“Do you ever hear voices?” “No.” “Do you ever think anyone is following you?” “No.” “Do you ever think thoughts have been implanted in your mind?” “No, no. Really. It’s just the roses.” “Is there a history of mental illness in the family?” “Yes.” “Who might that be?” “My mother.” “And your father?” “Unknown.” “Can you recall any other moments where you have seen a vision like what you described?” “There have been no other moments except the ones I just mentioned. And it wasn’t a vision. My friend Deena saw them too.” “The roses?” “Yes.” “What did she think they were from?” “She had no idea. She was very surprised. Her family hates dried roses.” “You don’t happen to have them here?” “I do.” “They look like regular dried roses.” “They are regular dried roses. Except they are made out of nothing.” “And explain again how you know this?” “They were under the curtains.” “But surely someone might have just accidentally dropped dried roses under the curtains?” “Except Deena was shocked, too.” “Just by the presence of dried roses in her house?” “Yes.” “They dislike dried roses that much?” “They really do.” “Well, okay. Fine. Explain it more to me, then—what you think is that somehow the embroidered roses came to life and dropped out of the curtain and onto the floor and became dried roses?” “Yes.” “And when was your mother’s first psychotic break?” “She was seventeen.” “And you are?” “Seventeen.” “But you seem to understand that curtains cannot make roses?” “I do.” “Did you see the roses emerge from the curtains?” “No, no, not at all. I’ve never seen that part. They were just there on the floor when I walked by.” “So what do you make of it?” “Me? What do I make of it? That’s why I’m here.” “And your brain scan and testing all look fine.” “They’ve always looked fine.” “But then, Frann—” “Francie.” “Francie. Have you ever seen a psychotherapist?” “Yes.” “And?” “It’s not a metaphor.” “You mean the roses?” “Right. The roses are not a metaphor.” “But did it help?” “It just wasn’t enough.” “I understand. But I have to admit, I’m finding myself a little confused. If you don’t think this comes from your own mind, and you believe you’re witnessing some sort of phenomenon, and you aren’t demonstrating any other symptoms, why make an appointment with a neurologist?” “Who else am I supposed to see?” “To implicate the world in its own rupture?” “Exactly!” “I have no idea.” “And also, Doctor, to your earlier point—” “A priest?” “—if it was just a casual drop at Deena’s, why would they match the curtain exactly? As in exactly, except dead? And what about the butterfly? And the beetle?” “Or a shaman? Some kind of transcendental monk?” “Are you making fun of me?” “Sorry. Just trying to brainstorm. Do you know how much time passed between each incident?” “The roses were two days ago. The beetle was a day after the butterfly, which was ten years ago.” “And were there any corresponding events in your life at these times?” “Excuse me?” “Were there any events in your life around the time of each incident that might connect?” “Why would that be relevant? It’s not just about me.” “Is it happening to someone else?” “Isn’t it?” “Francie? Have you heard of anyone else talking about anything remotely like this?” “I mean, the only thing—” “Yes?” “Just my mother not doing well, and me upsetting her, and her not being able to take care of me. It’s not really viable data.” “But has that happened each time?” “Possibly.” “Possibly?” “The butterfly, yes. The beetle was basically at the same time, so yes. The roses just happened.” “And?” “And what?” “And, how is your mother doing?” “She left her facility a few weeks ago and tried to get her own apartment to see if she could take me back.” “Did she succeed?” “She did not.” “Is she doing okay now?” “We had a bad visit. But I don’t see that there’s any clear link to any of that.” “What happened with the visit?” “I sent her over the back of a chair.” “You pushed her?” “No, no, I was talking to her about all of this stuff. About the butterfly. It was dumb. She tipped herself over.” “She’s all right?” “Physically, yes. Otherwise, improving.” “And you were really going to move back up there?” “I had no plans to go.” “Well, it seems notable, doesn’t it? All these events, around the same times?” “Not to me.” “There may not be a link, but—” “You’re just making random guesses.” “I’m just trying to gather information, Francie. Looking for patterns.” “But what could the patterns possibly be?” “Well, I’m not sure. Let’s review again for a moment. We’ll try another angle. What was the order again here? Butterfly, beetle, roses? Butterfly first?” “Yes?” “Beetle on the train?” “Two days after the butterfly.” “Roses just this week.” “Yes.” “So. Whatever may be happening, Francie, whatever this may be, one might also wonder if you are progressing from the entomological world into the botanical.” “Doctor?” “There haven’t been other categories, have there?” “What do you mean, ‘categories’?” “Such as rodents? Mammalia?” “Why do you keep treating this like it’s a real thing?” “Perhaps, Francie, the power is fading.” “It’s not a power.” “Perhaps, Francie, the incidents are fading.” “But they can’t be real incidents.” “Francie? Didn’t you just say that your friend Deena saw the roses too, and that you truly believe they came from the curtains?” “But they can’t actually come from the curtains, can they, Doctor?” “Francie? Are we even having the same conversation here?” “I just don’t understand how any of this can happen.” “They’re all dead?” “Excuse me?” “The things you find. They’re all dead?” “Yes.” “And are they dead in the picture?” “No.” “The roses in the curtain—?” “Are stitchings of alive, blossoming roses.” “And the beetle?” “Was from an illustration of a stag beetle walking on a twig for a grade school test.” “And the beetle you found was dead?” “Rigid as a rock.” “Well, that’s interesting.” “Yeah. I’ve wondered about that, too.” “What do you make of it?” “I don’t know. What do you make of it?” “I don’t know.” “It’s sad, when you think about it.” “Because…?” “Just to make that leap all the way into the living world, to make this miraculous leap, and then, blam.” “Does seem like a waste of a good miracle, doesn’t it.” “That first time, when I found the butterfly in the water glass, I actually thought it must’ve come alive and flown off the lamp only to somehow fall and drown in a water glass—” “That’s where you found it? In a water glass?” “Yes.” “Did you drink it?” “…yes…?” “Just a hunch. Did you eat the beetle?” “Disgusting. No.” “Go on.” “That’s it. Just that at first I thought the butterfly was alive for a little while, and then died. But now I think that’s wrong. They’re all dead. They arrive dead.” “It’s consistent.” “It certainly is. But, Doctor, what is the ‘it’?” “I guess that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” “I guess so.”