Perfume (12 page)

Then don’t listen
, said Wing. Evil filled the cavity of their mind.

I wasn’t brought up like this, thought Dove. I was brought up to be kind and do right. How did Wing turn out bad? She was there with me all along. Why didn’t she learn the same things from Mother and Father that I learned?

Or was she there all along? Is she really my vanished twin? Do such things happen?

Or is she some evil spirit from the ancient past, who came through the skylight, or through the
Venom
or through whatever terrible powers are out there? Invisible and uncaring?

They were parallel to Timmy’s car. If Wing went ahead with her plan, they’d crash into Timmy and both cars would careen over the edge, smashing the wildflowers and smashing each other.

Or is there no Wing at all? thought Dove Daniel, dwindled and diminished in the back of the mind.

Just me … going insane.

“D
ON’T DO IT, WING,
” Dove said.

“Go back to sleep,” said Wing.

“I’m your victim,” said Dove. “I accept that. But nobody else should be your victim, Wing.”

“I’m in control. What I choose is what will happen,” said Wing. She flexed her hand, preparing.

But Hesta had grabbed the wheel herself, tightening her hands till her knuckles were white, wrenching the wheel a different direction, skidding into the parking lot of a doughnut shop. The brakes slammed, the key turned, and Hesta popped out of the car. Out of breath, staring at Dove with the same look of fear that Timmy had worn, Hesta said brightly, “Well! Let’s have a snack. Jelly doughnut? Coke? Coffee?”

Hesta had heard both conversations. Both Wing and Dove had spoken aloud, arguing both sides of whether to give Hesta a fatal accident.

Wing’s hope for excitement and horror vanished. She sat sullenly under the seat belt.

“Cruller,” added Hesta. “Powdered sugar. Glazed.”

Perfect word, thought Dove. You do look a little glazed.

“What are you, a waitress?” said Wing. “I don’t like doughnuts.”

“Fine,” said Hesta. “Well, of course, now that we’re here, I guess I’m just going to go in and have one anyway.” Hesta looked as if she might spend several hours in there, safe among the doughnuts, rather than do any more driving with Wing.

One way to end an unfortunate friendship, thought Dove.

“I wanted to end it a different way,” said Wing.

Hesta fled.

Dove said aloud, “You realize that when we talk to each other, everybody can hear.”

“I like it that way,” replied Wing. “I like to watch their faces when they realize there are two of us in one body. I like how they flinch.”

“Even though Hesta laughed at you,” said Dove, “I think you should feel gratitude to her and not hurt her.”

“Gratitude?” said Wing. “In the mall, you mean? Please, Dove. She interrupted something very important there.”

Dove waited, but Wing did not say what important thing had been going on, other than a humiliating display. “Gratitude because she was the one who opened
Venom
again,” said Dove. “I’m not grateful, of course, but you should be.”

“Gratitude is such a human kind of thing, don’t you think?” said Wing.

“Aren’t you human?” said Dove. She was slipping into a coma of despair. Wing was going to kill somebody, and it would look like Dove had done it!

“No.”

“Dove, we are so worried about you,” said Luce.

“I’m not worried about you,” said Wing. “You’re easy prey. When I decide to take you, I’ll take you.”

Wing discussed her failure to push Timmy out of the gondola.

She discussed her failure to turn Hesta’s steering, wheel.

She discussed her conversation with Egypt at the bottom of the pyramid in the mall.

Nobody else had much else to say. Especially Timmy and Hesta.

It was not surprising that Mr. Phinney, the ancient history teacher, suggested Dove might want to go to the nurse, as she seemed to be fatigued. Being Mr. Phinney, he actually said, “You seem very very very fatigued to me, Dove.”

Wing raised her eyebrows high enough to take flight on them.

Mr. Phinney said, “I think you have been working very very very hard, Dove, and you just need rest. Sometimes we get overextended, we just take on far far far too much, and we need to be couch potatoes for a while, rest our bodies and our minds.”

“Dove is resting,” explained Wing. “I’m here instead. I expect I’ll be here for some time. It’s the perfume, you know.”

“An aspirin and a half hour’s rest,” recommended Mr. Phinney, and both Dove and Wing laughed at that. Their two laughs spiralled insanely in the thick classroom air.

