The Delphi Room Read Free

something.
    In the ambulance my mother and Mr. Cassidy crowded beside me. My dress was twisted and there was a welt on my neck. New bob frizzy, as though I’d dropped a toaster in the bath instead. My mother squeezed my hand until it matched my dress and the man in uniform monitored and fussed, trying to revive Ophelia.
    No lightning bolts, or fireworks, no river to cross or gate to pass through, no guest book to sign. No one offering to film a single memory to keep, like in a movie I saw (I knew that couldn’t be true), no signs, no fare to pay. It was like being stood up on a blind date, except you can’t call the friend who set you up and ream her out.
    Mr. Cassidy bit his fingernails. My mother said my name over and over.
    I chose a door.
    The siren shrilled on.
    I opened it.
    My mother sobbed.
    I stepped inside.
    Velvet, Velvet, Velvet, Velvet, Velvet, Velvet—

2
    T he heavy door shut behind me with surprising force, as if pushed from the other side. Vast vistas of cloud-tinged azure? No, a small room with blush pink walls and a frilly coconut pie of a bed. The lighting was florescent and over-bright. I moved to the bed and touched the bedspread, a delicate eyelet with matching pillow shams, the kind I begged my mother to buy me when I was ten. How our tastes change. Over the bed was a barred window, which at first I thought had a white blind over it, until I put my fingertips to the glass, felt the coolness and realized that the whiteness beyond was the view. Stuffed animals sat on the eyelet and on the deep windowsill, tattered and well-loved, ones I recognized: Paddington Bear with hat and raincoat, black and yellow bumblebee with mesh wings, chocolate brown dog with large ears muffing its head and a very tattered, rather small almond-coloured bear—Beary Bear—with a fraying nose. They had all belonged to me. A gilt-edged mirror hung beside the bed, a built-in picture of cherubs above the glass. It was then that I saw: no red dress, no fancy shoes. Just flesh. (Why wasn’t I cold? I thought, this place must have central heating.) I looked thinner, although mirrors can be deceiving. What to do when you find yourself unexpectedly naked? I climbed into bed.
    Okay. What the Hell? I drew the pink sheets up under my chin. On the opposite side of the room was a beautiful Chinese screen traced with the fine lines of bamboo leaves. On one side of it was a small writing desk on which sat a yellow legal pad and a purple gel pen. In front of the desk sat a matching chair. On the other side of the screen was a closet, and on the wall next to it was a clock that was stopped at 8:57. I got out of bed and approached the closet, panic playing a calliope behind my ribs. The door opened and inside was a childish pink sundress, simple sheath, to the knee. Thank God—I ripped it off the hanger, shimmied in. And that’s when I thought—there must be some mistake. I turned to the room’s big white door, seized the gold knob and yanked—yanked—yanked, but the door remained closed.
    Breathe. That’s what I told myself. So I stood there for a few moments, sucking oxygen and shaking like a wet cat, before I quit dignity and started pounding on the door. Surely God wasn’t deaf. What had I hoped God would say to me at the pearly gates? I don’t know . . . You’re better looking in person? I wasn’t sure, but I thought there’d be something, some form of dialogue. Who’s minding the store, here? This couldn’t be the inn Christina Rossetti was referring to; the poem didn’t say one word about being trapped. But you can only shriek for so long before you start to feel ridiculous—even in this place, apparently, self-consciousness lives—and besides that, my voice started to shrivel to a croak. So either God had eyeshades on and earplugs in, or I was being ignored. Either way, I felt like tearing out Paddington Bear’s stuffing and writhing on the floor like an overturned crab.
    I went to the bed and settled for