The Stigmatic Chapter One-Three - wlac.edu

  1
 

The Stigmatic
An excerpt from the novel by Nuala Lincke-Ivic

"The life of a Christian is nothing but a perpetual struggle against self; there is no
flowering of the soul to the beauty of its perfection except at the price of pain."
- Padre Pio, Italian Stigmatic, 1887-1968

Chapter One
Anne O’Shay was washing the breakfast dishes in the little apartment in back of her
husband’s woodworking shop when something horrible happened: She got the stigmata.
When she came to and got up off the kitchen floor, bloody and bleeding, she staggered
across the faded blue linoleum to the ancient black rotary wall phone next to her parents’ old
white fridge and immediately called her sister Clementine for advice. It was 9:00 a.m. on Good
Friday in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles, California, four hours after it had happened,
and Anne’s husband was still out on an early call, installing somebody’s kitchen cabinets, but her
sister Clementine was older and a devout Catholic; she’d know what to do.
Anne was a devout Catholic, too—she went to early morning mass six days a week, and
to Sunday mass, said her rosary in the morning and evening, and got ash crosses fingerpainted on
her forehead on Ash Wednesday and all the other Catholic stuff: recited the Angelus silently to
herself at noon, during her lunch hour, prayed for somebody’s soul every time she heard a siren
wail, attended each Exposition of the Eucharist on First Fridays, and so forth. But Clementine
was known to be very Catholic: She was an informed Catholic; she was a Catholic who went to
all the Bible workshops conducted by priests and quoted the Bible to protestants, going toe-to-

  2
 

toe with them at ecumenical gatherings, arguing about the Virgin Mary; she got together
religiously with her cursillo (prayer group) members once a week for a potluck during which
they sampled wines from the Holy Land; she sat on the Cathedral Council and helped decide
how the money gathered in the collection baskets would be spent or invested; and she never
failed to collect each issue of the National Catholic Register and The Tidings from the white
marble ledge in the back of St. Mary’s as soon as they were put out, and often she was the first to
obtain them. Sometimes she took three of each: one to read on the toilet—or “pot” as she liked
to say; one to read in bed; and a third to read while she was watching her television shows in the
evening.

Clementine’d know what to do, Anne thought, dialing the numbers on the phone with
difficulty because with her pierced wrists and her palms and the backs of her hands especially
scraped raw and bloody, oozing blood, her fingers had curled into claws.

But when Clementine answered the phone impatiently “What, Anne?” because she had
caller I.D., Anne felt suddenly shy.

How could she tell Clementine this particular news?
“Nothing,” she mumbled through a cut and monstrously puffy lip, staring despondently
down at her fat knees, scratched and bloody just below the hemline of her blood-caked denim
skirt, her knees and skirt fuzzy in her vision because her left eye was swollen shut (it felt like a
walnut stuck into her face like a big nut on a cake).
“You called to tell me nothing?” Clementine questioned, irritated.
“No—yes,” Anne mumbled, confused. She sniffed slightly, with great difficulty, trying
to clear her stuffy nose, and bloody snot from her nasal passages shot into the back of her throat,
flowed into her mouth.

  3
 

“Well, what did you call about?” Clementine asked.
“I, uh, I—” Anne began, and then stopped, nervous.
“What, Anne? What is it? Hurry up! I, at least, of the two O’Shay sisters, have got a
life!” Clementine snapped impatiently.
“I—oh, I—! Well, a big fiery angel, he—or maybe it was a she—or an it.
An ‘it’—yes, maybe. Yes, well, you see, it—it—a big fiery angel, it did something to me…!”
she murmured, lowering her voice to a whisper, and trailing off lamely, the smell of blood thick
in her nostrils. She swallowed convulsively, a tic in her uninjured open right eye causing it to
blink spasmodically, as if she were sending out a message in Morse code: blink, BLINK, blink-
blink-blink.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph—‘a big fiery angel’? What are you talking about? A big fiery
angel did what to you?” Clementine questioned sharply, exasperated. “Did someone attack you,
Anne? Break into the shop or something and come into your apartment in back?” She paused
suddenly. “Did someone—hurt you?” she asked, placing a special emphasis on the word “hurt.”
“I—no. A big fiery angel,” Anne whispered, embarrassed. She gulped, swallowed blood
and mucus from her nose again. “You see …!” she whispered hoarsely into the telephone, her
right eyelid closing and then opening again in a series of rapid blinks: blink-blink-blink, BLINK,
blink! “It—I—it—I …. It had a big hammer and nail, and a spear, you see, and eyes that
crackled lightning, lightning came out of its eyes…and it—it … !” She stopped, breathing hard.
How to tell what she had to tell?
“You see, they really beat Him up. Jesus. They didn’t just crucify Him,” she said somewhat
breathlessly, “and I don’t feel too good.” She pressed her left ear harder into the phone—it had a

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metallic ringing sound in it now—and she tried to think of what to say next. She swallowed
again and panted slightly, her mouth open.

“A big fiery angel with lightning shooting out of its eyes attacked you? Look, just tell me
what happened, Pudding Butt, okay?” Clementine interrupted sweetly, using the O’Shay family
nickname for Anne that Clementine had coined; “You sound like a little schitzo, and I have to go
to my dermatologist’s before getting to the Cathedral at three. You do know that I’m playing
one of the lead roles in the Passion Play today, playing the Servant Girl who hassles Peter on the
night before Christ is crucified, right? And we’re all going to be in costume this year. Make-up,
veils, clay jugs of real wine—not grape juice like last year. I mean—the whole bit. It’ll be a big
production, like a play, and the altar will be like a stage, and everybody will be watching me—
us. So don’t give me any trouble right now, okay, Pudding Butt? What’s going on? What do
you want?”

“I—nothing,” Anne mumbled slowly, hoarsely. “Nothing. I want—nothing. Never mind.”
“Nothing? You want nothing? You call at the crack of dawn practically—what time is it?
nine o’clock in the friggin’ morning?—and you want nothing? Look—how old are you, Pudding
Butt?” Clementine asked her.
“Thirty-three,” Anne murmured. “I’m 33.”
“Yes, that’s right—you’re 33—and you’re supposed to act like an adult. Jesus was 33 when
he died. Today, in fact, on Good Friday. He died 2,000 years ago today at three o’clock in the
afternoon. Actually, he died already, because he died Israel time, at dawn, five o’clock in the
morning today. Think about that. And he always acted like an adult, Pudding Butt.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne murmured meekly, hoarsely, swallowing some more blood and mucus that
flowed into her mouth.

  5
 

“Well, then, that’s okay—but really, get a life, Pudding Butt, okay?” Clementine instructed
her sweetly. “I’ve got a life, right? I’ve got things to do today. Don’t call me unless you have
something to say. I’m a busy person. I’m an adult.”

And she was. She had the Cathedral Council, her cursillo, the part in the Good Friday
Passion Play, a three-storey house, three daughters and two sons, one of them at the Jesuit
university and the other four still at Academy of Notre Dame High School. And her husband
Bill had a busy real estate company, and besides they belonged to the Knights of Columbus, and
a ballroom dancing group. And they entertained frequently: up-and-comers, like themselves,
from the community. The “good” families. None of the riff-raff that you saw in a lot of the
middle and back pews, Clementine told Anne once.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Clementine,” Anne mumbled again hoarsely, suddenly tasting fresh blood
in the back of her throat, coming up from her stomach, gathering there maybe from the wound in
her right side, which was aching appallingly.

She felt disconsolate. The blood from her stomach burned her larynx. Tears trickled
unnoticed down her plump cheeks, turned into glistening pink drops when they met with
bloodied scratches and gashes; she cried and wasn’t even aware that she was crying.

She sighed, thinking, trying to think. Her eyes glazed over slightly.
She was a heavyset, plain-faced, round-faced young woman of 33, with brown hair and
brown eyes and fair skin, and no children, not because she hadn’t tried; she just somehow hadn’t
become pregnant. And as she was a Catholic—even if she could afford it—in-vitro was out of
the question. It destroyed embryos, living beings: babies. And she didn’t belong to the
Cathedral Council (or even a parish council), a cursillo, the Knights of Columbus, or a ballroom
dancing group. And she never entertained. She didn’t know why she had been chosen. Nobody

  6
 

chose her for anything, not to play a part in the Passion Play, not even for baseball teams in
elementary school because she got too excited and struck out all the time and threw the bat. If
she was picked for something, she was always the very last to be picked. She and her husband
led a very quiet life. She had been a plump and placid and dutiful daughter who went to work
straightaway as an office clerk at an insurance agency when she graduated from high school, and
she had married Josef (a.k.a. “Joe”), a heavy-set, 37-year-old German immigrant, when she was
21, after meeting him at Church and getting to know him over Sunday morning coffee and
glazed donuts after Mass, because her parents thought it was a good idea, and she agreed (“he’s
not an Irish Catholic, but he’s a Catholic, and even though he’s only a carpenter, his fingernails
are very, very clean,” her mother had remarked), and she cooked Joe dinner and cleaned their
small, modest apartment behind his woodworking shop until she went to bed when she was done
working nine to five during the week.

(When he felt romantic—which was usually very seldom—Joe would beckon her from his
seat across the kitchen table, the rich shine of an invariably meat-and-potatoes dinner still
gleaming on his lips. “Annie. That was a vonderful dinner, Annie,” he would say in his heavy
German accent, and she would leave the dinner dishes for morning, to wash with the breakfast
dishes.)

Her ear pressed to the receiver of the ancient rotary wall phone, Anne began to cry in earnest,
but she was still unaware of the tears coursing down her cheeks, so lost in thought was she.
There was no fact of her life that singled her out for special merit, “for—for this!” she thought.

“Anne…?” Clementine sighed sweetly into the phone, and when she got no response, she
shrieked Anne’s name “Annie! Goddamn it, Annie! Oh, dear sweet Jesus, forgive me for taking
your name in vain, but you know how annoying she is!”

  7
 

Anne shook her head slightly, coming out of her head and the past, seeing the kitchen around
her again, and she tried to move her left ear away from the receiver dazedly, to look down at the
mouthpiece, at the voice of Clementine floating up out of it, as if it were a physical thing she
could see, but her ear appeared to be stuck to the receiver. She couldn’t seem to move it.

“Nothing,” Anne murmured confusedly down into the phone, to Clementine, “I’m nothing.
It’s nothing. I’m sorry. Good-bye.” But she didn’t let go of the phone to hang up, holding it
still pressed to her ear. She couldn’t; when she put her other wounded hand to her ear, she found
that the receiver was stuck to her ear with congealed blood that seemed to be coming out of her
ear. And she dropped her hands to her side, the phone stuck to the side of her head, and she
remembered how when she was a child, she had gone to the circus with her family and seen a
clown, with no hands, driving a bicycle across a steel wire—his arms stuck out at right angles
from his body to show everybody he wasn’t using his hands. And again, she seemed to hear the
applause the feat had generated, the audience clapping wildly, and with an effort, dazed, she
stuck her arms out at right angles from her body, before searing pain in her body caused them to
drop back to her sides like birds falling out of the sky.

