Chapter 3: The "Therapy"

Sunday, June 8th, 2005

After dropping off all 4 of Margaret's munchkins at daycare (it turns out, she was only babysitting for the daycare because she's such a kind person in my mom's words), we have to rest for Margaret for a while. We just wait for her on a park bench while she gathers back her strength. After that's done and (thankfully) only a short (if taxing) walk (a very slow walk with Margaret), we arrive at actually a rather large inn. It's called 'Florida's Best,' and looks surprisingly spacey. I heard that Florida apartments were impossibly cramped.

Maybe I should stop prejudging Florida. They also said the people down here were nicer. Margaret has proven that wrong. The whole time we walked all she did was complain and tell my mother about all of the brainwork she did when she was younger. I almost died just listening.

"I wonder how it looks inside." I say, admiring the outer woodwork. "It looks nice out here."

Mom and Margaret shush me, and we follow Margaret inside. She's such a slow walker. But I can sort of see why. Exercising might cut into her sitting time.

Once inside, Margaret plops right down on a chair in the lobby. Does she even walk three steps before sitting and getting comfy?

But I have to admit, it is very pretty inside. The lobby alone is enormous, with lots of comfy red one-person couches and plants and the walls are painted a bright sky blue, one of my favorite colors. There are magazines and books in a large bookcase next to the check-in/check-out desk. And it's busy, but not overcrowded—people are milling around, going up and down steps, leading children, carrying bags…it's very attractive.

"This is such a cute place!" I say overenthusiastically in an effort to get into a good mood (and failing). It sounds more like, 'This place is so fucking cute it makes my eyes burn!' I sigh. I can't look forward to life anymore. Maybe I should run away right now. My bad mood will probably drive me to it.

Margaret again stares at me and mops her forehead, but talks to my mom. "Would you get us a room, Shiori? It'll only be for a little while. Go on, don't dally."

My mother grimaces at the long line to the check-in. "Sure." She goes and waits her turn, still managing the heavy suitcases, while I sit down several seats away from Margaret holding my single pack.

Only one thing to say. It's official: the woman indeed has a very bad staring problem. Why does she keep looking at me? I can't be that interesting, can I? I think I liked it better when she ignored me.

Stop staring. STOP STARING! Oh my god, this is so uncomfortable. Why doesn't she look away? Why can she stare at that beautiful geranium over there in that big bay window? Why won't she take her eyes off of me? Is she a spy? Did she find out what I did in Japan and is here to arrest me? OH NO! No, calm down. She couldn't be a spy. Spies have to be athletic. Spies can't be 60. And she'd never have found me anyway. I was in the spirit world the whole damn time. But what if she's a demon? No, she couldn't be a demon. Demons just don't take the form of old ladies. They prefer to be bewitchingly beautiful. Like, Beauty named herself that because she thought her form was beautiful. Key word: thought.

JUST STOP LOOKING AT ME, YOU GODDAMN BITCH! I almost scream out loud.

After about 10 minutes of screaming in my head, I shut my eyes, and say in a small voice, "Stop watching me! Please!" My god, I'm so scared. This is pathetic. I get so emotional when I'm in Japan withdrawal, apparently. Japan is my drug, and I'm an addict.

Silence. "Does it bother you, Catty?"

"Yes!" I squeak.

"I just think I've seen you before, that's all. I'm trying to place your face. Tell me…were you in Japan at all last year? The Jun Boarding School?"

I whirl to my left to look at her. "How do you know that? Were you a teacher?"

"I merely think I saw you there." She stares at me again, and I give in to those cold black eyes.

"Yes, I was, in fact. Can you please look at something else now?"

She smiles, really creepily. And at that moment, thankfully, my mom comes back, holding a bright blue card key for a room. "All right, it's all clear. Miss Sherm, I won't keep you too long. Just please show me what I need to know, and that will be it. I thank you once again for helping me out."

"Of course." She gets up and follows Mom, and I follow the woman. No way am I having her behind me.

Why me? Why do I have to be the one to go through with this?

No, I hiss at myself. I'm being so selfish. This is for Mom. I'll let Mom achieve her dream and in response I just have to let this woman massage the main artery in my arm or something all chiropractic-y like that. I'm helping my mom. That's enough for me. It is.

"We're looking for #233." My mom calls back to us. We go up some stairs and Mom starts looking at room numbers. Dreading it makes it go faster, and room #233 is the third one she checks. She smiles and swipes the card key, and the light above the large brass knob switches from red to green. I groan, but they can't hear me over the creak of the door. I hesitantly follow the two of them inside. The inside also has bright blue walls and several plants, a bed, a lamp and a window overlooking the city below. We're only on the fourth floor, but it looks so pretty just the same.

I go towards the window to look out it and Mom, eager to get started, grabs me and sits me down on the bed before I have the chance. "Well, she's all yours, Miss Sherm!" She says cheerily. Is it just me, or is Mom just a little too trusting? She just met this woman, but she thinks that some BS interview in the 1960's makes her a good person. I groan again.

"What do I have to do?" I say, feeling sick to my stomach. Mom rubs my wrist to comfort me, still smiling overconfidently.

