Eating Fish with a Bitter Aftertaste

By Phoebe Frisbee

Eating Fish with a Bitter Aftertaste is a fantastic account of Phoebe Frisbee, a troubled suburban housewife and her three ennui ridden, social climbing friends. They live on the same street in an affluent Long Island village during the late 1990s and they are convinced they have discovered the formula for everlasting youth and beauty. When Phoebe wakes up one day locked in a mental health facility, mute and disheveled, with no idea how she arrived there, her hilarious and frightening adventure begins. We are taken back in time, though Phoebes hypnotherapy sessions, to piece together the mystery surrounding her incarceration and the bizarre events that led up to it. The seachange that Phoebe and her cronies experience takes them on a wild ride through the trends of the nineties. Eating Fish with a Bitter Aftertaste is a chowder of pop psychology, substance abuse, fundamentalist cults, the weight loss industry, and the animal rights movement. Although this is a work of fiction, the author wishes to remain anonymous. This book includes a small collection of recipes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450097574

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Copyright © 2010 by Phoebe Frisbee.

ISBN:    Ebook    978-1-4500-9757-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

PART ONE—St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic

Dr. Nix

Escorted by a Rap Artist

The Coffee Chronicles

A Daydream Believer and A Homecoming Queen

Life’s a Beach

Where’s the Hot Tub?

The Tuna Smells Fishy

Buster—My Knight in Shining Armor

Buster is not Homophobic

Buster is not a Bigot—He’s a Tax Man

Buster is not Fat

Buster’s Big Surprise

Mea Culpa

Dr. Nix Delivers the Coffee Reward from God

Gumby Thinks about Sharing

The Les and Moe Show. A Voice is Better than a Void

The God Guys

Another Surprise from Buster

Buster’s New Toy

Buster Serves the Coffee

Cove Cocktails

Cove

A Bit of Cove History

Wednesday

Corky

Corky’s Koi

Willow Avenue

Willow Avenue Circa 1997

Gil

Lucy

Willow Avenue—Fodder for the List

Sonny

Sonny Ricci and the Urine Sample

Thursday

Friday—The Pre-Treatment: Feels like Chocolate—Smells like Vanilla

The Treatment: Phoebe Speaks Aloud

Saturday Morning

Sunday

Head Pictures

Robin Might Talk

PART TWO

Lucy’s First Visit to St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic

Looking Like a Dish. Acting Like a Fish. Swimming with the Sharks

Lucy’s First Visit to St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic (cont’d)

Craving Fish in Phoebe’s Kitchen

Lucy’s First Visit to St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic (cont’d)

List: Annoying Habits of My Husband

Phoebe’s Kitchen . . . end of Evening

Adult Swim at the Pool

Lucy’s First Visit to St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic (cont’d)

Begin Planning: Release or Escape, either will suffice

The Following Day—Hypnotherapy Session

Cove—Formula F

St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic—(Make over)

Ugliness is the Mother of Invention

The BOOKWORM in Waterweed

St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic (Looking Good)

Cove—Food Diaries

The Formula

Naming

The Oyster Bar

Connie

St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic—(Hatching)

Buster Visits Phoebe

The LOGs

Cove

Corky’s Baby Shower

St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic—Phoebe goes to confession

Back on Willow Avenue (earlier that Summer)

Back at St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic With a Fat Wad of Cash

PART THREE

God works in mysterious ways

Sho-Nuff, We Stuff

Til the Fat Lady Sings

PET—BM (People for Ethical Treatment at Buster’s Memorial)

Six months later

Spring

PART ONE

St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic

I’M NOT SURE how I got here, but I’ll get out somehow. There are plenty of wooden crucifixes gracing the walls of this place, and they’re not nailed down. If I could just get my hands on some crazy glue and a carpenter’s kit, I could probably build some sort of a cross ladder or an extension bridge and shimmy on down out of here. Meanwhile, I’ll tell you the story of how I became transformed.