“Annie! Goddamn it! Annie!” Clementine’s voice shrieked into her ear from the phone
stuck to the side of Anne’s head. “WHAT THE GODDAMN FUCK IN HELL IS GOING ON
THERE! And oh, sweet JESUS! Forgive me for saying that—but you KNOW how she is!”

“I—uh—nothing…!” Clementine managed to whisper, swaying now on her feet with the
phone stuck to the side of her head. She decided she wouldn’t tell Clementine anything at all;
she couldn’t! She’d just sit tight and wait for Joe to get back. But she didn’t know what he was
going to say, and she pictured his frown of dismay, the line that would appear sometimes
between his heavy brows when she slightly overcooked his soft-boiled eggs in the morning, so

  8
 

the yellow cores were like paste and not glue-y. And she couldn’t imagine how she would go to
the office on Monday; she was glad it was Good Friday and she was off for the day for religious
observances, at least. She could call in sick ahead of time later, when she felt better, give her co-
workers some advance warning of her sick day—or days, as the case may be—and so they would
be prepared for her battered and bruised appearance. And she wondered frantically: How would
she tell people at the hospital, doctors and nurses, how she had acquired the … the injuries?

She breathed loudly into the phone, sobbing, but was still unaware of her tears.
“You sound strange,” Clementine told her, her voice gone ominously calm.
Anne blinked her right eye in surprise, unaware that Clementine was still on the phone. It

had only been a few seconds since Clementine had spoken, but it seemed like an eternity. She
had forgotten all about Clementine.

She sneezed blood and snot, wiped her nose on the back of one of her bloodied hands
holding the phone. The hand felt numb.

“Nothing,” Anne murmured again, and then squeaked—“Noth-ing!”—hacking, trying to
clear the fresh blood from her throat, coming from her stomach, which was sharper, worse than
the snot from her nose. (It burned her larynx.) “I’m nothing,” she said.

“Are you crying?” Clementine inquired, with sudden interest.
But Anne didn’t answer, because her feet hurt, and she slowly crouched on the floor, sat
on her ample buttocks, but feeling injuries there, too, the phone receiver still stuck to the side of
her head, stretching on its long cord down to the floor with her.
“Anne? What’s going on, Anne?” Clementine sounded suspicious, but still, even more,
interested.

  9
 

Anne moved her hand laboriously up to the side of her head, and with a wrench, a pulling
feeling, pried the receiver away from her head and looked down dizzily at the place where her
ear had been. The top of the receiver, the audio portion, was smeared with rather thick, fresh,
clotted blood; red gel or clear red cinnamon-flavored toothpaste, it looked like, like a kind she
once bought for Joe on sale but he didn’t like it, preferring the white, glue-y kind.

Great, big tears rolled unnoticed down her swollen cheeks again.
“They hit Him in the side of the head, too!” she thought, looking down at the bloodied
telephone receiver. The whole left side of her head ached. She wanted to bawl out loud with the
pain.
“Kicked,” she thought, “or backhanded really, very hard. No—probably kicked. Kicked,
yes; He was kicked in His head.”
There was, she suddenly noticed, a persistent ringing coming and going in her left ear
again, and her head hurt if she moved it even slightly, so she tried to keep it still: breathe more
softly so as not to disturb anything. But it was no good. She felt something cloud the vision in
her right eye, her good eye, and she blinked the eye carefully; it was blood, flowing from the
wounds on her forehead and the wounds buried under her matted, sweat-drenched, and blood-
caked hair.
“Anne?” Clementine’s tinny voice sounded up at her suspiciously from the receiver.
But Anne wasn’t listening to her, didn’t hear her, because there were very few places her
body didn’t hurt.
“Anne? I’ll be right there!” Clementine said with a heavy brusqueness, a certain
suppressed excitement, like a cat beating its tail on the floor as it watches a bird in the bush.

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But Anne didn’t hear her. She had passed out on the floor, her skull thudding unluckily
on the receiver of the phone. But she didn’t feel that pain: She was too busy feeling all the other,
greater pains—especially them, yes: The Five Wounds.

Chapter
 Two
 
She
 came
 to
 again,
 for
 the
 second
 time
 that
 morning,
 about
 half
 an
 hour
 later
 when
 
she
 heard
 Clementine
 shouting.
 
 Her
 sister
 was
 crouched
 over
 her
 on
 the
 kitchen
 floor,
 
shrieking,
 “Oh,
 my
 God!
 
 My
 little
 sister!
 
 My
 baby
 sister!
 
 Oh,
 Annie!
 
 Annie!
 
 Oh,
 my
 God!
 
 
That
 pig!
 
 What
 did
 you
 do,
 Annie?
 
 Why
 did
 he
 do
 this
 to
 you,
 Annie?
 
 This
 is
 what
 comes
 
from
 marrying
 a
 foreigner—they’re
 all
 macho,
 like
 Hispanic
 men—these
 immigrants
 from
 
all
 the
 soccer-­‐playing
 countries
 that
 don’t
 play
 football!
 
 Annie!
 
 Oh,
 Annie,
 my
 baby
 sister!
 
 
Let
 me
 hug
 you!
 
 You’re
 hurt!
 
 Injured!
 
 Dying!
 
 No!
 
 Don’t
 move!
 
 You’ll
 get
 blood
 on
 my
 
new
 suit!
 
 Stay
 there!
 
 Don’t
 move!
 
 I’ll
 call
 the
 police!
 
 
 
 There’s
 no
 excuse
 for
 domestic
 
violence!
 
 NO
 EXCUSE!”
 
 
 

  Anne
 groaned
 and
 rolled
 over
 on
 her
 side,
 coughing
 up
 blood
 on
 the
 kitchen
 floor.
 

  “Oh,
 my
 God,
 Anne!”
 Clementine
 shrieked,
 jumping
 back.
 
 “What
 are
 you
 doing?
 
 
What
 are
 you
 doing!
 
 You’re
 going
 to
 stain
 my
 new
 Dior
 suit!”
 

  “I’m
 sorry,”
 Anne
 mumbled
 feebly;
 “I
 didn’t
 mean
 to
 throw
 up
 on
 the
 floor.”
 

  “Nine-­‐one-­‐one!
 
 Where’s
 nine-­‐one-­‐one?
 
 I’ve
 got
 to
 call
 nine-­‐one-­‐one!”
 Clementine
 
shrieked
 hysterically.
 
 “Give
 me
 nine-­‐one-­‐one!
 
 Oh,
 you’re
 on
 the
 phone,
 Annie!
 
 Get
 off
 the
 
phone
 so’s
 I
 can
 call.”
 

  11
 


  And
 Anne
 was
 indeed
 on
 the
 phone;
 she
 had
 somehow
 rolled
 onto
 it
 when
 she
 
vomited
 up
 the
 blood,
 and
 she
 hadn’t
 felt
 its
 hard
 plastic
 hurting
 her
 because
 she
 hurt
 so
 
much
 already.
 

  She
 climbed
 onto
 her
 hands
 and
 knees,
 gnashing
 her
 teeth
 in
 pain
 and
 crying
 out,
 as
 
she
 slowly
 rose
 from
 the
 floor.
 

  “How
 long
 have
 you
 been
 like
 this?”
 Clementine
 asked
 her,
 snatching
 up
 the
 phone
 
receiver
 from
 the
 floor
 and
 then
 casting
 it
 away
 from
 her
 when
 she
 got
 blood
 on
 her
 hands.
 

  “Oh,
 my
 God!
 
 Oh,
 my
 God!”
 Clementine
 shrieked
 out,
 and
 she
 quickly
 turned
 on
 the
 
water
 at
 the
 kitchen
 sink
 and
 rinsed
 her
 hands.
 
 “How
 long
 have
 you
 been
 like
 this!
 
 Annie!
 
 
Annie!
 
 What
 the
 hell
 happened,
 Annie?
 
 How
 long
 have
 you
 been
 like
 this
 Annie?”
 

  “I
 don’t
 know,”
 Clementine
 answered
 her
 heavily.
 
 “What
 time
 is
 it?
 
 Since
 dawn,
 I
 
think:
 
 five
 o’clock.
 
 Right
 after
 Joe
 left
 to
 install
 some
 kitchen
 cabinets
 he
 made
 for
 a
 
customer.”
 

  “Why
 didn’t
 you
 call
 me
 right
 away?”
 Clementine
 shrieked
 at
 her
 from
 the
 kitchen
 
sink,
 where
 she
 was
 frantically
 soaping
 and
 scrubbing
 her
 hands.
 

  “I
 don’t
 know.
 
 I
 …
 passed
 out?”
 Anne
 guessed
 meekly.
 

  “Well,
 he’s
 a
 rotten,
 rotten—mean,
 rotten
 bastard,
 that’s
 what
 he
 is!
 
 Like
 one
 of
 
those
 macho
 Hispanic
 guys—and
 all
 those
 soccer-­‐playing
 foreigners
 who
 don’t
 even
 know
 
how
 to
 play
 football!”
 Clementine
 snarled
 out
 fiercely,
 scrubbing
 her
 hands
 dry
 with
 a
 clean
 
dish
 cloth.
 
 “Phew!
 
 I
 hate
 Joe!
 
 I
 hate
 him!
 
 I
 absolutely
 hate
 him!
 
 This
 has
 made
 me
 hate
 
him
 forever.
 
 I
 don’t
 care
 if
 you’re
 overweight
 and
 a
 little
 shy.
 
 A
 wallflower.
 
 The
 kids
 thing,
 
not
 being
 able
 to
 have
 babies.
 
 A
 curse
 on
 you
 from
 God
 for
 all
 your
 sins
 that
 you
 probably
 
committed
 at
 night
 in
 your
 bedroom
 when
 no
 was
 looking!
 
 That’s
 no
 excuse!
 
 There’s
 

  12
 

absolutely
 no
 excuse!”
 
 She
 threw
 the
 dishcloth
 on
 the
 counter,
 put
 a
 hand
 on
 it,
 gripping
 it
 
hard,
 striving
 to
 gain
 control.
 
 “Annie,”
 she
 told
 her
 peremptorily,
 “hand
 me
 the
 phone.”
 

  Clementine
 drew
 herself
 up
 to
 her
 full
 height,
 all
 five
 feet
 six
 inches—five
 feet
 ten,
 
actually,
 in
 her
 Jimmy
 Choo
 stilettos—and
 breathed
 loudly
 through
 her
 nostrils,
 her
 mouth
 
clamped
 into
 a
 fierce,
 thin,
 white
 line.
 

