Lisa popped her gum loudly. The old Celtic driver glared at her in his rearview mirror. She ignored him and went back to staring limply out the window.
None of this was fair. She wasn't imagining things, no insane person ever could have cooked up such a vivid memory. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. What was real anymore? Did her father exist? Did that flight exist? Did her rape exist? Or were Thea and Thatch right, was she dealing with some psychological trauma?
She didn't know. And at the moment, she really didn't care. Pretty soon it wasn't going to matter. She'd be cooped up in a box with a bunch of headbanging nutcases who did actually belong there. She didn't. She didn't belong in Cliff View, she didn't belong in Ireland.
Which she hated. She hated this country already, she knew that much. It was cloudy. Lisa hated that. Her mind was cloudy enough, and some part of her longed for the sun to open up something in her that would guide her towards answers.
The car stopped. Lisa looked up at the menacing gray-white building and the yards around it and sighed. Just what she needed. Another hospital.
As the cabbie helped her out, she realized by the decorations plaguing the exterior of the building that it was Christmas.
I shouldn't be stuck in some goddamn nuthouse over Christmas. I should be celebrating with Mom, with Dad, with Cynthia…
"But she doesn't think you exist," Lisa spat bitterly, not realizing that she'd complained out loud until she saw the pained look on the cabbie's face.
"Sorry," she grumbled. "I'm mental, remember?"
He ignored her for once and hefted her bags up the short steps. Lisa followed, her arms tugging her shapeless hospital jacket tighter around her shoulders. The plane ride had been a monstrosity of affairs. Everybody had been staring at the creepy girl in the hospital garb with the lurking bruise on her neck and forehead. There was nothing more encouraging to the fact that you were mentally ill than having people stare at you 24/7. That was enough to drive a person mad completely without cause.
She was led inside to an office, where she was introduced to a brass nameplate carved Dr. Figure. She snapped her gum again. Cabbie glared at her as Dr. Figure the Person came out of his attaching bathroom and took a seat, gesturing for them to do the same. Cabbie, of course, left. Dr. Figure shot her a brief, discriminatory smile and pulled out her file. Lisa slouched.
"So, we don't know our identity?" he murmured.
"Actually, that's a typo," Lisa interjected, sticking out a hand. "I know my identity. My name is Lisa. Lisa Reisert. I'm twenty-eight years old, daughter of Joseph Reisert the former lawyer and Becky the former secretary, residents of Miami, Florida, and Dallas, Texas. Pleased to meet you."
Dr. Figure raised an eyebrow. "The feeling is mutual, Ms. Reisert, but I assure you that this is not a typo."
Lisa forced her eyebrows to mimick his. "Oh, really, Dr. F? Are you 180 sure about that? Because I'm not. I know who I am, and I'm not a bit too pleased at being here."
"None of the patients ever are, ma'am."
"Even the headbangers?"
"Yes, even the-" he frowned. "What did you say?"
She chewed her gum. "Never mind. So am I free to go?"
He sighed. "No. Now, please sit back down. You hit your head. Correct?"
"Yes. I was at the ba- I was at the hotel in Miami that I work-worked, at with my best friend, Cynthia, who is now being paid off to say that she doesn't know me, or something. I guess I fell and hit my head."
He scribbled down a few notes. "Ok. What happened up to a week before that?"
Lisa thought. "Let's see….work Monday, work Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but on Friday I got a call from my mom in Dallas saying that my grandmother had died. Henrietta."
"I'm sorry to hear that." He attacked the paper with his ballpoint again. "Please continue. Anything else?"
"Oh, yes. I went to her funeral that Saturday and was taking the red-eye back that night when I met a man."
"A man?"
"No, a woman," Lisa rolled her eyes. "Yes, a man. He was charming and absolutely gorgeous. He had the most piercing blue eye-" She cleared her throat. "Yes. Well. Anyway. None of that mattered, as he turned out to be the most astoundingly huge asshole that I'd ever met. Once we were in the air, he told me that I had to call my hotel and switch Charles Keefe's room so that he could kill him."
"So Charles Keefe could kill this man? What's his name, by the way?"
"No, so Jackson Rippner-that was his name-could kill Charles Keefe. He's a huge political figure in the States."
"I know who he is." Edgy, edgy, especially for a psychiatrist.
