INCOGNOLIO Page 7

  “Something tells me you’re sleeping over tonight,” I say.

  “Doesn’t take the Faloosh to figure that one out,” Delphia says.

  Muldoon and Delphia are giggling like idiots when I hear Paige scream, “Holy shit! A tidal wave!”

  I look up from my laptop and sure enough, there’s a twenty-foot wall of water surging toward the bungalow.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DEMONS AND GOBLINS AND GRIFFINS, OH MY!

  Paige has prepared a delicious Cobb salad for lunch, and the two of us are enjoying it out on her back deck, facing the placid sea.

  “How’s the story coming along?” she asks.

  “Super,” I say. “Nothing inspires writing better than a magnificent view of the ocean.”

  “Yeah, I love it here.”

  I sip the Chardonnay and then fill my lungs with the salty air.

  “I almost destroyed this place with a tidal wave, but I couldn’t do it. I like staying here.”

  “Were you going to drown me?”

  “I was considering it, but I feel our relationship has potential.” I smile coyly. “Think about it. Two female novelists living together. Rivalry. Underlying sexual tension.”

  “Great stuff,” Paige says. “I just wish I could get going on an idea. I’ve been blocked for months.”

  “You should go see my therapist, Baraka. She’s helped me through several periods of drought.”

  “Could I? You wouldn’t mind sharing her?”

  “Not at all. She has excellent boundaries, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  After lunch, I try to resume writing outside on the deck, but I’m not in the mood, so I go for a barefoot walk on the beach. I wish I could take a swim, but know that the salt water would sting my still-healing lash wounds.

  I’m finished with Jack, that’s for sure. Baraka had warned me not to marry him, but I didn’t listen. Pathologically attracted to angry men, I’m always convinced that my love can heal them. Instead, their anger inevitably turns on me, which I feel I deserve for having failed to induce transformation.

  I’ve learned in therapy that much of this stems from my childhood attempts to rescue my father, a morose man with an explosive temper, whose bitterness was only exacerbated when my brother was born dead. Mostly he blamed my mother, who refused to stop drinking during pregnancy, but I always sensed that he blamed me as well, and secretly wished that his son had survived and not me.

  As an only child with no pets or companions, it’s not surprising that I invented an imaginary friend. I named my vanished brother Muldoon, and the two of us became inseparable. Muldoon was mischievous and made me laugh, and he never betrayed me or disclosed the many secrets I shared with him.

  My parents grudgingly put up with Muldoon, hoping I’d tire of him as I aged. But I didn’t, and by the time I was eight, they insisted on taking me to a shrink. Dr. Schmendrik told me that I blamed myself for my brother’s death, and insisted that only by giving up Muldoon could I properly mourn the loss and start making real friends. He helped me conduct a funeral service for Muldoon in the backyard of the clinic, complete with a miniature coffin he’d built himself. It was that night that I started cutting myself.

  A mechanical beeping sound disrupts my morbid reverie. Looking to my left, I see a cute little girl jumping up and down with a metal detector in her hands.

  “I found something!” she cries.

  Her enthusiasm infects me, instantly eradicating the last traces of moroseness. “Cool!” I say. “Want some help?”

  The girl nods, and we both start digging in the sand. She tells me her name is Scout and she’s eight years old.

  “Have you ever discovered anything before?”

  “Sure, tons of stuff. Yesterday I found a tuna fish can, two quarters, and a belt buckle. Last week I found a jackknife, but my dad wouldn’t let me keep it.” I dig for several minutes, and I’m beginning to think we’re in the wrong spot when Scout yells out, “Look! What’s this?”

  “I’m not sure.” I clear away more sand. “Some sort of box.”

  It’s quite heavy, constructed from an unusual metal that’s blacker than black. Once Scout and I have cleared away enough sand, it takes both of us to lift the box out of the hole we’ve dug.

  “Quick, open it!” Scout says.

  Peels of thunder rumble in the distance. A baritone voice bellows from the heavens: “It is forbidden to open the box!”

