When I got home again later in the afternoon, I didn't go in the front door as usual. For some reason, I felt compelled to walk down the driveway and look in the parking lot. I stood there for a moment, just surveying the area. I knew I had imagined the cobblestone path, and I was pretty sure that the simple fact of it meant that I was headed down a road from which there was likely no return.
I'd be back in hospital sooner rather than later. I figured I'd better enjoy what time I had left.
But part of me railed against this. I'd heard it time and time again: People who think they're crazy rarely are. People who are mentally unstable are often convinced they are absolutely fine.
So, if I thought I was going crazy, what did that mean?
And if I wasn't going crazy, then why was I seeing things that weren't really there?
I walked to the edge of the parking lot opposite the building and tried to find the midpoint of the chain link fence. The imaginary path I'd seen had started right at the middle of the fence and run directly to the building. I stood there, looking at the back of the building, seeing in my mind's eye that strip of cobblestones, willing it to be there.
I didn't know why I was doing it, but I did it anyway.
And it worked.
I blinked. Hard. The cobblestone path was once again before me. It led directly across the lot, just as it had before, bisecting the huge rectangle of pavement and ending right at the back stoop of the building.
I stared at it for a long time. It didn't waver, or flicker, or fade in and out. It just sat there, a perfectly normal-looking cobblestone path, waiting for someone to walk along it.
So I did.
It was not just a visual phenomenon. I could feel the stones under my sneakers. I could hear the crunch of my soles against them. I took step after step, slowly making my way towards the other end. I kept my eyes on the ground, thinking the stones might vanish if I so much as glanced away from them.
I was about halfway along the path when I realized that my passage was suddenly blocked. As much as I hated to take my eyes off the stones, I looked up to see what was in my way.
It wasn't a what. It was a who.
My hospital visitor had returned. She stood there in front of me, big as life, her long coat just as I remembered it, her bright red lipstick with the thin dark edge drawn around the edges, her gloves, her boots.
Her deep green eyes.
I took a ragged breath. I considered the possibility that I had just entered the realm of the rubber room, but somehow it didn't feel like that. Everything was entirely too real, and I didn't feel agitated.
I was a bit concerned, but I wasn't distraught.
I gazed at her for a moment, just taking in the realness of this unreality. I didn't know what else to do.
She, for her part, seemed content to do the same thing.
Finally, the silence and the suspense became too much for me. The dominant part of my personality reasserted itself, and I was compelled to speak.
I doubted much good would come of it.
"I'm going to go out on limb, here," I said. "And make a guess that you're not really here, and that I've really managed to do a number on myself with that pills-and-booze stunt I pulled a few days ago."
She smiled. It was a lovely smile, but it really didn't help me much.
"You don't look you're out of the silent movie era," I said. "So why don't you speak?"
"I prefer to listen," she said.
It was my turn to smile. Her voice was lovely, but it held undertones of brashness, even brassiness, that reminded me exactly of the way many actresses delivered their lines in old 1940s movies. She not only looked out of place; she sounded out of place.
"Listening is a good skill," I said, "but I was hoping you might be able to tell me a few things."
She cocked her head slightly. "Like what?"
I shrugged. "Oh, I don't know… Like, for instance, who you are… and why you keep appearing… and why no one else can see you… and why you dress like Ingrid Bergman? Just to name a few factoids I seem to be lacking."
She laughed this time. "What a wonderful way with words you have."
I blinked. "Um… Thanks. And if I may say… you have quite the way with alliteration."
She smiled again. "You may. And thank you."
I let out a long breath through my nostrils. "This isn't actually getting us anywhere. I still don't know anything, here, except that you have a nice smile and speak in fairly short sentences."
She cocked her head and looked at me, her eyes sparkling like emeralds in a glass bowl. She seemed genuinely entranced by the encounter, and as flattering as that was, it was beginning to unnerve me.
"Look, uh, Miss…?"
"Yes, of course," she said, shaking her head slightly as she pulled in her gaze a bit. "How rude of me. It's Irene. Irene DiFalco."
"Well, Irene, it's nice to meet you, if in fact this real at all and not just taking place inside my head. My name's Jack."
"Yes. Jack Richmond. I know."
"Really." I looked at her hard. "Have we met before?"
She shook her head. "No. We haven't met. But, as I said, I listen."
"So you were listening in the hospital."
She nodded. "I needed to know about you."
I put a hand to my head. "You needed to know about me?"
She nodded again.
"Why?"
Her smiled faded, and her gazed drifted down. "I don't really think I'd best get into that right now."
I crossed my arms. "Right. Because you're really an hallucination, and you can't give me any information that I don't already have in my subconscious. Right?"
She looked back up at me, her eyes slightly wider now. "No. No, that's not it at all. You have to understand how very real this all is. I just…" she looked away again. "I just can't tell you everything right now. You wouldn't understand."
I closed my eyes and shook my head. "Right. I get it. I'm just supposed to go along with whatever game you're playing and forget about…" I glared at her and took step forward. "…and just forget about how fucking weird this all is?"
She recoiled, nearly stumbling backwards. "You mustn't speak like that."
