This Body (37 page)

The shaking started in the core of her solar plexus and radiated out. A waiter stepped in front of her, his tray laden with
champagne glasses. The cool liquid shimmered, and the bubbles that escaped from the sides of the glasses sent baby plumes
of spray over their lips. The voice that whispered now laughed, its glee translating into words that it poked and jabbed her
with.
You need a license to buy a dog or drive a car. You need a license to catch a fish, but they'll let any buttweeman-asshole
be a parent
.

She saw her arm come up like a backhanded slap and felt it connect with the bottom of the metal tray. The horrified look on
the waiter's face hung in the air like a hologram.

She didn't remember much after that. She remembered the sound of breaking glass, someone pinning her arms to her side, and
voices —
oh, so many voices
— raised in surprise and concern and anger.

Was one of them hers? Were all of them hers?

Act 5, Scene 2

… we are not ourselves
When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind to suffer with the body.

— L
EAR
,
King Lear
, 2.4.107

They all appeared at her door the next afternoon: Anne, Robert, Quince, and —
surprise
— Puck. Actually, Katharine wasn't all that surprised that they had come, though she had heard that Vivian and Puck were
leaving for San Francisco that morning. She knew she had gone too far at the reception, that there were going to be repercussions.
Sometime during the night she had thrown up — which was unusual for her — on the bathroom floor, and the irony was not lost
on her. Her whole head was as tender as a bruise, and she felt hollowed out, but the showdown was coming and she thought she
was ready for it.

Thisby's family walked into the apartment, and before Katharine could close the door behind them,
who else should arrive, making a grand entrance? Why Dr. Mantle. That quintessence of dust. That pigeon-liver'd ape-dog. That
diffused infection of a man
.

Katharine was furious. It changed the balance completely. This was supposed to be a family matter. “What's he doing here?”

Robert Bennet answered her. “Your mother and I asked him.”

They sat down in the living room in a circle, and Katharine felt surrounded, ringed by so many snarling dogs masquerading
as a loving family.

The accused presumed innocent until proven guilty? No way. They're out to get me
.

“Thisby, we're all here, your family,” began Robert Bennet, “because we love you. You are a member of this family. You mean
a great deal to this family, even if you think at this time in your life that doesn't matter to you. We felt the only way
to make you understand this is to confront you. All of us. However, your mother and I felt that we — and you too — needed
some professional guidance. We felt the only way to get through to you is to have an intervention, and we asked Dr. Mantle
to come because he has had quite a bit of experience with interventions.”

Only Quince had the decency to look uncomfortable.

“We want you to know we think you're killing yourself. You're killing yourself as surely as if you held a loaded gun to your
head. But we believe you can take your finger off the trigger. You can save yourself. Maybe if you think of it as being possessed
by some alien thing, you can fight back. You've got to stop the drinking and get yourself clean. Then the old Thisby will
come back. Then our own Thisby will return.”

Katharine looked at their frightened faces and almost spat at them,
Fat chance. Can't help you there, guys
.

It was so orchestrated — their little speeches like Academy Award acceptances. Puck read a letter he had written. “To my sister,
Thisby” it began, as if he needed to make sure it was addressed properly. He dwelt on their younger days, before Quince was
born, when he and Thisby were buds.

As if that means jack shit right now to either me or Thisby
.

Quince's contribution was achingly curt, full of hurt and love and confusion. She didn't know which sister, which personality,
she wanted back; she just wanted a sister she could talk to and who would remember the conversation the next day.

Anne's was hardened over with tenets of tough love worked out from a handbook or an afternoon TV talk show. But not that shallow.
Never that shallow. Anne also had seen too much, knew too much, felt too much, to be shallow. “I am concerned for you. I love
you, but in the last couple of months we have opened up our hearts to you again, only to have you shred them. I will not let
you drag the emotions of this family down the self-destructive path you've chosen. I will not let you. I will fight you, and
then I will let you go. But if you let me, I will fight
for
you. Fight for you in every way I can. But only if you let me. The choice is yours.”

Katharine was staring down at the rug, hearing Quince, hearing Anne, hearing her own voices from so many dedicated speakers.

Then Anne asked Mantle to talk, and Katharine's head snapped up and stared at him.

He's holding the family's trump card. And isn't he just loving it. So caring. So concerned. And doesn't he just have me over
a barrel cuz he can damage me now. He's muscled his addiction into sweet revenge, and he's playing for keeps
.

He spoke evenly, softly, but letting the edge of his voice separate himself from Thisby's family. He was concerned too, but
after this intervention he would do what had to be done, if it came down to that. With the approval of her mother and father,
he would certify her as mentally incompetent and commit her, for her own good, of course, but commit her nevertheless. Again,
the choice was hers.

Katharine realized he wanted her to fight back. He wanted a reason, wanted justification, to certify her, right then and there,
bullgoose looney tunes and commit her. Into the snake pit, the madhouse, with all the other lunatics. For her own good, of
course. The choice was hers.

So who gave him all the best lines?

