The entity, p.12
The Entity, page 12
Carlotta straightened in the chair, smoothing her skirt. It was a gesture she made when she was thinking very intently. Already she was accustomed to losing herself in her own thoughts while Sneidermann waited. She had grown accustomed to the ground rules of the sessions.
“If my mind has this power,” she said finally, “to make me see things and feel things, things which aren’t there, or only half there—then I get this chill inside of me. I get a feeling as though some demon has got Carlotta in the palm of his hand, just laughing at her.”
Psychosis was the worst road to travel, Sneidermann thought. It was long and hard and hell all the way. These hallucinations had pointed straight to full-blown psychotic episodes. But now, leaning back in the chair of his apartment, he saw many indications that were more hopeful.
In the first place, Carlotta Moran’s medical history was now available to him. There had been no prior treatments for any kind of psychological disturbance. It is not impossible for schizophrenia to suddenly blossom at the age of thirty-two. But the odds are against it. Normally there is some kind of sign by the early twenties.
Going over the latest meeting also gave Sneidermann hope. The perceptual distortion of the train light had grown out of a highly charged emotional situation. This was more characteristic of hysteria, not psychosis.
It was true that she had a feeling of unreality about herself. Estrangement from reality is a crucial indication of psychosis. Yet, once she calmed down, she seemed to respond to his questions with a full sense of self. Hadn’t she been genuinely concerned for her children at the end of the session? What this meant was that these feelings of unreality were attributes of the attacks, and not a permanent dissociation.
The more Sneidermann looked through the texts piled on his desk, the more he checked his own notes of the interviews with her, the more he searched for an overall, tentative, pattern, the better the situation seemed to appear. Hadn’t she even complained of peculiar feelings inside her during the attacks? That, too, was a symptom of hysteria, not psychosis.
The door opened. Jim entered. Sneidermann’s roommate smiled in a friendly way, then began to throw things into an overnight bag.
Sneidermann watched. Being the only Jew in a dormitory of highly competitive males, most of whom were in surgery, general, or dentistry, he kept himself polite, friendly, but withdrawn. Out of all first year residents, only a few are invited to join the staff—a goal he sought. So Sneidermann abstained from the Southern California social gambit and concentrated on making his way to the top of the class. The free and easy ways in the sun remained for him nothing more than a pleasant view from the window.
“Jim—aren’t you scheduled to take the late afternoon shift next semester?”
“In three weeks. Why?”
“Would you trade?”
“You crazy? Sure. What’s the reason?”
“Nothing. I like the patients on it.”
“It’s your life. It’s a deal.”
“I appreciate it.”
Jim waved with a large grin and left. Down the hallway were girls with tennis rackets, laughing with their boyfriends. Sneidermann softly closed the door.
The more Sneidermann thought about Carlotta Moran, the more she intrigued him. He could not get her out of his mind. He sat down. Then, restless, he stood and paced the floor.
Fears, yes. But not phobic. Her fears centered around something very specific. Obsession, compulsion? None at all. Sneidermann paged through the texts, making notes. Nor is she depressed. She may be later, but at the moment there is no depression. Anxieties? Certainly. He penciled the words “hysterical neurosis” lightly at the bottom of the page of notes. He slowed down, considering it carefully.
Neurosis, because it was controlled unconsciously, and she hated it. Hysterical, because the signs and symptoms began and ended in periods of intense, sexually tinged emotions. Then she calmed down. Once she calmed down, her thought processes seemed normal. Sneidermann rubbed his eyes. His thoughts proceeded almost by themselves.
Somehow, she was like those buildings which one finds in the poor parts of Los Angeles. Something wrong in the construction—they stand ten, twenty years with no problem. Then comes a tremor. Every other building stands firm. Hers goes down in a cloud of rubble, leaving naked girders in what had been a stable personality.
What was it? And why now?
He tried to concentrate on his other cases. He tried to write a letter home. He could not. He finally threw his gym shoes and a sweatshirt into a handbag, went to the gymnasium, and for an hour bashed a handball against a wall.
8:16 p.m. November 11, 1976
An unexpressed darkness settled around the tract home on Kentner Street. It swallowed them all like a black fog, during the day and during the night. It seemed nothing would pierce that fog. It cut them off from reality. Anything outside—a mailman, a child on a skateboard—looked far away, outside the cave they were in, hopelessly distant and illusory.
Whether the television was on, whether Billy was in the house, whatever Carlotta did—it made no difference. They were no longer alone in the house.
On the evening of November 11, Carlotta sat on the couch, sewing patches on shirts and trousers. The girls lay on the floor, coloring. Billy rummaged through a basket of clean socks, looking for a pair.
“Damn,” Carlotta said.
Billy looked at her.
“Look up there,” she whispered.
Billy turned. A crack had formed in the ceiling. Plaster dropped in tiny streams to the rug below.
They all watched it, transfixed. Because the crack was growing. Longer and longer. It grew snakelike in a pattern; then it stopped. The ceiling was covered in a black design, incomplete, and the plaster sifted like flour from the wound.
