Page 59 of In What World

“There’s someone you can’t let go of,” Psychic Priscilla continues, disregarding my request. “Someone whose approval you’ve convinced yourself you can never get. You’ve told yourself you’ve stopped trying, but you haven’t. And now that you’ve been in communication with this person again, you’re afraid to trust that it can be different this time. This is a cycle you need to break before you can make any meaningful partnerships. This could be the key to unlocking the rest of your life.”

Psychic Marlowe places another crystal on the table. “You’ll have the opportunity to do so. Very soon.”

“It will be uncomfortable,” Psychic Priscilla says. “These kinds of things often are. But it’s also necessary. There is so much good waiting for you on the other side of your pain.”

“Our Dallas is missing,” I blurt, needing to regain control of the direction of this conversation.

This hasn’t gone at all how I envisioned, and I’m feeling the threat of the kind of tears I only ever let myself cry in private. The ones I’ve always been good at saving for later. Somehow, we’ve made it this far here without giving any of our spiel. The psychics haven’t asked, or even seemed that curious as to how it’s possible their duplicates have shown up at their door. They haven’t even questioned the paint.

I force them into listening to a shortened version of events, letting myself get lost in the summary until my wave of tears ebbs and I feel like Cilla once again.

“You know, our Dallas lives nearby,” Psychic Priscilla offers.

“He doesn’t work at the school, right?” my Marlowe asks, finally jolted out of whatever trance the psychics cast over her that made her forget she’s supposed to be the logical, quest-for-knowledge one of the two of us.

“No, no,” Psychic Marlowe says. “He retired after our senior year.”

My Marlowe fist pumps. “I knew there was no Dallas who would ever doGrease.”

“Oh,never,” Psychic Marlowe says, smiling. “You could get in that Memory Machine a million times and still not find a Dallas willing to budge on that.”

“On Thursday nights he performs at a drag bar that’s not very far from here,” Psychic Priscilla says. “You guys should go see him. He would love that. I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”

Aren’t they lucky? They have a beautiful marriage, a psychic business, and a Dallas who wants to be helpful instead of evasive.

“That would be great,” I say, eager to escape this house I once found so comforting. “Would we be able to grab a shower and a change of clothes beforehand? We made a mess of ourselves in the last reality.”

“Of course,” Psychic Marlowe says kindly. “We have plenty of stuff for you two to wear.”

“Kind of perfect to get to borrow clothes from myself,” my Marlowe says.

Psychic Priscilla looks at my Marlowe. “I’ll put on a pot of your favorite tea.”

“She doesn’t drink tea,” I say. “She drinks a cold brew with a pump of lavender and a splash of half-and-half. Light ice.”

“I might drink tea,” my Marlowe counters. “Let me try it,” she says to Psychic Priscilla.

It’s so small. Nothing, really. But still, witnessing my Marlowe’s willingness to try something new from the hands of anyone other than the real me breaks the tiny thread of composure I’ve managed to reclaim.

I make it away just in time, bolting up the stairs to the bathroom and starting the water, letting it run over my hands as paint swirls down the drain in hypnotizing circles. I wash the paint from my skin and hair, letting the ritual of the task soothe me the best it can. The psychics are right. All I’ve ever wanted is for someone else to want me around. It doesn’t matter that I’m seeing proof that another me has figured out how to break that curse. Every other Priscilla seems to have something going for her. Doctor Priscilla has esteem. Teacher Priscilla has Jaz. Stranger Priscilla has the blessing of anonymity.

And this Priscilla has love.

It’s a cruel twist of the knife that I have to wear her clothes, which are waiting for me in a neat pile on the other side of the bathroom door. I peek my head out to grab them, then get dressed in her image. She’s lent me a flowy lilac sundress with a gauzy lilac cardigan to match.

It would be so easy to put this on and become another character. Psychic Priscilla is dreamy and ethereal and oh so all knowing. But she’s not me. And if I want what she has, I can’t keep performing anymore. From here on out, I have to take on my most difficult role yet—I need to be myself.

19

Marlowe

After Cilla andI both have showered and changed, Psychic Marlowe lends us her car for our excursion. She has most of my same mementos in it, like the tiny ceramic turtles Lana and I got on a family vacation as kids. The small Polaroid picture of my parents I keep clipped to the sun visor. She even has the star-shaped clear crystal in her center console—a gift from Dallas on my last day as a student at WRHS.

When I first saw her, I didn’t understand how she could be a version of me. But I see the pieces of myself that Psychic Marlowe has used to build her life upon. I, too, keep small trinkets that remind me of my loved ones, because I see them as protection charms. I talk to myself out loud when I’m asking the unknown for answers. Maybe I’ve never considered myself an expert on the metaphysical, but I do obsess over astrology, and a lot of times, I let my gut tell me what decision to make.

Cilla has her head resting against the passenger-side window, watching Garden Meadows pass by. Even after I started to kiss her, she was still the Cilla I know, charming and flirtyand never taking anything very seriously. This muted version appeared sometime during our reading. She was the one who wanted to do it. She insisted it would be fun. Somehow, I’m the only one who left the experience smiling.

“What’s it like for you, being back here?” I ask.