Some insensitive language in this chapter due to the appearance of a Rob Zombie character.
November 17
I spend another night in the sleep lab.
I have another dream about Judith's past.
Judith and Michael have opened all the canisters of Play-Doh. They both press on their lumps of Play-Doh with enthusiasm. Judith is gingerly forming hers into a smooth pot shape, while Michael is building a tall tower.
They are older in this scene. Judith is sixteen and Michael is nine.
"Play-Doh is non toxic," Michael sounds out, as if he is reading the label. "Does that mean it's safe to eat?"
"I guess so," Judith answers. "If you don't choke."
Michael grins. "I dare you to eat the Play-Doh."
"No way," Judith squeals. "Look at the residue it leaves. I bet it's nasty."
Michael studies the powdery residue on the newspapers that Judith had spread out.
"I read that in some cultures they eat sand and dirt," he informs her. "To make up for vitamins they don't get in food."
"Are you making that shit up?"
"No. Honest."
Judith is not very interested in eating Play-Doh, or dirt or sand. She is enrolled in Ceramics this semester. She has gotten out the Play-Doh so she could practice the techniques she learned in class. She brushes the sides of her pot with a Popsicle stick, trying to smooth out the lumps and cracks. It would work better with water, she calculates, if it were clay. But putting water on Play-Doh just caused it to crumble.
"You don't believe me, do you?" Michael asks, in his usual defeatist manner.
"I believe you," Judith answers quickly.
"I've got the magazine upstairs to prove it."
"What are you going to make?" Judith asks, hoping to derail Michael from his self-pity fest.
Michael pauses, thinking. Before he could answer, Ronnie White struts in.
"Why am I not surprised," he says, chuckling. "The girly man is taking up a fag hobby."
"Buzz off, fuckwad," Judith returned.
Ronnie ignores her. He leans over Michael, smashing his beefy fist in Michael's formation.
"You're going to hide behind your big sister's apron all your life?"
"No." Michael's face turns red.
"Look, we're just minding our own business," Judith says. "Why don't you go back to masturbating to your monster truck magazines?"
"You telling me what to do, cupcake?"
Michael puts away his wrecked mold and stands up. "I don't want to play anymore." He runs off.
Ronnie guffaws. "Looks like Play-Doh's too rough for the little lady." He creeps his hand on Judith's shoulder. "Now that it's just you and me . . ."
Judith shoots him a deadly look. Ronnie, oblivious, taunts on.
"Maybe you can put that hand action to good use," Ronnie says. He tweaks a lock of her hair. Judith pulls away.
"So what do you say, Judy?"
"Do not call me that!" Judith bursts out. She shoves back her chair, twisting out of Ronnie's lecherous grasp. Ronnie grins, enjoying her discomfort, which enrages Judith further.
He launches himself at her again. Judith props the chair between them and rams it against him. The seat of the chair rams into Ronnie's knees.
She releases her grip on the chair and makes her escape.
II
Then the dream turns really ugly.
I'm lying in my bed, listening to the headphones while waiting for Steve to come back from the kitchen. Suddenly I feel fingers prodding against my thigh.
"Steve," I say, giggling. I sound flirty, buzzed. "Stop it. Once a night is enough."
Steve hasn't replied. A chill runs down my back, as tangible as that unfamiliar finger that had just caressed my leg. For a brief moment, I am terrified that Ronnie has managed to hobble upstairs, to do what he's promised to do for ages. I look up, determined not to show any fear.
When I see it's Michael, I sag with relief.
"Michael." Then I burst out with anger. He has scared the fuck out of me. I hate that. I had felt that type of fear once before. A long time ago. And because of Michael's stupid prank, I thought for a moment that it started all over again.
"What the fuck are you doing in my room?" I rise from my bed. He no longer towers over me, but I still feel cornered. "Michael. What the fuck are you doing in my room?"
He says nothing, just stares at me from under Steve's joke of a mask. Panic bubbles up within me. "Answer me!"
Something must be terribly wrong. I push his shoulders, desperate to get some answer from him. "Michael! Answer me! What the fuck are you doing in my ro-"
The knife plunges into my gut.
Dr. Mixter is in the sleep lab, flanked by nurses. They surround me, in case I fall.
I don't fall. I step unsteadily forward. My arm clutches at my stomach.
One of the nurses pries my arm from my stomach. She yelps in horror.
The front of my gown is covered with blood.
III
According to the reports, of which I hear secondhand, my movements in my sleep have loosened the stitches on my stomach wound.
I miss Ben Tramer's visit that morning because I am getting restitched. Or his non-visit, considering what happened yesterday morning.
Both Mom and Dad come to stay with me this morning, but I am so tired and numb from the anesthetics that we don't talk much. We just watch a lot of TV.