Bleeding Dyad

Bleeding Dyad

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The pain, this feeling of inadequacy, is there with you, and although the seed of it was never recognized as a seed belonging to it, as a seed made of it—pain—they planted it still, in your making, ignorance at the center of their factice bliss, this justification—they didn’t know; did their best.

But you, you do, now. Know. Should understand. Still, you remain tongue-tied as much as heart chained. Is it a brain thing? A personality disordered forever?

And all I wanted was you.

You arrived five years after I was born. You arrived with your eyes slit; with eyes that would rival the green of mine, with skin already hinting of a pigmentation unknown to our genes, like some exotic human all leaned over with acceptable lust.

The pictures of you speak to me.

You arrived on a day befitting as much as telling—Halloween night. An early winter storm pushing autumn leaves into the air, tearing ripe stems from their branches, and Mom was in the hospital preparing for you to arrive. But I don’t remember—any of it. I don’t remember Mom being pregnant, the blooming of you in a body toxified by nicotine, foul thinking; some form of mental illness. I don’t remember Dad fussing over the impending arrival of trouble, this soon to be you: intelligent and beautiful trouble.

The pre-prandial leading to you was never heeded.

I was with our grandparents, at their home, babysat by our aunt, my godmother. I didn’t know I was waiting, to wait for you. No words resound in the box that hold my memories. But memory is like bohemian, isn’t it not? It plays the music it wants to hear; it dances with trickery—it steals, too. I suppose there was an energy that night, a prolepsis, with the promise of new scents and feels, the soon-to-be discovered features of a newborn, newly etched features to muse over. Such hope is placed upon each of our entrances.

You were not spared that hope.

My only concern that night was to become gypsy-like, to trot the narrow streets of a small French-Canadian village with a leopard printed turban on my head and blue laden eyelids and pink lipstick painting my five-year-old face. This obsession, my only want: to slide into a costume that would make me feel noticed; make me more. I often wonder, when revisiting this eve of your coming, how it was the virus had successfully been injected inside my nascent mind. This disease, the feeling of not being enough, a seed like an ovule.

 I guess we each caught one.

It was cold that night, the winds, turbulent, and the few lampposts planted along some of the streets, I see them still, swaying, and snow, like white winged moths fluttering to the light. Such vividness. A rare one.  Our aunt insisted I slide my dress over a snowsuit, a blue puffed-up winter attire, inform and grotesque to my precocious sense of esthetics. I threw myself on the linoleum of the kitchen floor in a rage, legs and arms batting, I was told. Held my breath. Became blue. I was sent to bed.

My remembrance of you, the prologue of you, never existed. Unlike you, this little you I got to meet two days later, Mom walking inside grandmother’s kitchen, Dad in tow. Surprised, I didn’t understand, this stranger, there—what? now, noisy—idle. And Mom’s smile, a Mona Lisaesque grin sketched across the bottom of her face with eyes that seemed dead. Dad walking up to me, a yellow and purple Fischer Price fishing rod in his hand. Here Adeline, she brought you a gift.

She?

I’ve searched, Coco, so often, and still do—the answers always come, hypotheses, revaluated always, the disbelief equal to the grief—about this lack of foundation between us, and I wonder, if you do, too, understand why we were never capable of playing; of caring; of laughing; of loving, as sisters.

After your birth—six months later, came our move to Churchill Falls, Labrador, a then satellite town that would become a permanent fixture in a landscape of rectangular trailers, metal sided and white, standing on soils, and the hard, granular sands I played in, always dressed in some Sears catalog Mom ordered from the comfort of her small kitchen, cigarette hanging from her red, pulpous mouth. And from that trailer we should have called home, a bond never formed, for you and I were baptized by the cold, Coco, by the subarctic’s constant simmers, the relentlessness of the boreal climate.

The sun, anyhow—always so deceptive.

A photograph of us, I come back to it, often. Our living room, pre-furnished like the rest of the trailer, a couch made of dark colonial wood, upholstered with green and orange polyester fabric that reeked of smoke. Kneeling on the cushions, you in my arms, we are facing one another: two sisters wearing the same onesies, white and red Christmas pajamas, me holding you, your eyes melting into mine as I tie the thin ribbon underneath your chin.

What happened, Coco?

No memory of you anywhere we lived. A blank the color of dry, icy snow, banks of it, taller than you and me.

The permafrost won and has followed us everywhere once your existence came to be recognized—remembered now, by me.

The gaze I see in that photograph, so trusting—it disappeared, it seems. I don’t know when it died, as I don’t recall.

Remember?

The smell of your baby hair, the kisses, the holding—a non-start; my senses, numb.