  With
 great
 difficulty,
 staggering
 with
 her
 wounds
 and
 many
 little
 injuries,
 Anne
 
managed
 to
 pick
 up
 the
 phone
 receiver.
 
 She
 held
 it
 out
 to
 Clementine.
 

  “Who
 are
 you
 going
 to
 call,
 Clementine?”
 Anne
 asked.
 

  “Give
 me
 the
 phone!
 
 I’m
 going
 to
 call
 the
 police!”
 Clementine
 blazed
 out,
 still
 
breathing
 loudly
 through
 her
 nose.
 

  “On
 who?”
 Anne
 asked.
 

  “On
 WHOM!”
 Clementine
 thundered.
 
 “On
 whom-­‐whom-­‐whom,
 goddamnit!”
 

  “On
 whom—I’m
 sorry,”
 Anne
 murmured
 apologetically.
 
 Her
 arm,
 holding
 the
 phone
 
out,
 extended
 to
 Clementine,
 had
 begun
 to
 shake
 visibly,
 and
 she
 dropped
 it.
 

  “Oh,
 my
 God—my
 little
 sister—Annie.
 
 I’m
 sorry,
 baby,”
 Clementine
 told
 her,
 
reaching
 out
 her
 hands
 in
 an
 embrace,
 and
 then
 withdrawing
 them
 quickly
 and
 jumping
 
back
 when
 Anne
 sneezed
 blood.
 
 “Look,
 I’m
 not
 angry
 with
 you,
 sweetheart,
 Annie,
 I’m
 not
 
angry
 with
 you—you’re
 a
 victim.
 
 I’m
 angry
 with
 Joe.
 
 With
 Joe!
 
 So
 I’m
 going
 to
 call
 the
 
police
 on
 Joe,
 of
 course!”
 Clementine
 snapped.
 
 “For—for
 making
 a
 mess
 of
 your
 face,
 
attacking
 you
 with
 the—the
 electric
 mixer
 and
 the
 potato
 masher!”
 
 She
 looked
 at
 the
 hand
 
holding
 out
 the
 phone
 to
 her.
 
 “For—for
 stabbing
 you
 through
 the
 wrists
 with
 a
 big
 
screwdriver!”
 

  13
 


  “But
 it
 wasn’t
 his
 fault,
 Clementine,”
 Anne
 told
 her,
 a
 trickle
 of
 bright
 red
 blood
 
dribbling
 over
 her
 bottom
 lip.
 
 “It
 wasn’t
 Joe’s
 fault.”
 

  Clementine
 was
 silent
 for
 a
 moment,
 her
 eyes
 traveling
 rapidly
 over
 her
 sister’s
 face
 
and
 body,
 seeming
 to
 fasten
 fiercely
 for
 a
 moment
 on
 the
 abrasions
 on
 Anne’s
 face,
 like
 
cement,
 somehow
 leap
 in
 and
 out
 of
 the
 wounds
 in
 her
 wrists
 and
 feet,
 smack
 against
 the
 
blood
 caking
 her
 blouse
 and
 skirt.
 

  There
 was
 a
 long
 pause
 before
 Clementine
 spoke.
 

“Do
 you
 know
 what,
 Anne?”
 Clementine
 asked
 finally,
 ominously,
 quietly.
 
“No.
 
 What?”
 Anne
 asked
 breathlessly,
 breathing
 with
 difficulty.
 
“I’m
 sorry
 to
 say
 it,
 Anne,
 but—women
 like
 you,
 women
 like
 you
 disgust
 me,”
 
Clementine
 said.
 
“Oh,”
 Anne
 mumbled,
 confused
 and
 automatically
 ashamed.
 
 She
 swallowed
 another
 
mouthful
 of
 blood
 and
 mucus
 and
 fresh,
 sharp
 blood
 from
 her
 abdominal
 area.
 
“What
 should
 I
 do?”
 she
 asked,
 lost.
 
“Give
 me
 the
 phone,
 Anne!”
 Clementine
 barked,
 her
 eyes
 drilling
 into
 Anne’s.
 
Anne
 moved
 the
 phone
 slightly,
 painfully,
 in
 her
 hand.
 
Clementine
 stepped
 sideways
 and
 reached
 out
 a
 hand,
 still
 looking
 Anne
 straight
 in
 
the
 eye,
 and
 grabbed
 the
 dish
 towel
 she
 had
 thrown
 on
 the
 counter
 to
 dry
 her
 hands.
 
 “Give
 
me
 the
 phone,
 Anne,”
 she
 demanded
 again,
 and
 then
 she
 snatched
 the
 phone
 from
 Anne’s
 
fallen
 hand,
 holding
 the
 dishtowel
 over
 her
 own
 hand
 so
 she
 wouldn’t
 get
 blood
 on
 it.
 

  Clementine
 grabbed
 a
 pencil
 from
 the
 drawer,
 and
 turned
 slightly
 away
 from
 Anne,
 
to
 dial
 some
 numbers
 fiercely
 on
 the
 rotary
 wall
 phone—protecting
 her
 acrylic
 fingernails
 

  14
 

from
 damage—and
 then
 she
 blocked
 the
 phone
 for
 a
 moment
 with
 her
 pencil,
 breathing
 
hard
 through
 her
 nose,
 and
 she
 looked
 away
 from
 Anne,
 to
 one
 side,
 fiercely.
 

  “Don’t
 be
 hasty!
 
 Don’t
 be
 so
 hasty!”
 she
 told
 herself,
 shaking
 her
 head.
 
 “Anne!”
 she
 
barked.
 

  “What?”
 Anne
 asked
 her
 breathlessly.
 

  “Let
 me
 think,
 Anne!”
 Clementine
 barked.
 
 “Did
 he
 break
 any
 bones?”
 she
 asked,
 still
 
not
 looking
 directly
 at
 Anne,
 at
 her
 injuries.
 

  “Who?
 
 Oh.
 
 No,
 no,
 I
 don’t
 think
 so;
 he
 didn’t
 break
 any
 of
 my
 bones,”
 Anne
 said.
 

  “Okay,
 okay.
 
 He
 didn’t
 break
 any
 of
 her
 bones,”
 Clementine
 murmured
 to
 herself.
 
 
“Right.
 
 No,
 bones
 broken.”
 
 She
 looked
 slowly,
 carefully
 back
 over
 at
 Anne.
 
 Full
 face.
 
 “No
 
family
 scandal!
 
 No
 family
 scandals!
 
 It’s
 a
 bad
 thing,
 and
 it
 causes
 trouble
 for
 everybody,
 
Anne—makes
 everybody
 in
 the
 family
 look
 like
 trash!
 
 ‘Domestic
 violence’!
 
 It’s
 only
 for
 
lower-­‐class
 people,
 Anne!”
 Clementine
 barked
 accusingly
 into
 her
 face,
 bringing
 her
 own
 
face
 close
 to
 Anne’s,
 within
 six
 inches.
 
 “Lower-­‐class
 people,
 Anne!”
 she
 said
 again,
 in
 a
 
hissing
 whisper.
 
 “The
 kind
 who
 sit
 in
 the
 back
 pews
 in
 church!
 
 Riff-­‐raff!”
 

  Staring
 into
 Clementine’s
 round
 blue
 eyes,
 picketed
 by
 mascara—“Even
 in
 an
 
emergency,
 always
 dress
 to
 impress!”
 was
 her
 motto—Anne
 started
 to
 explain
 what
 had
 
happened.
 
 “He—it—he
 had
 a
 big
 hammer
 and
 nail,
 and
 he
 hammered
 the
 nail
 through
 my
 
wrists
 and
 feet,
 and
 then
 he
 got
 a
 spear,
 a
 kind
 of
 spear
 it
 looked
 like,
 and
 he—it—!”
 

  “—Okay!
 
 Shut
 up,
 shut
 up,
 sweetheart,
 alright?
 
 I
 don’t
 need
 to
 hear
 the
 details.
 
 
When
 did
 he
 do
 all
 this?”
 
 Clementine
 asked,
 waving
 a
 hand
 that
 encompassed
 all
 of
 Anne.
 

  “At—at
 dawn.
 
 Early
 in
 the
 morning.
 
 Around
 five
 o’clock,
 I
 think,”
 Anne
 told
 her.
 
 
“After
 Joe
 left.”
 

  15
 


  “Right.
 
 So!
 
 She
 hasn’t
 bled
 to
 death,
 then—none
 of
 the
 injuries
 are
 fatal,
 but
 he
 sure
 
beat
 the
 bejesus
 out
 of
 her,”
 Clementine
 told
 herself,
 beginning
 to
 pace
 slightly
 with
 the
 
phone
 receiver
 in
 her
 hand,
 holding
 it
 away
 from
 her
 in
 the
 dish
 towel
 so
 the
 congealed
 
blood
 on
 it
 wouldn’t
 drip
 onto
 her
 suit.
 

  “What
 should
 I
 do?
 
 What
 should
 I
 do,
 Clementine?”
 Anne
 whispered,
 tears
 rolling
 
down
 her
 cheeks
 again,
 unbeknownst
 to
 her.
 
 “How
 am
 I
 going
 to
 go
 to
 work
 on
 Monday
 
looking
 like
 this?”
 

  “Did
 you
 cheat,
 Anne?
 
 Did
 you
 cheat
 on
 Joe—get
 with
 the
 carpenter
 in
 the
 
workshop
 across
 the
 street
 in
 his
 shack
 in
 the
 back
 or
 something?”
 Clementine
 asked
 her
 
suddenly.
 

  “What?”
 Anne
 asked,
 stunned,
 perplexed.
 
 “There
 isn’t
 another
 carpenter
 across
 the
 
street.”
 

  “Run
 up
 the
 charge
 cards
 at
 Neimann-­‐Marcus,
 then?
 
 Oh,
 no,
 of
 course
 not!
 
 What
 am
 
I
 thinking?”
 Clementine
 asked
 herself,
 and
 she
 laughed
 rather
 hysterically
 .
 
 “Ran
 up
 the
 
charge
 cards
 at
 the
 Goodwill
 or
 K-­‐Mart
 is
 more
 likely!
 Look
 at
 you!
 
 Look
 at
 your
 
wardrobe!”
 

  “What
 should
 I
 do,
 Clementine?”
 Anne
 asked
 again.
 

  “What
 should
 you
 do?
 
 What
 should
 you
 do?
 
 I
 don’t
 know
 what
 you
 should
 do!
 
 I’m
 
thinking—do
 you
 hear
 me,
 Anne?
 
 I’m
 thinking!”
 
