. 03

The Case Files of Dr. Randall Herringwick

The Case of the Guilty Witch

Chapter Three - Final Judgments

CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENT 217 - DAY 6 - CONTINUED

MARCH 17th

Dear Diary,

I've decided to stop wondering about it. I think I'm only dreaming about keeping a diary. So now, I'm dreaming about writing about dreaming. See what I mean? Yep. Not going to think about that anymore.

I woke up this morning on the other side of the bed. Of course, I never saw her get into bed, but if she DID get into bed, then I was now on her side of it. She wasn't there, but a smell was. I buried my face under the covers and inhaled slowly a dozen times. It was ... nice. Good. It wasn't a perfume; it was something else. Something I'd never smelled before. Of course, it could only be her. Her scent. Since I couldn't attach a THING to it, I tried to figure out what feeling it reminded me of. And once again, I came up blank. But I finally figured it out. Since I couldn't associate it with anything I'd experienced before, then this particular scent would forever remind me of THIS. This wonderful, lazy, sleepy, snuggly, fantastic feeling I was having right now. It was a marvelously private thought. I solemnly decided that it was one I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

Her weight on the bed brought me out of my reverie. "Get up, lazy bones!" she cried, shaking me.

I moaned, then rolled onto my back and sat up, stretching. I suppose it was only natural that her gaze would be drawn to my chest, and I hastily cut my yawn short and pulled the sheet up over my breasts. "No!" I groused, trying to suppress my blush. "I don't WANT to get up! It's too early!"

"It's after ten! I have breakfast ready. Up! Now!" She laughed again. Oh, God, that laugh! I'd forgotten how it cheered me. She was holding a plush, pale blue bathrobe up for me. The way she held it, I had no other choice. I stood, my back to her, and I let her put it on me. It was just as soft on the inside as it was on the outside. I'd never felt anything like it. Ever. But it was way too big for me, and I had to stand there while she rolled up the sleeves.

"No fair!" I complained again. "How come I get to wear the thing that was obviously made in heaven, while you have to wear THAT!?"

She'd finished with the sleeves and stepped back away from me, nodding at her work. Then, she smoothed her hands over the terrycloth she was wearing. "This is MY robe," she stated flatly. She turned and walked out of the room. I ran, almost tripping over the dragging hemline of the robe, trying to keep up with her. "My mother bought me that one. I TOLD her that I wouldn't give up my trusty bathrobe, but she refused to listen."

I was trying to take in too much at one time: the pictures on the walls, the patterns on the carpet and tile floors, the furniture, the smells of the food as we got to the kitchen table. She got me cream and sugar for my coffee when I asked for it. The food was delicious: cheese omelet, pan-fried ham and a fresh biscuit. She carefully cut each of these dainties in half, which served us both more than adequately. I felt comfortable, and I wasn't self-conscious when I chose to get my feet off the cold tile floor and tuck them under me on my seat as I ate. But, the direction of the conversation was all her doing, and I had to make an effort to keep up.

She'd started a long list of things to do, though some of them would have to wait until a weekday (this was a Saturday). Some of the things were dependent on my answers to her questions, but I assured her that we could get everything I owned in this world into her car in a single trip. It was the first inkling I had that I was moving in with her. I decided to verbalize it, ask it out loud.

"Don't you want that?" she asked, genuinely shocked. I hadn't thought it was in my power to shock her. "Isn't that what YOU want to do?" she queried earnestly.

I steadfastly refused to look into her eyes; however, looking around didn't help, either. Could I honestly begin to think of this place as my own? It felt so ... homey. So comfortable. Or was that just because SHE was here? She had the power to warp perceptions ... to make things seem ... so right. "Everything is happening too quickly," I said, more to myself than as an answer. "Why do we have to do it today?"

"Because all you have to wear is a skimpy party dress and a pair of three-inch heels," she said. "You don't even have any underwear!"

I looked around again. "Daphne, I can't just move in with you! How can you be so ... I don't know ... accommodating?"

She smiled. "If you try to move back in with that asshole boyfriend," she warned, "I'll never speak to you again, and I'll cry myself to sleep every night for a year!"

I couldn't stifle a grin. "Okay. I couldn't live with the thought of either one of those things."