The truth had to be sculpted out; and time, its knife—what I know now follows me like diced-up-shivers we came to life from. For years now, this forever malice sparkling in your green eyes, a light that whispers of somber—the world around me seeing it: family, strangers, telling me about the predator in you, this capacity to betray love, closeness, intimacy. And your smile, epicaricacy living on a face blessed with symmetry around which hair, black and straight, frames your paragon. Christie Turlington, they said, each time my friends met you: a beautiful Algonquian-like woman. And me, fair-skinned, freckled face, and frizzled, rustled hair like a large, brimmed hat waving around my head, rusty looking. Yet, I never envied you. Same green eyes, though, jealousy-colored. But yours were always greener, Coco. Your heart like a snake, mine like a lost leprechaun’s.

As absurd as it sounds—when one looks for answers, anywhere, and nowhere delineating hope as a mirage capable of quelling—I have wondered, wanting to be wrong: Narcissism, the burglar?

My own features—were they the source of a hatred meant to stay? I’ve wondered for some time now: Had they spoken to you, too loud—and saying what? And do you remember? Me walking to the dog’s crate and picking up one of her puppies; the narrow space adjacent to Dad’s stereo, the shelves made of thin, tempered glass. Your foot, you dragged so very slowly—the lazy motion of a child’s nonchalant being, yet all too studied—in front of me; you tripped me. It was quick, painless—my fall, headfirst into the shelves, the broken shelves, chards of glass planted into the fabric of the thick carpeting. The noise alerted her, and Mom appeared from the hallway, at first angry at being interrupted—she was playing solitary, I think­­—but then a grimace distorted her mouth. I thought it was because I had been the cause of the mess. No. My face. My left cheek, diagonally sliced three inch long and one inch deep. My forehead, too, a two-inch horizontal cut. The soft trickle of warm blood dripping on my face. Then, her yells. You will be disfigured for the rest of your life. On repeat. It didn’t hurt then. Only when the scar tissue started to thicken did the pain settle inside the center on my cheek. My forehead, too.

Years later, and the hope that all of it is imagination.

The ground we grew from, the only culprit.

It must be.

I speak to Dad about us, you know, regularly, a tragedy for him, for Mom, as well. The sisters that could never be. The family broken even before they broke it for real. He blames it on her. The storm was always her, he said—words brewed from inside a man-fed mind and sharpened by religious dogmas—never the indulgences, the many reoccurring ones, philandering realities rationalized and stoking her already fragile mind.

I was conceived with love, that I know, now, coming into the world a wanted human; wanted for my innocence; wanted, for they had something to give.

Do you know why you were conceived, Coco?

Two years ago, seated across from one another, a bottle of Argentinian red splitting the table, Dad told me, the marriage was wobbly and fight-filled, and I do remember before you became cogitation: flying dishes, screams, tears, physical fights, as a one-year-old, a two-year-old; three-year-old. Me, the witness. So many tears, and the yelling coming from her. Distraught, he sought advice from his father, this human of the land only. The answer coming from the farmer’s mouth was quick: Make her another baby—a peasant’s guide to survival.

Think of it, Coco, you owe your life to that moment.

A piece of the puzzle—surely.

This impossible mission drawn up and placed inside flawed thinking; inside our mother’s belly. And when the thought was formed, filled with nothing more than a weight no one should ever carry, unfair, and cruel, Dad wanted to leave Mom for another woman whose husband had died; whose husband shared the same birthday as his; whose daughter carried the same name as mine, born on the same day, too. They set you up, born to fail; this failure having been laid upon you, from before you were soft flesh and malleable bone. And were you not ... seen just as a thing? Dead on arrival, your soul?

I am no better than you, Coco—I think of myself as a failure, and yet, what is my excuse?—born from love, I still was unable to keep them together.

And I lost you.

I still hope, Coco, that you will someday learn to untie your tongue; unchain your heart and set it free.

Do not let the cold win, more, Coco, and come and revisit us—and just us, and not them, somewhere, sometime—on warmer ground.

And my perch will be, this only way of existing for me, now—words.

These words. Will you take them?

___________________________

You’ve been sitting here silent for the better part of the session. We have fifteen minutes left before the end of the hour. Is there something you would like to leave me with?

A part of me does. The other part wants to go.

Ah. Your voice. Its calmer now. You seemed agitated earlier. You mentioned something about a letter. Would you like to talk about that?

I’m not sure I can just now.

All right then. Is this your first time?

I’ve seen some of your kind a couple of times in the past.

Our kind ...

Well, you know, the so-called helping kind.

Right. And thank you for giving me a chance to hear you out. The last time was ...?

I get tongue-tied, until I don’t. The last I finished was two years ago.

It lasted ...?

Both times were CBT in spirit. Both of them, extra small terms. Turns out it should have been long termed interventions.

Because ...

I’m here. And you’re a known figure in the guru world. Of help.

You’re here because of curiosity.

I’m everywhere because of it.

Okay. For curiosity’s sake, how would you like to leave today’s session?

What do you mean?

Okay. How do you want to feel when you leave my office today?

I want to leave knowing you find me attractive.

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

It was a joke.