 Clementine
 shouted.
 
 “You’ve
 made
 your
 
problem
 my
 problem,
 but
 that’s
 okay—hey,
 I’m
 your
 big
 sister,
 I
 can
 handle
 it.”
 

  Clementine
 paced
 furiously
 from
 one
 foot
 to
 another,
 and
 then
 in
 a
 little
 circle.
 

  16
 


  “Families
 with
 domestic
 abuse
 victims
 or
 drug
 addicts—suicides—always
 look
 so
 
tacky,
 no
 matter
 what!
 
 It
 reflects
 on
 everybody,”
 she
 murmured,
 “makes
 the
 whole
 
goddamn
 lot
 look
 like
 white
 trash.
 
 Even
 when
 it’s
 not
 their
 fault!”
 

  She
 clapped
 her
 hands
 sharply
 together
 suddenly,
 a
 command.
 

  “Right!”
 she
 said,
 making
 up
 her
 mind.
 
 “We’ll
 take
 you
 to
 my
 dermatologist;
 you’ll
 
go
 with
 me
 to
 my
 appointment
 this
 morning.
 
 He
 does
 all
 the
 movie
 stars’
 faces.
 
 He
 knows
 
how
 to
 keep
 a
 secret.
 
 No
 hospitals.
 
 Lots
 of
 questions.
 
 Until
 we
 can
 resolve
 this,
 settle
 
everything—peacefully.
 
 No
 scandals.
 
 They’ll
 take
 him,
 if
 they
 get
 him,
 and
 put
 him
 in
 jail
 
for
 a
 mandatory
 year-­‐and-­‐a-­‐half
 jail
 term,
 I
 know
 all
 about
 it
 from
 my
 TV
 shows,
 and
 that’ll
 
reflect
 badly
 on
 everybody,
 both
 families,
 everybody
 knows
 us
 all,
 and
 you’ll
 have
 to
 move
 
back
 in
 with
 mom
 and
 dad,
 and—and
 that
 would
 be
 inconvenient.
 
 They’re
 selling
 the
 
house.
 
 Moving
 into
 one
 of
 those
 subsidized
 retirement
 apartments.
 
 And
 I’m
 going
 to
 
oversee
 their
 finances.”
 

  “Mom
 and
 Dad
 are
 selling
 the
 house?”
 Anne
 asked.
 
 It
 was
 news
 to
 her.
 

  “Yes,
 the
 one
 smart
 thing
 they
 did;
 they
 bought
 it
 in
 a
 nice
 neighborhood
 that
 has
 
only
 gone
 up
 and
 up;
 it’ll
 get
 a
 really
 decent
 price,
 Bill
 says,”
 Clementine
 murmured
 quickly.
 
 
“But
 never
 mind
 about
 all
 that,
 the
 price
 Mom
 and
 Dad
 get
 for
 their
 house—Bill
 and
 his
 real
 
estate
 company
 are
 going
 to
 handle
 everything,”
 Clementine
 added
 brusquely.
 
 “I’m
 taking
 
care
 of
 things,
 of
 Mom
 and
 Dad’s
 affairs—as
 usual,
 I
 might
 add!
 
 But
 anyway,
 it
 doesn’t
 
bother
 me;
 it’s
 never
 upset
 me
 to
 be
 in
 charge.
 
 I
 like
 it,
 so
 it’s
 okay,
 Anne.
 
 You
 can
 just—
you
 don’t
 need
 to
 do
 anything.
 
 I’ve
 got
 everything
 under
 control.
 
 Let’s
 just
 think
 about
 
your
 situation
 now,
 okay?
 
 We
 need
 to
 think
 about
 your
 situation.
 
 We
 can
 just—it
 will
 be
 
tricky,
 because
 he’s
 really
 done
 a
 number
 on
 you
 here,
 beat
 the
 hell
 out
 of
 you—but
 Father
 

  17
 

O’Mulligan
 can
 counsel
 the
 two
 of
 you
 both
 for
 a
 while,
 you
 and
 Joe.
 
 We’ll
 see
 what
 he
 
thinks.
 
 If
 this”—she
 made
 the
 hand
 gesture
 again
 encompassing
 the
 whole
 of
 Anne—“if
 
this
 is
 grounds
 for
 annulment.
 
 He’s
 become
 a
 drinker,
 obviously.
 
 An
 alcoholic.
 
 Out
 of
 his
 
mind
 when
 he
 hits
 the
 sauce.
 
 And
 of
 course
 you
 didn’t
 say
 anything
 because
 you
 were
 
embarrassed.
 
 Those
 three
 imported
 German
 beers
 he
 had
 at
 our
 house
 on
 New
 Year’s
 Eve,
 
I
 was
 counting—when
 there
 was
 American
 beer
 for
 him
 in
 the
 fridge—and
 yes,
 let’s
 not
 
forget,
 that
 glass
 of
 French
 champagne,
 that
 glass
 of
 very,
 very
 expensive
 French
 
champagne!
 
 That
 was
 only
 supposed
 to
 be
 for
 the
 bishop,
 the
 monsignor,
 and
 some
 of
 the
 
others,
 but
 everybody
 started
 to
 drink
 it,
 when
 there
 was
 other,
 perfectly
 good,
 goddamn
 
American
 champagne
 available!”
 

  “This
 isn’t
 Joe’s
 fault!”
 Clementine
 murmured
 weakly,
 swallowing
 blood.
 
 “It’s
 not—I
 
mean,
 it’s
 not
 his—he
 didn’t
 do
 this
 to—!”
 

  “—Yes,
 I
 know
 you
 love
 him,
 and
 that’s
 all
 very
 commendable,
 Anne,
 but
 as
 I
 said—
well,
 I’m
 sorry,
 but
 women
 like
 you
 really
 disgust
 me.
 
 Alcoholic
 husbands.
 
 Co-­‐dependents.
 
 
Encouraging
 their
 drinking
 problem
 by
 trying
 to
 hide
 it.
 
 Using
 it
 maybe
 subconsciously
 as
 
a
 means
 to
 control
 them.
 
 Oh,
 yes,
 I
 know.
 
 I
 watch
 the
 t.v.
 talk
 shows!
 
 You’re
 passive-­‐
aggressive,
 Anne.”
 

  “But—!”
 Anne
 said.
 

  “—Never
 mind!”
 Clementine
 interrupted
 her,
 clapping
 her
 hands
 together
 brusquely
 
in
 a
 series
 of
 short,
 sharp
 commands
 as
 she
 spoke:
 
 clap-­clap-­clap,
 clap-­clap-­
 CLAP!
 
 “You
 
look
 like
 hell!
 (clap!)
 
 Go!
 (clap!)
 Take
 a
 shower
 and
 change.
 (clap!)
 We’ll
 go
 to
 my
 
dermatologist.
 (clap!)
 But
 we
 can
 go
 with
 a
 little
 dignity
 at
 least,
 eh,
 Anne?
 (clap!)
 Have
 a
 
little
 pride;
 don’t
 look
 like
 a
 victim.”
 (CLAP!)
 

  18
 

“I’m
 not
 a
 victim,”
 Anne
 told
 her
 weakly,
 coughing
 up
 blood.
 
“Oh,
 God!
 
 My
 poor
 little
 sister!”
 
 Clementine
 wailed
 suddenly,
 overcome,
 looking
 at
 
the
 pathetic
 spectacle
 that
 was
 Anne,
 bruised
 and
 bleeding
 and
 now
 suddenly
 vomiting,
 on
 
her
 hands
 and
 knees
 on
 the
 floor,
 and
 Clementine
 suddenly
 burst
 into
 hot,
 wild
 tears,
 and
 
she
 threw
 out
 her
 arms
 out
 wildly
 to
 embrace
 Anne,
 then
 stepped
 back
 quickly,
 wiped
 the
 
tears
 carefully
 under
 her
 eyes,
 with
 the
 tips
 of
 her
 fingers,
 so
 her
 mascara
 wouldn’t
 run,
 
and
 stripped
 down
 to
 her
 underwear
 and
 ran
 into
 Anne’s
 room
 to
 borrow
 one
 of
 Anne’s
 
robes,
 so
 she
 wouldn’t
 stain
 her
 bra
 and
 panties
 from
 Victoria’s
 Secret.
 
 Then,
 she
 embraced
 
Anne
 carefully
 and
 helped
 her
 to
 shower
 and
 dress
 in
 baggy
 black
 jeans,
 a
 black
 turtleneck,
 
a
 pair
 of
 black
 mittens
 and
 three
 pairs
 of
 socks
 and
 low-­‐heeled
 black
 ankle
 boots.
 
 
 
Clementine
 had
 been
 the
 one
 to
 pick
 out
 Anne’s
 clothes.
 
 
 
“Everything
 must
 match,
 even
 the
 shades
 of
 black;
 you
 should
 always
 try
 and
 look
 
your
 best,
 under
 any
 circumstances,
 even
 these
 ones,”
 she
 explained
 to
 Anne.
 
 “But
 maybe
 
all
 of
 this
 will
 be
 a
 new
 start,
 a
 wake-­‐up
 call
 for
 you,
 and
 you’ll
 stop
 eating
 so
 many
 refined
 
carbs,
 go
 on
 the
 Atkin’s
 Diet.
 
 Carb
 depletion,
 like
 all
 the
 movie
 stars.”
 
Over
 Anne’s
 wounds
 Clementine
 poured
 hydrogen
 peroxide
 or
 slathered
 Neosporin
 
(“to
 prevent
 infection”),
 and
 then
 she
 wrapped
 them
 in
 various
 improvised
 bandages,
 
because
 the
 biggest
 bandage
 in
 the
 medicine
 cabinet
 in
 Anne’s
 bathroom
 covered
 only
 one
 
square
 inch.
 
 Seven
 times
 Clementine
 seriously
 considered
 calling
 nine-­‐one-­‐one,
 because
 
the
 wounds
 were
 so
 severe
 and
 dramatic—“That
 was
 a
 big
 fucking
 nail
 he
 hammered
 into
 
you,
 the
 freak!”—but
 she
 desisted
 at
 the
 last
 moment
 each
 time
 (twice
 with
 the
 phone
 in
 
her
 hand,
 the
 emergency
 number
 half-­‐way
 dialed).
 
 
 

  19
 

“I
 can’t
 understand
 it!”
 she
 told
 Anne,
 as
 she
 wrapped
 bandages
 around
 her
 wrists
 
and
 hands,
 feet,
 and
 side.
 
 “Everything’s
 still
 bleeding,
 you’re
 bleeding
 like
 a
 stuck
 pig.”
 
