Dietland (24 page)

Love, V.

Tomorrow afternoon
meant nothing to me. I had no idea what time it was or even what day it was. There were no windows or clocks in my bedroom. I opened the door and peeked into the hallway, then stepped out in my bare feet. It was quiet and the overhead lights were dimmed. The underground apartment was a maze of underlit hallways. I ran my hands along the walls as I walked, feeling my way.

There were three other bedrooms along the narrow corridor outside my room, all of them unoccupied. At the end of the corridor was a bathroom, with the usual toilet, sink, and tub, but there was no mirror on the wall. Around the corner, down another narrow passage, there was a cramped kitchenette, with a refrigerator and microwave, a sink and cupboards, a table and chairs. Like the rest of the apartment, it was pill-white, but in the semidarkness looked dullish gray. In the cupboards I spotted boxes of cereal and crackers; in the refrigerator a jar of pink yogurt and a sandwich on a plate, wheat bread with a ruffle of green lettuce sticking out. I assumed the sandwich was for me, but I still didn't feel like eating. Before going underground, I'd been weaning off Y—— for more than a month and experienced loss of appetite; before that I'd been following Waist Watchers obsessively. For as long as I could remember, I'd been coasting on a near-empty belly. I guessed I had lost at least thirty pounds, maybe more.

Leaving the kitchenette, I continued my tour, turning a corner and heading down another dark corridor, lined with cabinets. I opened one of them and glimpsed stacks of white towels and sheets, plus cakes of white soap. I was about to snoop in another cabinet when I heard a noise, something in the distance. I had assumed I was alone. Closing the cabinet lightly, I strained to listen. What I heard was moaning, muted cries, wounded-animal sounds.

In a tiptoe, I moved to the end of the hall and poked my head around the corner, afraid of what I might see. I was faced with another dark corridor, this one entirely black except for the light emanating from the end of it. The light was shifting and crinkling, like an electrical storm viewed from afar. I walked through the darkness toward the light. The sound grew louder, the light grew brighter—I held up my hands to shield my eyes as I stepped through an archway.

The room was circular, larger than my bedroom and the other bedrooms combined. The walls were banks of screens, all of them synchronized with the same scenes. I rotated in the middle of the room, disoriented, the space dark except for the light from the screens. There were two folding chairs in the center and I sat in one of them.

On the screens were a naked woman and three naked men on a bed. The men's penises were inserted into the woman's vagina and anus and mouth. After a minute, the men removed their penises and reinserted them in different places. There were always three penises inside the woman. The men twisted themselves and contorted the woman so that what they were doing was visible to the camera. As the scene went on, the woman became haggard, her black eye makeup smeared with semen and sweat. She was the underside of a piece of Lego, her bodily orifices nothing more than slots for the men's penises.

I stood up from my chair and backed away. In my haste to escape the room, I tripped over the second chair and fell to the floor, wincing as I landed on my right arm. Squeezing it in pain, I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the ceiling. There were screens there too. In the basement I couldn't see the sun or the moon or the stars, but these screens were there in abundance, showering me with moving light. The Lego woman was looking down at me, as if imprisoned behind the glass, as if she could see me. She wasn't beautiful, but I supposed she had the necessary parts. Brass-colored clumps of hair fell to her bony shoulders; on the top of her head was a ring of thick black roots, like a dark halo. I tried to picture her getting off the bed and drying herself, putting on her clothes and leaving the windowless bedroom, but I couldn't. She didn't exist outside that room, not without the men's penises filling up her empty spaces.

Rushing down the hallway, I wound my way back toward my bedroom, my eyes still blotchy from the screens. In only a short time, I had become accustomed to darkness.

I didn't know why that room existed or whether I'd been meant to see what was playing on those screens. What did that room have to do with the last task of the New Baptist Plan? I had thought the worst of the plan was behind me, but now I wasn't sure.