You switch gears fast, I see ...  Glad to hear it’s a joke. Now ...

It’s a small order for today, Dr Einstein.

It’s Rubenstein.

Yeah. I know that, too.

I see where this is not going. Let me help y—

Light. I want to feel lighter.

Thank you, Coco. So. Working with me will be about working with yourself. Your accountable for your progress. I put in the work if you put in the work, too.

Short-term?

Coaching is usually a short-term intervention, yes. A goal and process oriented one. Still, I’m a psychiatrist, too. And I’m a big fan of everything humanistic, the humanist school of thought. A big influence. I like to think that when you put them all together, it’s a good combo. Let’s say my process is in the middle of short and long.

No short-term, then.

Whatever term. I want my patients to be functional. They are functional when they no longer need me.

I understand.

Why did you consult in the past?

They all had to do with work. Work related issues.

Okay. How would you qualify the sessions you had?

It doesn’t stick. Once I reach the fourth session, I can’t seem to go on. Pursue. I become mute. I qualify them as failures, I guess.

I see. What has changed since?

I think I’m ready to find out. What’s wrong with me.

You weren’t before?

That’s pretty much my understanding.

What triggered you wanting to seek help the last times?

Compliance, to be honest. Pressured by work. Employee assistance programs. The proverbial gun to one’s head.

And this time?

The same.

Are you sure?

Let’s pretend I am for now.

All right. Let’s get the basic down, shall we?

Fine by me.

Married?

Yes. Twelve years.

Kids?

Four. All girls. Twins, ten, Chloe and Josephine. Cara, seven. Marianne, five.

What do you do for a living?

I float from job to job. Keep getting fired. Behavior problems they all say.

They say ... You don’t seem to agree.

Depends on the day. That said, I’ve been in agreement with that since the week before I called you for an appointment.

What were the issues?

Hum. Let me think ... Before an audit I knew was coming, I “mishandled” corporate documents—I work in HR. I forgot to have a few employees sign their in-boarding document, had them sign a year later, told them not to tell anyone. Well, they told on me. Then, my last job, I came in drunk to the office one time too many. Lots of flirting, as well. Married men. High profile married men. Oh, a fight too. Someone’s’ wife, at the workplace. A hardcore bitch slap.

Hum. Do you consider yourself to be a violent person?

Difficult to deny that I am with what I just shared. Yes, I can be, but not so often. With men usually. Hitting a woman was a first.

With words, too?

In that field, I’m the best.

On the on boarding thing, it seems a bit benign. Why didn’t you just go and explain to your boss? We all make mistakes.

Because my performance review wasn’t all that good already ... I was flagged. On probation.

It puzzles me. It’s simple postdating thing. Easily understood.

The in-house lawyer didn’t think so. My view on things, my genuine lack of transparency, she said. A question of integrity.

Where was this?

I can’t say but imagine a big big accounting firm.

This was your last job.

Yes.

Why did you get in a fight?

The woman showed up in my office. Couldn’t stop yelling. She was out of control. I slapped her too hard, I guess. Lucky for me, she didn’t press charges.

I would say. You had a thing with her husband.

The CEO.

Betrayal, that type of hurt can unleash a storm.

They weren’t happily married anyway. I think I did them a favor, too.

Ah. And your husband knows, about your affairs?

No. I keep my side pieces well hidden.

Even this time around?

So far, yes.

What does your husband do?

Colin is a civil engineer, works for the government. Hydro.

Do you think that you have a drinking problem?

A small one, I suppose. Wine.

You sound like you understand quite well what the trouble is.

I don’t know the source, though. How to stop it, mostly.

You want to stop.

I’m here, aren’t I? My girls ...

You want to do it for them—get better.

I suppose I do. I was always in love with the number four, unlike the Asians I look like. I was always fascinated by families that had four children. The ones I know of seem stable, loving. Exempt from turmoil. The magic number. Four.

But not for you.

No.

I see your eyes ... something different.

Don’t worry. I rarely cry.

Hum ... okay .... What is your occupation now?

Not employed at the moment.

Right. And when you float from job to job, what job is it we’re talking about?

I’m in HR, like I told you. Remunerations. Pensions Funds. Numbers are my game.

You like to play with them.

Very much.

And you work with people ...

A big problem. It seems I’m not so good with “people relations.”

Why HR, then?

My undergrad, a double major. Mathematics and Economy. I needed to go on to a higher level of study for a chance to have a career in that. But didn’t feel like keeping on to uni. I started in recruitment. I had friends who were making lots of money in recruitment. Headhunting jobs. I started there, and tried to steer toward my forte, numbers.

Okay. Lots to work with here. Good work, that is.

Glad you think so.

You’re not here just because of work issues, are you?

True.

All right, good. Are you up for homework?

Do I have a choice?

Of course, you do, and you know it. It may help you reach beyond the fourth session.

I’m familiar with the concept of wasted time, Dr Rubenstein. I’ll give it a go. Besides, you’re not cheap.

