing book parties, record parties, movie premieres, department stores, fund-raisers for even the most obscure diseases, attending the opening, as they say, of an envelope. It was a time-tested technique that could barely be held against her, but it was the fact that she got so much coverage that irked everyone, especially on BYTE, the most influential and widely read blog in town. Thanks to her.

  She thought back to how BYTE began as a vile little online journal authored by Jesse Arens less than a year earlier to settle perceived slights with
his enemies, a snotty clique of blue-blooded party-hopping prep schoolers of which Lucy was a charter member. As was he, for that matter. But it didn’t take off until Lucy came on board, involuntarily at first. Jesse knew that Lucy was not nearly as well-to-do as the others in her circle, that she blew her “allowance” from her absentee father at the beginning of the month, and then, at the end, was hard up and desperate for cash and attention. He also knew her secrets, her mother’s backstory—a source of huge embarrassment for Lucy, and one she did not want shared.

  In an effort to avoid an all-out personal tabloid assault by the release of the humiliating details, Lucy complied. She would secretly provide him with embarrassing information about her high-profile friends, and he would see that every little move she made, everything she said, ate, or wore, would be covered. The more exclusive the info, the more widely read was BYTE, the more famous “Lucky” Lucy or LULU became in turn, which translated into free stuff, gift bags, and coveted invites for her. The “lucky” moniker came from the fact that nobody could quite figure out what she’d done to merit so much notice. With little more than guts and ambition, she’d mastered the fame game. Lucy’s deal with the digital devil had paid off.

  Fame could bring many things: personal appearances, sponsorships, free travel, clothing, accessories, carte blanche at clubs—but there was an even bigger thing that it couldn’t bring her. As she brushed the screen gently with her fingertips and spun through the backlog of personal e-mails on her smartphone, there wasn’t a single entry from anyone she knew asking how she was doing. They had to know, had to have seen the hospital coverage. Not one relative or girlfriend, not one ex-boyfriend, few though there were. Actually, she didn’t have friends anymore, just competitors, sacrifices, distanced from her peers both by her own sudden fame and the means by which she’d achieved it. It was harder to betray people you were close to, even for a media mercenary like Lucy. Especially lately, when her onetime BFFs were becoming increasingly suspicious of her.

  Truth be told, she didn’t miss them until she found herself in the ER and found out firsthand that no one genuinely missed her. No one besides Jesse, but his motives weren’t exactly pure and always came with strings attached. The more frantically she searched for some online sympathy, the more depressed she became. Then the cell phone rang. She checked caller ID and wasn’t sure if she should answer, and then she did anyway. “What?”

  “Didja see it?” Jesse asked.

  “How could I miss it?”

  “We did it again. The site is almost crashing from the traffic.”

  Lucy fought back the sick feeling that began brewing in her stomach.

  “Where are you gonna be in the next hour?”

  “In bed.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Ewww. No. Pig.”

  “Not for a booty call. For a photo call. I need a picture. The premium subscribers want some exclusive content. To see how . . . you look.”

  Lucy was used to being treated like this. As a thing. Mostly she didn’t mind, but tonight things were different. “Can’t you wait until the body is cold?”

  “Not on BYTE. We only run hot.”

  Even our verbal sparring revolves around branding, she thought.

  “Wear something sexed-up, you know, heels and boxers, but maybe no makeup,” he said, art-directing her as he usually did.

  “You’re so gross,” she said, douche chills running up her arms and legs.

  “Don’t be so self-righteous, Lucy. Nobody put a gun to your head.”

  “I wish someone had,” she said. “I’ll send something tomorrow.”

  “I need eyeballs and advertisers,” Jesse insisted. “Now.”

  Lucy crossed her legs and stared at the chaplet. The open eye carving on the charm freaked her out a little, like it was looking right at her again. She looked at it for a second and then turned it around so that the eyes were facing away from her. “Don’t ever speak to me like I’m your bitch. You’re the one that needs me. More people read what I write on my shoe than read your blog. Last word, jerk-off!” she screamed, slamming the phone back in its charger cradle.

  The phone rang immediately.

  “What the fuck’s gotten into you?” Jesse asked.

  “Don’t you get that all this is really disgusting?”

  “I’m not a priest, so don’t waste your time confessing to me.”

  “I’m not looking for your forgiveness, dickhead.”

  “We have an arrangement, Lucy.”

  “It’s forever, Jesse. It never goes away. Their grandkids will be able to search it.”

  “And?”

  “And I have to live with these people, look them in the eye. They know it’s me. I see the look of betrayal on their faces when they read this crap on your site.”

