‘CHRISTOS CALLED me.’ Aimi looked over her glasses. ‘He’s worried about you. Said you were upset, accused him of taking something of yours.’

Sidney laughed it off, told the missing-work-document story.

‘Christos also mentioned he’d spoken to your manager and she said you’ve been acting erratically.’

‘That’s not true. She brought in her friend to replace me.’ She’d received an email, with forms attached, from Ros Hartman informing of her downgrade from part-time to casual employment. Apparently, there was a sudden drought of editing work at LOC, but Ros would let her know when something came up. ‘She’s trying to get rid of us all.’

‘Have you been taking your medications?’

Taking them from their packaging every day and flushing them down the toilet. ‘Yes.’

‘If that’s the case, I think we need to adjust the doses.’

‘I told you,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘I was just looking for a work document.’

Aimi nodded.

‘You see, this is the worst thing about having a so-called “mental illness”. I’m never allowed to get upset.’ She stood and paced the room. ‘If I ever feel angry, I’m disruptive, noncompliant, paranoid …’

‘I understand how you’re feeling —’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I think it might be a good idea to increase your dose of Olanzapine.’

‘You haven’t been listening!’ Play the game, Sid, play the game. Duck not snail. Aimi and Christos couldn’t make her take the meds — she’d already won. Or had they guessed? And were secretly adding it to her food?

<to the river walk re-sent recent to the river sea-send seasoned repent>

She took a deep breath, exhaled, and sat down, smiling. ‘OK.’

‘When was the last time you showered, Sidney?’

‘This morning.’ She knew that, because time had been a little arbitrary the past few days, or weeks, so she’d created reminders in her phone’s calendar for things such as washing. But she’d been wearing the same jeans — the only ones that still fitted — for a week.

‘Have you been hearing voices?’

‘No.’

‘Any urges to burn things?’

‘No.’

‘Any suicidal thoughts?’

‘No.’

‘And what about pregnancy?’

‘That was a stupid idea.’

Aimi frowned. ‘Are you worried about passing on your illness? It doesn’t always happen.’

‘That and a million other reasons that are terrifying. How could I take care of another human being? Ridiculous. Christos’s idea.’ She lowered her voice. ‘My body.’

‘I think you need to talk to Christos about how you feel.’

She nodded.

‘If you like, you could bring him in and we could discuss it together.’

<to the river run to the river run repent repent>

She pretended to dislike her sessions with Aimi, but Aimi was a worthy opponent, and this was a safe space. Christos might contaminate it.

‘Have a think about it,’ Aimi said. ‘Christos also said you contacted your mother.’

‘Left a message on her answering machine, but she hasn’t called back.’

‘She doesn’t have a mobile phone?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘It’s been a long time since you’ve spoken, hasn’t it?’

Maybe five years? Closer to ten. Probably fifteen. ‘Yes.’

‘Why have you decided to make contact now?’

She remembered the dream — the sign — and pictured her address book and diary standing next to each other on a shelf in her old bedroom, which she’d painted black, at Broken River Road. No, lying together in one of Pop’s Pac King boxes in her cupboard where monsters had lived when she was little. The cover of the address book was quilted black leather with two white Chanel C’s. She couldn’t remember what the diary had looked like — spiral-bound, but a hard cover or one of those cheap yellow ones from the supermarket? Both books were in her bedroom, somewhere, definitely. She mouthed the words: Dean Cola lives in there.

‘Pardon?’ Aimi said.

‘I just think enough time’s gone by. Time for a reconciliation.’

‘That sounds positive. Would you like to talk about your mother?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Have you been doing any more writing?’

‘A little.’

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

She shook her head. Aimi’s skin looked so smooth. What would it be like to kiss her? Sidney had never had sex with a woman. It might be nice. Soft. She’d never had sex (not really) with anybody except Christos.

‘Have you remembered anything more about Dean Cola?’

Her heart missed a beat, she shifted in her seat. ‘I had a drink after work the other night. There was a man at the pub who reminded me of one of our old friends from back home. Well, not really a friend, but … I think it was another cue. And then there was a man standing at the bar …’

Aimi frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with your medications.’

Sidney sighed and looked at the clock. Meet me under the clock. Was that a song or a book? Or a movie?

‘What do you think Dean Cola represents for you?’

She thought for a moment, sat back in the chair. ‘Just a teenage crush.’

Aimi tilted her head, not buying it.

‘I don’t know. Youth, hope … Maybe freedom?’ She shrugged. ‘A reflection.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean by that.’

She looked at her hands and cleared her throat. ‘But it’s also like a terrible accident. Like something you can only look at out of the corner of your eye, and perhaps if you don’t see it properly, you can’t know for sure that it’s really there.’ It was easier to understand now she was off her meds, but still too complicated to explain to Aimi. Do you remember? Don’t you remember? The shame of how she could still see Dean reflected in a good light, while, at the same time, from the corner of her eye, see him and those other boys in the shadows at Sandro D’Angelo’s party. And hear, with her hands over her ears, what all her peers from that time said about her, about Dean. Do you remember the light? Don’t you remember the shadows. Don’t you. Don’t! She wanted to slap her thoughts away, or slap Aimi for making her think them, but instead rubbed her face. ‘I think Dean Cola represents an alternative reality. A better reality.’

‘Was that something you thought at the time? Or do you still think that now?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. ‘At the time, I think all I wanted was to not be like my mother.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to do some writing about your mother before our next session?’

‘Sure.’

‘So, we’re just going to increase your Olanzapine to fifteen milligrams.’ Aimi printed a new prescription.