 She
 
frowned,
 and
 for
 the
 first
 time,
 she
 felt
 frightened,
 doubtful,
 even
 odd,
 and
 she
 hastened
 to
 
reassure
 herself:
 
 “But
 you’ve
 been
 like
 this
 for
 hours,”
 Clementine
 said,
 reassuring
 herself,
 
“so
 you’re
 not
 bleeding
 to
 death.”
 

To
 stop
 the
 “leaking,”
 she
 wrapped
 Saran
 wrap
 over
 the
 bandages,
 even
 over
 the
 
wounds
 on
 Anne’s
 forehead
 and
 on
 her
 skull,
 beneath
 her
 hair,
 so
 Anne
 ended
 up
 looking
 
like
 she
 had
 a
 skull
 cap
 made
 of
 Saran
 wrap
 on
 her
 head.
 
 However,
 Clementine
 made
 this
 
fashion
 blunder
 into
 a
 fashion
 win
 by
 tying
 a
 black
 scarf
 artfully
 over
 it,
 and
 hiding
 the
 
Saran
 wrap
 completely.
 

“There
 now!
 
 Don’t
 you
 look
 chic—like
 a
 famous
 actress
 stepping
 out
 in
 Beverly
 Hills
 
to
 go
 shopping!”
 Clementine
 told
 Anne
 when
 she
 had
 finished
 tying
 the
 scarf,
 stepping
 back
 
to
 observe
 her
 handiwork.
 
 Then,
 she
 put
 her
 own
 pair
 of
 huge,
 oversized
 dark
 sunglasses
 
on
 Anne.
 

“They’re
 my
 Chanels,
 and
 they
 cost
 a
 mint,
 and
 all
 the
 famous
 actresses
 own
 this
 
pair,
 Jackie
 O
 wore
 a
 pair
 like
 this,
 but
 you’re
 my
 baby
 sister,
 and
 I
 love
 you,”
 Clementine
 
told
 Anne,
 “so
 I’m
 going
 to
 let
 you
 wear
 them.
 
 For
 now,
 only—they’re
 on
 loan,
 I’m
 not
 
giving
 them
 to
 you,
 because
 as
 I
 said,
 they
 cost
 a
 mint,
 but
 you
 can
 pretend
 they’re
 yours
 for
 
the
 next
 hour
 or
 two,
 while
 we’re
 at
 my
 dermatologist’s.”
 

Then,
 Clementine
 had
 Anne
 survey
 herself
 in
 the
 bathroom
 mirror.
 
 She
 had
 on
 a
 
black
 turtleneck,
 black
 skirt
 and
 thick
 black,
 wool
 stockings,
 the
 oversized
 black
 Chanel
 
sunglasses,
 black
 mitts,
 black
 ankles
 boots,
 and
 a
 black
 scarf
 on
 her
 head
 

  20
 


  “There
 now!
 
 Don’t
 you
 look
 nice!”
 she
 said,
 but
 even
 her
 eyes
 were
 doubtful.
 
 Every
 
body
 part
 of
 Anne’s
 was
 covered,
 except
 for
 her
 face,
 and
 most
 of
 that
 was
 covered
 by
 the
 
sunglasses,
 but
 she
 still
 looked
 like
 what
 Clementine
 thought
 she
 was:
 
 a
 domestic
 abuse
 
victim,
 one
 who
 had
 had
 the
 hell
 beaten
 out
 of
 her.
 
 
 

  Then,
 Clementine
 and
 Anne
 climbed
 into
 Clementine’s
 fire
 engine-­‐red
 Mercedes
 
convertible
 (“I
 know
 it’s
 an
 indulgence,
 but
 what
 the
 hell,
 I’m
 worth
 it,
 it’s
 like
 the
 Mercedes
 
the
 actress
 Cybill
 Shepard
 drove
 in
 all
 those
 commercials,
 and
 I
 just
 had
 to
 have
 it!”
 
Clementine
 said
 cheerfully,
 trying
 to
 make
 small
 talk,
 as
 she
 helped
 Anne
 into
 the
 
passenger’s
 seat),
 and
 they
 whizzed
 off
 to
 Clementine’s
 dermatologist
 in
 Beverly
 Hills.
 

 
 

  21
 

Chapter
 Three
 

 

In
 L.A.
 traffic,
 which
 is
 inevitably
 horrible,
 it
 took
 Anne
 and
 Clementine
 almost
 an
 
hour
 to
 get
 from
 Anne’s
 apartment
 at
 the
 back
 of
 her
 husband’s
 woodworking
 shop
 in
 the
 
San
 Fernando
 Valley
 to
 Clementine’s
 dermatologist
 in
 Beverly
 Hills,
 despite
 all
 the
 clever
 
shortcuts
 that
 Clementine,
 a
 born
 Angelino,
 took
 to
 avoid
 the
 worst
 of
 the
 traffic
 on
 the
 
freeways
 and
 main
 streets,
 because
 all
 the
 other
 zillion
 born
 Angelinos
 know
 these
 
shortcuts,
 too,
 so
 they
 are
 always
 packed
 with
 cars.
 
 The
 drive
 to
 the
 dermatologist’s
 was,
 
therefore,
 tense.
 
 Clementine
 worried
 about
 having
 sufficient
 time
 to
 dress,
 calm
 down,
 and
 
run
 her
 lines
 before
 her
 performance
 in
 the
 Passion
 Play
 that
 afternoon,
 and
 about
 having
 
her
 sister
 Anne
 being
 a
 victim
 of
 domestic
 abuse
 and
 causing
 great
 personal
 inconvenience
 
to
 everybody
 as
 a
 result.
 
 But
 each
 time
 she
 glanced
 at
 Anne,
 hunkered
 down
 in
 dumb
 pain
 
in
 the
 passenger
 seat
 of
 the
 red
 Mercedes,
 and
 saw
 the
 abrasions
 on
 Anne’s
 face
 that
 even
 
the
 oversized
 black
 Chanel
 sunglasses
 couldn’t
 disguise,
 Clementine
 felt
 glad
 that
 she
 had
 
loaned
 Anne
 the
 sunglasses
 temporarily.
 
 Still,
 she
 had
 to
 turn
 on
 an
 Enya
 CD
 and
 play
 it
 
very
 loudly
 so
 the
 bouncy
 music
 on
 her
 favorite
 song
 could
 calm
 her
 nerves,
 and
 in
 one
 
hour,
 she
 quickly
 chewed
 and
 spat
 out
 into
 a
 Kleenex
 all
 the
 pieces
 of
 mint
 gum
 in
 a
 brand
 
new
 double
 pack
 of
 mint
 gum.
 
 But,
 they
 finally
 pulled
 into
 the
 parking
 lot.
 

Once
 inside
 the
 dermatologist’s,
 they
 waited
 in
 an
 airy,
 chic
 waiting
 room
 with
 a
 
polished
 concrete
 floor
 for
 Clementine’s
 dermatologist
 to
 finish
 seeing
 a
 patient.
 
 The
 two
 
pretty
 girls
 behind
 the
 curved
 glass
 reception
 desk
 glanced
 at
 Anne
 incuriously.
 

  “Should
 you
 be
 out
 past
 your
 curfew
 this
 soon,
 young
 lady?”
 one
 demanded
 of
 Anne
 
saucily.
 

  22
 


  “The
 first
 two
 weeks
 after
 a
 face
 lift
 or
 laser
 peel—and
 especially
 when
 you’ve
 had
 
both
 done
 at
 once—you
 need
 to
 take
 it
 easy,
 lie
 down,”
 the
 other
 advised
 her
 seriously
 but
 
sweetly.
 

  “She
 came
 here
 because
 she
 wanted
 to
 read
 all
 the
 latest
 issues
 of
 Vogue,
 In
 Style,
 
People,
 Us
 and
 Star
 for
 free!”
 Clementine
 joked.
 
 “I
 mean,
 this
 place
 has
 more
 great
 
magazines
 than
 a
 supermarket
 check-­‐out
 stand!
 
 That’s
 why
 I
 come—not
 for
 my
 little
 face
 
treatments!”
 
 Onto
 Anne’s
 lap
 she
 slid
 a
 copy
 of
 an
 In
 Style
 with
 a
 photo
 of
 a
 coyly
 grinning
 
movie
 star,
 and
 directed
 her
 to
 read
 the
 article
 about
 the
 movie
 star
 on
 page
 such-­‐and-­‐
such,
 a
 dyed
 blonde
 in
 her
 early
 20’s
 explaining
 what
 she
 had
 learned
 from
 life,
 smoothly
 
preventing
 the
 girls
 at
 the
 desk
 from
 talking
 to
 Anne.
 

  Blood
 had
 started
 to
 spot
 the
 black
 mitts,
 black
 turtleneck,
 and
 black
 headscarf,
 
seeping
 through
 even
 the
 Saran
 wrap,
 and
 Clementine
 felt
 on
 edge.
 
 But
 so
 far,
 the
 blood
 
just
 looked
 like
 dark
 spots
 on
 the
 blackness.
 

  “Thank
 goodness
 for
 black!”
 Clementine
 hissed
 agitatedly
 under
 her
 breath
 to
 Anne.
 
 
“It
 hides
 a
 multitude
 of
 sins!
 
 We
 should
 all,
 all
 of
 us
 women,
 wear
 it
 more
 often!”
 

  She
 sighed
 with
 relief
 when
 a
 nurse
 came
 to
 bring
 her
 into
 the
 doctor’s
 examining
 
room,
 and
 although
 her
 original
 plan
 had
 been
 to
 leave
 Anne
 in
 the
 waiting
 room,
 the
 dark
 
spots
 staining
 her
 sister’s
 scarf,
 mitts
 and
 turtleneck,
 and
 the
 blood
 squishing
 inside
 Anne’s
 
black
 ankle
 boots
 (which
 Clementine
 didn’t
 know
 about,
 but
 which
 would
 have
 alarmed
 
her),
 changed
 her
 plans.
 

  She
 pulled
 Anne
 cheerfully
 to
 her
 feet,
 chattering
 brightly
 to
 disguise
 the
 latter’s
 low
 
moans
 of
 pain
 when
 she
 had
 to
 walk
 on
 her
 wounded
 feet
 again.
 

  23
 


  The
 doctor
 was
 an
 old
 man
 with
 a
 startlingly
 full
 head
 of
 wavy,
 painstakingly
 dyed
 
silver-­‐white
 hair
 and
 a
 youthful,
 unlined
 face.
 
 He
 was
 a
 little
 undersize
 for
 a
 man
 (about
 
five
 foot
 three),
 and
 Clementine
 sat
 down
 immediately
 and
 courteously
 when
 she
 entered
 
his
 examining
 room,
 and
 she
 pulled
 Anne
 down
 discreetly
 into
 another
 chair
 beside
 her,
 
introducing
 Anne
 as
 her
 “baby
 sister.”
 