Anyone can change if they want to, but changing sometimes means things will be different. Not better or worse. I think this is a mistake people make and is probably why so many self-help books are on the bestseller lists. I, like most of the women I know, am afflicted with the sin of pride. Or maybe its vanity, but I’m not sure if vanity is an actual sin. I know pride is. Anyway, this pride thing is not a quality I intentionally cultivated. Nor is it a cosmetic that I apply on whim. It is my indelible mark. A teratoma begun during mitosis enlarging daily and nourished with generous doses of anger and insecurity. Within this malignancy, the trinity of vanity, envy and greed fester and pustulate. Sort of like a sand granule agitating an oyster trying to become a pearl.

I am currently residing at St. Mary Magdalene’s Psychiatric Clinic. I don’t know if ‘residing’ is the right word. I am not here voluntarily. The campus of St. M&M’s, (which is how the lower-paid health care workers refer to this candy-coated clinic) is on the south shore of Eel Island, which sits in the center of Long Island Sound and overlooks the coast of suburban Long Island.

Some days, if I can get close enough to a window, if the weather is not too foggy and if I’m not too foggy from the meds they give me, I can see the shoreline of my Nassau county village—the village of Cove—right through the chicken wired glass. I can spot the Cove town dock (and now I can remember) where I used to rendezvous with my friends, Lucy, Robin and Corky. Now I realize that ‘rendezvous’ is a real jackass kind of word to use, but we actually used to say it. It sounded more exciting than saying meet me at the town dock. Back then, not really so very long ago, I was into excitement and secrecy, glamour, drama and adventure. We all were. I was even into using words like ‘into’.

On a really clear day I can see the burgee of the Cove Yacht Club waving at me and teasing the enormous Stars and Stripes that, of course, fly above it. Proportionately the burgee is to a dinner napkin (unfolded) what Old Glory is to a tablecloth for a dinner party of twenty-four, so you can get an idea of my excellent eyesight. My family and I are members at Cove Yacht. We have a Golden Anchor Membership.

The Golden Anchor is the most prestigious rung on the membership ladder and along with all sorts of other special amenities guarantees lifetime membership. Plus, you get to wear a miniature gold plated anchor on your lapel identifying how far you’ve come in the Club. Well actually, my husband wears the Golden Anchor since he holds the membership. At Cove Yacht women cannot apply for membership or hold shares in the Club’s Corporation. But they can be regular active members when their husband, or father, holds a membership and they can have all the rights and privileges of the club that the men have. Kids too. Except only men can use the tennis courts on Sunday morning. Women are allowed to play on Sundays, after one o’clock in the afternoon, in a mixed game only. This is a long-standing tradition at Cove Yacht established back in 1907. This rule is approved annually by The Board of Governors. One other long-standing tradition is that only men can be admitted to the Board of Governors. But, please don’t get me wrong; Cove Yacht is not a restricted club. I asked Buster and he told me he checked. He said ‘definitely not restricted’. They even have some Jews and two Chinese families here. Blacks can join too, if they can find a sponsor. I always felt privileged to hold membership at the Cove Yacht Club. Or, to be married to someone who does.

Anyway, I’m just happy that now I can remember things about Cove and the club and the dock and my family and friends. Little things at least. I have been here for several months but must confess I’ve only recently been able to recall some events leading up to my incarceration. It’s still murky. Every few days another fishy scene arises from what Dr. Bonita Nix, my trusty psychologist, says is my subconscious. The Nix metaphorically mines my brain with a sharp pickaxe and uncovers some pretty wacky stuff. Some of this stuff is creepy and incredible. Slimy, evil business. Not the type of behavior one would expect from a nice person like myself. Dr. Nix has ‘indicated’ in her superior and subtle way that I am responsible for being where I am. ‘Metaphor’ and ‘indicate’ are some of her favorite words. She likes ‘suggest’ too. She just sits back and suggests metaphors, which may indicate to me a mystery that I need to unravel. But I’m nice. Too nice. Too nice to unravel.

