Page 19 of The Cannibal

I glared at her, but it did not stop her from slipping into the other end of the tub. She gave a cheeky smile, dabbing a bit of soap foam on my nose. “Just like old times.”

“We aren’t children anymore, Phoebe.” I wiped my face, sinking lower into the water.

“Why must you be so severe,” she mumbled, reaching over the tub to the rolling cart. From there she produced two glasses of champagne. She placed one in my hand, then grasped my arm to force it up into a toast with her glass. “We keep high spirits by filling spirits high.” She chimed the glasses, a pert reference to the liquid in the glass.

While this may have cheered me before, the gesture meant something, but the pleasure meant none.

I stared at the glass, trying to remember a time when I would drink merrily, or sadly, or angrily, or at all. Despite my tastes, I couldn’t find even the slightest appetite for alcohol. It was like a flattened libido, amnesia, I could not remember the relief of drowning my emotions. I was unbearably sharp, no urge to dull my senses. The only compulsion left in me was to eat, my body forcing me to function. But my mind was still wrapping itself around the idea of exactly what I needed to consume.

I took a sip, but it didn’t quite taste like it did before. It was bubbly, and tart, but no sweetness, not really a flavor.

“Can I still get drunk?” I asked.

“Of course, but it wears off faster.” She sighed. “One thing some miss when they turn.”

I placed the glass down on the windowsill, the cool champagne glass fogging in the summer air. Tiny bubbles shimmered like diamonds in the light.

Even with my newfound mental clarity—or numbness, whatever one may call this sensation—I was still undeniably sick. My stomach rolled, my body an uncomfortable suit I must wear, but at the cost of some sanity. My brain and body were having a disconnect of the greatest concern, like biology and my humanist traits clashing together.

I felt empty.

I was empty.

Phoebe’s hand touched mine under the water.

I wasn’t insane, she saw it too. My dear friend offered a gentle squeeze of condolence.

“Does it get better?” I asked.

“Only if you let us help,” she whispered. “Your journey may be different from what you imagined, I understand the frustration. But it just means the horizon has changed, and we have to reorient you.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s why you have me, silly.” She smiled, then she weighed her next words reluctantly. “And others.”

“Still upset with him?” I joked.

“It’s complicated.”

“And Luka?”

She tipped her head back in annoyance.

“He’s in your good graces too?” I squinted skeptically.

“Complicated!” she singsonged, as she brought the champagne glass to her lips and threw her head back. “Enough about them. We have a busy day.”

“Of . . . ?”

“Well, we could do high tea by noon, a promenade by two in the afternoon, and perhaps we will fashion you a new wardrobe on the way back.” She was already logging the agenda in her head as she counted on her fingers.

“When were you going to mention your father was here?” I sipped my glass.

Phoebe bit her lip, slowly looking back to me, as if she thought she’d heard me wrong. “My father is due to visit. We are preparing to receive a lot of people.”

“He is already here.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Well, that’s news to me. He could have sent a telegram.”