INCOGNOLIO Read online

  Dr. Miranda shakes her head. “It’s possible you are using this rationalization to hold yourself back from doing some real digging. Many of the great works of literature are about precisely that, delving into the deranged mind of a character who exists beyond the pale.”

  I’m in no danger of writing a classic. Still, the doctor makes a good point. And when I take into account the fact that Fracken’s name—not mine—will appear on the book cover, ruling out public humiliation as a demotivating factor, the only logical conclusion is that I’m struggling with the story because I fear stumbling upon something that threatens my psychological stability. My choice is between courageously forging ahead and giving up writing altogether.

  “Perhaps what’s gumming up the works,” Dr. Miranda suggests, “is that you’ve yet to confront—either in therapy or in your manuscript—what Dick Fracken revealed in Chapter Six, which is that Micaela did not die at birth. The truth of the matter is that you killed her.”

  “Where does the time go?” I say, getting up to leave.

  “We still have twenty minutes.” Dr. Miranda smiles.

  I sigh and reluctantly sit back down. I’m scared stiff of this topic—talk about a can of worms—but maybe ultimately it will do me good to get the story off my chest, and it might jump-start my writing to boot.

  “As you know,” I tell Dr. Miranda, “I am extremely guarded and secretive, prone to hiding my thoughts and feelings from others, if necessary resorting to deception, distortion, and outright lies in order to conceal my true self. This trait accounts for my abbreviated relationships with women, who tend to desire a level of honesty that I’m unwilling or unable to provide.

  “Although we were fraternal—not identical—twins, Micaela and I shared an intimate bond and were pretty much always on the same wavelength. She was so sensitive and intuitive that she knew precisely what I was thinking and feeling at all times. At first it felt comforting to be understood so completely, but by the time I was seven it had begun to feel intrusive and suffocating.

  “Looking back on it, I responded by detaching from my feelings and becoming so alienated from my own self that I no longer felt connected to her. But this disengagement was never complete, and the farther I drew away from her—and from my true self—the harder Micaela pushed to break through my barriers.”

  “Tell me how Micaela died, Muldoon.”

  “I never meant to kill her! I just wanted to scare her so badly that she’d back off and leave me alone.” I take a shaky breath and forge ahead with my tale.

  “I’d been considering various options for several weeks, when an opportunity presented itself. We were riding on the giant Ferris wheel at the amusement park one summer evening, and just as our gondola reached its zenith, there was a sudden jolt and the Ferris wheel screeched to a halt. Recognizing the opportunity for what it was, I grabbed Micaela and made as if to push her off, at which point she looked at me, dead serious, and said, ‘I know you want to kill me.’ This made me so furious that I actually wrestled her out of her seat and dangled her over the edge of the gondola.”

  My mouth is dry as dust and my voice cracks as I describe Micaela’s screams and how people on the ground pointed up at us as I tried to pull her back to safety.

  “But I wasn’t strong enough. I could only hold onto her hands and peer into her terrified eyes. We both started weeping. Finally, after what felt like ages, a fire truck appeared and a fireman started ascending in a cherry-picker bucket. But the thing was too damn slow. The fireman was saying, ‘Just hold on, boy, hold on,’ but my shoulder muscles were blazing with pain. I reached the point where I knew it was over. I told Micaela I loved her, and she slipped from my fingers and plunged to her death.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  PLATFORM SEVEN

  I had hoped to feel some sense of relief after divulging my long-buried secret, but instead I feel empty and numb. So after bidding Dr. Miranda goodbye, even though it isn’t a Wednesday I decide to go visit Micaela, hoping to break through my stupor.

  Taking the #33 bus to the cemetery as usual, I step onto Platform Seven and remember my first encounter with the graveyard after it had been converted into the Revolving Cemetery. I recall how mortified I was, convinced they were deliberately mocking Micaela’s death by building a cemetery that bore such an uncanny resemblance to the very means of her death.