All right, then, Coco. This is what I would like you do, if possible: From a quiet place, anywhere—somewhere in your house, a coffee shop, a park—I want you to find a moment in your life—it doesn’t have to be recent; it doesn’t have to be from deep in your past either, it’s whatever speaks to you—when you felt in control of yourself. Where and when you have touched it. Control. A good feeling of control. Then, I want you to take this time between now and our next session to think about what you really want to achieve here with me. Write one goal down that seems realistic, that you would like to reach—

How does one measure these types of goals, Dr?

Interesting—no one ever asked that before. My yard stick is about what lives inside of you. What comes out.

Emotions.

Call it that ... is all okay?

I don’t feel any lighter.

___________________________

When she walks inside the house, water dripping from the brim of her hat, her coat soaked with rain, the girls are seated at the dinner table, a board game spread across it, unaware of their mother’s return. Coco watches them from the entrance—this order. The wine has rushed into the stream of her; she skipped dinner. Hey girls, she says, I’ll be in my room. Chloe, you’re in charge.

The stairs she climbs, a hand gripping the ramp, and reaches the landing. From there, with tentative feet, she walks into a bedroom still alive with light; and her eyes find the unmade bed. Quickly, she undresses and drops her clothing onto the floor. The covers twisted and bunched at the foot of the bed, and she pulls them to her neck. Right, she thinks, as she flicks the bedside lamp off, and closes her eyes—the board games.

Short bangs hung straight from her head high above her eyes, a page-like hairdo, and her right eye started to wander. Still wearing her snow pants, she sat in the family room and from underneath the bridge of her eyeglasses, sweat, slimy and hot had formed. The glasses slid further down the slope of her nose, and she pushed them back up, looking at the television set. With her dog Michi at her feet, she heard the noise, the yells—the pulling down of the telephone from the wall. She stretched her arm to the coffee table and grabbed the Rubik’s Cube, her eyes no longer following the movement of the cartoon characters on the screen—the colors she wanted to play with already in her hands: white, orange, blue and green. The Rubik’s Cube felt cold to the touch as she swiftly slid each row until order had been found on each of its surfaces—in thirty seconds. Harmony achieved—control.

I was seven, she whispers to herself.

___________________________

Why don’t you still use the cube?

I’m embarrassed by my speed.

The speed at which you complete the cube?

Yes. I think it’s because I became a curiosity early on, in school, in class, at home where my parents showed me off. And I didn’t like it. People laughed at me, too. I used to wear thick black glasses, you know. Esotropia. Looked like your typical nerd. The cube thing made me look like a perfect one.

Strabismus.

Yes. My eye wandered early on. Funny.

But you do like attracting attention.

Not because of my brains, I don’t.

You preferred to rely on your looks.

My brain doesn’t gather the men I want around me. The only pleasure I get from them is when I humiliate them. With my brain. And by rejecting them publicly. I’m sure they’ve became Incels by now.

Because of you.

Yeah. I’m pretty bad.

I see. Going back. The cube had been a source of calm most of your childhood, no?

I guess so.

You’ve replaced it with what?

Until I hit high school, walking my dog, my rabbit, too. I continued playing with the cube, timing myself. In my room.

Once in high school?

Alcohol. Promiscuity.

Were you as sharp with your answer with the other therapists?

Should you ask me such a question? Sounds demeaning. To me. To them, too.

Let me articulate my thought better: I find you quite capable of putting your finger on the right spot. From what you’ve shared, from before your previous tries. Let’s say, I’m impressed.

I know how to impress.

I’m sure you do. And this is not my first rodeo either, Coco.

What a cliché thing to say. And I’m a good cowgirl.

Coco.

A joke.

Right. Okay. Let’s examine your goal. It reads here, in quite perfect calligraphy, I must say, that you want to become a better person. That you want to touch flow.

I think I can do better. Clearly.

You want to?

I think so.

You seem to have a high degree of awareness.

I’d like to stay aware. The problem is that it comes, and it goes. Or sometimes I ignore what it tells me. Then I get in trouble.

What type of trouble?

I already told you. I lose my jobs. It’s becoming a problem.

And the letter ...?

I’ve been trying not to think about it.

Yet, you’re here in part because of it.

Life’s a paradox.

Give me something. To yourself, too. I gather you won’t tell me who it’s from.

Right.

Okay, then. Can you tell me how you felt when you got the letter?

Surprised. Then angry.

Your face shows more sadness than anger.

Maybe. I’d rather move on.

Okay. Your losing your job, does it impact the family finances?

No. We have money. But everyone around me is starting to get suspicious. They ask too many questions. I lie about why I don’t work. This time around I told Colin, my family as well, that I want to go into philanthropy. Start a foundation.

Do you?

No, sir, I do not.

What were the reasons given before, for you leaving your jobs?

That I was harassed. That the job was below my competencies. That the job was above my competencies. That the boss had fallen in love with me.