"Hold out your right arm, with your palm facing up." Margaret says promptly. "Hurry!" Mom promptly pulls out a pad of writing paper and a pen from her purse and scribbles down the instructions. I do it, and flinch just a little as her she places her both her thumbs on that blood vessel on the inside of my arm. She then presses inwards, and it doesn't hurt. My hand starts to fall asleep, but the rest of my arm feels a little better.

"How do you feel?" She asks me.

"My arm feels good." I say, hoping I don't sound too shocked.

"Now you see how it works. By slowing the blood in the main artery, the entire arm relaxes and it's very good for healing physical trauma. You try." Mom obliges and mimics her hand position, but when she presses down on the vein, shooting pain goes through my hand and I cry out.

"OH! I'm sorry, Kat!" She says anxiously. "This was why I failed that section."

"It's like this." Margaret guides Mom's hands back on my other arm this time, and presses down with her fingers. This time, I get the same feeling, and I sigh. Both of my arms feel incredibly weak, but so content.

Wait…in science class, didn't they say chiropractics supposed to make you stronger?

"Good job." Margaret says.

"I did it?" Mom asks incredulously.

"Yes." Margaret nods and gives her the first smile I've seen on her huge face.

"Go, Mom!" I tell her, trying to sound as happy as possible. Mom needs encouragement, right?

"I never did it before! Wow, you are a genius, Miss Sherm! My professors never made it this easy!" Mom is ecstatic about her success. I smile at her pride.

Margaret smiles again. "You know what? I don't do this very often, but because you're such a good woman, I'll show you how to do it on her head, too."

She looks happy beyond belief, but then she looks confused. "Thank you…uh, her head?"

"Yes, her head." She states slowly, as though Mom is slow or something.

"Is that even possible?"

"It certainly is. Would you like to see me do it? I actually invented it myself, and it works like a charm. I can't teach it though, I'm sorry. It takes quite a while to perfect."

"Your own technique? Well! Of…of course, if it isn't too much trouble! I would expect nothing better from you, though!"

She smiles, and then turns back to me, and laughs a little. What? And then, she places two fingers on each of my temples. I get a twinge of pain, but my arms don't even move at all. WHAT? I can't even feel them! What's happening? Why can't I move them? Was it the chiropractics that did it?

I breathe deeply. No. I won't kill this for Mom. Margaret knows what she's doing. That paralysis probably only temporary.

She realigns her fingers on my temples. Then, she says in a low voice, "Son las en grad—"

Mom stops her. "What are you doing?"

"This song is soothing to the patient. This kind of chiropractic calms the mind, not the body. It's meant to soothe and relieve stress."

"OH!" Her eyes as round as dinner plates, she scribbles it down in her notepad.

"Shut your eyes, dear." She tells me, and I do it. She puts her fingers back on my temples and restarts. "Son laz en grad keen rah do, fraut pey tih goro a go."

It sounds almost familiar. I can feel the music in my body. This must be what she meant. The syllables mean nothing to me, and yet they mean so much of everything in the world. I just sigh in comfort. It sounds like the song of a native. And then…the music turns wicked, the soothing melody turning harsh and ragged.

"Son laz en grad keen rah do, ho mew catty tu…mar…lo."

All of a sudden, I start shaking as her song ends on that evil, evil note. Something flashes on the inside of my eyelids, a fleeting image, not long enough to see. I can't open my eyes. I can't bat her arms away with my own paralyzed ones. A huge headache sprouts in the middle of my brain and spreads outwards, like a huge growing stone in the center of my mind. I start breathing abnormally. My brain hurts, and hurts, and hurts. Rage. Hate. Pain. The headache brings every negative feeling right into my brain, killing the goodness, killing the love.

She wrenches her hands back from me, and goes, as if she doesn't know, "Catty! What the—what's the matter?" I scream, suddenly able to open my eyes again. I scream again, clutching my head with shaking hands. What did she do to me?

My mother throws herself next to me and gives me a huge hug. "Kat, what happened? Why are you…shaking?"

I really am trembling. I'm about to wet my pants. What did this woman do to me? Margaret starts to go near me to see what's wrong, and then, I jerk back so fast I shoot my mom off balance and she almost falls clear off the bed. "Don't touch me." I hiss at her, in a very deadly way. Panther blood pounds, much stronger than it ever has been. No. No, calm down. I can't become a beast in front of my mother. It's just a horrible old woman anyway. I'm so close to transforming.

"Kat?" Mom feels my forehead, and wrenches her hand back, as though in pain. I just stare at her.

"What?"

"You…you're in a flame, Kat! Your fever must be 109 degrees! When did that happen! Are you in pain!" She turns to the evil Margaret. "Why did she scream? Did you do something wrong?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question.

Margaret's gray eyes narrow in confusion. "No. I've never had that happen to any of my patients before. Possibly because she's sick she was overly affected."

"You did something to me!" I yell. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

She stares at me, and I notice her now gray eyes. Weren't they black before? "I tried to calm you. Instead you got all fired up. It appears I have to work out the kinks of that experiment."

"It was an experiment?" My mom asks savagely. "You experimented on my daughter?"