  I place my bouquet of white lilies against the headstone and stare down at my sister’s grave, feeling detached as the platform slowly rises. Just as it reaches the top, I notice dark storm clouds rolling in toward the city. Then there’s a grating metallic sound, and the platform shudders and comes to a stop.

  This has never happened before. I chalk it up to synchronicity—since it seems like such a stupendous coincidence that I should become stuck on the Revolving Cemetery on the very afternoon that I disclose the truth of Micaela’s death for the first time—and curse myself for leaving my cell phone at home.

  It starts to sprinkle. When I walk over to the railing and look down, I see a fellow on Platform Six, and I yell down to him and ask if he knows what’s going on, but he just shrugs his shoulders. I then begin shouting in an attempt to rouse Ol’ Man McNergal, the groundskeeper, knowing all the while it’s pointless, since I’ve learned in my years of coming here that he naps deeply all afternoon.

  Now it starts to rain in earnest, and since there’s no cover I wander back over to Micaela’s grave. “What kind of an imbecile designs a rotating graveyard?” I mutter. Soon I’m thoroughly drenched, the cold wind whipping right through me as I stand there shivering in the rain like an idiot.

  “I’m sorry, Micaela!” I blurt out, noticing for the first time that, despite laboring for decades under the self-generated delusion that my sister was stillborn, her headstone bears two dates. Imagining that I had killed her in utero, an outcome that was no less tragic than the reality, had acquitted me of direct agency but nevertheless failed to entirely assuage my guilt.

  “I’m sorry, Micaela,” I repeat more softly, tears mingling with the rain. “I swear I didn’t mean to kill you. I just wanted to frighten you, to push you away so I could have a little space to myself. Was that too much to ask? To be able to think or feel something that you weren’t aware of. To be able to keep a goddamn secret from you. But you needed to know everything, as if we were one person with two bodies. That’s what I was trying to show you, dangling your body from the top of the Ferris wheel, that we were two people. That we were separate.”

  The platform lurches forward, and I feel enormous relief that I won’t have to spend the night in the graveyard. But five seconds later it stops again, and as the darkness descends I feel the profound weight of loneliness and despair, and I wonder what, if anything, I have left to live for. I briefly entertain the notion of leaping off the railing, but I haven’t got the nerve, so I lie down in the puddle at my feet and curl my body around my sister’s tombstone, clutching the cold marble and imagining that I am hugging Micaela in the flesh.

  I sleep fitfully through a continuous downpour, shivering continuously and awakened by thunder and lightning when not by nightmares. In my final dream, as the rain lets up and the dawn finally arrives, I am floating down a river in an open casket, vultures circling overhead and natives on the riverbank issuing war cries and flinging crude spears toward me. One of them arcs true and pierces my heart. I float down the river with the spear sticking straight up, slowly dying and barely conscious, and just as the vultures swoop down and begin pecking at my eyes, I awaken.

  It’s almost noon by the time they fix the machinery and the cemetery resumes its inane rotation. Though the sun has dried out my clothes, as I step off Platform Seven and head toward the bus stop, I still feel chilled to the bone, am achy from having shivered all night long, and sense a cold coming on. And as I approach the place where I bought the Ink, I realize I would like nothing better than to escape—for any length of time—from my wretched reality, so I enter the alley, wondering if I might be able
to score another hit.

  Aside from a couple of scrawny cats, the alley is vacant, leaving me bereft of hope. But as I turn around and head back to the street I notice some stairs leading down to a doorway, above which is a small hand-lettered sign that reads META.

  I walk down the stairs and knock on the heavy metal door. No one answers. I notice a buzzer and press it, and a muffled voice emerges from a small speaker asking me for the password. I think for a moment and say, “Incognolio,” and the door clicks open.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WORDS ON A PAGE

  Muldoon sneezes as he walks through the door, his face a portrait of dejection, and I can’t help feeling bad for heaping such misery upon him. Then again, a contented protagonist doesn’t make for much of a story. Perhaps if he didn’t take it all so seriously it might take the edge off, or so I thought when I first envisioned our metaleptic rendezvous.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” I tell him, offering the stool next to mine at the bar. “Hey, Smirnoff. How about a Jack Daniels on the rocks for the gentleman?”