All lies.

All lies.

And ... what would a better Coco do? How does she achieve her flow?

Good question ... She doesn’t cheat. She forgives and is patient. Has empathy. A better Coco makes a fist but keeps it by her side.

You’ve given this some thought ... And what does she look like when she has empathy?

She walks tall, her hair in a bun and she wears leather. And she smiles a lot.

Leather?

Yes, why the hell not?

What about the alcohol?

Less alcohol makes Coco a very dull girl.

Dull? Or it helps with awareness?

If you say so.

Where else has your behavior caused you to suffer?

You see, I’m’ not sure I suffer so much. Or, using the operative word of the day, I’m aware of the impact my flaws have around me. I can understand and see when someone hurts.

But you don’t care.

But I don’t care. My marriage is okay, considering my wandering eye.

Do you wish to leave your husband?

I don’t know.

As a better Coco, you mentioned nothing about motherhood. The girls, how are you with them?

I think it’s the place where I feel the most competent. Where I seem to do little damage. Less damage. With them there is a current I’ve rarely felt before. I love them. They know it. They love me, too. It’s my fuel.

Your parents ...

A sham of a union. My dad was—is still—a philanderer. And my mom, what she flirts with is ... well, craziness.

I understand. Yet, you see a pattern, the same, in your life ... you seem to ... How do you reconcile betraying your husband with remaining in your marriage?

I don’t, actually. It’s the awareness thing, again, you see. I am aware of what I am doing. I just don’t care as much as I should. The shame is never there. Or almost ...

What do you mean by that? Almost.

I don’t think I’m ready to go there.

The letter?

The letter.

All right. This is a perfect place to stop, then. What do you think?

It’s always a good place to stop.

Homework.

I figured.

This time, I would like you to you to find an image, a symbol, a song even—whatever comes to mind—that you think represents you, Coco, as a better person. Bring it to the next session.

A picture of a better me.

In two weeks.

Oh. Why two weeks?

I’m off to a conference in Mexico tomorrow.

What’s it about?

Cluster B disorders.

Interesting.

Isn’t it.

Well, like I said, Doc, four is my number.

___________________________

The photo albums are spread on the unmade bed, the bottle of red stands atop the night table. Glass in hand, she slowly turns the pages and looks, scrutinizing. It’s been twenty years since she last flipped through them, and the same feelings, the same voids. Such obscurity. The photos shine—the black projected by her sight, reflected by her retina. She and her parents. Cross-country skiing. Snowshoeing. There is a smile on her face, in her eyes, the one eye still wandering, not yet surgically corrected. And then ... that picture; that day—a winter picnic, of her beside the snowmobile she had ridden up the skinny trunk of an old black spruce, its needles carpeting the blinding snow. She had mistaken the accelerator for the brakes, climbing up the tree, and driven the steering into her stomach. I’m dead! she had screamed, I’m dead! A hearty laugh reaching her, them, so alive in the picture, one could possibly hear it, just looking at it. The smile now is tentative, and she lifts her fingers to the page contouring her sister—Adeline’s silhouette. You, she thinks ... and she looks up, at her daughter Chloe walking into the bedroom, an open binder in her hand. Okay, she tells her, leave it with me. I’ll read it tonight and give you my take on it tomorrow at breakfast.

___________________________

How was the trip?

Quite good, thank you. Full, sunny days.

You went alone?

I brought Renée.

Your wife?

Yes.

She’s not bored when she goes with you?

Quite the opposite. She’s a psychologist.

The power couple, as we say. How long have you been married for?

Twenty this year.

Children?

Unfortunately, no—

I’m sorry. I was just being curious.

Yes, curiosity, your big resource.

Now you’re the one giggling.

Moving on ...

I’ve researched Cluster B personality disorder sins in the past, before coming here. The other therapists hinted I was a mix of borderline and narcissism.

Then you must know these disorders are the result of trauma that happened to a child before the age of seven. They also don’t occur on their own. They blend to form what we call a comorbidity. Rarely have I seen a pure form of anything emerge. A psychiatric single varietal if you will. Labels, Coco, I view them as traps. One has to be careful with them, their use, as it can bring a fall sense of security to the table.

Funny. I don’t have much memory of anything before twelve.

I see. What’s your earliest memory?

Easy. My sister leaving for boarding school.

You never told me you had a sister.

I’m telling you now. And let’s leave it at that.

Okay ... Anyhow, labels are just that. A ballpark. An approximation. Perhaps you are many of those, and maybe you’re not. Now, let’s look at what you brought with you. And a different ending today. We’ll finish with a meditation. So. Show me.

Well, my process first. I wanted it to be whimsical. My birthday is October 31st ... same as my twins’.

Happenstance of some kind. Halloween.

And so, last weekend, I looked at a book Chloe brought home from school. In her English class, they’re studying mythologies from other countries. She chose to write about Marzanna, a Slavic figure. And quite the figure.