You see, I used to think of myself as a good girl. Trying to help others and have fun and be pretty and popular at the same time. Sort of like a living model of the Miss America acceptance speech. I thought of myself as a cross between Mother Teresa and Mary Poppins with just of touch of Joan of Arc thrown in for spice. I was the good Catholic woman, the good wife, the good mother, the good daughter, the good friend. I was so perfect. I volunteered for worthy causes and nonsensical causes too. I helped everyone. But mostly, I helped my friends. I would do anything for my friends. Anything. My name is Phoebe. My address is the nut foundry and my new best friend and confidant is Bonita Nix, Ph.D., M.D.

1 nix\’niks\n [G, fr.OHG nihhus; akin to OE nicor water monster, Gk nizein to wash]: a water sprite of Germanic folklore usu. having the form of a woman or a half human and half fish—called also nixie

2 nix n [G nichts nothing] slang: NOTHING: no one

3 nix adv, slang: NO—used to express disagreement or the withholding of permission

4 nix vt, slang: VETO, FORBID

Bo·ni·ta \be-’nēt-a\ [Sp] pretty

Bo·ni·to (be-nē’-to) n., Any of several marine food and game fishes related to and resembling the tuna. [Sp]

phoe·be \ ‘fē-bē \ n [alter. of pewee] : any of several American flycatchers (genus Sayornis); esp : one (S. phoebe of the eastern U.S. that has a slight crest and is plain grayish brown above and yellowish white below

Phoe·be \ ‘fē-bē \ [Gk] shining

. . . .

Dr. Nix

AFTER I SORT of came to, in a vague state of unconscious to semi-conscious, I found out that Dr. Nix had been observing me for several days before our actual half-lucid (on my part) face to face meeting. So right from the start she gained a very unfair advantage over me. As the sessions wore on I began to believe that I had become somewhat savvy. A mistake. The cards would always be stacked against me in Nix’s therapy room. My fantasy was that the patient could play, ante and deal and name the game. The reality is that the doctor not only owns the deck and the game, but the couch, chair, desk, any recording equipment hidden under the desk, and oftentimes, the building. I suppose this is true in the real world too; even though the patient pays the shrink for services rendered, the shrink has the upper hand. A skewed relationship. An aberrant deal.

My first reaction to her was fear. What am I doing here and why is this woman staring at me? She sat, perfectly, unblinkingly still, and stared. She never blinked. I wondered if she had had her eyelids surgically removed due to some disease or if she had been a tortured prisoner of war in some barbaric otherworld. Anyway the effect was spooky. I was scared and I wanted to run, but couldn’t. It wasn’t so much the drugs that glued me to the couch. I knew the medication was making me feel slow and sleepy. I suppose it was intended to relax me, but under her scrutiny I became jittery. A paradoxical puzzle. It was as if someone was stepping on my accelerator but I was stuck in neutral. My guess is that she was using some method of mind control on me. I was in a nightmare. I tried to escape but my legs were paralyzed. I know my eyeballs were working. I kept looking at the door as she observed me. She scribbled on a pad without looking at it. She was fixated on me. I looked from the doctor to the door, from the door to the doctor, engaged in a primitive tennis match. I felt like a trapped animal, frantic, alone, and ready to chew my leg off to escape her peering baglike eyeballs. The staring contest continued until a loud breathy, whistling sound escaped from the therapist’s nose. As I was to learn in the months to come, this repulsive noise was Dr. Nix’s work whistle and once the old nostril blew, the session had officially begun.

WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE? Staring. Leaning in. Pencil at the ready. Each word pronounced and enunciated very loudly, slowly, clearly and with extreme care to diction: WHAT · BRINGS · YOU · HERE??? Audibly breathing in and out between each word as if she were cooling down from a strenuous workout.

She spoke with a very slight inflection. A Slavic influence? Barely noticeable but just enough to remind me of Zacherly and scare whatever wits I had left right out of me. Again, she sat stock-still waiting for me to answer. She wore thick round greenish tinted eyeglasses. Ugly and unfashionable. They reminded me of empty Heineken bottles.

