INCOGNOLIO Read online

  “Now, not so much,” says Lamia. “But couldn’t both instances simply be coincidence?”

  “Certainly,” I replied. “But you have to understand that this has been going on since I first took creative writing in the sixth grade. Three months before Chernobyl, I handed in a short story about the meltdown of a nuclear power plant in a remote village in the Soviet Union.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Then in eighth grade I wrote a piece in which an author is assassinated for publishing a novel that was labeled blasphemous by Muslim leaders. Two months later, the Ayatollah Khomeini, Supreme Leader of Iran, issued a fatwa against Salman Rushdie for publishing The Satanic Verses.”

  “Damn,” says Lamia. “I can see why you take this stuff seriously.”

  Now that we’re halfway across the bridge, she halts and steers me around to face the bay. I grab the waist-high railing and hold on for dear life, my extremities starting to tremble. Why on earth did I let Lamia convince me to do this?

  “Try opening your eyes,” she says gently.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Come on, Michael. It’ll help you write the scene.”

  Reluctantly, I open my eyes and gaze out at the bay, focusing on the horizon in an attempt to quell the rising panic.

  “Okay, I want you to gradually lower your line of sight,” says Lamia.

  Grumbling all the while, I comply with Lamia’s instructions, noticing the various yachts, schooners, trawlers, and barges making their way across the choppy seas. There’s a considerable amount of fog, lending to the scene an eerie quality, which exacerbates my anxiety. As I continue to sweep my gaze downward, I grip the railing more tightly and my palms start to sweat. And when I look straight down, I instinctively shut my eyes.

  “What are you feeling, Michael?”

  “Like I want to go home.”

  “Okay, but try digging a bit deeper. I realize that you dislike introspection. But for the sake of your novel, you need to explore your fear of heights. Or is it falling that you truly fear?”

  Uncertain how to reply, I reopen my eyes, and look down from a height of over two hundred feet. The strong and erratic wind currents have whipped the water—usually a dull green—into a turbulent canvas of scudding gray. A windsurfer in a wetsuit emerges from under the bridge.

  “I suppose it’s the falling. As a kid, my friends could never convince me to ride a rollercoaster or drop box. Hell, I wouldn’t even go near a swing.

  “What scared you?”

  “Everything about it. The lack of control and freedom from all restraint. The shortness of breath, racing heart, and jangling nerves.”

  “In short,” says Lamia, “everything that would let you know that you’re truly alive.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But there’s more to it than that. I also had nightmares of tumbling down a steep staircase. I was convinced that I’d die when I hit bottom.”

  “Okay, so you’re afraid of falling to your death. But is that the only reason you’re gripping that railing like we were in a hurricane?”

  My knuckles are white as chalk. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t loosen my grip.

  “It’s odd,” I say, “but I think I’m also fighting off the impulse to jump.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. So, a part of you wants to hop the railing and leap to your death.”

  “A big part.” I sigh, relieved to have finally given voice to my irrational truth. “Hell, if it wasn’t for Gemma, I’d greet death with a smile. But I know it would devastate her.”

  We stand silently. After some time, I feel Lamia’s hand on my shoulder.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” she says. “You’re not going to like it, Michael. But as the Man said, the truth shall set you free.”

  I’m pretty certain I know what Lamia’s going to say, given the way my sister’s been acting of late. Gemma’s increasingly fed up with having to support me—financially and emotionally, since I refuse to submit to a shrink—and weary from decades of fending off amorous advances.

  “I’m all ears,” I say.

  There’s another long pause, and then Lamia eases me around so that we’re face to face, her hands cupping my shoulders.

  “Gemma isn’t real,” she whispers. “She’s like an imaginary friend you created as a child and never outgrew because you couldn’t accept that your twin sister was stillborn.”

  “Good one.” I chuckle mirthlessly, sweeping Lamia’s hands off my shoulders, and step away from her. “Look, if Gemma wants me to move out, I’ll do it. She doesn’t need to enlist you in this charade.”