And so, off we went! We barged in on my old boyfriend and his new girlfriend (in MY apartment); but, believe it or not, everyone was pretty cordial ... especially former Mistress Miriam, who I believe might have been having a wee bit of buyer's remorse. She even went down to the dumpster out back, in search of cardboard boxes, which she then helped me pack with my few things. While doing so, she actually apologized for acting cold to me the night before. She had always been jealous of me, she confessed. Somehow, she thought I was prettier, which really threw me for a loop.

Even though Daphne's car was jammed to the gunnels, we stopped at the mall for some shopping. It had been hard to confess to her that Stu had thrilled himself (several times) with the act of literally ripping my panties off of my body before copulating with me. I guess it sort of got him off through some display of testosterone overload; but it had left me critically low in the panties department. I was down to two bras, as well. Daphne, claiming that she had gotten to "view my assets" the night before, felt qualified to help me pick them out. I wound up giving in to her suggestions every time, laughing out loud at how earnest she could be.

By the time we had lugged it all upstairs, it was late in the afternoon, and we both declared that we were starved. She spent half a minute tapping on her phone for a ride service, and just as we got downstairs, a car drove up and we were off to some Mexican restaurant, which was informal but wonderful. All through the meal, she chatted about herself: her childhood, her high school and college days, her interest in hypnosis. I sat, just listening, enthralled. She paid. I'd forgotten my purse again. Out of all the things a woman is supposed to do in city life, carrying a purse has been the one that has most eluded me. I swore a little overmuch that I'd pay her back, but she just laughed that laugh of hers, and she pulled me out of there and down the street to a bar.

I can't BELIEVE how long it took me to realize what the place was! Everybody seemed to know her. The bartender yelled from behind the bar, asking her if she wanted "the usual," and Daphne hollered back, calling her by name, telling her to make it two, please. Others said hello, and she introduced me, though I can't remember any of the names, even though it just happened today. They were all women. Everybody in the bar, the patrons and the employees, all women. A couple of them, after being introduced to me, looked me up and down in unabashed appraisal, and one of them said "Nice catch, Daphne," though my friend refused to explain what she meant afterward.

She sort of led me to a booth in the back, and I just let her deposit me onto one of the seats. Was I shocked that she sat beside me instead of across from me? I honestly can't remember. The drinks were sweet and cold and delicious. And strong. After the margaritas we'd consumed in the restaurant, my head was fuzzy and spinning a little. Maybe that's why I hadn't picked up on it sooner. But now, I leaned toward her confidentially, and she leaned toward me, and our heads touched.

"Daphne, I think this is a gay bar. For girls."

She looked into my eyes, and I let her. Then, she tried to smile, but any mirth seemed to die. She was nervous, anxious; and I think she was holding her breath. Suddenly, her eyes misted.

"Hey," I said, reaching up between us and putting my hand on her arm. "Hey. It's okay. Really. I just ... I mean, I hadn't thought ... um ... anything about that. But ... I'm not. A lesbian, I mean. I'm not. I like guys."

"Really?" she asked, "What guy?" But her eyes immediately conveyed the thought that she wished she hadn't said that, so I ignored it.

I was crying myself now. "Is ... is that what this is all about? You just want to be my friend because ..."

"No!" she snapped urgently. She straightened herself in her seat, shifting slightly away from me, then she raked her right palm across the corner of her right eye, and she sniffed. She took a deep breath. "No. Please don't think that. I want to be your friend because I think you're one of the most innocent people I've ever met. You melt my heart. You make me want to do things for you." She took another breath. "If there are other feelings mixed up in there, they're not as important. Please, Simone. Please give me a shot at ... just being your friend."

I reached out and took her hand, which was sort of slimy with her tears. And I started talking. And I kept talking. On and on. I cried, sometimes, describing my own loneliness. I tried my best to say what was in my heart as I told her the story of ... me. There's so little of it that I don't know why it took two hours to do so, but she seemed to hang on my every word. I could tell that she wanted to ask questions in some places, but she steadfastly refused to do that. In those parts, I tried to elaborate a little more fully. Somehow, two more drinks showed up in front of me. Somewhere along the line, I leaned my head on her shoulder, but she didn't put her arm around me. I was glad about that. Wasn't I? Looking back on it now, I'm not sure HOW I felt about it.