Ugghuh, ah . . . . I open my mouth to say something, I don’t know what, but only a croaky, phlegmy sound comes. My mouth is dry. My lips feel cracked. I cannot remember the last time I spoke.

WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE? stare.

Ugghuh, ah . . . .

MRS. FRISBEE, WHAT · BRINGS · YOU · HERE? Whistle

I’m thinking an ambulance.

I AM WAITING FOR YOUR REPLY. whistle, stare.

If not an ambulance, maybe a meat wagon?

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t know what brought me here. I don’t know where I should be. Where do I belong? If not here, then where?

The Women’s House of Detention? Bedford Hills Correctional Institute? Some state hospital for the criminally insane?

The Brooklyn Aquarium?

PERHAPS YOU DID NOT HEAR ME, AND SO, I SHALL ASK YOU AGAIN MRS. FRISBEE, WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE? whistle.

The fish wagon?

She’s yelling at me. Why is she shouting? I haven’t done anything wrong. She’s making me mad. What a witch.

I can feel the words trying to emerge, pushing to crack the shell and escape, wanting to break out and say something real fresh to her. Perhaps I did hear you and have chosen not to reply. Maybe I don’t know what brought me here. Why don’t you read my mind? You’re so smart. You’re the one with the degrees plastered all over the wall.

Now she’s gotten me angry. My anger is bigger than my fear. Maybe this won’t be so painful after all. Thanks, Dr. Fathead. I am no longer so scared of you, just annoyed. Your harsh and aggressive rudity has irritated the precious pearl.

MRS. FRISBEE, OR MAY I CALL YOU PHOEBE. PERHAPS YOU WILL PERMIT THIS. YES?

I SHALL CALL YOU PHOEBE. YES? whistle.

DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING YOU WOULD LIKE TO SAY TO ME? NO?

I want to speak. Maybe she thinks I’m hearing impaired. She’s staring at me. Scrutinizing. I’m an insect in a jar. She’s an annoying boy with a stick poking at me through the air hole. I’m feeling so tiny and dirty. Maybe if I speak and give her the correct answer she’ll let me leave. I think I need to take a shower. I touch my hair. My head hurts. It feels like it belongs on someone else’s body. Is my Speedo cap too tight? I’m a vile and pathetic person. My coif must be uneven; the bangs are in my eyes. When I try to push a clump away from my face, it is as though I am adjusting a very greasy Halloween wig. I must need a touch-up and a trim. How long has it been? I know my legs need waxing. My fingernails are ragged, the cuticles shaggy. What happened to my French manicure? What happened? Where is my makeup case? I need a mirror. This creepy woman is still staring at me. What is she writing down?

I need help. I’ll sit and wait. If I am patient and sit quietly, help will come. All good things come to those who wait.

DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE?

My hands are itchy. I need to scratch. I tear the skin from each finger and thumb. Oily scales fall onto the linoleum. I hear the tiny click as they hit the floor. I look down. Then up again. She is still staring. Her eyes never leave my face.

DO · YOU · KNOW · WHY · YOU · ARE · HERE?

Patience is a virtue. Keep it if you can. It’s soften in a woman and seldom in a man.

Often. Patience is often in a woman. Not soften in a woman.

DO YOU WANT ME TO HELP YOU? YES? NO? whistle.

God helps those who help themselves.

PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE TO WRITE YOUR ANSWER?

She slides a steno pad across the desk towards me then places a pen on top.

HERE, MISS, PICK IT UP. WRITE!

I do what I’m told. I try to write. My fingers feel like jelly. The pen falls on the floor, which is already littered with my dead scaly skin.

NOTHING EH? Whistle

I AM AFRAID WE ARE OUT OF TIME MRS . . . AH, . . . PHOEBE. YOU WILL EXCUSE ME. I WILL BUZZ FOR AN AIDE.

