“Schizophrenia For A Day” – Part II

Review: https://rubyjpauly.com/2019/06/25/schizophrenia-for-a-day-part-i/

“Schizophrenia For A Day” – Part II

The pots and pans hanging from the center island shone copper, as if in mocking derision of Darla’s fruitless search. Granite counter-tops, polished until slick, seemed to laugh at her for being up so early; meanwhile a headache built between her eyes. A digital clock shot red beams of light into her agitated brain—five in the morning. Finally, after glancing around one last time, she slapped her bat down on the counter in frustration.

Darla knew she had heard something; she wasn’t crazy! Maybe the voice had been outside, and her hearing just happened to be exceptionally acute at this time in the morning. She shook it off and shuffled to the hall bathroom, paused in the dark atmosphere to slip off her house shoes and place her bare feet on the cold tile. In moments, her stress and sleepiness faded, and, substantially more relaxed, Darla flicked on the lights and faced the mirror.
Had this been a normal day, she would have glanced briefly at her frizzy hair, washed her face, then gotten ready for work. Instead, she looked into the mirror and screamed. Or, actually, someone screamed. It couldn’t have been her scream since Darla’s lips didn’t move. During the seconds between the scream happening and Darla trying to figure out where it had come from, the voice came back.
“Who in the name of Dear Mary Magdalene are you?! You’re not me! I knew something was off—why am I in your body, you pervert?”

Darla gaped at her reflection. What was happening? Maybe she was crazy. Could it have been the taco she’d eaten earlier? The sour cream did taste pretty questionable. She reached out to touch her image, half expecting her hand to go through the mirror, and gulped when her fingers stopped. It had to be coming from inside her head.

“You gonna answer me, girl? Well at least you’re not a male. That’d be really perverted. Still, this joke is in questionable taste.”

Darla blinked. Should she ignore it? Pass it off as a hallucination?

“Hallucination? What do you mean? No, this is real; it’s happening—I can feel it. And I’d appreciate it if you just cut the nonsense already and stopped this.”

Darla rubbed her eyes. She turned on the cold tap and splashed water on her face—a dream. It had to be a dream, and she’d wake up any second now.

“Who are you?” Darla asked, her voice a hoarse mumble.

A pause, then: “Wait, you kidnapped me and didn’t even know who I am? Pfeh. Some serial killer you are. I’ll have you know I’m great friends with Bill Gates’s wife and I have met two separate presidents!”

A sick feeling in her stomach made Darla plop down on the rim of the bathtub. No. No, no, no. This was not. . . mental images of the ashes landing on her occupied her mind’s eye. The voice had gone quiet—perhaps it had seen the image, too.
“D. . . Darla?” it suddenly asked.

No. There was no way this could have happened. Darla stood up, cleared her mind, and forced herself to relax. She seized her brush off the shelf above the sink and began using it to brush her hair vigorously. Not real. Just a voice in her head that would go away.

“Darla, sweetheart, it’s been so long. What are you doing? Do you know how this happened?”

Just ignore it. She—it would go away soon. Darla slammed her brush back on the shelf and grabbed her toothbrush, turning the water on high to drown out the noise.

“Darla, I’m not an it. I’m family, remember? Could you calm down and think rationally for a moment, so we can figure this out?”

Darla shook her head, flinging spittle and minty toothpaste. She spat, turned off the water, and began to open the bathroom door.

“Darla, please,”—her fingers paused on the knob—“am I dead?”

A peculiar cold settled on Darla’s shoulders. She sagged, rested her head against the door. “Yes, you are,” she said, then sighed, “or at least, you should be.”

Her grandmother went silent. Darla suddenly felt guilty, then mentally slapped herself out it—she had no fault in this! If it was anyone’s fault, it was her grandmother’s, for coming back to life this way and for ruining her day. Darla marched through the house, into her bedroom, and scowled at the lump of couch-potato still beneath the covers. She grabbed her watch and phone and as she slipped her phone into her purse and wrapped the watch around her right wrist, her grandmother’s voice returned.
“I remember that watch. You still have it?”

Mhm. Darla thought. She wondered for a moment if thinking a reply would work, then recalled her grandmother had been reading her thoughts for a while now. She swore she heard a sigh, then a reply:

“I was worried we hadn’t made much of an impact on our grandkids. But since you still bother to carry that watch, I think we did pretty well. You know it used to be my mother’s?”

This gave Darla pause. Mother’s? But she had assumed it was bought at a jewelry shop—no sentimental value whatsoever. She pulled her musing up short, hoping her grandmother hadn’t caught that last bit. Fortunately, no comment came. Darla took her keys from the coat rack by the front door.

I’m going to work now. Can you just keep quiet for a while? We’ll figure out what to do later.

She needed time to think, anyway. If her grandmother could be quiet for a while, Darla was sure she could come up with a way to fix their problem.

“Oh,” came the reply, “Okay…then. I’ll let you think. I’m here if you need help.”

Darla rolled her eyes as she opened the door to her Chevy Camaro. An old, senile woman helping her? Indeed.

***

Clocking into the quaint coffee shop near the hustle and bustle of city life had a cathartic effect on Darla’s emotions. All her stress and worry seemed to float away with the smell of fresh beans being ground and brewed. She set out to work with the vivacity of the young, taking orders and creating latte art for equally vivacious 20-30 year-olds, who frequented the shop on their way to work. Every now and then, she’d get the rare bird whose coffee order was a mile long–she especially liked these folks, since the other girls who ran the shop didn’t like to take such wild orders. Darla enjoyed the experimentation, and was bold enough to pair bacon with a dark espresso.

During the morning rush, she ran across two such weird orders–ordered by exceptionally weird-looking people–which would have been well and good . . . had this been a normal day. The moment Darla met the eyes of one blue-eyed young man, a flash of a smiling wrinkled face startled her. She admired it for a split second, feeling oddly connected to the man, then faded back to reality. The blue-eyed young person stared at her in impatience.

“Hey, did you hear me? Earth to barista. Do I have to repeat myself?”

Darla shook her head to clear it. “My apologies, sir. Could you please tell me your order again?”

As he relayed the complicated order, involving a touch of hazelnut, a hint of pine smoke, and far too much cream and sugar for a normal cup of coffee, Darla wrestled with a sense of confusion. What did she just see? Memories usually didn’t pop up like that for her. She controlled her thoughts and feelings too well for things to startle her so. And who was that man, anyway? He had been old, obviously, but he felt so familiar. She felt oddly attracted to him, which creeped her out.

“Do you want help?”

Darla grimaced and almost squirted hazelnut extract all over herself. One of her co-workers glanced at her.

“You okay, Darla? You look a little pale.”

She nodded, and finished the order before snapping, I thought you were supposed to stay quiet.

“It was Edward. The person you saw. Your grandpa.”

[End Part Two]