  “I can only imagine how painful this is to hear, Michael. But I’m being serious. Gemma exists solely in your mind.”

  “Yeah?” Okay, joke’s over. Now I’m pissed. “Tell me, who arranged for us to meet today?”

  “I asked Banister to call me the next time you showed up as his bar. I work out of my apartment, which is two blocks from the Tavern.”

  “Then how in hell did you manage to read my manuscript?”

  “The last time you were hospitalized for depression, Michael, your doctor prescribed electroconvulsive therapy. You were deemed incompetent to give or withhold consent, and as your closest living relative, I was appointed guardian.”

  “And what the fuck does that have to do with the price of beans in Bangor?”

  “You may not recall it, since ECT often wipes out all memory of the shock treatments, but one of the conditions for discharge from the hospital was that you give me the password to your iCloud account. I’m supposed to monitor your writing for any signs of impending breakdown.”

  I wait for a tell, some sign that Lamia’s bluffing, but she appears to be sincere. Her answers to my questions all sound plausible, but if what she’s saying is true—that my twin sister died at birth and Gemma is imaginary—then I’m way sicker than I thought.

  To my surprise, I burst out laughing.

  “That’s it, Michael. Just let it out.”

  My laughter grows steadily louder and more hysterical, and then gradually it transitions into gut-wrenching sobs that convulse my entire body and weaken my knees until I collapse and crumple to the sidewalk. I lie there in a puddle for who knows how long, feeling utterly numb. Lamia sits by my side, strokes my hair, and murmurs that it will be all right.

  Eventually I manage to get to my feet, blow my nose, and take a few deep breaths of sea air. “On the plus side,” I say, “since I no longer need to worry about harming Gemma, there’s nothing left to keep me from killing myself.”

  “Precisely,” says Lamia, without a trace of levity.

  Which makes me wonder why she chose this setting to inform me that Gemma is but a figment of my overactive imagination.

  “If you’ll allow me to recap,” I say. “While perched atop Seppuku Bridge—from which two or three dozen depressives plummet to their deaths each year—I inform you that if it weren’t for my beloved sister, I’d kill myself. In response, you strip me of my sole reason for living. Is that about right, Lamia, or is that, too, the product of my malignant gray matter?”

  “No, that’s it in a nutshell. I realize that this may appear sadistic, but I’m convinced that for you to construct a truly satisfying ending to Incognolio, you must fully inhabit the mind of a jumper, someone willing to plunge two hundred feet and then slam into a wall of water at seventy-five miles per hour, just to escape this vale of tears.”

  “But you’re ignoring the fact that it’s possible to survive the fall,” I point out. “Hell, I could end up paralyzed, trapped in an inanimate body for the remainder of my pathetic existence.”

  “It’s true that there’s a survival rate of nearly three percent,” Lamia admits. “But you can improve your odds of dying by assuming the optimal landing position.”

  “Optimal landing position? Jesus, Lamia, did you edit the fucking Idiot’s Guide to Suicide?”

  “No, but as an editor, I make it my business to avail myself of knowledge
on a broad range of topics. Now, if you dive head first, you may very well survive the fall, but you’ll probably drown, since you’re likely to plunge seventy feet or more underwater.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And if you decide on the way down that jumping was a big mistake, then you probably want to enter the water feet first, and at a slight backward angle. Not only will this limit how far you’ll sink, it’ll protect your head, neck, and vital organs.”

  “Vital information.”

  “But if you truly want lights out, the optimal landing position is the belly flop.”

  “Ah, the good ol’ belly flop,” I say. “All righty, then. Can we go now?”

  “We’re not quite finished.”

  “Not finished? With what?” I’m nearly shouting at her. “I’m not jumping!”

  “Of course not, Michael.” Lamia’s voice is calm, her tone condescending, as if she were addressing a young child. “But to write this last scene the way it must be written, you need to be a jumper. That’s why I’d like you to climb over the railing and briefly stand on the other side, facing the water.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “As your editor, I’m just trying—”

  “Forget the damn novel. You’ve taken away my one reason for living. Why would I give a shit about whether the novel gets published?”