She hangs onto the z in buzz word way more than necessary. I’m wondering if she’s trying to joke with me. A goofy Bronx cheer statement to put me at ease and get me to talk. But no, I’ve read her wrong. The staring has stopped and she’s focused on the papers on her desk, flipping through her notes, oblivious now to my presence. I sit and scratch and wait. I feel ugly and dirty and comfort myself with the thought that no one here knows me. I would die of shame to be seen in this dreadful condition.

. . . .

Escorted by a Rap Artist

A FAT YOUNG black man comes to fetch me. He’s wearing enormous pants, even for a fat man and I’m embarrassed to see his empty belt loops way down south. Without a belt, his striped boxer shorts take center stage. He looks like a clown and shuffles like a penguin. I’m guessing he has to walk like this to keep the pants from falling down further. He grosses me out, but the boxers remind me of Buster and for a small moment I feel sweetly sad. Fatpants thrusts a clipboard toward Dr. Nix. She grabs it without looking at him and scribbles quickly. This momentary bureaucratic intrusion must have reminded her that I am still here and she looks up at me. Her surveillance resumes. She bores her bug-eyes right at me then raises her one gigantic unplucked eyebrow and opens her mouth. She’s a human cartoon. I envision a light bulb above her head. She shouts:

I WILL SEE YOU TOMORROW. WE WILL WORK TOGETHER, NO? A COLLABORATIVE EFFORT, YES?

She whistles and breathes and waits.

A · COLLABORATIVE · EFFORT· NO?

She screams so loud she jangles me. I’m not deaf.

I’m not dumb either.

My chubby escort shuffles me back to the room. A cargo container, really. Not much bigger than my closet back home on Willow Avenue but I’m relieved to be alone and welcome the quiet claustrophobia. I lie on the cot studying the ceiling. The stains and chipping plaster look just like a skinny man standing at the ocean’s edge fishing with a long pole. A nurse comes in and asks me to sit up. She tells me it’s time for a ajekshun. The poor woman can barely enunciate but I can tell she is impressed with her own vocabulary. I look directly into her eyes and flex my arm tight, silently bragging about my excellent fitness level and lack of cowardice. Go ahead, shoot me. I’m strong. I eat Wonder Bread. It helps build strong bodies eight ways. She laughs with big gapped teeth and gums pink as Bazooka bubble gum. She slaps my arm hard and fast and jams the needle in my now flaccid flesh. Ouch! Ouch! You bitch!—That hurt!

I’m grateful for the light cloud of fuzziness that comes. After the shots I don’t feel so empty. The nurse leaves. I can hear her still laughing way down the hall. I lie down again.

I wish I had a roommate, but I guess it’s probably a good thing that I don’t. The room is so tiny and there’s just the one small bed. Anyway, people annoy me after too much time together.

Kill them if they come too close.

Intimacy may be hazardous to my health.

Better yet, let them sink and die on their own. Together but alone.

Plus, I know I’ve got b.o. and my hair must really stink too. I gave myself a little birdbath this morning and brushed my teeth the best I could. No brush. I had to use my fingers. But I know I’m ripe. Buster would say I’m so dirty that I could lose weight by taking a shower. O.K., not a live-in roommate, just someone to hang out with. To ‘chew the fat’ with, Buster would say. To ‘schmooze’ with, Lucy would say. To ‘chit-chat’ with, Robin would say. I need to be with someone normal. Someone like myself. Too bad Dr. Nix isn’t normal. Tomorrow, when we meet again, I’ll try to make her my pretend friend.

. . . .

The Coffee Chronicles

GOOD MORNING PHOEBE. IT IS A BEAUTIFUL MORNING.

NO? YES?

Staring same as yesterday, only I sneak a look back at her face. Her mouth hangs open. She has heavy Mick Jagger lips. I can see her tongue. Yikes! What was I thinking? This person can’t be my pretend friend. They’ll be no schmoozing, or chit-chatting or fat chewing with this one. Not even temporarily. She looks too gross. Well, maybe not Mick Jagger. More like Don Knotts, you know Barney Fife the Deputy Sheriff of Mayberry. Yes, she’s definitely got Don Knotts lips. Mick Jagger’s lips are way too cool for her.

