There's a guy asleep on Dr. Lecter's waiting room couch when she gets there. Maybe asleep is too gentle a word for it. He keeps twitching and murmuring, eyes darting under closed lids, hands and feet paddling vaguely under the quilt over him like he's running - or swimming - away from something.
There's nowhere else to sit, so she stops in the middle of the room, cold hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. The guy's kind of cute, in a scruffy sort of way, unshaven and lots of curly black hair sticking up. Even in sleep, his face looks scared. She wonders if she should wake him. Then she hears the faint click of the inner office door opening.
"Mademoiselle Pickles." Dr. Lecter's voice is very low. He beckons her in, closing the door softly behind them.
The only light in the room is the puddle of deep gold from the desk lamp. The balcony above, and the furniture outside the lamplight, are vague smudges of shadows. There's a cup of tea awaiting her on the side table, tiny curls of steam rising.
She doesn't take her coat off, just folds herself up in the chair and wraps her gloved hands around the teacup. Dr. Lecter doesn't seem to mind her putting her boots on his furniture. At least, if he does, he doesn't say anything. He just takes the chair across from her.
"Why's there a guy sleeping on your couch?" The tea is the same deep amber color and flowery-bitter taste as before. "Another patient?"
"Part of his particular trauma involves major sleep disturbances. He cannot always control when and where he loses consciousness. You will likely encounter him again. I would appreciate your taking care not to wake him."
"Sure." The phrase billable hours whispers in the back of her mind, in her mom's voice, and she smiles. "Are you charging him for the sleep time, or what?"
"No. Merely providing him with a sanctuary until he can drive home safely again." He looks at her keenly. She can see him noting the coat and gloves and knitted hat. "You're cold."
"Yeah. Dr. Baumann says I will be till I - " ugh - "put more weight back on."
"That disturbs you."
"Well, yeah. I mean, does she have to put it like I'm a farm animal being fattened up for market? Besides - " she gestures down at herself - "this took a while, I mean, it was a lot of hard work. I'm not happy about...undoing the whole project."
"It would be irresponsible not to point out that that project almost killed you."
"I know. I still don't want to change any of it. And I know that doesn't make any sense."
"It doesn't have to."
The tea is warming her from the inside out. It's definitely better than coffee. Drinking lots of that stuff, just to have some energy on the days she didn't eat, hasn't made her like it any more. (Lattes aren't so bad, but the calories.)
"They think I might be able to go back to school in March," she says.
"How do you feel about that?"
"Well...I hope not too many people know what happened. Susie's been telling anyone who asks that I had meningitis. Tommy and the others have been keeping quiet, too. At least going back should be less boring than sitting around Uncle Stu and Aunt Didi's place all day."
"They're your supervision?"
She laughs, a little dry laugh with no amusement in it. "Yeah. Between them and Grandpa Lou, there's always at least one adult around. My parents have me stay there while they're working. Also overnight if they're both out of town or late. It's just like it was when I was a little kid, again."
"Does that bother you?"
"Not during the days. I mean, I'm busy - there's the schoolwork they send home to do, and my website, and TV. I hate when whoever's around keeps checking on me at lunch. They want to be sure I'm not throwing it out, or putting it down the sink, or something."
"Have you tried?"
"I can't get away with it! Well, I probably could when Grandpa Lou's around. He's so deaf he wouldn't hear it. He watches close, though. I did try feeding my soup to the dog once, but Spike's about two hundred dog years old and wouldn't touch it. All he ever eats anymore is special oldster kibble. Spike, I mean, not Grandpa Lou."
Dr. Lecter nods. "Would you dispose of the food, if you could get away with it?"
"Probably. I don't really know."
"You said the days aren't bad. What about nights?"
She sighs. "Dinner's awful. I still can't eat much solid stuff, not till Dr. Baumann clears it. The grownups try to be casual, but I can tell they're all sort of watching me eat, you know? And dragging out conversation after, to be sure I don't go off somewhere and...Tommy doesn't talk to me much at all, like, ever anymore. I guess he's still freaked out. Dil's the only one who still acts normal around me. Normal for him, I mean."