  “Don’t you want some sort of legacy?” Lamia’s gaze probes mine until I’m forced to hang my head. “You dropped out of high school and never held a job for more than a month. Wrote obsessively, but failed to publish anything. Never had a girlfriend, Michael, let alone a child. Living off a trust fund since your mom died. What the hell do you have to show for this pitiful excuse for a life? Christ, you don’t even have Yiddle to take pride in anymore.”

  My poor, sweet bird. African grey parrots can live to be sixty or older, but Yiddle expired at age thirty while playing around with my damned Dustbuster. The final fuck you from an indifferent—possibly malevolent—universe.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THE HUMAN EXTINCTION FUND

  Well, I can hardly dispute Lamia’s grim synopsis of my time upon this Earth.

  And to be honest, I would like to leave some sort of legacy, even if it’s just the literary equivalent of shouting fuck you back at the universe.

  I also find myself agreeing with Lamia that jumping off a bridge provides the perfect ending to my novel. Having the Author fall to his death carries a whiff of inevitability and reverberates with several other falls: Muldoon toppling down Bottomless Boulevard in his attempt to escape the snarling gargoyles; the young Micaela plunging to her death from the Ferris wheel gondola; Misha’s experience during the Wakan ceremony of falling through the Earth and deep into space; and Muldoon leaping from the sixth floor of the Literary Arts Building into the void to find the Goddess.

  Now that I think about it, when I began writing Incognolio, with no clue as to where the story was headed, that too felt like a leap into the unknown.

  “Fine, I’ll finish the manuscript,” I tell Lamia. “But I’m not sticking around to get it published.”

  “I’ll take care of that, cuz, and I’ll do it for free. Where would you like me to donate the royalties?”

  “The Human Extinction Fund.”

  “Worthy cause.”

  Like the true madman I now know myself to be, I start to climb over the railing I’ve been clinging to. Then I halt, with one leg on either side of the iron bar. “I’m not doing this,” I tell Lamia, “unless you stand at least ten paces away from me.”

  “No problem.” She complies with my request. “Afraid I’ll push you, huh?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “And what motive do you imagine would drive me to kill my dear cousin?”

  “You told me that you loved my novel.” I lift my other leg over the railing and then lower myself about eighteen inches until I’m standing on a narrow ledge with my back to the bay. “Perhaps you’d like to publish it under your own name.”

  “Scores of agents know you wrote it,” Lamia replies. “I could never get away with passing it off as mine.”

  “Or maybe you’re sick of the responsibilities associated with guardianship and wish to hasten my departure from this blighted planet.”

  “It appears we’ve entered the State of Paranoia, so allow me to join in on the fun.” Lamia takes a step toward me, but my scowl sends her scurrying right back. “Maybe I wanna rub you out before you murder me, like you habitually tried to kill Gemma.”

  “Hilarious,” I say, and then it occurs to me. “Hey, wait a minute! If Gemma isn’t real, then she never confided in you, so how do you know about my attempts to waste her?”

  Disconcerted by this apparent hole in her narrative, I start to climb back to safety, but Lamia tells me to wait.

  “When your father took off, Michael, your mom became the sole parent of a highly disturbed toddler. Socially isolated, she turned to her sister—my mother, Fallopia—for support. In turn, my mom filled me in on all your antics, including your attempts on Gemma’s life.”

  “Oh,” I say, and climb back down onto the ledge. Dispirited, I slowly turn around until I’m facing the water, my arms spread out like the crucified Christ, hands clutching the railing.

  “Okay, now listen only to the sound of my voice,” says Lamia in a hypnotic tone. “I’d like you to dwell on everything you hate about your life, Michael. Let your worst memories, your most painful experiences, your crushed dreams, flood your awareness. Stand toe-to-toe with all of the misery, guilt, rage, self-hatred, and despair that you’ve ever tried to fend off with alcohol, masturbation, writing, and dark humor.”

  “Jesus, Lamia. What the fuck is this? Affirmations from Hell?”