TODAY YOU WILL SPEAK. YES? NO?

My goodness, doesn’t she care what she looks like?

Hey lady shut your pie hole, your tonsils are showing, plus you’ve got leftovers between your teeth. Go floss yourself.

HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHY YOU ARE HERE? MISS, ah, PHOEBE, YOU ARE LISTENING, NO?

She sounds like a snake when she says ‘listening’. Lissssssening. Another impediment.

YOU CAN HEAR ME. YES?

I have ears. You’re the reptilian in the room. Why don’t you shut up and slither under the door you fat big-lipped asp.

She leans in over the desk, mouth agape, lower lip hanging. She reaches towards me and grabs a white paper cup with blue printing off the edge of her desk. Take out china from the Greek diner. She slurps loudly and exhales. I can smell her coffee breath.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO DRINK SOME COFFEE TOO?

She pronounces would ‘vood’. I sneak a look at the wall of diplomas, but can’t decipher the name of her alma mater. Maybe she studied at Transylvanian University. Maybe she’s a werewolf. Maybe she’ll grow fangs and claws and try to eat my flesh.

A little nosh to go with your coffee, Dr. Nix?

She burps while she waits for an answer. Doesn’t even try to stifle it. What a pig. This woman needs a crash course on basic manners along with some elementary tips on grooming.

I would like some coffee. It smells good and it would give me something to do with my hands besides scratching and picking at myself. Although I do try to resist. The itching, not the coffee. Scratching one’s self is so unladylike and I do want to show her my manners. I want to demonstrate to this podunk how a real lady silently sips a hot beverage. I want to say in my sweetest, well-modulated, soft-spoken, yet enunciated voice: Yes, Dr. Nix, I would like coffee, thank you very much. But I’m a clam. My shell is sealed shut. Stuck in muck.

Do you have a muckraker handy?

SO THEN, NO COFFEE FOR YOU. PERHAPS YOU WOULD PREFER TEA?

I vood prefer coffee. Just get it and I’ll suck it up.

NO? NOTHING FOR YOU THEN, MRS. FRISBEE. Ah, PHOEBE. I MUST TAKE MY REFRESHMENT ALONE.

She drinks and snorts and belches again and I’m feeling both disgust and envy. I can’t remember the last time I had coffee. Early each morning a pink collar robot leaves a sectioned cardboard plate filled with some kind of mushy salty excuse for cereal and a plastic container of bitter yellow juice. Grapefruit or pineapple, I can’t tell which. Maybe apple. But no coffee. I think back to all the occasions in the real world when coffee was offered gratis. It was encouraged. Frank, my favorite stylist, his shampoo girl, the Korean manicurists and the deli man at Waldbaum’s, just to name a few, all pushed free hot coffee and now I regret all the times that I refused. No thanks I’d lie, smiling, I just had some. The fact is caffeine is a diuretic. The truth is I didn’t want to put myself in a position where I’d have to use public bathrooms.—in those days I called the lav a ‘powder room’—‘restroom’ sounded so incorrect and ‘toilet’ landed on the ear crudely. Anyway, now I’d be willing to straddle anyone’s cootie ridden plastic throne for some hot French roast. But this peasant who calls herself a doctor isn’t going to give me anything until I ask for it and the words won’t come out.

A Daydream Believer and A Homecoming Queen

EVERY DAY EXCEPT Sunday, Dr. Nix and I sit without dialogue listening to her uneven asthmatic breathing and her stomach juices digesting. Sometimes, if her breathing isn’t too labored, I can hear the boats outside blowing their horns. Occasionally, she breaks the silence by shouting the same questions at me. Do I want to tell her anything? Do I want to share my experiences with her? Do I know why I am here? I notice that I’m not as afraid of her as I was in the beginning. I’m almost beginning to look forward to our meetings. Its not like the sessions are cutting into my busy schedule or I have something else planned. Being taken to her office is pretty much the high point in my day. I begin to dislike her less, but I wish she wouldn’t breathe so loud. Some days, if I’m not feeling too sluggy or empty, I do mental makeovers on Dr. Nix. Makeup, hair and wardrobe. She really could use a complete overhaul. I can’t imagine how a woman could let herself get like that. I figure an educated woman should know enough to groom herself properly. Even a dumb stump knows enough to wax the one eyebrow. Or at least do some heavy-duty plucking. Also, I wish I could come and go without a guard shadowing me. There’s nothing dangerous here and anything exciting or stimulating for the residents must be locked away. I know how to get back to the crypt by myself.