  The
 doctor
 nodded
 his
 head,
 acknowledging
 the
 introduction.
 

  “How’s
 my
 movie
 star?”
 he
 asked
 Clementine
 jovially,
 making
 her
 chuckle.
 
 “Ready
 
for
 our
 little
 injections,
 are
 we?”
 he
 asked
 her
 brightly,
 eyeing
 Anne’s
 abrasions
 beneath
 the
 
Chanels
 with
 a
 relaxed
 professional
 scrutiny.
 

  “Hmmm,”
 he
 said,
 frowningly
 but
 still
 cheerfully.
 
 
 

However,
 his
 face
 didn’t
 move,
 there
 was
 no
 frown
 line
 between
 his
 brow
 or
 creases
 
in
 his
 forehead,
 so
 Anne
 didn’t
 know
 if
 he
 was
 actually
 frowning.
 

She
 sniffled
 nervously,
 swallowing
 blood,
 pain
 thudding
 like
 a
 hammer
 in
 her
 hands
 
and
 feet,
 her
 side,
 across
 her
 brow.
 

“Yes,
 well,
 Anne’s
 next,
 after
 my
 appointment;
 I
 mean,
 I
 know
 you’re
 a
 busy
 guy,
 Doc,
 
so
 if
 we
 can
 just
 get
 my
 appointment
 out
 of
 the
 way,
 I’ll
 share
 half
 of
 my
 regular
 
appointment
 with
 her,
 to
 get
 your
 professional
 opinion,”
 Clementine
 told
 the
 doctor.
 
 “I
 
don’t
 mean
 to
 be
 pushy
 and
 try
 to
 push
 my
 sister
 in
 ahead
 of
 everybody,
 without
 an
 
appointment,
 because
 I
 know
 some
 people
 are
 always
 so
 pushy
 here.”
 

“That’s
 okay;
 anything
 for
 my
 regular
 clients
 who
 help
 pay
 for
 my
 new
 Mercedes,”
 
the
 doctor
 responded
 gracefully,
 making
 a
 little
 joke
 at
 which
 Clementine
 laughed
 
uproariously,
 and
 then
 he
 busied
 himself
 pulling
 bottles
 from
 a
 glass
 refrigerator.
 

  24
 


  “The
 shots
 are
 for
 my
 health,
 my
 mental
 health,”
 Clementine
 whispered
 to
 Anne,
 “so
 
I
 have
 a
 high
 self-­‐esteem.
 
 He’s
 kind
 of
 like
 a
 psychiatrist
 in
 a
 way,
 not
 a
 dermatologist.”
 
 She
 
spoke
 up.
 
 “I’m
 not
 vain,
 but
 I
 do
 believe
 in
 regular
 maintenance,
 just
 like
 a
 house.
 
 If
 the
 
paint
 is
 peeling
 or
 faded,
 why,
 paint
 it
 again!
 
 Isn’t
 that
 right,
 Doc?
 
 People
 react,
 form
 
lasting
 opinions
 of
 you,
 based
 on
 less
 than
 one
 square
 foot
 of
 flesh,
 don’t
 they,
 Doc?
 
 Our
 
faces?
 
 People
 in
 this
 town,
 in
 this
 country,
 treat
 aging
 like
 a
 disease,
 don’t
 they!”
 

  “Right!”
 the
 doctor
 agreed
 cheerfully,
 turning
 from
 the
 glass
 fridge
 to
 face
 
Clementine
 and
 Anne.
 
 “They
 judge
 us
 on
 our
 faces,
 how
 they
 like
 or
 don’t
 like
 our
 faces.
 
 A
 
little
 Restiliene
 in
 the
 lips,
 too,
 as
 well
 as
 Botox
 in
 the
 four
 usual
 areas:
 crow’s
 feet,
 between
 
brows,
 forehead,
 and
 nasal-­‐labial
 folds?”
 he
 asked
 Clementine.
 
 “They’re
 looking
 a
 little
 
flat,”
 he
 murmured
 cheerfully,
 running
 a
 finger
 over
 Clementine’s
 lips.
 
 

  “You
 got
 it,
 Doc,”
 Clementine
 responded
 cheerfully.
 
 “But
 I’m
 not
 vain!”
 she
 hissed
 to
 
Anne
 out
 of
 the
 side
 of
 her
 mouth,
 in
 a
 relaxed,
 matter-­‐of-­‐fact
 whisper.
 
 “I
 need
 this
 for
 my
 
marriage,
 for
 Bill,
 for
 Bill’s
 real
 estate
 company,
 for
 his
 business
 acquaintances,
 for
 the
 kids,
 
when
 I
 meet
 with
 their
 teachers
 and
 friends,
 so
 I
 represent
 my
 children
 well,
 and
 for
 
myself,
 for
 my
 self-­‐esteem.
 
 And
 you
 know...if
 I
 decide
 on
 a
 second
 career.
 
 A
 little
 acting
 or
 
something
 like
 that.
 
 You
 just
 never
 know…!
 
 I’ve
 got
 this
 part
 in
 the
 Passion
 Play
 today,
 and
 
you
 just
 never
 know
 who
 will
 be
 watching...!”
 

  As
 the
 doctor
 prepared
 the
 syringes,
 Clementine
 got
 up
 quickly
 and
 lay
 down
 on
 a
 
padded
 steel
 table,
 pieces
 of
 sterile
 white
 paper
 covering
 its
 length
 and
 the
 surface
 of
 the
 
pillow
 at
 its
 head,
 and
 chattered
 cheerfully
 about
 her
 part
 in
 the
 Passion
 Play,
 which
 would
 
have
 “an
 audience
 of
 a
 thousand-­‐plus,”
 and
 the
 doctor
 asked
 appropriate
 and
 interested
 
questions.
 
 Then,
 he
 swabbed
 off
 some
 areas
 on
 Clementine’s
 face
 with
 a
 cotton
 ball
 soaked
 

  25
 

in
 alcohol
 and
 set
 to
 work,
 and
 he
 and
 Clementine
 chattered
 easily
 as
 he
 began
 to
 inject
 the
 
Botox
 into
 the
 four
 areas,
 and
 then
 the
 Restilene
 into
 Clementine’s
 lips,
 giving
 a
 little
 shot
 
into
 her
 lips,
 and
 then
 smoothing
 the
 slight
 lump
 in
 the
 lip
 with
 an
 index
 finger,
 and
 then
 
giving
 another
 little
 shot
 and
 another
 and
 smoothing
 the
 lumps
 quickly.
 

  “There!
 
 All
 done!”
 he
 said
 cheerfully
 when
 he
 finished.
 
 “Want
 to
 look
 in
 the
 
bathroom
 mirror
 outside?
 
 No
 bruising
 or
 blown
 veins.
 
 I’m
 a
 professional,
 all
 right.
 
 A
 little
 
redness
 from
 where
 the
 needles
 went
 in,
 but
 it’ll
 all
 fade
 before
 you
 climb
 up
 onstage
 this
 
afternoon
 in
 front
 of
 the
 audience,”
 he
 told
 her.
 

  “Oh,
 I’m
 not
 worried;
 I
 know
 I’ll
 look
 great
 onstage—you’re
 the
 greatest,
 Doc!”
 
Clementine
 told
 him
 enthusiastically,
 and
 she
 put
 up
 a
 hand
 to
 her
 face,
 running
 it
 lightly
 
over
 the
 injected
 parts.
 
 But
 she
 didn’t
 stand,
 and
 after
 a
 moment,
 she
 put
 her
 hand
 in
 her
 
lap.
 

  “Doc?”
 she
 said
 

  “Yes,”
 the
 little
 doctor
 said,
 crossing
 his
 arms
 paternally
 over
 his
 chest
 and
 looking
 
from
 Clementine
 to
 Anne
 behind
 the
 oversized
 Chanel’s.
 

  “There’s
 something
 I
 want
 to
 tell
 you—to
 ask
 you,”
 she
 told
 him.
 
 “Can
 we
 start
 with
 
Anne’s
 appointment
 now?”
 she
 asked.
 
 “It’s—it’s—well,
 it’s
 a
 little
 serious,
 doctor,
 but
 I
 
didn’t
 want
 to
 take
 her
 to
 a
 regular
 hospital—you
 know
 how
 nosy
 they
 are
 there.”
 

  “Yes,
 yes,
 yes.
 
 But
 I
 am
 a
 doctor;
 I
 am
 a
 professional,”
 the
 doctor
 spoke
 sharply
 but
 
casually.
 

“Yes,
 why,
 yes,
 of
 course—you’re
 the
 greatest,
 Doc,”
 Clementine
 said.
 
The
 doctor
 nodded
 his
 head
 kindly,
 satisfied.
 
 “Well,
 you
 know,
 I
 thought
 so,”
 he
 said,
 
lifting
 a
 finger
 to
 touch
 one
 of
 Anne’s
 facial
 abrasions
 lightly.
 
 “That’s
 from
 a
 lift
 or
 a
 laser
 

  26
 

peel—or
 even
 both,
 is
 it?”
 
 Quickly
 and
 skillfully,
 but
 easily,
 seemingly
 with
 long
 practice,
 
he
 lifted
 the
 Chanel’s
 off
 of
 Anne
 and
 put
 them
 carefully
 on
 a
 counter,
 so
 the
 lens
 weren’t
 
scratched.
 
 But
 even
 he
 was
 shocked
 by
 the
 sight
 of
 Anne’s
 face.
 

  “Good
 God!”
 he
 exclaimed.
 

  “Yes,
 Doc,”
 Clementine
 nodded
 solemnly.
 
 “My
 sister’s
 husband
 is
 an
 abusive
 
alcoholic.
 
 That’s
 the
 truth.
 
 Can
 you
 do
 anything?”
 

  “How
 long
 has
 she
 been
 like
 this?”
 the
 doctor
 asked.
 

  “Since
 dawn,
 around
 five
 o’clock,”
 Clementine
 told
 him.
 
 
 

“Did
 she
 pass
 out
 at
 all?”
 he
 asked.
 
“Yes,
 she
 was
 comatose
 on
 the
 floor
 when
 I
 got
 to
 her
 place
 today,”
 Clementine
 
answered.
 
“Well,
 I
 don’t
 have
 an
 x-­‐ray
 machine
 to
 x-­‐ray
 her
 brain,
 see
 if
 she
 has
 a
 concussion,”
 
the
 doctor
 told
 Clementine.
 
 “I
 thinks
 she
 really
 needs
 to
 go
 to
 a
 hospital,
 to
 a
 fully-­‐
equipped
 facility.”
 
“I
 don’t
 know
 if
 that’s
 a
 good
 idea,”
 Clementine
 said.
 