The school psychologist happened to be in that afternoon; this seemed unfair to Dove, since he came only one afternoon a week.

“Now, Dove,” said the school psychologist. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’ve been planning how to destroy Timmy,” said Wing. “Thinking up the most effective technique.”

“Why,” said the psychologist, “would you want to destroy Timmy?”

“Why not?” said Wing. She smiled, and the psychologist flinched, just the way Wing liked it. With all his experience he had not dealt with a teenager like this.

He was afraid of her.

How am I going to escape this mess? thought Dove. I can’t even get out of my body.

The psychologist made phone calls. Wing seemed not to know the purpose of them, but Dove found them very clear: He was going to lock Dove up. She was mentally ill, and he was going to take away her freedom.

I’m not mentally ill, you have to understand that, it’s the perfume. It summoned Wing from inside of me and she’s in charge now! It’s a vanished twin. It’s evil. It isn’t me. Don’t take it out on me.

“Sometimes,” said the school psychologist, “a half hour of rest isn’t quite enough, you know, my dear. Sometimes we need several weeks. Even several months. Lots and lots of rest.”

I’ve already lost my freedom! thought Dove. I don’t even have a body. Please, please, please, no, don’t put me in an institution!

“An institution,” said the school psychologist, “can be a great help in times of trouble such as these.”

Terror seized Dove like the talons of a hawk, deep and sharp.

Wing, amused, proceeded to frighten the psychologist more.

Dove’s mother and father were summoned from work to discuss their daughter.

“The maternal body,” said Wing, raising her eyebrows to ceiling heights. “My goodness—it left work for my sake. What sacrifice.”

“The maternal body?” repeated the psychologist carefully.

“Hello, Dove, honey,” said her parents, terrified and worried.

“I am Wing,” said Wing, introducing herself.

On the inside, Dove was as weak as a single piece of confetti; a tiny circle of colored paper. She felt as if even gravity would have nothing to do with her; she was too light for the world.

Mother! she thought. Father! Get me out of here! You gave birth to me before—you have to give birth to me again.

“What did she say?” whispered her mother.
“Wing?”

“There is no Wing, sweetheart,” said her father carefully. “That was just a story.”

“You should be so lucky,” said Wing.

The room was very quiet.

“I was unfit, you know,” said Wing. “The maternal body often discards an unborn that is unfit.”

Mother and Father were practically comatose with horror. Dove knew how they felt.

I have to summon up my strength, thought Dove.

Pull myself together and get rid of Wing. When we go home tonight, somehow I’ll break the bottle of
Venom
into the sink, and wash it away, and that will be the end of Wing.

“You will do no such thing,” said Wing. “I am the perfume and the perfume is me, and I am here to stay. I am Wing.”

“Oh, my god,” whispered Dove’s mother. “She’s having some sort of nervous breakdown.”

“No, I’m not,” said Wing. “I’m simply here at last. You missed me and now I’m here. You should be glad to see me. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

Dove’s mother clutched Dove’s father’s hand. There were two of them, and it gave them strength. There are two of us, too, thought Dove, but it doesn’t give me strength.

“I never did like the maternal body,” Wing told the psychologist. He flinched again. Wing smiled again.

“I’m going to recommend a mild tranquillizer,” said the psychologist, “and she should stay home tomorrow and rest. Let’s hope this is simply a brief episode.”

“There is nothing simple about it,” said Wing. “
You
are simple. Your
solutions
are simple. For that matter, the maternal and paternal bodies are simple. But I myself—No. I am not simple.”

Simple, thought Dove on the inside. Simple, mimple, pimple, himple. This time the words poked out. “Simple, mimple, pimple, himple,” said the mouth rhythmically and repetitively. Both Wing and Dove were surprised at the jumble of words pouring past the tongue.

“On the other hand,” said the psychologist, “I could call the acute ward at the city hospital and see if they would evaluate her.”

“No, no, no,” said Dove’s mother quickly. “We’ll just drive on home and I’m sure we’ll settle down.” Her mother looked at her watch. “Tomorrow at work will be very very very important,” she said fretfully. “I can’t believe the timing on this.”

“Very, very, very,” said the mouth. “I never believe anybody who uses three very’s in a row. Very, very, very. Very, very, very. Very, very, very.”