When I’m taken back to my room I usually lay on the cot, studying the ceiling stains and thinking about Nix’s questions. This is what she tells me to do every day. Actually she shouts, in her big voice, to think about the questions. Also, she doesn’t call her inquiries ‘questions’, she calls them ‘suggestions’. Like, she will say, I SUGGEST YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR DREAMS, or I SUGGEST YOU CONSIDER DIALOGUING WITH ME or "I SUGGEST OUR WORK HERE IS PROGRESSING . . . DO YOU AGREE? NO? YES? HMMM . . . ." I don’t understand why she calls these daily harangues our work, like we’re sharing our labor, or working on a project together. There’s no building under construction here. No PTA fund raiser. No ironing or vacuuming or windows to be washed. No diapers to be changed. No fish to be scaled and cleaned and filleted. I just sit and hear her words and her whistling nose and watch her drink coffee from a paper cup and tolerate her burps. I am her compliant patient. I try to obey her suggestions to think about what she tells me. I am good.

Some days she spends the entire session on dreams. She asks me if I have them. She tells me to think about them. She says some day we will discuss my dreams. I don’t know whether she means my old hopes and aspirations or the sleepy scary nightmare kind.

GOOD MORNING, PHOEBE. ANY DREAMS? ARE YOU DREAMING? ARE YOU REMEMBERING THE DREAMS? DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE? I SUGGEST YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DREAMS.

Cheer up sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean to a daydream believer and a homecoming queen.

Sometimes it’s like she’s begging. PLEASE, PHOEBE, INDULGE ME. PLEASE, TELL ME OF YOUR DREAMS. PLEASE, I WISH TO HEAR YOU.

On the days she’s not fixating on my dreams, or non-dreams, she can work up a good rant about the origins of my arrival here.

WHAT BRINGS YOU HERE? HOW DID YOU GET TO THIS PLACE, PHOEBE?

Even with the staring and the screaming, she gets pretty pathetic. I want to help her. Sometimes I think the answer is almost here, clear and true, but then it fades into nothingness and I can’t tell her what she wants to know. The words dilute and don’t connect.

On less pathetic days she commands me like I’m a dog in training.

SPEAK, NOW!! YOU WILL SPEAK NOW, YES? SPEAK!! YOU WILL TELL ME WHY YOU ARE HERE. YOU WILL TELL ME WHAT YOU ARE DREAMING. SPEAK, PHOEBE, SPEAK!!

Dreamin’ I’m always dreamin’

Dreamin’ love will be mine

Searchin’ I’m always searchin’

Hopin’someday I’ll find

Someone, someone to love me

Someone to need me but until then

Well I’ll keep on dreamin’

Keep right on dreamin’

Dreamin’ till my dreamin’ comes true ue ue ueue ue ue ue . . .

I think. I meditate. I ruminate.

. . . .

Life’s a Beach

I’M AT THE beach, lying on a blanket in the sand. It’s a beautiful day. Sunny and hot. The warmth of the sun comforts me. I can feel the hot rays burning my back and legs. It feels good. I’m luxuriating in a warm, light, silent cocoon. I hear a baby crying. Be quiet baby, I’m sleeping on the beach. The baby is in the water wailing and yowling. Don’t worry, I’ll swim out and get you. Here I come. I try to swim over the waves but I can’t get past the breakers. The water is rough, the baby is just on the other side of a roller coaster wave. Over or under? Don’t want to be