Passing my bedroom, I proceeded to the front door, the entrance to the underground apartment. Perhaps it would be easier to leave than to find out what Verena had in mind. The door was heavy steel, gray and mottled. I didn't know whether it was locked, but I reached for the handle and felt the shock of cold metal.

I paused, then let go of the handle and backed away. I knew what was on the other side of that door. If I went outside and walked up the steep flight of stairs, it would be like emerging from a cellar after a storm. I would be forced to survey the wreckage of the life I didn't recognize anymore, not in the wake of the New Baptist Plan. Above ground, I no longer had a job. I was confused about the surgery. I was upset about the treatment I'd received in recent weeks—the humiliation, even violence. On top of it all, I no longer had the protection of Y——.

My life was like a handbag that had tipped over, the coins and keys and tubes of lipstick scattering on the floor. I couldn't bring myself to bend over and pick up the pieces, not yet. Despite the darkness of the apartment and the room with the screens, it was easier to stay underground than to face it.

The front door hinges shrieked, announcing an arrival.

“How are you feeling?” Verena stood in the doorway of my bedroom. I was sitting on my bed, doodling on the notepad. She handed me an iced coffee in a tall plastic cup. The green straw was a shoot of plastic grass, a reminder of the summer that was playing out above my head.

“I've been resting,” I said, setting the cup on my belly, using it as a shelf. Verena sat at the desk, the chair turned toward me, and crossed her legs. Her skirt looked like an old petticoat, the white linen yellowing, the eyelet at the bottom frayed.

“Glad to hear it. That's what the last task of the New Baptist Plan is about. Disconnecting and reflecting.”

I sucked up a mouthful of coffee through the straw. “I found that creepy room. What's that about?”

From her bag Verena pulled out her notepad and opened it in her lap, taking one of the pens from the cup on the desk. “Let's not talk about that today,” she said. “For now I don't want you think about that room. I want you to spend a bit of time in there and
feel
it.”

At this point I knew Verena let things unfold in her own time no matter how hard I pushed, so I moved on to the more important topic. “Can we talk about Leeta? I keep hoping I hallucinated her face on the screen in Times Square,” I said, recalling my drug-induced haze.

“Yes, I noticed you stole my bottle of Dabsitaf. I hope you're not planning to take that? It's unsafe.”

My dream of being devoured came back to me and I shook my head. “I did take it, but it gave me nightmares.”

“If nightmares is all it gives you, consider yourself lucky.”

Verena confirmed that my vision of Leeta wasn't a hallucination. Leeta's roommate had contacted the police and told them Leeta had confessed that she knew the identity of “Jennifer” without providing specifics. The roommate said Leeta claimed she was “haunted” by something “bad” she'd done, but she wouldn't say what it was. The next day, Leeta had vanished and the roommate was worried. The police were anxious to speak with Leeta, but no one had been able to find her, so they made a public appeal.

“I'm hoping this is all a misunderstanding. Try not to let it upset you. I know it's a terrible shock,” Verena said.

“How could it be a misunderstanding?”

“Julia came by the house yesterday. She said Leeta had a habit of disappearing, so there's nothing unusual about that. Julia thinks Leeta was joking around about knowing Jennifer. She said Leeta is, um, what was the word Julia used?” Verena looked up at the ceiling. “
Kooky.
Julia said Leeta just needs to return home and clear this up.”

I knew from my own experience that Leeta was “kooky,” but this behavior seemed beyond that. “If she's innocent, why hasn't she come home?”

Verena didn't have an answer. “Maybe she's scared? I don't know, but Julia said the idea that Leeta is involved in criminal activity is ludicrous.”

I knew very little about Leeta, but what I did know for certain was that Julia wasn't a reliable source.

“I don't think Julia is lying about Leeta,” Verena said, noticing my skepticism. Then she added, more quietly: “At least I hope not.”

The last time I'd seen Julia, she hadn't explained why Leeta stopped working for her so abruptly; she had simply refused to discuss Leeta at all. In any interaction with Julia, what she didn't say was more important than what she did say. I asked Verena if she would bring me copies of the news stories so I could read them myself. It was still too difficult to believe that Leeta had been dragged into this, even by accident.