You identified with her.

I did at first. You see, I love winter, it’s my favorite season, and Marzanna, well, she is the goddess of winter. And her image—in the book, her hair is black like mine, long and flowing, her eyes, almond shaped and her lips just as plump. Me.

Sexy.

Are you even allowed to say that?

I described an image, Coco ... not you. I know the rules.

Right. Anyway, I know it’s just an image, made up. Invented. But—

It resonated with you ... what made you change your mind?

I guess I had to go beyond the image. The sorceress. I have the book with me, let me bring it out from my bag ...  Listen ... “Marzanna is a destroying fate-goddess who rides the night winds and drinks the blood of men. She is the mare in the word nightmare ...”

That wouldn’t flow. Would it?

But wait, there’s more. It’s also written that as winter approaches, she’s associated with, and I quote "[the]enchanted huntsman myth. A tale told by the Roma where a hunter falls in love with Marzanna, and she traps his soul in a magic mirror where he must spend the winter.” What would it say of me if I chose her as my symbol?

I don’t know. You tell me.

I don’t want to be that.

Are you—that?

I think part of me was, is—still. I like to seduce. I like to hurt.

What was her attraction, aside from her so-called attributes?

Her father is the Sun.

Ah.

Run-of-the-mill stuff, but yes. My dad for a while was exactly that. My sun.

And ...

He got remarried. Then I got dropped. We all did.

Dropped? Still?

I’m afraid so. And let’s leave the seductress alone. I’m not that dense. I know what you are doing ... So let me show you the image I finally settled on. Here.

You kind of look like her, even more than Marzanna ...

I’ve been told.

The mysterious Cleopatra.

Her reputation was tarnished through the ages, you know. Unfair. From before she died, the stories written, rewritten, the lack of answers, blanks filled, invented most likely, giving her life this nasty narrative. Rumors carried by time. Orchestrated by men over the ages—even Shakespeare contributed to making her a class-act conniver—always, of course, dissing her. Yes, she had power, had to use it. She was also a mother. A good one, and a good leader considering what she had to fight. In essence, they pretty much said she was a bitch.

You did your research.

She resonates with me. My narcissistic side? Anyhow, I think she was a decent bitch.

Decent ... How does the image of her bring you closer to feeling a better human?

I’m not sure that it does. All I know is that she was better than me. She was in control, no?

Hum. Until she was killed.

Well, I suppose there’s that.

How about you keep looking? Somehow, I think you need to reflect more. And maybe ... don’t shortchange yourself.

Okay ...

You’re crying ...

It’s okay. I’m just tired. The two young ones are sick, and Colin is away.

Would you like to stop here?

No.

Hum ... Okay, then. What color do you associate with this fusion of you and this image.

Purple.

The scent.

Burning coal.

The music.

Hum. Let me think for a minute ... No. Nothing is coming. Maybe by next session? And with a new image ...

Yes, and yes.

The homework?

Maybe an easier one, this time around. I was thinking, you bring your girls to the park, no? Next time you do, observe specifically what it is you see in them, what part of them is you, what part is not you, and that you would like to have.

A walk in the park ...

Maybe. All right, then, Coco. We have ten minutes before the session is over.

Meditation time.

Yes. We’ll be doing some travelling.

Dr Rubenstein, some place cold, please.

___________________________

I’m happy to see you. I was worried a little. You cancelled the last three sessions.

I respected the cancellation policy.

And I thank for that. How are you?

Colin left me.

Sit down, Coco ...

Okay ... He found out.

Someone from the office called him. Bound to happen.

How do you feel?

Colin? Jaded, to tell you the truth­­—relieved?  He decided to travel for the year.

What about the girls?

We decided not to tell them anything other than Daddy has a big contract up north and that he’ll be gone for a while. There’s no need in messing up the start of school.

It makes sense.

All this happened the same time I took Cara and Marianne to the park.

And?

It’s Marianne. She fell off the monkey bars. A belly flop, right there on the sand. And somehow, I couldn’t catch her in time. I was right there. The weight of her fall ... her face was pushed in glass buried just under the surface. Broken beer bottles.

I’m sorry.

But there’s more ... Something similar happened to Adeline.

Adeline ...?

My sister.

I see.

I’ve never told anyone the story.

I understand.

While up north, where we lived, our dog, Michi, her puppies—they were about two months old, seven big, plump, and furry puppies. She was half-wolf and half collie. A bit like me now that I think of it ... You’re smiling ...

I’m smiling because this analogy coming from your mouth is coherent with the view you have of yourself. No?

I’d like to be more wolf to tell you the truth.

Another one.

And you smile, still.

Yes. Go on.

We wanted to play with them. I’m five, she’s twelve. The crate was in an awkward space, difficult to access, wedged between the sofa, my father’s stereo system, and a wall. I watched her bend to retrieve a puppy. She turned around and squeezed passed me just before where the stereo furniture was standing. Then she fell. Headfirst. Her face on the glass shelves where Dad placed his records. All four shelves were broken.