  “Who the hell was that?” I say, glancing around.

  Scout looks up at me with eyes full of rebellion. “Nobody tells me what to do,” she says. “Come on, it’s probably buried treasure!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Scout vigorously nods her head, and it seems that her rebelliousness is contagious too, as I’m suddenly eager to know what’s in the box.

  “Well, there’s a combination lock. We need a ten-letter word.”

  Scout tries out several words, manipulating a row of ten dials, each dial containing the entire alphabet. She dials barefooted, watermelon, and everything, but none of them work. She tries randomness, butterflies, and bamboozled, without success.

  “We’ll never get it,” Scout whimpers, as the thunder crackles. “There are too many words.”

  “Try Incognolio,” I say, spelling it out for her. Scout dials the word and the lid of the box pops open.

  “Hooray!” Scout cries. “How’d you know?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  The two of us gaze into the box and Scout groans.

  “It’s empty!”

  “That’s odd,” I say. “Why bury a box with an elaborate lock, forbid anyone to open it, and put nothing inside?”

  As we stare into the box, the blackness within it seems to grow darker. A clash of cacophonous sounds blasts forth, nearly deafening us, and then all manner of dreadful beasts—demons and goblins and gorgons and griffins, dragons and hellhounds and hydras and harpies—all burst out of the box, whirl in a giant circle over our heads, and then fly off in every direction.

  Overhead, gray clouds swirl with furious energy, and as the thunder booms, a form takes shape. The fierce visage of an older man appears, with flowing gray locks, angry eyes, and a full white beard.

  Scout clasps my hand, giving me strength.

  “How dare you!” Zeus growls. “Just like Pandora, you have defied me. Yet more evils are unleashed upon this Earth!”

  “Um…sorry about that?” says Scout, smiling.

  “Your remorse is of no use!” Zeus roars. “You have sealed humanity’s doom.”

  And as quickly as the face formed, it scatters and is gone. Rain begins to fall.

  “Big grouch.” Scout slams the lid of the box closed. “What a meanie!”

  “Don’t worry about him.” I put my arm around Scout and hug her to my side. “Why don’t we get you home?”

  Scout goes shifty-eyed and then pulls at a wet earlobe.

  “You do have a home, don’t you? You mentioned your dad.”

  “That was kind of a fib.” Scout stands up as the rain washes over her. “My parents died in a plane crash last year. My stupid foster parents beat me, so I ran away.”

  “And you’re living on the beach?” I maneuver the box back into the pit and cover it with the sand we’d dug up.

  Scout nods, so I tell her she can stay with me and Paige, and the two of us are running back to the bungalow, lightning striking the ground and the roiling sea, when I experience a sharp stinging pain on the back of my neck and cry out.

  Paige comes out onto the deck, where I sit at my laptop. “Sorry, Micaela. I forgot to warn you about the bees. Come on, I’ve got some benzocaine swabs in the bathroom.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WOMB TWIN SURVIVORS

  “Over two thousand years ago, the Greek philosopher Plato proposed that people are conceived perfect, and then split in half by Zeus. These split-aparts are forever searching for one another in order to join together and regain their original sense of wholeness.�
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  That’s how Dr. Cassandra Didymos opens the meeting of the local support group for Womb Twin Survivors. There are seven of us sitting in a circle along with the doctor, a self-proclaimed expert on the syndrome. Chagrined by my failure to make progress on the novel over the last few days, I have come in search of an alternative source of healing, inspiration, or both.

  “This ancient myth is typically applied to the concept of soul mates, but it also resonates with those of us who lost a twin sibling in the womb. Even if the child is never made aware that a twin has vanished, a survivor often feels that part of the self is missing, and may suffer from a profound sense of melancholy, loneliness, worthlessness, and longing. Underlying feelings of guilt and shame can result in obsessions, compulsions, eating disorders, self-destructive behaviors, difficulty forming intimate or lasting bonds, and a propensity for developing codependent relationships.