"Dil?"
"Dylan. My other cousin. He wasn't there with the others the day I almost...I'm glad. He's only nine, and he's kind of a weirdo. Maybe you should be working with him. Anyway, if it freaked Tommy out that much, I bet it would've really messed Dil up." She doesn't want to think about that. She finishes the tea and puts the cup back on the table. The clink of cup on saucer is strangely loud.
"Observe. You are capable of concern for others." Dr. Lecter's voice is softer now. She doesn't really want to meet his gaze. She concentrates on her hands, spread out on her knees, the finely woven texture of the gloves. What's that yarn color called? Heather. Flecks and flecks of other colors in it -
"I read your note," she says.
"Your thoughts?"
She smiles, but it doesn't feel happy. "What it makes me think of? It's funny. When I stayed at my aunt and uncle's place, as a kid? It was always, 'Don't let her into the cheese puffs. Keep her away from the cookies. Don't let her eat too much - ' And now? 'Omigod, better make sure Angelica eats.' Either way, I can't win." She rolls her eyes and sinks down into the chair. "It wasn't just food. Toys and stuff, too. I'd always try to grab everything. Those other kids I mentioned, the Finsters and the Devilles? My cousins and I met them because my aunt and uncle used to watch us all at their place when we were little. I tricked them out of their stuff a lot of times."
"You're an only child, correct?"
"Yeah." Anger flares, brief and bright, somewhere in her chest. "God, you're not another one, are you?"
"Another what?" His stillness and calm are so damn infuriating.
"Another person who figures all only kids are spoiled brats."
"As you know, that stereotype is patently untrue. However - " he pauses slightly, so that she looks up - "there is often a certain dynamic in dysfunctional only-child families. Do you know if your parents wanted, or ever tried to have, another child?"
"When I was three, they thought they were gonna have another baby. But it was a false alarm. My mom seemed kind of depressed about that."
"Are any of your friends only children?"
"No. At first, but then Tommy's family had Dil, and Chuckie got his stepmom and stepsister. The Devilles are twins, and Susie has older brothers and sisters, so I'm the only only kid I know."
"The only example of your type of family, and your parents' sole focus. In the process of which they formed unrealistic expectations. Certain parents in that situation...behave in a very confusing fashion toward their child. One can become, simultaneously, an overindulged treasure and an aggravating disappointment."
She squints at him, through golden desk-lamp-light turning fuzzy. "Anyone ever tell you you talk like an SAT workbook?"
That faint smile. "I've heard similar assessments, yes."
"How do you know all this stuff? You an only child?"
The strangest flicker of - something - passes over Dr. Lecter's face when she says that, some brief emotion she can't place. Then he's still again, watching. "My family configuration is not the issue here. Yours and how you feel about it is."
Typical shrink answer. "I don't know. I've never known anything different."
"What you saw was them giving you - only you - all the attention, all the satisfaction of everything a child could want, without showing you that that cannot apply to every situation, and then becoming angry when you didn't understand. Except for food, which they were needlessly strict about. Am I correct?"
The darkness in the office suddenly presses closer, the high space above her feeling full of a weird rustling sound. "No. No, you don't get it. I really was a brat. And greedy. One time? My Uncle Stu - he's a toy inventor - he invented this gadget that made your voice sound different. I sounded just like my mom when I used it. When Grandpa Lou fell asleep, I got on the phone and pretended I was her? I ordered all these toys from the stores she had accounts with. I'd seen her do it lots of times, so why not? Then I called all my friends' parents and told them there was a surprise party for me, come over and bring presents. Then..."
She stares down at the carpet, hoping her hanging hair hides the furious blushing she feels creeping up her face. "I called the deli and ordered all this junk. Doughnuts and...twenty flan. Stuff kept arriving all afternoon. When everyone showed up, I was on the living room floor, all these toy boxes piled up, stuffing myself with doughnuts. The other kids were there already, but I wouldn't let them have any of it. See? I really was awful."