  The bartender pours the whiskey and I have him add it to my tab.

  “How’d you know my drink?” Muldoon asks, and then gulps down half the pour.

  “I can read you like a book, Muldoon.” I smile and sip my daiquiri, figuring that the lighting in Meta is too dim for him to recognize me.

  “Huh. What are you, psychic or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Didn’t catch your name.” Muldoon offers his hand. “Micaela,” I reply, and we briefly make contact. “You met a version of me once before, when you were tripping on Ink.”

  “Micaela?” He squints at me. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you only existed in an alternate universe.”

  I pause, wondering how to best frame our discussion.

  Muldoon glances around the room. “What is this place, anyway? Why did I need a password to get in?”

  “It’s exclusive.”

  “I can see that. Aside from the bartender, we’re the only ones here.”

  “Yes, I wanted privacy,” I say. “I need to tell you something important.”

  Muldoon sneezes. I offer him a tissue and he blows his nose.

  “Another round,” I tell Smirnoff, thinking this might be easier if Muldoon’s had a couple.

  He knocks back the second whiskey and says, “Shoot.”

  “You see, I’m writing a novel,” I say. “And you’re in it.”

  “Okay.” Muldoon runs his hand through his hair. “So, do you want feedback? I’d be happy to look at the manuscript.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I say. “But here’s the thing. This is the manuscript.”

  Muldoon frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m writing our dialogue as we speak.” I look for a glimmer of realization in his eyes, but he just stares at me blankly. “This is the scene in my novel, Muldoon, where I inform you that you’re the protagonist in the story I’m writing.”

  “Okaaay.” Muldoon signals Smirnoff for another drink and downs it. “Are you telling me that I’m not real?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. You see, I had a twin brother who was stillborn. I named him Muldoon, and in my novel, I imagine what might have happened if I’d died and he’d survived.”

  Muldoon pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “So, none of this is real.” He throws his glass to the floor and it shatters. “That glass didn’t just break?”

  “Sure, it broke in the story,” I say. “But there are no real-world consequences. That’s what I’m trying to impress upon you, Muldoon. Don’t take everything so seriously. Ultimately, it’s just words on a page.”

  Muldoon falls silent. His expression is sullen.

  “Then you’re not real either,” he points out. “You’re just another character in the story.”

  “That’s correct. I’m a fictional version of myself. In actuality, I’m sitting at my desk and typing this dialogue.”

  “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” says Muldoon. “What’s the name of your novel?”

  “Incognolio. Same as yours.”

  “And what the hell is Incognolio?”

  “Damned if I know. The word just came to me.”

  “Well, I’m fed up with the whole stinking business.” Muldoon gets up to leave. “And I want nothing further to do with you or your goddamn novel.”

  “Wait, Muldoon, don’t leave.” I grab his wrist. “I thought this information would help you.”

  “Help me?” He snickers. “How so?”

  “I don’t know. Give you some distance. Provide a broader perspective as things continue to unravel.”

  Muldoon wrenches his wrist free from my grasp. “Why don’t you just leave me the fuck alone?” He turns and walks out the door, slamming it behind him.

  At first I feel bad, wishing I had handled the situation better. But then I recall that conflict is what drives a good story, so perhaps it’s just as well. Anyhow, I’ll have to worry about it later because I can hear my husband pulling into the driveway, so I save the file and quickly close the laptop. I grab a book and settle onto the sofa just as Jack walks through the door.

  Jack tosses his keys into a bowl and kicks off his shoes. He comes over and sits on the couch by my feet, but I don’t look up from my book.

  “Whatcha reading?” he asks.

  “Cosmicomics,” I mutter.

  “Lame title. What’s it about?”

  “It’s complicated.” I wish he would leave me alone.