Katharine looked away from Mantle's mean, pasty face into Robert's hopeful one, to Anne's waiting one, to Puck's skeptical
one, to Quince's. Quince was looking down at the rug, the shadow of her nose broken by the scar above her lip. She looked
utterly miserable, wishing she could be anyplace but here.

I know how you feel, kid
.

Katharine closed her eyes. She knew what she feared most. She had been fearing it all morning. She could do this, get sober,
but there was a good chance that nothing would be any different, nothing would change. Life could still be no better than
it was. She would still be alone. She would still be in a stranger's body and she would still be living a stranger's life.
And, without the alcohol, it could be worse; it had been worse. It was so easy to drink; it was so easy to keep drinking.
It was going to require so much energy to stop.
And for what?

The Bennets wanted Thisby back, but she was dead.
She's dead
! And who was Katharine? Who was Katharine now?
I can't go back, but how can I move forward?
Robert was right; she was never going to figure out who she was until she excised all the alien things.

It's just that I'm not sure who'll be left
.

Katharine kept her eyes closed, and while the Bennets silently watched her, she mentally flew away north to her home. Except
it wasn't her home, it was Diana's home; and her family lived there, without her. They had moved on, without her. And they
were going to be all right, without her.

She thought of her advice to Ben — live your own life. It seemed so trite, so sixties, but that didn't diminish the truth
of it, and it sounded as though Ben really might go to Wyoming. She hoped he would.
Philip would hate it if he did
. Maybe she'd visit him there.
I hear Harrison Ford has a ranch in Wyoming too
.

She knew that Ben really did feel responsible for his mother's death — that he wasn't just auditioning another personality
— and she could imagine what a truly awful burden that must be. But if he could move on, then she could try to move on from
her own guilt too.

No, there was no going home again. Not that home anyway.

In the back of her mind, she knew she had always expected she would be transformed — somehow, some way — back into her old
body and her old life, and all this would be as a dream. After all, that's the way it always happened in the movies and books
and plays.
You learn what you're supposed to learn and then you always get to go back — eventually
.

But there was no going back, she realized, and there weren't too many other choices. She was tired of fighting her battles
alone. Never weaken! hadn't helped her. Maybe she needed to give up a little of herself, give up a little of her power to
someone else, to allow someone to help her. Maybe life wouldn't be better, but understanding might be. Was that worth the
energy it was going to take?

That was the hope. Wasn't it?

Katharine opened her eyes in Thisby's apartment, watched over by Thisby's family, and nodded to them. “Okay,” she said.

Act 5, Scene 3

To sleep, perchance to dream — ay, there's the rub.

— H
AMLET
,
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
, 3.1.64

June 20. Midsummer Night. Witches and fairies will be abroad after dark, granting wishes or causing havoc as they choose.
Tomorrow is the summer solstice. She has come full circle. Her father used to say, “If we lived here, we'd be home now.” But
she didn't live here, and …
I'm far from home
.

In her head, she has erected a garden wall made with heavy rectangular stone bricks, the cracks mortared and sealed tight,
dense ivy springing up the sides. The wall closes off a dark and overgrown path, one she doesn't want to go down or even peer
into. When she can't stop herself and steps a foot closer, a faint voice from behind the wall calls out, “Wait. I can help.
Please.”

She shrinks away, and the voice cries, “How can you be so callous, so heartless, to ignore me?”

Easy. Easy
.

Katharine has been getting straight for 245 days. It hasn't been easy, nor is success assured. Anne and Robert are keeping
their hope close to their chests this time.
As is Quince. No question now that I'm not the blessèd child
.

She sits in Thisby's window seat, a thirty-two-ounce plastic coffee mug by her side. The moon is pale-bright, and in honor
of Midsummer Night, the Bennet house is bedecked with greenery and hanging lights — Thisby's room in rosemary for remembrance,
pansies for thoughts, and violets for faithfulness. Katharine has checked for columbines and rue, symbolizing ingratitude
and repentance, but finds none.

Supposedly if she places the flowers under her pillow tonight, she will dream a little dream — about her true love.

When she received the invitation to Midsummer — the first time in eight months to the day she would see the Bennets outside
their family-therapy sessions — she accepted it with as much wariness as it was probably given.

And when she knocked on the front door instead of going around to the kitchen entrance, it did not surprise them. And that
did not surprise her.

Quince answered the door and took her bag quickly, as if to avoid any attempt at a more physical greeting. Katharine didn't
dare touch her.

Anne and Robert received her in the living room, surrounded by their cool and perfect world. They exchanged their greetings
pleasantly enough, but there was no mistaking that even though she had been clean for eight months, this last fall from grace
had hit Anne and Robert hard. Real hard. Katharine couldn't remember feeling more awkward, more unsure, more tentative around
them.

Anne and Katharine prepared the Midsummer dinner together. Katharine felt her first déjà vu in this body. Quince sat on the
stool, with Oberon curled up like a tricolored snowball at her feet. Katharine hardly petted him, so clearly was he Quince's
dog. It made her want to cry.