"Oh, right. I forgot. No swearing in 1940s movies. You can smoke cigarettes, but you can't swear."
Her eyes narrowed. "What's a… movie? And what are… cigarettes?"
"You don't know what a movie is? Or cigarettes? Well, you're in a movie, aren't you? Isn't that what this is? My movie-buff imagination playing tricks on me and presenting me with a lovely damsel from the Humphrey Bogart era? Isn't it?"
"I don't understand what you're saying. I've never heard that word movie before. And is that a name? Humphrey… Bogart, is it? I don't know that name."
I turned away from her and took a step away. None of this was making any sense to me. If this was all an hallucination— or better yet, a dream—why would my subconscious conjure up the image of a woman who was the very epitome of the forties heroine and have her ignorant of movies and cigarettes? It didn't add up.
But then, this was my subconscious I was talking about here.
I turned back to her. "Look. When I saw you on my TV this morning, you said they were watching me. You said there wasn't much time. What did you mean?"
She shook her head again. "I was… where? On your… what?"
I was getting nowhere with this. "You spoke to me this morning. Don't you remember? You were standing at a train station. You were watching a train leaving."
She squinted and looked down, rubbing her chin. Finally, she looked up again. "Oh! I think I understand now. I must have created an avatar without realizing it."
"An avatar?"
"Yes, yes. Sometimes, when we're feeling really strong emotions, we can project our essenses across great distances and give someone a message."
My head was beginning to throb at this point. "Now I'm the one who doesn't understand. You're saying you projected yourself into my television to give me that message?"
"Well, I don't know what a television is, but I guess you must have gotten my message." She frowned. "Even though I really didn't know I was sending one." She looked up at me again. "What did I say?"
"You said there wasn't much time, and that they were watching me."
"Yes! That's right. I had only just learned it myself. And it distressed me terribly. I've must have projected that to your… What is a television, anyway?"
"It's a device that let's us see images from far away. They're usually recorded, but sometimes they're happening at the same time as we see them."
"Oh, that sounds wonderful. I hope you can show me sometime."
"Um, yeah. Sure. Be happy to. But in the meantime, can we get back to the whole 'being watched' business?"
"Oh, of course. I came here to tell you about it, but it appears you already know."
My frustration level was rising rapidly. She seemed a decent sort, but none too swift. I was beginning to see that the information would come to me at her speed, not mine.
"Well, I don't know much at all, really," I said. "Just that you're worried about time, and that somebody's watching me. Why would someone be watching me?"
"Well, because they know, of course."
I kept my hands at my sides and breathed deeply. Lashing out was not going to get me anywhere.
"They know what?"
She blinked. "Well, about your ability to see." Her tone was one of surprise.
I breathed again. "That's not so very unusual. Most people have the ability to see."
Her eyes widened again. "Good heavens. Of course they don't. Why, that would mean… utter chaos."
I was beginning to suspect that we were talking about completely different things.
"What kind of, um, seeing are you talking about?" I asked.
"Well… Oh. You thought I was talking about…" she waved a hand in the air. "No. I'm not talking about seeing." She pointed to her eyes. "I'm talking about seeing." She opened her eyes wide as she said this and made a sweeping gesture with both arms.
"Okay. I'll bite. Seeing what?"
"Why, seeing between worlds, of course. What else would I be talking about?"
But of course, I thought. What else could she possibly be talking about? Why was I being so dense? Wasn't it obvious? I was seeing between worlds. It made perfect sense.
"Between worlds?"
She nodded. "Yes. Between your world and mine."
"Well, I'm glad to know there's a reason for this communcations gap we seem to be experiencing here. Different worlds. Gee, sounds like a few sitcoms I've seen in my day. We could have some wacky misunderstandings, you and I. Probably get great ratings."
She just blinked and stared at me.
"Right, right, I know. Sitcoms, ratings… more words you don't know. I'm guessing there's not a lot of technology in your world."
Her eyes flew open wide, and looked from side to side. "Please. You mustn't use that word."
"What word?"
"I can't say it. Please. You mustn't."
I thought for a moment about what I'd just said. "Oh, you mean tech—?"
"Shhhhhhh. No, please. You must stop."
I was ready to wake up now. The scenario had gone from being novel to bizarre, from bizarre to incredible, and now it had moved into ludicrous.
"Look. Irene. This is all fascinating, and you're really quite a lovely hallucination. I've enjoyed chatting with you, really I have. But it's time for me to pack some things and check myself back into the psych ward again. Okay?"
She stepped towards me. "You're not safe here," she said.
I nodded. "I agree. If this keeps up, I might try to hurt myself again. So, yes, the psych ward it is."
She grabbed my arm. She felt surprisingly solid, for an hallucination.
"You can't stay here," she said.
"What? What are you talking about?" I pulled my arm from her grasp. "This is ridiculous."
She kept her hand in the air for a moment, then let it drop. "You don't believe me," she said, looking at the ground again. "I've failed. There's no more time."
"Time for what?" I asked, exasperated.
My brain couldn't take much more of this, I knew. I rubbed my temples for a moment, then my eyes.
When I refocused my gaze, she was gone. So was the cobblestone path.
"Women," I muttered, as I turned towards the driveway.