And your daughter?

Yes. They both wear the same scar now. On the left cheek. A three-inch Harry Potter scar. That’s what I tell Marianne. Fortunately, unlike Adeline, Marianne’s forehead was spared.

What do you make of that?

The forehead?

No. The similarities.

Well for starters, Marianne is not as pretty—striking?—as the other girls. She’s often teased about it, too. Makes me sad. For the rest, it triggered some memories. Not the best ones.

How is Marianne?

I think she will be fine. She cried a lot when we removed the sutures, she was afraid of what she’d see. But I think the scar will be more discreet than Adeline’s. Finer. I said that we’ll go have it fixed if it doesn’t heal well. Showed her images of models who had scars. It quieted her. At the doctor’s office, I remembered how Adeline’s wound was sutured in a makeshift hospital. She had to wait twenty-four hours before they got to her face, you know. One whole day. The only doctor on site was away on an emergency. A chopper crash. Not a plastic surgeon, either. My sister’s scar never quite healed. Rosacea got into it. Then it made a thick flap on her cheek.

You’ve seen your sister since then? Didn’t the sight of the scar remind you of anything?

Never.

Hum. How did your sister handle the accident?

She was quite composed, in the moment. It happened so fast she never felt the cuts. It was Mom that stirred the pot. She kept yelling that she would never look the same again. That she was disfigured. That’s when I remember her starting to cry. And when Marianne raised her face to me, the image of Adeline bringing her fingers to her cheek popped in my head. I saw her look at the blood on her fingers. I heard her cries mingle with those of Marianne’s.

Okay. So, an accident.

That was never Adeline’s story. She said that I tripped her.

Oh. Did you?

I don’t know. I did feel my feet on her leg. That’s all I remember.

How were the two of you in general, then?

She was a stranger to me. She never looked at me. She never did anything with me. I was invisible to her.

Did you want to be visible?

I think that I did. Looking back, I’m pretty sure I didn’t want to be a stranger to her. I can see that now. That I wanted her in my life. It’s all coming back to me in a very stroboscopic kind of way, if you will.

I see.

Your dad in all this?

Mom called Dad, in a panic. He came rushing back and brought Adeline to the hospital.

What was your initial reaction to the whole incident?

I felt gleeful.

And today?

I don’t know.

You’re leaving. We still have twenty minutes.

I need to go.

___________________________

The place is noisy, the glass full—a California Merlot. Three hours of sitting at the bar, her fingers tapping to the sound of the barman’s whistling. She looks around and she doesn’t see much, and then, the music, Personal Jesus, Johnny Cash’s version. I should bring this to Rubenstein. A good laugh.

Her head tilted, she travels back to that day. The park­­—before the event. Marianne is nothing like me, she thinks. Shy. Introverted. Generous. And Chloe and Josephine, they want a stage to live on, a place from which they can pull people to. Definitely more me. And Cara, she’s all Colin, sports and books. And who would I want to be like—more?

Another bottle and now, the blur is upped, vaguer. She only sees when she closes her eyes; she lets the lids fall into place—her daughters; asking; probing. Some form of clarity emerging, and when she touches it, she loses her balance, falls from her high stool. Marianne—Adeline. It’s time to go, miss. She feels the hand pulling her, and she unfolds, looking at him. You know, Barry, I’ve never met a man who whistled because he was happy. They’re either sad, or about to hit.

A sound meant to pull the wool over our eyes.

___________________________

How long have you two been estranged?

Twenty years.

What happened?

She found out I hit on her husband.

Is it true?

Yes.

Why did you do it?

Because I could. Because back then I thought she had too much of everything I didn’t have. Money. Success. Beautiful kids. Jealousy of the very common kind.

How did she find out?

Five years into their marriage and he told her when they had a fight.

Did you expect him to keep it a secret?

All I did was take his hand toward their bedroom. The guests’ coats were there. It was Christmas time. A party. Told him I needed help finding my wallet.

Strategic ambiguity.

Yet he understood my intent. And he was right.

Do you miss her?

Hard to say. Miss what? We didn’t have much. Never did anything together. With our parents either. No family activities. A big void.

Do you want to fill it?

What if I like voids?

You wouldn’t be her if you did.

Touché.

Reviewing my notes, Coco, I couldn’t help but notice—about your mother. You say you kept in touch with her whereas Adeline never did? Why is that?

Right. Mom was never well, I explained to you. She was often compared to Joan Crawford—Mommy Dearest. When she wasn’t doing well, when she came back from her hospital stays, the only one she wanted to see was Adeline. Adeline Adeline Adeline. Mom was like a leech, and one day, Adeline had had enough of it and told her to fuck off. It was then, Mom turned to me. I became her new thing to latch on to. But in all fairness, it was easy to tolerate. She’s now had Alzheimer’s for some time—and she’s forgotten about Adeline and become quite endeared by me. It’s a good form of crazy now. Palatable. She’s even developed a sense of humor.