  “Some have questioned or ridiculed the idea of fetal memory, but we have found that under hypnosis many survivors can reconnect with the emotions and bodily sensations they experienced in the womb. Hearing the stories of other survivors can also rekindle memories. It is through remembering, feeling, and forgiving that real healing can take place.”

  “But before we begin, there are two newcomers to the group,” she says, and introduces both me and Chester, a man in his thirties. “Why don’t the two of you tell us a little about what brings you here tonight?”

  Chester glances my way, and I ask him to go first.

  “Well, my twin actually made it to term, so maybe I don’t belong here.” Chester looks over at Dr. Didymos, and she gestures for him to continue. “See, Rochester was my identical twin, and we looked so much alike that without clothes, no one could tell us apart.

  “One day when we were six months old, my mama was giving us a bath when the phone rang. Folks say that by the time she returned to the bathroom, my brother had tipped over and drowned.”

  There are several gasps and the doctor says, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, it was bad enough losing a sibling,” Chester says. “But my parents weren’t sure which of us had died, so they flipped a coin and decided it was Rochester. Time passed, and as I grew older I began to wonder who actually drowned. Perhaps it was Chester who died and I was really Rochester.”

  “Does it matter?” asks the woman seated next to me.

  “Damn straight, it matters!” Chester waves his arms. “I could be an imposter, and I’ve got no way of knowing for sure. So I started drinking. Became alcoholic. Sometimes I like to get plastered and take a swim during riptide, half-hoping I won’t be able to make it back to shore.”

  The group goes silent for some time, and then Dr. Didymos thanks Chester and says, “His story illustrates the depth of the emotional bond and shared identity that can form between twins.” Then she asks me to say a few words.

  “My brother nearly made it to term,” I say. “I’m told that he expired just days before the delivery. Under hypnosis, I recalled how close I felt to Muldoon, almost like we were a single being.”

  Several of the group members nod and then wait for me to continue, childlike expressions of wonder on their faces.

  “They say that the late-term fetus can hear her mother’s heartbeat,” I say. “Well, for me, my mother’s heartbeat was muffled and distant-sounding. But Muldoon’s heartbeat was my constant companion, more comforting than the thumb in my mouth. When it stopped, a part of me died.”

  One group member begins to weep softly, and the doctor passes a box of tissues around the circle.

  “Again, this was under hypnosis, so I can’t be certain it’s accurate,” I continue. “But what I recovered was that I had somehow gotten my umbilical cord tangled up with my twin. I believe it was around his neck. Muldoon’s heartbeat started racing. I remember struggling, wanting to help him, but I couldn’t. My brother’s heartbeat, the one sound that calmed and consoled me, fell silent.”

  After another pregnant pause, Dr. Didymos asks me how this early history has affected my life.

  “I’d like to be counted among the worried well, or even the walking wounded, Doc. But the truth is, I’m one of the crawling crippled. I dropped out of high school and have never been able to hold onto a job. I was anorexic for years and used to cut myself just to feel anything at all. I’ve been sexually promiscuous since my early teens, and I always end up with guys who beat and mistreat me. I’ve had mono and anemia and major depression and chronic fatigue syndrome and just about every other damn disease that leaves you feeling half-dead. Underneath it all, I feel empty and incomplete. Not to mention the crushing guilt of knowing that, before I even drew my first breath, I destroyed the most precious thing in the world.”

  By this point the whole group is in tears, and I’m wondering whether it was a mistake to come. The doctor asks if there’s anything that makes me feel better.

  “Writing,” I reply. “I’m working on a novel in which I died and Muldoon survived. But even that’s begun to sour. Today I shifted the story away from my brother, because it’s just too painful.”

  “You must stick with this pain,” says Dr. Didymos. “This pain is what can save you.”

  My ribcage contracts, making it difficult to breathe. “But I’m afraid that Muldoon will die and I’ll have to lose him all over again.”

  “Yes.” The doctor sighs. “I know.”

  By the time the meeting ends I’m emotionally drained, but at the same time I’m inspired because Dr. Didymos’s promptings have given me renewed hope that I can find healing through my novel. Perhaps my desire to keep my brother safe is the reason I’m stuck, and what I really need to do is accept the possibility of having to let him go.