  Jack snatches the book and throws it to the floor.

  “You weren’t even reading, were you?”

  I say nothing.

  “Were you?” he says louder. He slaps my face, and my body goes tingly-numb. “Admit it! You were on the damn computer again.”

  “I was just checking email.”

  “Yeah, and working on that story? I know you’re writing about me.”

  I pout, looking up at Jack with my submissive sad-girl expression, and he calms down.

  “I’m sorry, baby.” He caresses the cheek that he slapped. “But you hafta promise me that you’ll stop writing that crap, or I swear I’ll throw out the damn laptop.”

  I tell Jack what he wants to hear and then he slides next to me on the sofa, strokes my hair and kisses my neck. I tolerate it until he puts his hand up my blouse and fondles my breasts.

  “Not now, Jack. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I don’t give a shit.” He unsnaps my jeans and pulls them down to the ankles, along with my underwear. “Get in the bloody mood!”

  I push him off of me and manage to get away, but with my pants still bunched at the ankles, I trip and fall to the carpet.

  “Not this time.” Jack pounces on me, rips my pants away, and rolls me over. “I have my goddamn rights.”

  “Bullshit!” I spit at his face and he slugs me in the eye.

  Temporarily stunned, I just lie there. When he’s done, Jack rolls off me, gets up, and walks to the kitchen. I hear him crack open a beer, and then open the sliding door leading out to the deck.

  I stand up, feeling sore and disgusted, and go take a hot shower. I quickly get dressed, grab my purse, and head out the door. Soon I’m driving down the freeway, in a daze, when I realize that I’m late for my writers’ group, so I get off at the next exit, backtrack, and head to Paula’s house.

  “Jesus,” says Paula when she sees my shiner. She gives me a long hug.

  I walk into her dining room, where Piper and Paige are sitting at the table, thumbing through their copies of the Incognolio chapters I’d emailed to them.

  “Oh no, not again,” says Piper when she gets a look at my battered face. “You poor thing.”

  “When are you gonna leave the fucker once and for all?” asks Paige. “Come stay with me, Micaela.”

  Standing there, surrounded by such love and concern, tears well up in my eyes. But then I feel dizzy and sick to my st
omach, and I fall to the floor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BLACK SNAKE WHIP

  When I come to, I’m lying on the living room floor, surrounded by Paula, Piper, and Paige.

  “Here, drink some water,” Paula says. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  We get up and all sit around the table. Paula hands me a bag of frozen peas, which I press against my eye. Then she pours me some Sauvignon Blanc and tops off the other glasses.

  “I’m really impressed with your writing, Micaela,” says Paige. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “Absolutely,” Paula says. “And your male narrator is really authentic. Writing from the point of view of the opposite gender isn’t easy to pull off.”

  “True,” Piper says. “If anything, Muldoon is more believable than Arielle or Delphia. I found them a bit stereotypical.”

  “I’m portraying them as Muldoon would write them,” I say. “They’re basically male-fantasy women.”

  “Okay,” Piper replies. “That makes sense.”

  “Some of the names are a hoot,” Paula says. “How did you come up with Yiddle?”

  “When I was a kid I had a parakeet named Yiddle.”

  “How about the twin?” asks Piper. “Did you really have a stillborn twin?”

  I nod. “I’ve been obsessed with him my entire life. The guilt I’m left with probably explains why I’ve always been attracted to abusive men.” It may be delusional, and I’d never admit it aloud, but a part of me hopes that finishing Incognolio will finally heal me so I can be done once and for all with men like Jack.

  “Wow,” Paula says. “But you don’t actually blame yourself for it, do you?”

  “Not consciously, of course. But on some level I think I’m convinced I killed him.” I sip some wine. “But this isn’t group therapy, guys. What about my writing?”

  “I think it’s really creative,” Piper says. “But if you want to get published, you might want to make it a little less…quirky.”

  “I know you hate outlining, Micaela,” says Paula. “But it could help organize the story and keep it on track.”