 “I
 mean—we
 have
 a
 position
 to
 
maintain
 in
 our
 community,
 and
 I’m
 sure
 her
 regular
 doctor
 is
 at
 the
 Catholic
 hospital.
 
 
Everybody
 knows
 us
 there.”
 
“I
 think
 she
 needs
 to
 go
 to
 a
 hospital,”
 the
 doctor
 insisted.
 
“But
 you’re
 a
 doctor,
 Doc!”
 
 Clementine
 insisted.
 
 “A
 great
 doctor!
 
 The
 best!
 
 Can’t
 
you
 just
 help
 her
 here?
 
 I’ll
 even
 pay
 for
 everything
 right
 away.
 
 In
 cash.
 
 Write
 a
 check.
 
 
Give
 you
 my
 gold
 card.”
 
“I
 am
 a
 real
 doctor;
 I’ll
 see
 what
 I
 can
 do,”
 the
 doctor
 said
 firmly.
 

  27
 

Clementine
 stood.
 
 “Well,
 I’ll
 leave
 her
 with
 you,
 Doc,
 in
 your
 capable,
 professional
 
hands,
 and
 just
 go
 look
 at
 myself
 in
 the
 bathroom
 mirror.
 
 Give
 you
 some
 privacy.”
 

Clementine
 walked
 to
 the
 door,
 and
 just
 before
 she
 exited
 it,
 she
 turned
 and
 faced
 
the
 doctor.
 
 

“You’re
 a
 real
 doctor,
 Doc!”
 she
 exclaimed
 brightly.
 
 “Aren’t
 you?”
 she
 asked
 
uncertainly.
 
 “You
 know,
 a
 healer,
 and
 all
 that
 Hippocratic
 oath
 kind
 of
 thing,
 right?
 
 You’ll
 
know
 what
 to
 do
 with
 my
 sister?”
 

“I
 went
 to
 medical
 school!”
 the
 little
 doctor
 proclaimed
 indignantly,
 his
 chest
 puffing
 
out.
 

“You’re
 a
 real
 doctor,
 Doc!”
 Clementine
 sang
 out,
 her
 voice
 determinedly
 bright,
 as
 
she
 sailed
 through
 the
 door.
 

“I’m
 a
 real
 doctor—Doc!”
 the
 little
 doctor
 affirmed,
 his
 voice
 rising.
 
“My
 God,”
 the
 doctor
 said
 immediately,
 when
 Clementine
 had
 closed
 the
 door
 and
 
exited.
 
 “Look
 at
 your
 face.”
 
 
 
A
 trickle
 of
 blood
 had
 freed
 itself
 from
 beneath
 the
 saran
 wrap
 and
 black
 scarf
 
wrapped
 around
 Anne’s
 head,
 and
 snaked
 down
 her
 cheek
 like
 bright
 crimson
 sweat.
 
The
 little
 doctor
 wrung
 his
 hands.
 
“What
 should
 I
 do?
 
 Do
 you
 want
 a
 peel?”
 he
 asked,
 and
 then
 he
 clapped
 a
 hand
 to
 
his
 smooth,
 unlined
 forehead,
 and
 said,
 “My
 God,
 my
 God,
 my
 God!”—and
 then
 fast,
 three
 
times
 like
 that—again.
 
 He
 turned
 abruptly,
 a
 180
 degree
 pivot,
 and
 walked
 away
 from
 
Anne,
 to
 the
 door,
 reached
 for
 the
 handle,
 but
 suddenly
 snatched
 his
 hand
 back,
 and
 made
 
another
 180
 degree
 pivot,
 and
 turned
 back
 to
 Anne,
 
 
“I’m
 a
 real
 doctor—Doc!”
 he
 growled
 ferociously
 at
 Anne.
 

  28
 

Then,
 he
 pivoted,
 paced
 back
 to
 the
 door,
 stopped
 short
 of
 putting
 his
 hand
 on
 the
 
handle,
 pivoted,
 and
 paced
 back
 to
 Anne.
 

“I’m
 a
 real
 doctor—Doc—missy!”
 he
 growled
 ferociously
 at
 Anne
 again.
 
Anne
 cleared
 her
 burning
 throat
 cautiously,
 in
 terrible
 pain,
 but
 distracted
 despite
 
herself
 by
 the
 spectacle
 of
 the
 little,
 pacing
 doctor.
 
After
 he
 had
 paced
 back
 and
 forth
 between
 the
 door
 and
 Anne
 five
 times,
 and
 
growled
 at
 her
 six
 times,
 he
 suddenly
 clapped
 his
 hands
 together,
 his
 smooth
 face
 
unperturbed,
 expressionless.
 
 
 
“Right!”
 he
 said
 determinedly.
 
 His
 voice
 was
 greatly
 agitated.
 
 “Climb
 up
 onto
 the
 
examining
 table!”
 he
 barked
 at
 Anne.
 
 
 
While
 Anne
 climbed
 laboriously
 up
 onto
 the
 table
 and
 lay
 down,
 he
 went
 to
 the
 glass
 
refrigerator
 and
 took
 out
 numerous
 little
 glass
 bottles,
 and
 from
 a
 drawer,
 he
 took
 out
 40
 
rather
 large
 syringes.
 
 He
 rotated
 the
 bottles
 in
 his
 hands
 as
 he
 filled
 each
 of
 the
 syringes,
 
turning
 only
 once
 to
 look
 back
 at
 Anne
 over
 his
 shoulder,
 who
 now
 had
 six
 trickles
 of
 bright
 
crimson
 blood
 running
 down
 her
 battered
 cheeks,
 and
 he
 began
 to
 whistle
 loudly,
 
tunelessly,
 agitatedly,
 tapping
 one
 of
 his
 little
 feet
 in
 its
 shiny
 black
 shoe
 beneath
 the
 neat
 
cuff
 of
 his
 gray
 flannel
 trousers.
 
 Then,
 he
 took
 a
 deep
 breath—Anne
 could
 hear
 his
 breath,
 
the
 inhalation
 of
 air—and
 he
 turned
 to
 Anne.
 
“
 Botox!”
 he
 told
 her
 determinedly.
 
 “We’ll
 try
 Botox,
 young
 lady.
 
 This
 way
 you
 may
 
not
 scar.
 
 Keep
 your
 facial
 muscles
 from
 creasing
 your
 skin.
 
 Yes,
 Botox
 is
 the
 thing,
 the
 very
 
thing
 we
 need,”
 he
 pronounced
 in
 a
 professional
 voice.
 
He
 lifted
 a
 glass
 bottle
 of
 alcohol,
 unscrewed
 its
 silver
 cap,
 and
 poured
 alcohol
 all
 
over
 it,
 drenching
 the
 cotton
 ball,
 his
 fingers,
 and
 his
 lab
 coat,
 splattering
 alcohol
 on
 his
 

  29
 

shiny
 black
 shoes
 beneath
 the
 neat
 gray
 cuffs,
 dulling
 their
 shine,
 but
 he
 didn’t
 seem
 to
 
notice,
 and
 then
 he
 lifted
 the
 dripping
 cotton
 ball
 high
 in
 his
 little
 hand
 and
 smacked
 it
 
against
 Anne’s
 face,
 swabbing
 it
 wildly,
 looking
 to
 one
 side,
 not
 at
 Anne
 directly,
 and
 Anne
 
moaned
 as
 the
 alcohol
 burned
 in
 the
 gashes
 and
 abrasions
 on
 her
 face,
 traveled
 across
 her
 
swollen
 left
 eye
 and
 under
 her
 open
 right
 eye,
 with
 its
 tic
 hammering
 out
 a
 rapid
 Morse
 
code:
 blink-­‐blink-­‐blink,
 BLINK!
 

And
 then
 the
 little
 doctor
 threw
 the
 bloodied
 and
 dripping
 cotton
 ball
 against
 one
 of
 
the
 room’s
 walls,
 and
 his
 hands
 shaking,
 his
 eyes
 gleaming
 ferociously,
 and
 breathing
 
through
 his
 nose
 like
 a
 winded
 horse,
 his
 mouth
 closed,
 but
 his
 expression
 smooth
 and
 
untroubled,
 he
 injected
 all
 40
 syringes
 of
 Botox
 into
 Anne’s
 face
 rapidly:
 along
 her
 
cheekbones,
 across
 her
 forehead,
 into
 the
 labial
 folds
 near
 her
 nose,
 even
 into
 her
 neck
 
when
 she
 sniffed
 once
 and
 coughed,
 trying
 to
 clear
 her
 nose
 of
 bloody
 snot,
 and
 he
 flinched.
 
 
 

“This’ll
 keep
 those
 chicken-­‐like
 muscles
 at
 the
 neck
 from
 sagging,
 coming
 apart,”
 he
 
told
 her
 grimly,
 as
 he
 injected
 more
 Botox
 into
 her
 neck.
 

  It
 took
 an
 hour
 for
 him
 to
 fill
 all
 the
 syringes
 and
 inject
 Anne’s
 face,
 but
 during
 that
 
time
 nobody—not
 even
 Clementine—disturbed
 them.
 
 And
 Anne,
 almost
 beyond
 pain
 from
 
The
 Five
 Wounds,
 said
 nothing
 
 (the
 little,
 burning
 bites
 from
 the
 syringes
 were
 
inconsequential
 on
 her
 pain
 scale,
 even
 when
 the
 doctor’s
 hand
 slipped,
 as
 it
 did
 frequently,
 
and
 he
 jabbed
 the
 needle
 into
 her
 face).
 
 She
 said
 nothing,
 just
 looked
 dully
 and
 mutely
 up
 
at
 the
 doctor
 from
 the
 examining
 table,
 like
 an
 animal
 that
 has
 been
 beaten
 beyond
 all
 
endurance,
 until
 he
 ordered
 her
 sharply
 to
 close
 her
 eyes,
 after
 he
 had
 injected
 about
 five
 
syringes
 into
 her
 face.
 

  30
 


  “Close
 that
 right
 eye!”
 he
 hissed
 rather
 wildly.
 
 “Close
 that
 left
 eye
 and
 get
 it
 to
 stop
 
staring
 at
 me
 like
 that!”
 

  And
 she
 closed
 her
 left
 eye,
 but
 unbeknownst
 to
 her,
 a
 great,
 big
 tear
 squeezed
 itself
 
out
 of
 the
 eye,
 and
 then
 even
 her
 injured
 right
 eye
 began
 to
 cry,
 and
 the
 little
 doctor
 had
 to
 
inject
 35
 more
 big
 syringes
 into
 Anne’s
 face
 while
 her
 eyes
 cried.
 