  “Not crap,” Jesse admonished. “Content. That you provide. Besides, you dropped out. You barely see these people except for a few hours across some sticky leather banquet.”

  “I need a break.”

  “You can’t cash checks without consequences, Lucy.”

  “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Jesus, Jesse,” she said, revolted by his desperation at pimping her out.

  “If we don’t get the picture in the next hour, the buzz dies,” he said. She could hear the desperation in his voice.

  “It’s always the next thing—the next shot, the next tragedy, the next failure, the next high. Always chasing . . . something.”

  “Just remember what’s at stake.”

  “You mean like the reputations of people I rat out for a slimy item?”

  “Their reputations,” he began. “Or yours.”

  3 The nurse escorted Agnes out and handed her a plain white Dixie cup with a mint green pill.

  “Take it,” the nurse demanded.

  “No more therapy or anything?” Agnes asked.

  “This is therapy.”

  Agnes placed the pill on her tongue. Stuck it out at the nurse and then washed it down with a swig of metallic-tasting tap water. Normally, she would be reluctant to take such a medication. She only took holistic remedies, unless she was really ill. But now, she hoped that this pill would help her to stop thinking of Sayer, or anyone else she’d ever fallen for. She wanted to be numb.

  “Open,” the nurse ordered.

  Agnes opened her mouth to show the nurse that she did indeed swallow.

  After documenting the proof on her clipboard, she handed Agnes a loose-fitting bleached ultrawhite psych ward top and white scrub pants and then led her down the hallway.

  Once there, she was stripped down.

  Bare.

  All except for her bandage and her concealed bracelet.

  A maze of tiled and mildewed shower rooms beckoned, each with open stalls, steamy windows, oversize showerheads, and ceramic flooring, slightly beveled toward the center to promote proper drainage. In the entry room, there was a little sitting area, also tiled and peppered with drains and a long, wooden, locker-room bench.

  She couldn’t decide whether it looked more like a condemned day spa or the funeral home that she worked at for one unforgettable summer job. While there, it was her responsibility at the end of the day to pull out the hose and wash the hair, nails, flakes of skin, powder, gauze, and whatever else was mixed in down the drain—all of it swirling together with the bright orange embalming fluid, transforming it into a melting creamsicle of runoff. She only worked there for one summer because the owner, the mortician, killed himself. Agnes found that somewhat comforting in a strange way and it had given rise to her preoccupation with life and death that she’d shared with Frey earlier. The mortician worked with the dead, after all; maybe he had some inside info that helped with the decision.

  Then, the washing.

  Agnes was showered. It was undignified, but like so many undignified things, it felt kind of good. The water was cool, not brisk enough to snap her completely out of the drug-addled stupor she was in, but just enough to remind her that she
was a human being—flesh, blood, and five senses. She was suddenly alert enough to cry; warm tears were birthed from her eyes, free falling, mixing seamlessly with the water, until they hit the ceramic tile and disappeared down the rusted drain. She wanted to go with them.

  Agnes dried off and put on her hospital issued “outfit.” There were only two occasions where one could pull off this all-white ensemble—being committed to a psych ward and one’s wedding day. She then was taken to a tiny, boxy room with no windows and a roommate.

  The place was unremarkable, impersonal, resembling a dorm room that belonged to someone who never received care packages from home. The only thing hanging on the wall was a faded picture of what looked to be a religious icon.

  Agnes studied it closely, losing track of time and the fact that she wasn’t alone.

  “Saint Dymphna,” her roommate said in a weak tone. “The patron saint of nervous disorders and the mentally ill.”

  Agnes looked at the girl lying on her bed facing the wall.

  “She was murdered by her father,” the girl said. “See, he was a pagan king and her mother was a devout Christian. When Dymphna was fourteen, her mother died. Her father loved her mother so much that he went totally crazy after her death and tried to get with Dymphna ’cause she reminded him of her.”

  The girl closed her eyes and mustered the strength to continue. “She ran away. And, when he found her . . . he drew his sword. And then he . . . ” She paused and swallowed. “CUT off her head. She was sixteen. Like me.”

  “You sure know her story well,” Agnes said.

  “I’m Iris.”

  Iris turned around to face Agnes. She was sickly looking and sunken-eyed.

  It hit Agnes that Iris knew Dymphna’s story all too well.

  “I’m Agnes.”

  “So, Agnes, why are you in here?”

  After looking into the vulnerable girl’s eyes, Agnes put her arms in front of her and exposed her bandaged wrists.