“Jesus,” Billy whispered between his teeth.
Carlotta finally looked down from the ceiling. The house seemed so fragile. Now the night was all-powerful.
“Does that mean something, Bill?” she whispered.
“No, it’s just cracks. Lines.”
“God,” she said, “it looks so—”
The thought dangled incomplete in her brain. The girls were caught in the labyrinth of fear.
“Mommy,” Julie whispered, “there’s somebody at the window.”
Carlotta whirled.
“Where?”
The blackest of nights reflected her own image, hand held to her own throat, ready to flee.
“I don’t know,” Julie answered, uncertainly.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Carlotta hissed. She kept her eyes on the two windows of the far wall.
“I—”
Billy went to the window. He leaned forward. He cupped his eyes against the reflection. Then suddenly he yelled and threw the windows open, waving his arms. Dead silence. He leaned carefully out. Only the crickets made a noise.
“She just got spooked,” he said, swinging around at Julie.
“Listen, Julie,” Billy scolded. “We’re not playing a game. Do you understand? Mommy doesn’t want to hear anything unless it’s for real. Okay? It’s too important now.”
“I wasn’t playing,” Julie said.
Carlotta shivered. She went to the thermostat.
“Now, Julie,” Billy said softly. “Did you really see something or not? You were playing, weren’t you? Wasn’t it make-believe?”
“I—I—don’t know—”
“Billy,” Carlotta called.
The thermostat was moving crazily. The dial revolved visibly in the metal container, back and forth, bending inside. Billy stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. He reached his hand forward.
“Don’t!” Carlotta cautioned.
He stopped, withdrew his hand.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know much about temperature gauges. It’s not the heater. That’s steady. Maybe the metal band inside got warped or rotted—”
“Metal doesn’t rot.”
“Corroded. You know what I meant. What that little strip in there would do.”
“Would do you mean, ‘would do’?”
“How it goes haywire when it breaks. That’s all I meant.”
“Well,” Carlotta said, “it’s steady now. See?”
The dial stabilized at seventy-two degrees, dipped slightly, then returned.
“I guess it’s working now. That’s normal, isn’t it? Seventy-two?”
“Close the windows, Bill,” she said, turning away.
“Right. See? A cold draft.”
He closed the windows. Carlotta sat in the easy chair, biting her lip.
“And pull the shades, will you? All the way.”
He did so. Now it was silent. Their ears rang in the silence.
“I’ll plaster the ceiling,” he said. “Tomorrow. I can get some plaster in the afternoon.”
“Good.”
But Carlotta was withdrawn from them all. Her face was taut and her heart pounded.
“Hey, Julie,” Billy said. “Let’s play a game of Hearts.”
They produced a pack of cards and dealt out the hands.
“You know how to play,” he said. “You get rid of your hearts.”
Carlotta watched them, heard their voices a thousand miles away.
“The Queen of Spades is the witch,” he said. “Get rid of her.”
“Oh, dear Christ,” Carlotta breathed.
“Okay. You have the two of clubs. Put it down.”
“Dear Christ, dear Christ.”
Carlotta sank back in the chair. Her face was swallowed in the shadow. She barely heard them playing. Waiting.
7
An iridescent, long, red fish slid like an eel through the green weeds. The ocean was vast, translucent, and warm. All at once the fish rolled over and entered a canyon of blue coral rocks, shimmering on the sandy floor. It was looking for something . . . In the mouths of the caves were bright stones, pearls glittering in the blue water . . .
The telephone rang.
Carlotta bolted upright, holding her head. The sunshine poured in through the windows. Billy sat in the easy chair, eating cornflakes and watching the auto races on television.
“What was—?”
The telephone rang again.
“I was dreaming,” she muttered, shaking her head.
She stood up from the couch. She tried to remember the dream. Where was the fish going? Why was everything so beautiful? The telephone rang a third time. The dream disappeared.
“Jerry!”
She pressed the receiver as tightly as she could to her ear.
“Where are you? Saint Louis? You’re supposed to be in Seattle! What? . . . End of the year audit? Well, don’t put anybody in jail . . .”
She twirled the cord in her fingers. To Billy she looked like a school girl excited about a date. The sight disgusted him in a vague, undefined way. He turned away.
“Oh, Jerry!” she said, smiling, but her voice tensed. “That’s next week! The nineteenth! . . . What? . . . Oh, I see . . . Of course . . . I’ll meet you at the airport.”
Now she was fully awake. Excited, she nevertheless felt anxiety. She felt her reserves would hold for several days at most. Flustered, she waved at the television, a gesture for Billy to turn down the volume. But the roar of the crowd and the racers remained loud.
“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice! . . . What? Oh, yes. Me too! . . . I can’t talk . . . I’m not alone.”
She laughed. Billy switched off the set and left the room.
“Julie wants to say hello,” she said.
Julie took the receiver in both hands. Her eyes were shining with excitement.