  He
 almost
 didn’t
 make
 it
 to
 the
 sixth
 syringe,
 to
 the
 seventh,
 to
 the
 eighth,
 to—
finally—the
 fortieth,
 but
 somehow
 he
 did,
 and
 when
 he
 was
 done,
 the
 floor
 all
 around
 him
 
was
 littered
 with
 empty
 syringes.
 

  Anne
 opened
 her
 weeping
 eyes
 when
 she
 heard
 his
 harsh
 breathing,
 felt
 his
 hands
 
no
 longer
 on
 her
 face,
 to
 see
 him
 staring
 directly
 at
 her,
 and
 she
 tried
 to
 sniff,
 clear
 the
 
bloody
 mucus
 from
 her
 nose,
 but
 she
 couldn’t
 seem
 to
 move
 her
 throat,
 and
 she
 coughed
 
painfully,
 desperately,
 lifting
 her
 hands
 beneath
 her
 jaws,
 pressing
 them
 against
 her
 throat
 
to
 make
 her
 throat
 muscles
 move,
 but
 they
 were
 rapidly
 becoming
 paralyzed
 from
 the
 
Botox,
 and
 she
 could
 barely
 swallow,
 swallowing
 was
 an
 effort,
 and
 remembering
 
something
 vaguely
 from
 a
 First
 Aid
 class,
 she
 pulled
 off
 the
 black
 mitts,
 which
 had
 become
 
soaked
 with
 blood,
 and
 freed
 her
 bloody
 hands,
 which
 became
 rapidly
 more
 bloody
 from
 
the
 from
 the
 nail
 wounds
 in
 her
 wrists,
 and
 she
 massaged
 her
 neck
 muscles,
 gasped
 in
 relief
 
when
 she
 was
 able
 to
 swallow.
 
 She
 opened
 her
 mouth
 to
 speak,
 but
 no
 sound
 came
 out.
 
 
She
 could
 swallow,
 but
 her
 vocal
 chords
 were
 paralyzed.
 
 She
 was
 frightened,
 and
 she
 
would
 have
 moaned,
 if
 she
 could
 have
 made
 a
 sound.
 

  Her
 eyes
 cried
 more
 tears
 as
 the
 transfixed
 doctor
 watched.
 
 She
 started
 to
 rock
 
back
 and
 forth
 on
 the
 examining
 room
 table,
 in
 mute
 despair,
 her
 wounded
 hands
 to
 her
 

  31
 

head,
 and
 she
 inadvertently
 knocked
 the
 black
 scarf
 and
 Saran
 wrap
 cap
 from
 her
 head,
 
exposing
 the
 wounds
 in
 her
 forehead
 from
 the
 Crown
 of
 Thorns.
 

  The
 little
 doctor
 gasped.
 

  Anne
 put
 a
 bloodied
 hand
 to
 her
 side,
 and
 pressed
 against
 the
 wound
 there,
 and
 
blood
 from
 the
 wound
 welled
 up
 darkly
 through
 the
 black
 turtleneck
 and
 between
 her
 
fingers.
 
 The
 turtleneck
 lifted
 slightly,
 and
 the
 little
 doctor
 saw
 the
 spear
 wound.
 
 Anne
 
tried
 to
 moan
 again,
 but
 couldn’t
 and
 she
 swung
 her
 feet
 wildly,
 and
 her
 boots
 and
 socks,
 
loosened
 by
 the
 blood
 still
 flowing
 and
 filling
 them
 up
 almost
 to
 the
 brim
 this
 time,
 from
 
the
 wounds
 in
 her
 feet,
 slipped
 slowly
 off
 in
 slow
 motion,
 and
 the
 little
 doctor
 saw
 the
 
wounds
 from
 the
 nails.
 

  Unable
 to
 speak,
 Anne
 cried
 more
 and
 more
 tears,
 unbeknownst
 to
 her,
 and
 she
 
looked
 up
 at
 the
 ceiling,
 at
 the
 filtered
 fluorescent
 lights,
 as
 if
 she
 might
 find
 relief
 from
 her
 
suffering
 there,
 and
 her
 eyes
 squeezed
 tightly
 shut
 with
 pain,
 she
 suddenly
 lifted
 and
 
spread
 out
 her
 arms
 in
 despair,
 in
 a
 cruciform
 position,
 unbeknownst
 to
 her
 but
 
immediately
 recognized
 by
 the
 little
 doctor,
 who
 had
 been
 Catholic
 when
 he
 was
 a
 boy,
 and
 
had
 even
 thought
 that
 he
 might
 be
 a
 missionary
 in
 Africa
 when
 he
 was
 nine,
 and
 suddenly
 
her
 tears
 changed
 from
 water
 to
 blood,
 as
 the
 horrified
 little
 doctor
 watched,
 and
 suddenly,
 
the
 muted
 fluorescent
 lights
 flickered,
 and
 a
 gush
 of
 cool
 air
 filled
 the
 room,
 and
 it
 was
 
redolent
 with
 the
 smell
 of
 roses,
 and
 for
 just
 a
 moment
 the
 little
 doctor
 saw
 the
 image
 of
 a
 
gently
 smiling,
 young,
 dark-­‐skinned
 girl
 of
 about
 fourteen,
 in
 a
 long
 white
 veil
 and
 blue
 
robe,
 hovering
 in
 the
 air
 over
 Anne,
 and
 there
 were
 golden
 roses
 between
 her
 nut-­‐brown
 
toes
 floating
 about
 two
 feet
 above
 the
 syringe-­‐littered
 floor,
 peeking
 out
 from
 the
 long
 hem
 
of
 her
 robe,
 and
 then
 she
 disappeared
 in
 a
 burst
 of
 radiant
 golden
 light.
 
 But
 the
 fragrance
 

  32
 

of
 the
 roses
 still
 lingered,
 and
 seemed
 to
 have
 grown
 stronger,
 was—indeed—almost
 
overpowering,
 but
 not
 in
 a
 fulsome
 way.
 
 The
 fragrance
 was
 light
 and
 pleasant.
 
 Anne
 
couldn’t
 smell
 the
 roses—her
 nose
 was
 clogged
 with
 bloody
 snot—but
 the
 little
 doctor
 
could,
 and
 he
 almost
 fainted.
 
 He
 fell
 to
 his
 knees,
 among
 the
 litter
 of
 empty
 Botox
 syringes,
 
and
 unbeknownst
 to
 him,
 clasped
 his
 hands
 in
 front
 of
 him,
 as
 he
 hadn’t
 done
 since
 he
 was
 
nine,
 and
 he
 was
 trying
 to
 pray
 in
 church.
 

  Just
 at
 that
 moment,
 the
 door
 opened,
 and
 Clementine
 stood
 in
 the
 entrance.
 
 She
 let
 
out
 a
 gasp
 of
 shock,
 looking
 from
 the
 figure
 of
 the
 little,
 kneeling
 doctor
 among
 the
 empty
 
Botox
 syringes
 to
 her
 sister,
 her
 feet
 and
 hands
 and
 side
 and
 head
 dripping
 blood,
 her
 arms
 
still
 spread
 wide,
 like
 she
 was
 being
 nailed
 to
 the
 Cross.
 

  “What
 the
 fuck
 is
 going
 on
 in
 here!”
 Clementine
 shrieked,
 and
 the
 little
 doctor,
 with
 a
 
gasp,
 leaped
 to
 his
 feet
 and
 ran
 out
 of
 the
 room,
 like
 he
 was
 being
 pursued
 by
 demons.
 

  There
 was
 the
 sound
 of
 feet
 in
 the
 hallway
 outside
 the
 examining
 room,
 and
 the
 two
 
receptionists
 rushed
 in.
 
 They
 shrieked
 when
 they
 saw
 Anne.
 

  One
 of
 them
 rushed
 immediately
 out
 of
 the
 building,
 shrieking
 for
 the
 police
 as
 she
 
ran
 down
 the
 sidewalk,
 and
 Clementine
 grabbed
 Anne
 by
 the
 arm,
 pulled
 her
 from
 the
 
table,
 and
 rushed
 her,
 in
 her
 bloody,
 wounded
 bare
 feet,
 to
 the
 reception
 area,
 where
 three
 
startled
 clients
 took
 one
 look
 at
 Anne
 and
 then
 rushed
 wildly
 for
 the
 double
 glass
 doors,
 to
 
leave
 before
 the
 police
 came
 so
 they
 wouldn’t
 get
 involved
 and
 to
 find
 another
 
dermatologist.
 
 
 

  The
 receptionist
 who
 hadn’t
 run
 out
 of
 the
 building
 trotted
 beside
 Clementine
 and
 
Anne,
 shrieking,
 “Oh,
 my
 God!
 
 Oh,
 my
 God!”
 over
 and
 over
 again.
 

  “Shut
 up!
 
 Shut
 up!”
 Clementine
 hissed
 at
 her
 wildly.
 
 
 

  33
 


  “What
 should
 we
 do?
 
 What
 should
 we
 do?”
 the
 receptionist
 shouted
 at
 Clementine.
 

  “Shut
 the
 fuck
 up
 and
 get
 me
 some
 Saran
 wrap!”
 Clementine
 shrieked
 back.
 

  Then,
 in
 a
 chaotic
 flurry,
 Clementine
 shouting
 contradictory
 directions
 to
 the
 
receptionist,
 they
 rapidly
 wrapped
 Anne’s
 head,
 hands
 and
 feet
 in
 white
 towels
 and
 
surgical
 tape,
 put
 the
 oversized
 black
 Chanel
 sunglasses
 back
 over
 Anne’s
 eyes,
 and
 
Clementine
 raced
 out
 the
 door
 to
 her
 red
 Mercedes,
 pulled
 it
 up
 to
 the
 entrance
 to
 the
 
building,
 and
 she
 and
 the
 receptionist
 hussled
 Anne
 into
 the
 passenger
 seat
 of
 the
 
Mercedes,
 and
 Clementine
 raced
 off
 before
 the
 police
 could
 arrive.
 

  “What
 should
 I
 do?
 
 What
 should
 I
 do?”
 the
 receptionist
 called
 out
 to
 Clementine
 as
 
she
 prepared
 to
 drive
 off.
 

  “Clean
 up
 the
 fucking
 blood
 and
 needles!
 
 We
 don’t
 want
 a
 scene!
 
 And
 my
 medical
 
file—burn
 it!
 
 Pour
 glycolic
 acid
 all
 over
 it—the
 shit
 you
 use
 to
 peel
 off
 wrinkles!
 
 Destroy
 
all
 evidence!
 
 It’s
 not
 wrong
 unless
 you’re
 caught!”
 Clementine
 shrieked
 at
 her,
 before
 
roaring
 off
 with
 a
 towel-­‐wrapped
 Anne,
 who
 resembled
 a
 mummy
 with
 Chanel
 sunglasses,
 
in
 the
 passenger
 seat.