I told her that my mother died just a day after giving birth to me. I told her how Daddy had purchased ten thousand acres in Alaska, seventy miles (as the crow flies) northeast of Skagway. I described him in great detail. A real Mountain Man. For the great majority of my life, he was the ONLY man ... the only PERSON ... I ever saw. Daddy and his brother, Uncle Bob, who lived here in Providence, Rhode Island, had invented and produced something for the FAA. Some sort of "collision avoidance" thingy, that wound up becoming mandatory in every single commercial aircraft in the world.

But Daddy was ... different. All he wanted was to be left alone. And so, he bought his land and built his cabin in the woods. It was hard to describe "woods" to someone like Daphne. People think that word, and they think trees and rivers and deer. But to everybody who knows, "woods" means something entirely different. It means "alone." I was born in that house. If I had been born in a hospital instead, I'd have had a mother. But ... it was a two-day drive down a creek bed to the nearest house, and another couple hours down a real road to Skagway.

Daddy had "sold out" his share of the business to Uncle Bob, but there had to have been some stipulations attached. Four times during my lifetime, three big containers, like the ones that trucks haul on the highways, showed up in the field that Daddy had cleared by the house. I don't know where they had originated, but they had obviously been delivered to Skagway by ship. Then, one of those huge "flying crane" helicopters had delivered them, one at a time. It had obviously cost a fortune. It took me until my adult years to understand that there was a fortune involved where Uncle Bob was concerned. So, there were eventually twelve of those big old huge containers, all sitting next to each other, near our house. Once they were finally empty, they became storage sheds and barns. Their original contents were designed to help a crazy old man and his daughter survive. Solar panels, windmills, small tractors, generators, fuel. There were twenty chests, like foot lockers, filled with DVDs, and other media for the computers. And books. So many books.

And so, my whole, entire life was spent alone. Daddy made me sit through lessons four hours every day, including weekends. He might not have known what a daughter needed in life, but he sure knew math and science! And the chores were never-ending. Most people have no idea what it's like to clear snow off of solar panels, which were in long rows beside our house. Oh, how I hated doing that! But, I did as I was told. Always. I never questioned, and I never talked back. You know ... the things every single teenager in the history of forever has done.

Four years ago, when I was sixteen, Uncle Bob died. They decided to delay the memorial service until we got there, which took a week. It's the first time I had ever been out of Alaska ... or farther away than Skagway, for that matter. My uncle's estate was ... well ... substantial. I met cousins and other members of the family, but Aunt May was cold and distant, and a little of that seemed to rub off on my other relations. Daddy was the black sheep. And he, in turn, hated all of them, as well as civilization in general. He couldn't WAIT to get back. But ... it was the best week of my whole life.

Three times a year, a friend, Sarah, came to stay with me for two weeks. Daddy would go into Skagway for supplies. But, of course, it shouldn't take two weeks to do that. Sarah was Native American, and extremely outspoken. She was also the closest thing to a friend I ever had, but she delighted in telling me that "my old man was getting his pipes cleaned in town." And then, she would proceed to tell me exactly what he was probably doing. Blow by blow. Act by sloppy act. She seemed to delight in shocking me. But she was the only female companion I ever had. She showed me what to do during my period. I sort of miss her.

By this time in my narrative, the room was spinning around us, and I needed to call it quits. But Daphne was almost frantic to know the end of my story, and so I stayed and obeyed her. It felt good to obey her.

Five months ago, Daddy had given me the jeep and sent me down the mountain canyon on my own into town. I couldn't take the ACT without being in a "controlled environment." College was always a foregone conclusion. Both Daddy and Uncle Bob had established some sort of fund, some kind of endowment or building or something, on the Brown campus here in Providence, so my acceptance was never really an issue; but I still had to go through the motions. But just as I was sitting down to take the first part of the test, it hit. Do you remember hearing about it? The big earthquake? It registered 8.2 in Skagway, but the epicenter was seventy miles northeast; and there, it was 9.3. Everybody seemed overjoyed that the tsunami warnings weren't realized. I tried to get back, but the way was hopelessly blocked. The sheriff, of course, had his hands full with other things, and it took me a week before I could get somebody to take me back by helicopter. Everything was just ... gone. No trees were left standing. The house, or rather, the area where the house had been, was just a pile of splinters and rocks. We dug around for most of a day before we found Daddy's body, and we buried him there on the spot where he had lived and he had died.