"On the contrary. You were a small child, imitating the adults - in a quite clever fashion for a child that young, I must say. That's hardly your fault. The main blame should have fallen on your grandfather, for failing to supervise you properly."
"Grandpa Lou's a nice guy! It's not his fault he falls asleep so easily."
"My client in the waiting room is also, as you say, a 'nice guy', and his sleep issues are not his fault either, but he would not be a good candidate to have sole charge of small children in his current condition. If your grandfather had problems supervising the children, your parents shouldn't have allowed it."
She's never thought about that before. "I guess you're right."
"What happened afterward?"
"My parents sent everyone home and had all the stuff returned. Except the food. The deli wouldn't take it back. My mom sat me down and made me eat all the flan that night."
Dr. Lecter's eyebrows go up at that. "All that flan?"
She shrugs. "It's not so bad, once you get past the halfway point." She actually tastes it on the back of her tongue now, a slightly foul slick of sugar.
"Did you get sick afterward?"
She nods. "My mom was nice after that happened. She put me to bed." Her voice goes up, imitating her mom: "This should teach you a little life lesson about being greedy, Angelica. Ha! Guess that didn't turn out like she wanted." The gloves suddenly feel odd on her hands, the texture creepy, and she pulls them off and studies her hands. Still bony and fragile, little hollows standing out in her wrists, good. Her nails are starting to grow out again, now that she's not keeping them really short to keep from cutting the inside of her throat up when...
The carpet. Patterns and patterns and patterns. Her eyes can't stop following them.
Dr. Lecter's voice: "Your mother should not have gone about that lesson that way." A pause, and then: "As if stuffing a child - literally and figuratively - till they are sickened can teach any compassion for those who have nothing. Pathology, maybe, but...you're not the only client I've ever heard variations on that story from. The only American client, I should say. The mainstream culture here does have a certain flair for excess. It's never supposed to be admitted, however - have you ever noticed that? The wealthy are treated as most fully human, but discussing one's income honestly is rude. Such plentiful food and warmth and resources, concentrated in the hands of so few, and everyone else is made to want, made to feel lesser for not having, then shamed for wanting and trying to acquire. I've lived here for decades now, and I will still never fully understand that."
Words slowly coming out of her mouth, thick like syrup: "Where are you from, anyway? Originally, I mean."
"Lithuania. Then France."
"Oh. I figured it had to be someplace in east Europe. You sound kind of like Tommy and Dil's grandparents, and they're from Russia."
"Perceptive."
The distant clock chimes, like tiny versions of church bells. Dr. Lecter rising, briefly interrupting the carpet patterns she can't stop watching. He's pulling another half-page from the sketchbook, writing something. "Do you have your phone? I must ask a favor."
"Sure."
"Call whoever's picking you up tonight, and ask them to meet you outside the main office door. My other client would probably prefer the privacy."
"Okay." She watches her own arm move, dreamily slow, to her coat pocket and retrieve the phone. It only takes a moment to explain to Aunt Didi. As she tucks the phone away again, Dr. Lecter is there beside her, tucking the folded note into her hand and then leading her to the inner door.
The sleeping guy is actually awake, sitting up, staring blankly at the opposite wall. The quilt is hanging loosely around his shoulders. She scoots by fast. God knows she wouldn't want some stranger gawking if she were that out of it. She can hear Aunt Didi's footsteps coming up the stairs as she opens the outer door. Then she can't help her curiosity, and looks back.
Dr. Lecter is sitting on the sofa next to the guy, turned in toward him, a hand on his shoulder. They're talking in low voices, so quiet she can't make out words. It makes her smile.
He's pretty nice, for a shrink, she thinks, then closes the door.
She takes the risk of reading the note in the car. Aunt Didi is preoccupied at a long red light, drumming the steering wheel and humming along with the radio's music, and doesn't notice.
Nous devons davantage discuter l'origine de votre consommation notable. Réfléchissez : comment exactement avez-vous appris que vous devez vouloir et encore ne pas vouloir ?
She has to wait till she's home to figure out the entire thing: We must further discuss the origin of your conspicuous consumption. Consider: how exactly did you learn that you must want and yet not want?