"So Jack was an assassin-for-hire and wanted me to make the call. Supposedly, I was the only one who could do it and if I didn't his guy waiting outside my dad's house back in Miami was going to kill him."
"The guy in Miami was going to kill Mr. Rippner?"
"He was going to kill my dad. You good?"
"Please proceed."
"So, I kept trying to get away. I wrote in a book, talked on the phone to nobody, wrote on the mirror, got strangled, talked to Cynthia and changed the room, the plane stopped, I told Jackson about my rape-"
"Hold the phone," Dr. Figure held up a hand and wrote furiously. "What was that last?"
Lisa looked away. So much for acting careless. "I…I was raped. Two years ago."
His head snapped up and scanned the file. "Oh, yes. I see now, right here. Did this case ever go to court?"
Lisa shook her head. "They never found the dirty bastard who did it. They said if I'd come in earlier…" she choked up and covered her face with her hands.
Dr. Figure was, for once, quiet. When she came back up, her face was tearstained, and she knew it. "Can I…can I go back to the flight?"
"Yes."
"So, I…um…I told him about that to…well, soften him up, I guess. I had to. When he was vulnerable, I stabbed him with a Frankenstein pen. I got away and told Cynthia to nix the last call, ran over the hitman, found my dad all safe, Jack came back, I threw a fire estinguisher at him, headbutted him, stabbed him with my heel, slammed him with my hockey stick. He threw me down the stairs, I shot him once, my dad shot him once, he died. I think. I never really found out. I think he was still alive when I was with Cynthia that night."
Dr. Figure had written all this down. "I see. Forgive me for my momentary confusion. So, are you absolutely positive that this wasn't simply a dream?"
"One hundred and a half percent. I know I didn't dream this. I still feel pain from everything he did to me. Everything hurts. Even…" she touched her chest, "even my heart hurts. He hurt me."
Dr. Figure nodded. "Lisa, I would love to talk to you more today, but I'm afraid we've run out of time. I strongly urge you to thoroughly examine your mental situation. Just be open to the fact that this might not have happened. It's highly possible and at this stage I'm not ruling anything out. I will continue calling you Lisa or Ms. Reisert, whichever you prefer, as it is simply easier than creating an alias, but do not resign yourself to her identity. Are we understood?"
She nodded grumpily.
"Good. Now, I will show you to your room, and we have group session in ten minutes. I'm afraid we had to fit you in with the younger group, as our older groups are absolutely full and besides, they're mostly elderly coping with complete schizophrenia or the likes. "
She sighed carelessly. "Fine. Room?"
He nodded and led her to a vacant, boring and small closet-like room down a set of stairs and at the end of the hall.
Lisa tossed her bags on the bed and decided she'd worried about unpacking later. Not that she had that much with her, as her belongings had supposedly "burned down" two years ago.
Dr. Figure led her to another room down the hall, a larger and more brightly lit one. In the center sat several chairs. Dr. Figure took one and she sat next to him. She wasn't sure if she liked this guy, but at least he was relatively familiar.
Three kids were there already. A boy with his head tilted back and headphones clamped tightly over his ears, and two others.
Lisa looked at the girl first. A pair of legs that were not her own kept sliding up on her lap. "Jon!" she giggled in an American accent. "You're such an idiot! Grow up!"
Lisa's attention fell on the face of the boy next to her and when she saw him she panicked. Her hands flew tightly to the armrests of her wooden chair and her breathing became shallow.
"Jackson," she murmured, but it came out more as a dry squeak.
This boy had long, straight dark brown hair, like Jackson. He had piercing blue eyes, like Jackson. He had pale skin and a wiry frame…like Jackson. Everything was the same, except that instead of a suit he wore a disgusting orange sweater and pajama bottoms.
He looked at her and smiled. "Hello," he said, his voice riddled with a thick Irish accent. "My name's Jonathan Breech, missy, who are you?"
She stood up and glared at him. "You know damn right who the hell I am."
Dr. Figure frowned at her. "Lisa, are you alright…?"
"Like hell I am! Is this some kind of sick joke?"
"I have no idea what you-"
She was already gone, out of the room. She was getting out of here. She wouldn't be stuck in this nuthouse with the biggest nut of all, that she was damn sure of.