  As soon as I get back to the bungalow, even though it’s late at night, I sit down at my laptop and return to the world of Muldoon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ONTOLOGY OF FICTION

  Delphia and I haven’t left our little love nest in days. Hell, we’ve barely gotten out of bed except to hit the john or pay the take-out delivery guys, the two of us whooping it up with the 12-inch penis like little kids with a fancy new toy.

  Yiddle is living the good life, too—free of her cage, gorging on piles of parrot pellets and leftover take-out. I even had a mate delivered for her, a male African Grey we named Yazzle.

  Hedonism rules! squawks Yiddle.

  True, we have the inevitable visit from Grunt hanging over our heads, but that’s still several days away, and we’re bound to figure out something by then.

  Meanwhile, my fabulous custom-made girlfriend and more-than-generous physical endowment have sent my self-esteem through the roof, and my old feelings of guilt have vanished, now that I realize the Ferris wheel incident in which I killed Micaela was purely fictional.

  All of which makes me a pretty lousy protagonist at this point—largely devoid of inner conflict, external goals, or significant obstacles. But it may not take much, I fear, to topple my house of cards.

  Yiddle flutters about, squawking, Pizza! Pizza!

  I head downstairs, since Yiddle is rarely wrong, and sure enough the pizza delivery guy is arriving at the door.

  I greet him and he says, “Here’s your—whoa, dude. You’re hung like a linguini!”

  “Thank you,” I say. Under other circumstances I would have put on some clothes for his comfort, but since none of this is actually happening, then I’m not really naked. “Come upstairs—I forgot my wallet.”

  Pizza Guy follows me into my apartment, which is a holy wreck. I introduce him to Delphia, who lounges on the sofa in a kimono, applying jungle-green polish to her toenails.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He manages to maneuver the pizza onto the coffee table, which—like the carpet—is littered with empty pizza boxes and Chinese take-out cartons, as well as empty beer, wine, and Champagne bottles. “You folks celebrating something?”

  Delphia smiles and says, “You could say that.”

  “We’re rejoicin
g in our ontological status as fictional beings,” I say.

  Words on a fucking page! squawks Yiddle.

  “I see,” says Pizza Guy. “So, you support Peter van Inwagen’s argument for the existence of creatures of fiction?”

  “Uh…absolutely!” I reply, not having the first clue what he’s talking about, and offer Pizza Guy a chair and a slice of pizza before I plop down on the sofa next to Delphia. “All I know is that I feel real. I don’t see any words or letters here. I see a world around me and I’m in it.”

  “Ah, but what if no one is reading the text? Do you still exist?”

  Delphia asks, “Does the moon disappear when no one’s looking at it?”

  “In a sense, it does,” says Pizza Guy, who informs us that he’s a grad student in theoretical physics at Imaginary University. “Among physicists, the leading approach to quantum mechanics—the Copenhagen Interpretation—suggests that there is no manifest reality in the absence of observation.”

  “Then I’m as real as the fucking moon.” I wipe tomato sauce from my mouth with the back of my hand. “Or anything else in the so-called actual universe.”

  The phone rings. When I answer it, a voice on the other end asks for Schlomo.

  “Wrong number,” I say. I’m about to end the call when something prompts me to ask the caller’s name and place him on speaker phone.

  “Minor,” he says.

  “Minor?”

  “Yeah. Minor Character.”

  Intrigued, I ask him to tell me a bit about himself.

  “Not much to tell, I’m afraid. I interrupt your conversation by dialing a wrong number.”

  “And that’s it?” It doesn’t seem possible. “What were you doing before you placed this call?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And at the end of our conversation you simply vanish?”

  “Apparently. Hence the name.”

  “Right,” I say. “But there’s gotta be more to you than that. I mean, why do you even exist?”

  “Comic relief, I suppose.”

  Yiddle squawks, Hey, that’s my gig.

  “Well, describe the room you’re in,” I say.