“What?” Julie whispered. “I can’t hear you! . . . Playing jump rope . . . Jump rope! . . . with Kim . . . Yes . . . I miss you! . . . Here comes a kiss. Ready?”
She blew a kiss into the receiver. She listened intently.
“He wants to talk to Kim,” Julie said.
Carlotta held the receiver to Kim’s ear.
“Say ‘hello, Jerry,’” Carlotta whispered.
“’Lo, Jerry.”
Jerry’s laugh came through the telephone.
“Say ‘How are you?’” Carlotta coached.
“How are you?” Kim repeated in a trembling voice.
Carlotta took the receiver from her.
“You sure?” she said. “He’s right here. Just a minute.”
She turned. Billy was not there. She covered up the receiver with her hand.
“Bill!”
“He went to the garage,” Julie said.
Carlotta’s face clouded. She uncovered the receiver and smiled again.
“I guess he’s gone, Jerry. What? No. I was mistaken. He wasn’t even in the house . . . Oh, yes . . . I miss you so . . . Oh, I do, I do . . . Oh, Jerry . . . Please be careful. I’ll be waiting for you . . . Oh, don’t . . . I hate to say goodbye . . . ’Til next week.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “I love you . . . Goodbye!”
She held the receiver in her hand. Slowly she let it down. She sighed.
“Mush,” Julie giggled.
“Yeah,” Carlotta laughed.
Her mind spun with details. To buy a new blouse. A skirt. Something with embroidery. Where was the money to come from? A blouse, then. Something cheerful. In her imagination she saw Jerry step from the plane, waving at her in that boyish way, stepping down, holding her. They would drive someplace. Other images with Jerry came to her . . . She smiled.
Carlotta crossed her legs. She looked uncommonly pretty today. A suntan had darkened her forehead and cheeks, her arms and legs, and her dark eyes seemed darker than ever. She looked forthrightly back at Sneidermann.
“All right, Dr. Sneidermann,” she said. “You have the tests back. What’s going on?”
Sneidermann swiveled in his chair. It was a gesture his supervisor made. Instead of making Sneidermann feel at ease, however, it only made him feel awkward. He tapped several files on the desk and opened the first of them.
“I don’t have all the answers, Carlotta. But we do know there’s nothing wrong with you medically—physiologically. And as far as we can tell, your intellect seems to function as well or better than normal.”
“So?”
“That leaves only one area.”
“What’s that?”
“Psychological development. Emotional development. Here the tests and what you’ve told me do begin to add up.”
Carlotta smiled. Sneidermann observed that something had happened. There was an inner vitality. Her demeanor radiated a sense of confidence. For the first time, she had a sense of humor about herself. He wondered what was the cause of her new-found determination and optimism.
“Do you mind if I tell you, Dr. Sneidermann,” she said, “that this sounds exceedingly remote to me.”
He chuckled in spite of himself.
“Of course not. The general idea is that certain phases of our lives never really die. They continue to exist within us. For certain specific reasons, they come back. By coming back they cause delusions, anxieties, even hallucinations.”
“So simple.”
“Not at all. It’s as though ourselves, the part that walks around during the day, is full of holes. Shot through with holes. The conscious mind has no problem. Orders hamburgers, reads the newspaper, yells at the kids. But some deeper experience, some kind of structure, crawls up like a magician through a trap door and takes over at very specific moments. For very specific reasons. For reasons we don’t know yet.”
Carlotta smiled. But her hands dropped nervously into her lap.
“What are you going to do?” she said. “Give me a shock treatment?”
Suddenly pity stabbed Sneidermann.
“No, no, Carlotta,” he said. “Nothing like that. Look—think of it this way. We’re going to put a patch on an inner tube. But it’s your conscious mind which has to find out where the hole is.”
Carlotta’s eyes were moist. The idea of sickness penetrated her and filled her with shame. Sneidermann realized that there was nothing he could say to expel that notion from her mind. She stood. He escorted her to the door.
“Goodbye, Carlotta. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’ll get started.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Sneidermann.”
She smiled vacuously, but walked briskly out the door, and was gone before he could say another word.
Sneidermann spent the next hour in the office bringing his notebooks up to date. It was near the supper break, but he wasn’t hungry. A group conference with five in-patient cases—one, an autistic boy of seven—was currently in progress down the hall. Sneidermann decided to poke his head in, for a while, at least.
Leaving the office, he detoured through the main lobby to pick up coffee and a candy bar from the public vending machines. Pushing open the door to the outer vestibule, he saw Carlotta standing at the glass doorways grown black with night. Her reflection was almost full size, as she stood so close to the glass. She seemed afraid to go out.
“Carlotta,” Sneidermann said in surprise, “is everything all right?”
Carlotta turned, startled. “Oh, yes—of course—my ride—I don’t know where my friend is. She’s always on time—unless she’s had car trouble—”
Sneidermann thought for a moment. He was supposed to remain on duty for the entire evening. Otherwise, he could drive her home.
