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Except for the rain. Except that nothing was so real to her as the outside, as the trees and birds and distant hills, and as the breeze touching her with a violence she permitted to no living person. And with that reality, the good part of her life, cut off from her by the rain, how long could she hold out against the incessant pulling of Anansa and her promise of arms and legs and eternal song?
I reached up, on a whim, and very gently lifted her eyelids.
Her eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling, not blinking.
I closed her eyes, and they remained closed.
I turned her head, and it stayed turned. She did not wake up. just kept singing as if I had done nothing to her at all.
***
On Friday it looked as if the clouds were breaking, but after only a few minutes of sunshine a huge new bank of clouds swept down from the northwest and it was worse than before. I finished my work rather carelessly, stopping a sentence in the middle several times. One of my patients was a
Catatonia, or the begi
"I'll be back on Saturday," I told the administrator. "Why so soon?"
"Elaine is going through a crisis of some kind," I explained. An imaginary woman from space wants to carry her off -- that I didn't say. "Have the nurses keep her awake as much as they can. Read to her, play with her, talk to her. Her normal hours at night are enough. Avoid naps."
"Why?"
"I'm afraid for her, that's all. She could go catatonic on us at any time, I think. Her sleeping isn't normal. I want to have her watched all the time."
"This is really serious?"
"This is really serious."
On Saturday I drove back to Millard County and found the nurses rather distraught. They didn't realize how much she was sleeping until they tried to stop her, they all said. She was dozing off for two or three naps in the mornings, even more in the afternoons. She went to sleep at night at seven-thirty and slept at least twelve hours. "Singing all the time. It's awful. Even at night she keeps it up. Singing and singing."
But she was awake when I went in to see her.
"I stayed awake for you."
"Thanks," I said.
"A Saturday visit. I must really be going bonkers."
"Actually, no. But I don't like how sleepy you are."
She smiled wanly. "It isn't my idea."
I think my smile was more cheerful than hers. "And I think it's all in your head."
"Think what you like, Doctor."
"I'm not a doctor. My degree says I'm a master."
"How deep is the water outside?"
"Deep?"
"All this rain. Surely it's enough to keep a few dozen arks afloat. Is God destroying the world?"
"Unfortunately, no. Though He has killed the engines on a few cars that went a little fast through the puddles."
"How long would it have to rain to fill up the world?"
"The world is round. It would all drip off the bottom."
She laughed. It was good to hear her laugh, but it ended too abruptly, and she looked at me fearfully. "I'm going, you know."
"You are?"
"I'm just the right size. She's measured me, and I'll fit perfectly. She has just the place for me. It's a good place, where I can hear the music of the dust for myself, and learn to sing it. I'd have the directional engines."
I shook my head. "Grunty the ice pig was cute. This isn't cute, Elaine."
"Did I ever say I thought Anansa was cute? Grunty the ice pig was real, you know. My father made hun out of crushed ice for a luau. He melted before they got the pig out of the ground. I don't make my friends up."
"Fuchsia the flower girl?"
"My mother would pinch blossoms off the fuchsia by our front door. We played with them like dolls in the grass."
"But not Anansa."
"Anansa came into my mind when I was asleep. She found me. I didn't make her up."
"Don't you see, Elaine, that's how the real hallucinations come? They feel like reality."
She shook her head. "I know all that. I've had the nurses read me psychology books. Anansa is -- Anansa is other. She couldn't come out of my head. She's something else. She's real. I've heard her music. It isn't plain, like Copland. It isn't false."
"Elaine, when you were asleep on Wednesday, you were becoming catatonic."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I felt you touch me. I felt you turn my head. I wanted to speak to you, to say good-bye. But she was singing, don't you see? She was singing. And now she lets me sing along. When I sing with her, I can feel myself travel out, like a spider along a single thread, out into the place where she is. Into the darkness. It's lonely there, and black, and cold, but I know that at the end of the thread there she'll be, a friend for me forever."
"You're frightening me, Elaine."
"There aren't any trees on her starship, you know. That's how I stay here. I think of the trees and the hills and the birds and the grass and the wind, and how I'd lose all of that. She gets angry at me, and a little hurt. But it keeps me here. Except now I can hardly remember the trees at all. I try to remember, and it's like trying to remember the face of my mother. I can remember her dress and her hair, but her face is gone forever. Even when I look at a picture, it's a stranger. The trees are strangers to me now."
I stroked her forehead. At first she pulled her head away, then slid it back.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I usually don't like people to touch me there."
"I won't," I said.
"No, go ahead. I don't mind."
So I stroked her forehead again. It was cool and dry, and she lifted her head almost imperceptibly, to receive my touch. Involuntarily I thought of what the old woman had sad the day before. Woman troubles. I was touching Elaine, and I thought of making love to her. I immediately put the thought out of my mind.
"Hold me here," she said. "Don't let me go. I want to go so badly. But I'm not meant for that. I'm just the right size, but not the right shape. Those aren't my arms. I know what my arms felt like."
"I'll hold you if I can. But you have to help."
"No drugs. The drugs pull my mind away from my body. If you give me drugs, I'll die."
"Then what can I do?"
"Just keep me here, any way you can."
Then we talked about nonsense, because we had been so serious, and it was as if she weren't having any problems at all. We got on to the subject of the church meetings.
"I didn't know you were religious," I said.
"I'm not. But what else is there to do on Sunday? They sing hymns, and I sing with them. Last Sunday there was a sermon that really got to me. The preacher talked about Christ in the sepulchre. About Him being there three days before the angel came to let Him go. I've been thinking about that, what it must have been like for Him, locked in a cave in the darkness, completely alone."
"Depressing."
"Not really. It must have been exhilarating for Him, in a way. If it was true, you know. To he there on that stone bed, saying to Himself, 'They thought I was dead, but I'm here. I'm not dead.'"
"You make Him sound smug."
"Sure. Why not? I wonder if I'd feel like that, if I were with Anansa."