A new mother.

I guess so.

Did you finish reading your sister’s memoir?

I’m on page 267.

And?

And we’ll see.

___________________________

They walk the streets dragging the leaves with their feet, yet the walk is fast—excited. Around them, the sound of an anticipated night finally arriving, and they walk through it with laughter, for levity’s hour has stoked their time, now. When she turns around, Coco observes her daughters climbing the porch stairs, a pillowcase in each of their hands, half-full. More candies now dropped into their cases, and they walk back, to her, with wide chocolate-smeared smiles on their faces. What a troupe we make, Cara says, we outdid ourselves this Halloween, and turning to Marianne, she takes a lipstick from her pant pocket and paints her little sister’s lips a brighter pink. This is the best, she tells her, your costume. You like it? Marianne asks. How can I not, you silly goose. You’re Kelly Mitchell—the queen of gypsies.

___________________________

You know what day today is?

I’m well aware of it, sir. Look at me.

I noticed when you walked in. Leather pants and hair in a bun.

Yes. The outfit to highlight it’s been two years. What do you think?

A very good way to anchor it. And it was empathy I recall.

Let’s just say, I’m aware more often and it stays with me longer. Thank you, Dr Rubenstein. So much.

And thank you, for trusting me. My process. I was wondering before you came in, do you think we’re approaching the end of our time together?

I thought of it, too. Unsure about that. I have a new job I’d like to keep, as you know. The head of small pension fund. Employees to manage. I’ve reduced my drinking. So ... And Colin and I are thinking of patching things up, too. I may need a little of your presence before I fly solo, for a while anyway.

Understood. I’m always here ...  You brought me the image you were talking about last month.

Yes yes. Here. We were browsing a little boutique down in the art district. The moment I walked in, it struck at me.

It’s not a typical portrait this time.

No. I don’t feel the need anymore.

A Spanish artist.

Salvadorian—Fernando Llort. Elevo Mi Alma.

I lift my soul.

You know Spanish.

I do.

I love the colors. I love the woman depicted. Her crown like a hat. She could be a jester, too. Her large body. Her arms, like she’s holding the world. Me. I feel safe when I look at her. And I do want to lift it, you know. My soul.

You feel ... lighter?

And better about myself ...  I never thought that I would, touch it, you know, the feeling ... I have a gift for you, Dr Rubenstein.

Oh! An envelope. I gather—the famous letter?

Yes. The famous letter. Here.

You want me to read it now?

If it’s okay with you. She’s divorced now, by the way. Lost everything.

___________________________

The windshield wipers toss the snow, the speed of them slow, the sound, gentle and lulling. The car is parked a block away from the apartment building, close enough for Coco to see.

The distance—safe.

Yet.

I can’t Colin, I want to go back home. I’m not sure about this anymore. What if—

She’s there waiting for you, in this storm, Coco. Just look at her. One shot, that’s it. If it doesn’t work, we’ll come back another day. Or maybe we won’t. But you made it this far. You worked on this.

She closes her eyes, grips the handle, and her feet push the car door into the small snowbank bordering the sidewalks. Squeezing herself from the narrow space, she loses her footing and stumbles to the ground. Her eyes meet Colin’s, telling him she thinks this is an omen, that they should go. He smiles as he shakes his head, no, a soft and loving, no. She stands, immobile, watching Adeline wait for her, head to the sky with hands ungloved, catching the snow, its flakes plump, their fall a tranquil flow.

She walks a stealth walk, knowing of herself, knowing of why, of this moment, a crafted one, one she has never dreamt about, until now. And now it was here, her sister sitting on the steps of the building wrapped in a fur coat she’s seen before. Inside another north.

Hey.

Adeline turns to her and stands. I didn’t think you’d come.

I almost didn’t.

You haven’t changed. Just as beautiful. She paused, staring. Your eyes, too, so luminous.

You’re mistaken, Adeline.

I suppose you have changed.

I think I have.

Me too.

Adeline turns her body to the building’s entrance, and looking away, feels the seconds that precede all things made of hope; of love. She looks back at her sister. Frankly, Coco, I’ve had enough of the cold. Come inside, I’ve prepared coffee, that and your favorite dessert.

A Brittany cake?

A Brittany cake.

How did you know?

Because—I never didn’t know.

About the Author

Nathalie Guilbeault

Nathalie Guilbeault is a native Montrealer now living in North Hatley, Quebec. She is the author of the novels INHALED and WHEN I BECAME NEVER. Her next book, a collection of short stories, COLD CHAOS, Stories from a North, is set to come out January 2025. The story she is submitting here is taken from this collection. In 2022, she became the editor, French section, of the Nelligan Review, a bilingual literary and cultural journal. Her work has been published in various journals, anthologies, and magazines.