Is that me talking? thought Dove. Or Wing?

The school psychologist said perhaps Dove’s timing was purposeful; had Dove known tomorrow was a very important day? Was Dove perhaps resentful of her parents’ work? Was this her method of—

“No,” said Wing. “I have absolutely no interest in their work, or in them, for that matter. I split fifteen years ago.”

The psychologist whistled under his breath, as though to give himself support. “I definitely feel the hospital …”

But her parents had Dove by the arms and were hustling her out of the building. Dove could not feel the pressure on the arms but through Wing’s eyes she could see the speed at which they were leaving the school building.

Immediately, there was a logistical problem. Each parent had driven. Which car to use? Neither parent wanted the burden of the daughter alone.

The blossoming shrubs of late spring formed a bright hedge near the parking lot. Her parents brushed past the leaves and drooping flowers. A sweet old-fashioned smell, like an old lady’s dresser drawer lined with paper, filled the air. Wing held a hand over her face trying not to breathe.

Dove came to her senses.

No—they came to her. The senses were smells. The antidote! Whatever it was—this was it.

Dove kicked and screamed and pounded on the prison of the brain. The heart doubled its beating, and Dove kicked harder, demanding oxygen, demanding air. Wing yanked open the nearest car door, trying to get into the artificial air, but she did not make it.

Sweet romantic fragrance filled Dove’s nostrils, then her head, then dreamily swept her into the real world. “Antidote,” breathed Dove.

“Only seasonally,” said Wing.

Two separate voices were coming out of Dove now: her own and Wing’s. Dove didn’t mind; she knew Wing was receding.

Her parents minded.

In the car going home, Dove kept saying, “Don’t worry, Mother. It’s under control.”

In
her
voice, Wing kept saying, “I will get control back. Don’t think that you have won.”

“Shut up!” shouted Dove. And then, gently, “Don’t worry, Mother. Wing will stop talking in a bit. At first you’re both in the mouth, but then you fall backward. It’s a little scary because it’s such a long way down, but it doesn’t hurt. You just lie there in the back of the brain and wait your turn.” She smiled at her mother.

Her mother smiled back.

It was identical to the smiles of Timmy and Hesta.

It was not a smile.

It was a tremor of fear.

“I
DO NOT HAVE A
multiple personality!” cried Dove. “I am just me! Nobody else.”

“Then who is holding the other side of the conversation?” said the psychiatrist in a soothing, humor-the-maniac voice. Her parents had not retained the school psychologist. Everybody knew that the school psychologists were both incompetent and gossipy. The Daniels needed an expert who would tell nobody anything about their daughter.

“My vanished twin,” said Dove. “Wing.”

“Wing,” repeated the psychiatrist. “That’s a strange name.”

“It her real name.”

“Her real name,” repeated the psychiatrist.

“My parents named her!” cried Dove. “Before I was born. Ask them. It is true. I am not making anything up.”

“Before you were born,” repeated the psychiatrist.

“My mother was due to have twins,” said Dove, trying to remain calm. The doctor’s examining room, ominously, was within the gates of a place called Cherry Valley Hospital: We treat the chemically dependent, the abused, and the confused. I’m not chemically dependent, thought Dove, the only person who’s ever abused me is Wing, and I’m not confused, the doctor is. “About halfway through her pregnancy,” explained Dove with desperate necessary care, “they found she was going to have only one baby after all. It’s called the vanishing twin syndrome. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

The psychiatrist nodded for some time. Slowly he said, “Did you see this on a daytime television talk show, perhaps? Did it excite you?”

Dove closed her eyes. “It is not exciting,” she said. “It is scary, don’t you understand?
There is somebody else living in my head.
”

“In your head,” he repeated.

Closing her eyes had been an error. Her grip on the world was momentarily weakened. Wing leaped back into the mouth. “What did you learn in medical school?” demanded Wing. “How to imitate other people?”

He smiled. “It’s a good technique, Dove. You’ve told me quite a lot, haven’t you?”

“I’ve told you a lot, but you haven’t understood a lot. Like for example, I am not Dove. I am Wing. You should be able to tell the difference. I find it insulting that you still confuse us. Dove is the goody-goody.”