in the darkness. Is that who the Unnamed is? The Adversary? The man in the chair—or the plurality of voices speaking through him—said it was not the “master” whom I would soon meet, but “one who sits with him.” In Paradise Lost , this would mean the fallen angels who formed the Stygian Council of ruling demons in hell, with Satan sitting as Chair. They were thirteen in number, each given distinctive personalities and skills by the poet. It would seem that the Unnamed is one of them. An originating demon, cast out of heaven. A being capable of the most convincing shapeshifting and mimicry, assuming human form—the old man on the plane, the drunk in the church.
Then again, perhaps these are borrowed shades of those who have already lived and died. Perhaps the Unnamed is limited to inhabiting the skins of those in hell.
It’s clear now. I have lost my mind.
Instead of grieving Tess head on, I’m creating gothic distractions, Miltonic puzzles, demon dialogues—anything but facing the unfaceable. I’m using my mind to protect my heart, and it’s a cheat, a dishonor to Tess’s memory. She deserves a father to mourn her, not construct an elaborate web of paranoid nonsense. I’m sure the shrinks have a term for this. Cowardice will do.
By the time I get back to the apartment and check my phone, more messages have been left for me, a couple notes of sympathy from colleagues at the university, and two grave warnings from O’Brien that if I don’t call her back soon, she’ll be forced to take matters into her own hands.
Why don’t I call O’Brien back? I honestly can’t say. Every time my finger hovers over the button to speed-dial her it loses the will to press it. I want to speak to her, to see her. But what I want has been negated by another purpose, an influence I can feel in my veins as an alien weight, heavy and cold. A tingly sickness that, above all, doesn’t want O’Brien anywhere near me.
And besides, I’m busy.
Opening the medicine chest and pulling out the bottle of Zolpidem that Diane left behind. I fill a glass of water and go to Tess’s room. Sit on the edge of her bed and, one by one, swallow the pills.
Suicide? And with sleeping pills? Chickenshit and cliché .
O’Brien is here with me, but at a great distance. Easy enough to ignore.
Will I see you, Tess, when it is done?
Yes. She is waiting , says a voice, neither my own nor O’Brien’s. Go on, Professor. Sip. Swallow . Swallow. Sip.
I don’t believe what it says. Yet it’s impossible to resist.
Sip. Swallow.
SMASH .
A framed photo falls to the floor. Shards of glass now winkingover the rug, lodged in the cracks between the boards. The nail still firm in the wall, the wire the frame hung on still intact and secure.
I know what photo it is, but I go to it anyway. Bend and turn it over.
Me and Tess. The two of us laughing at the beach near Southampton a couple summers ago. Below us, out of view, our sand castle being dissolved by the incoming tide. What’s funny are our hopeless efforts to save it, to buttress the walls with fresh sand, bail out the courtyard with our hands. The picture shows the pleasure in our being together in the sunshine, on vacation. But it also shows the joy in taking on a task with someone you love, even if that task is too great to be achieved.
“Tess?”
She is here. Not just in the memory the photo evokes. She was the one who pulled it off the wall.
I crawl to the bathroom. Stick a forefinger down my throat. Empty my stomach of tap water pinkened by tranquilizers. When I flush it away, the heavy thing in my blood goes with it.
For a while I lean against the tiled wall, my legs out before me. If I don’t move, it’s easy to pretend this isn’t my body. There is no order I could give that would make any part of me move.
Find me .
I’m being the old David again, the man of inaction Diane was probably right to leave. Because there is still something to be done. An impossible task,
Then again, perhaps these are borrowed shades of those who have already lived and died. Perhaps the Unnamed is limited to inhabiting the skins of those in hell.
It’s clear now. I have lost my mind.
Instead of grieving Tess head on, I’m creating gothic distractions, Miltonic puzzles, demon dialogues—anything but facing the unfaceable. I’m using my mind to protect my heart, and it’s a cheat, a dishonor to Tess’s memory. She deserves a father to mourn her, not construct an elaborate web of paranoid nonsense. I’m sure the shrinks have a term for this. Cowardice will do.
By the time I get back to the apartment and check my phone, more messages have been left for me, a couple notes of sympathy from colleagues at the university, and two grave warnings from O’Brien that if I don’t call her back soon, she’ll be forced to take matters into her own hands.
Why don’t I call O’Brien back? I honestly can’t say. Every time my finger hovers over the button to speed-dial her it loses the will to press it. I want to speak to her, to see her. But what I want has been negated by another purpose, an influence I can feel in my veins as an alien weight, heavy and cold. A tingly sickness that, above all, doesn’t want O’Brien anywhere near me.
And besides, I’m busy.
Opening the medicine chest and pulling out the bottle of Zolpidem that Diane left behind. I fill a glass of water and go to Tess’s room. Sit on the edge of her bed and, one by one, swallow the pills.
Suicide? And with sleeping pills? Chickenshit and cliché .
O’Brien is here with me, but at a great distance. Easy enough to ignore.
Will I see you, Tess, when it is done?
Yes. She is waiting , says a voice, neither my own nor O’Brien’s. Go on, Professor. Sip. Swallow . Swallow. Sip.
I don’t believe what it says. Yet it’s impossible to resist.
Sip. Swallow.
SMASH .
A framed photo falls to the floor. Shards of glass now winkingover the rug, lodged in the cracks between the boards. The nail still firm in the wall, the wire the frame hung on still intact and secure.
I know what photo it is, but I go to it anyway. Bend and turn it over.
Me and Tess. The two of us laughing at the beach near Southampton a couple summers ago. Below us, out of view, our sand castle being dissolved by the incoming tide. What’s funny are our hopeless efforts to save it, to buttress the walls with fresh sand, bail out the courtyard with our hands. The picture shows the pleasure in our being together in the sunshine, on vacation. But it also shows the joy in taking on a task with someone you love, even if that task is too great to be achieved.
“Tess?”
She is here. Not just in the memory the photo evokes. She was the one who pulled it off the wall.
I crawl to the bathroom. Stick a forefinger down my throat. Empty my stomach of tap water pinkened by tranquilizers. When I flush it away, the heavy thing in my blood goes with it.
For a while I lean against the tiled wall, my legs out before me. If I don’t move, it’s easy to pretend this isn’t my body. There is no order I could give that would make any part of me move.
Find me .
I’m being the old David again, the man of inaction Diane was probably right to leave. Because there is still something to be done. An impossible task,
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