"Yes. But I had to. If this worked, I would have the cure to all types of stress."

"You still should have told me!"

"I concede that."

Mom sighs, and looks up at her. "I really need to get Katrina back home."

"I'm a doctor."

"I'm sorry, all of my records are with a doctor far north." My mom says coldly. "We'll be seeing you." She takes my hand and we stand up and leave Margaret in the room behind us.

"Well, she should feel perfectly fine in 130 hours, starting now, at 12:00, Sunday. That was what the data told me. Catty, it should feel simply sublime when it happens." She adds as we leave.

"Sorry, got to help my daughter. Thanks." Mom helps me out the door. "You crack." She adds in a mutter. "Come on, let's get back home now. I've had about all I can take."

We blow down the many steps, never looking back. Without even stopping to pay for our stay, we walk right past the checkout desk and into the open too-bright outdoors. Mom drags me by my arms. Slowly, the feeling is coming back to them. I can just feel the pressure of her clammy hands.

Mom doesn't say anything as we walk. I can just tell she's steaming inside. And so am I. What did that woman do to me? It was like she wrung the almost good mood out of my brain. And I still have a monster huge headache. And where did the fever come from? Could it be this hot atmosphere?

We charge along the angular streets, getting back to the airport at light speed. I get the idea Mom wants to put as much space between that woman and her as possible.

Almost ramming into several passerby, we finally make it to the airport's entrance and Mom stops, breathing hard. I put my hands on my knees and rest.

"Oh, god damn it, we forgot the suitcases in that room! Stupid, stupid, stupid, mother fuc—" Mom swears a little more (you get the idea), then covers her mouth and remembers I'm here. "I'm sorry, I'm just really pissed here. Are you okay?"

"No."

She kneels down. "Where do you hurt? What happened? We can speak freely. She's nowhere around here."

I sigh. "She probably is. She knew we were all the way up here, right? Somehow, inexplicably."

She blinks. "You…you're right. How did she know we were here?…………But that doesn't matter right now. What happened?"

"It was that song. It…it hurt my head. Something she did really hurt my mind. I still have a huge migraine. She made me get a fever."

"That's silly. But she must have touched you in the wrong place, I don't believe that you were sick was what caused it. You were perfectly fine before we met her. Now we'll just worry about getting home."

"What did she say would happen in 130 hours? Something good?" I groan, and almost fall over before my mom catches me.

"Don't even think about it, Kat. It's fine. She didn't know what she was talking about."

My eyes start to shut, and a fresh wave of pain attacks my forehead. "Mom…I'm tired."

"Okay." She says, pulling an American Express Card out of her miniscule pocketbook. "You just rest. I'll get us home."

I gladly obey her.

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Several hours later, I wake up, feeling very cramped for some reason. That's strange.

"M-Mom?" I ask tiredly. "Mom?"

"Shhh!"

I fall back asleep in this tight space.

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Something rams me in the side, waking me up. The floor I'm on is jerking. I cry out and again when I fidget I feel squished. "MOM!" I half-yell.

"SHHHH!"

"Why?" I whisper.

"You're in a duffel bag. I'll explain later."

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For the third time I awaken. This time, I'm definitely moving. "MOMMMMMMMM!" I scream with all my might, fighting the tight space. It's like I'm in a bag or something.

"LET ME OUT! LET ME—"

Something unzips above my head, catching my hair, and I scream bloodcurdlingly. "HELP! HELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!"

"Kat!" My mother's voice hisses. "You're out!"

I open my tightly closed eyes. I'm in…a bright white tiled room. A bathroom?

"Aren't we at the airport?" I say, stretching. Then, I fall right over flat on my face as I stand and my feet get caught in the bottom on the bag. "AGH!"

"Kat!" She yells again. I look upwards at the tiled ceiling and see her there, all her black hair falling across her face. "Be quiet and relax, okay? Everything is fine. We are at the Sacramento airport. We just got back. I just had to smuggle you into the airport."

"Where was I?" I ask, rubbing my eyes and standing up again.

"In…in my duffel bag. I put you in there because you have to be awake and sober to accept a plane ticket. You know, ever since 9/11, that's how things are."

"Well, I haven't been drinking…"

"You were sleeping for 3 hours. So, I stuffed you in the duffel bag."

So that was the tight space. "Good thing I'm not claustrophobic, Mom. You would have killed me."

"And if I hadn't we'd still be in Florida. Anyway, ready to get back home?"

"Okay."

She hugs me. "Just a general update, sleepyhead: we left at 2:00, since I waited two hours in line, and it's 5:00 now. We should be home in a half hour by car, in time for dinner."

"But what about Margaret?"

"Forget about her. I'll find someone else to practice with. And I promise you'll never again be the guinea pig. Oh, I'm so sorry." She hugs me again, and I hug her back. I'm okay and so is she. Right? Well, except for that 130 hours thing. But, hey, she's a crack all right. I'll just go with the flow on this one. Nothing is going to happen that shouldn't on 130 hours.

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Author's Note: Did you like it? DID YOU? Does it have you hooked? HUH? TELL ME IN A REVIEW!hh Mom Mo Hhh