I couldn't rebuild. I mean, it never occurred to me to do that, anyway. But the state had condemned the area around the epicenter, and they'd annexed it all as part of the state forest. I had nowhere to go. A church group in town had heard about me, and they helped me make reservations. The only place I'd ever been in the lower forty-eight was here, so this is where I went. But Uncle Bob's estate had been thrown into some sort of probate battle, and the LAST thing anybody in the family wanted was to deal with somebody like me. I'd arranged for the apartment before I left. The first place I needed to go was the bank to set up an account to pay for things, and there was a sign in the window: Teller Wanted. So, I took the job. It was actually sort of nice. They just told me what to do, and I did it. Two months later, Stu was one of my customers, and he told me that he was going to take me out to dinner. He told me, and I did it. Simple as that.

"Let's go, sleepy-head," Daphne said. She'd cried through much of my story, but she was dry-eyed now. "Let's get you to bed." She helped me up, and I swayed against her. She called out to the bartender to please call her a cab.

"Daphne," I said in a hushed voice. "People think we're together."

She smiled gently at me. "We ARE together."

"But ... they think we're TOGETHER together! They think we're lovers! They don't realize that I'm ... not like that!"

"I don't care what people think. I care that you're my friend. That's ALL I care about."

I tried to focus my eyes on her in the misty gloom that was only being partially dispelled by the street light outside the bar. Was that a halo around her head? I studied her closer and smiled. "I think you're an angel," I said, slurring it.

But she misunderstood me. "I think you're an angel, too." She gave me a little kiss on the tip of my nose.

"No ... no," I stammered. "You ... you really ARE an angel." I tried to make a circle around my head with a finger to make her understand. "A real angel ... who is a lesbian. And now, I've been kissed by a lesbian angel! What does that MEAN?"

"It means I failed to take body weight into account for the amount of alcohol I've let you have," she said, none too plainly herself. She waved at a cab, and we remained silent as we got settled in the back.

I caught a whiff of her, and I scooted into her body on the seat. Urgently, I pressed my nose into the side of her neck and nuzzled her. "What are you DOING?" she cried, laughing.

"You smell," I mumbled, inhaling again. In my mind, I was back in bed this morning. That warm, soft, wonderful, magnificent bed.

She shrieked a giggle. "Well, thanks a LOT!"

"No," I insisted. "You smell ... yummy." I nuzzled again, and she laughed aloud. "Do all lesbians smell like this?" I asked.

The turbaned driver, who was obviously not originally from this country, started guffawing, then he coughed, trying desperately to suppress his mirth. He looked almost pleadingly into his rearview mirror. "Please forgive me, dear lady. Honestly. I did not mean to laugh. It is just that ..."

Daphne held up a hand. "It's alright. You're very sweet for trying."

The cab pulled to a stop, and I took one last, dreamy sniff, then followed her out of the car. She must have tipped him plenty, because he thanked her profusely. The trip to the apartment was sort of fuzzy, but I somehow found myself standing beside her bed, and she was undressing me. The blue jeans and top I had put on in the other apartment were thrown into a hamper, followed by the new panties and brassier. I was naked again. Why was I always naked in this room? She sat alongside me on the edge of the mattress and turned me toward her. I didn't even try to resist; I just looked directly into the centers of her eyes, and I fell up, up, up into them.

"I'm not a lesbian," I whispered.

"I know. Be sleepy for me now."

My eyes felt as if they had weights attached to the lids. "You're going to hypnotize me," I said, the mists of sleep gathering around me.

"Yes."

"Alright."

"Sleep."

I awoke in the middle of the night to darkness and disorientation. My head pounded softly. I reached out and she wasn't there, so I scooted across the big bed to her side, and I inhaled. It was so faint! I tried other spots, but it was all the same: her presence was just a trace. The covers were still soft and warm, but it wasn't the same; so, I threw them back and got up. In the still murkiness of the living room, I made my way to the couch, and I sat on its edge, lightly running my fingers across the curve of her bare arm.