“All right, I'll bring them next time,” she said, “but I've told you the whole story, which is nothing much. Leeta is important to you, isn't she?”

It seemed silly to say yes, since I didn't really know Leeta. She knew me better than I knew her. Leeta was as mysterious to me as she was to the people seeing her face in the news, and yet as I reclined on the bed in the underground apartment, I knew that she had led me to this place. I explained this to Verena.

“I had planned to talk about the surgery today and whether you'd made any decisions about it,” Verena said. The surgery. It seemed as if my plans for it existed in the distant past, in a lifetime belonging to another woman. “But rather than us talking about that today, I think you should read this.” Verena picked up her bag from the floor and dug through it. She pulled out a red spiral-bound notebook. At first I didn't recognize it. She handed it to me and I opened it to the first page and began to read:

may 18th: louise b. at café, typing on laptop. i think she's doing her work for the kitty-cat. she's been here for hours—so boring. two teen boys say something to her (what?) & laugh but she ignores them. i wish i could punch them in the face.

(she seems friendly with the owner of the café)

question: louise b. went to church this morning. why??

“Louise B.?” I asked Verena, confused.

“That was the name Leeta gave you in her notebook. Your black bob reminded her of Louise Brooks.”

Charmed by the nickname, I ran my hand over the notebook as if it were a priceless object. “Where did you get this?”

“When Julia came over yesterday, she gave it to me. She didn't want any trace of Leeta in her office, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“You know how paranoid Julia is. She thinks the police suspect her of having secret information about Leeta. She already thinks everyone at Austen is after her, and now this.” Whatever the reason, I was glad Julia had given Verena the notebook.

Verena left me alone to read, saying she'd return again soon for another session. Only about ten pages of the notebook contained writing, a loopy scrawl in blue ballpoint. I had often seen Leeta holding the blue pen. Now I'd get to find out what she'd written with it.

may 21st: success!! today i figured out why louise b. and so many women visit that church during the week. they're not religious fanatics—even worse, they're waist watchers. (!!) the church rents out the meeting room in the basement. now we know louise b. is dieting (not surprising)

(jules, are you actually reading this?)

may 22nd: wondering how louise b. can afford to live in a brownstone in this section of brooklyn. (??) lots of really asshole-ish and pretentious people around here. louise b. would be better off elsewhere (in my opinion). but how does she afford it?? austen media pays shit. i don't think she has a roommate (her name is the only one on the mailbox). she's too square to be a drug dealer. family money? hmmm, doesn't seem like it.

may 23rd: i've never seen anyone from austen media visit louise b. i don't think you have to worry about her being friends with any of them, jules. i never see her with anyone outside the café, not ever ever ever. she's always alone.

it's so hot today but louise b. wears a long skirt and long-sleeved top. she never shows any skin except her hands, neck, and face. her clothes are black. she stares at the sidewalk as she walks. poor louise b. always looks like she's on her way to a funeral.

at the café all day. boring boring. (the coffee is good though)

may 24th: she spent all day at that café. went to supermarket on the way home & i saw some of the stuff she put in her basket:

—waist watchers frozen fettucine alfredo dinner⁄shanghai-style chicken & rice⁄fish & chips

—apples

—cans of tuna

—fat-free blueberry yogurt (!)

—fat-free mayo (!)

—licorice whips (huh?)

two skinny white guys (mid-20s, facial hair) browsing in the frozen food section took a photo of louise b. from behind with their phones. they were laughing at her. she had no idea. motherfuckers.

on the way home, louise b. asked if i was following her. OOPS! better work on my technique. (i played dumb)

may 25th: ho hum ho hum. same old everything. louise b. goes to café, works on laptop, goes home. why's she so dedicated to the kitty-cat? (the patron saint ofgirls, our lady of teenage sorrows, the queen of austen media!) louise b. should aim higher.