  “I’m simply trying to usher you into an appropriate mindset. The best way I’ve discovered to do that is to ruminate on the shittiest aspects of your life, to become aware of how you wish you were never born, and to yearn for the sweet oblivion that preceded your birth.”

  “Now, you listen to me,” I say. Still clutching the railing with both hands, I twist around to address Lamia. “I don’t need a goddamn tutorial in feeling suicidal, from you or anybody else. Believe me, when it comes to—”

  Suddenly my right foot slips off the ledge, followed quickly by my left. The jolt pries my hand loose from the railing, and before I know it, I’m dangling in mid-air by my left hand like a chimpanzee.

  Too panicked to form words, I settle for yelping.

  Lamia leans over and reaches for my free hand. When she grasps it, she swings me around so that I’m facing her and tells me to step back onto the ledge.

  I manage to do so, my entire body trembling, my breathing labored. Lamia continues to grip my sweaty palms and peers into my eyes, our faces just inches apart.

  “So, you want to live?” Lamia asks.

  I nod, still catching my breath.

  Lamia continues to hold my hands, and I have the distinct sense that she revels in wielding power over me. Eager to return to solid ground, I reach with both hands for the railing, but my cousin—whose strength surprises me—resists my efforts, keeping my hands immobilized.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “I’m ready to climb back up.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not part of the plan,” she replies, and that crooked grin reappears.

  Before I can ask what plan she’s referring to, a figure emerges from the fog and plants a kiss on Lamia’s cheek.

  “Gemma!” I shout. “What the fuck?”

  Gemma briefly caresses Lamia’s butt. “Nice job, babe. I told you he’s a dimwit.”

  Truth be told, I do feel foolish for letting Lamia convince me that my twin died at birth, and that my imagination conjured up Gemma.

  The two women silently regard me. I’m struck by their beauty, and by the iciness of their gazes.

  “What the hell is going on?” I say.

  “We knew we’d never get you out on that ledge unless
you believed I didn’t exist,” says Gemma, as she slides over and takes my hands from Lamia. “We just never dreamed it would be so easy to gaslight you.”

  “But isn’t your strategy a bit extreme?” I ask. “Hey, I can move out tomorrow, Gem. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Bullshit.” Gemma’s eyes are wild. “You’re a bloodsucker, Michael. A relentless parasite who feeds off my life energy and won’t ever let go. Now I can finally exterminate you, and it’ll look like suicide.”

  “I can change, I swear.”

  “You’ve been saying that since you hit puberty. But you don’t change, do you? I work full time, and yet you never help out with the cooking or cleaning. You contribute nothing to the household, and yet you feel entitled to being pampered. When was the last time you even put the damn toilet seat down?”

  I’m formulating my rebuttal when my sister resumes her tirade.

  “You have stubbornly refused to accept a platonic relationship. When your begging fails and your seductions fall flat, you paw me in my sleep, or get me drunk to the point of passing out.”

  “I have never pulled a Cosby,” I say, doing my best to sound offended.

  “And when you’re not trying to fuck me, you’re scheming to kill me. Just last week you threw an iron into my goddamn bathwater.”

  “Hey, it was set on Spandex, for shit’s sake. If you hadn’t been using Epsom salts you would’ve barely been singed.”

  “See? He’s always got an excuse,” Gemma complains to Lamia. “I should have left the bastard decades ago. Instead, I hung in there, thinking that with enough love and patience I could bring him around. But I refuse to play the martyr any longer.”

  “You’ve got to believe me, Gem,” I plead. “This bridge experience has been transformational. I can change. I’ll be less selfish. Shift the focus from my own trivial concerns to helping other folks. Overcome my anxieties and engage with the world. Maybe even start leaving the house. Just give me one last chance. It’ll be like when we were kids. Like back in the womb.”

  “We can never live in harmony again, Michael, and you know it. You’re far too threatened by your feminine side. You killed me off at birth in your novel, and you keep trying to destroy me in real life. Now I’m ready to be rid of you.”