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“Were you consuming alcohol?” he asks. His tone is not the least bit judgmental.
“Nope. I considered the idea that maybe the jacket was laced with something, but the substance would have had to work quickly and last on the fabric for at least twenty-four hours. I can’t think of what it could be.”
Phillip nods. “Not impossible, but I agree, it’s improbable. Any history of mental illness?”
I shake my head.
“What about in the family? Parents? Grandparents?”
That little twinge between my ribs returns, but again I shake my head. “Nothing that I’m aware of.”
“And you have no other symptoms?”
I shrug. “I feel great. Totally normal. It’s bizarre, right?”
Phillip scratches at his chin while staring at a spot just above the bridge of my nose. “Very.”
He reaches out his hand, almost as if to cup the top of my head with his fingers, but stops himself before making contact. “We should do an MRI.”
Exactly what I hoped he would say. No judgments. No questions. Just Phillip and his straight-up curiosity, trying to figure out the solution to a complex puzzle.
“How soon do you think we can fit me in?”
Phil swivels around in his chair and opens up his laptop. Neither of us is working on projects that require MRIs right now. But since Phillip is a PhD candidate, he has privileges to book the MRI machine for his doctoral research as long as it isn’t in use. However, with the demand for MRIs in Toronto far exceeding the available time slots, openings are hard to come by.
“Looks like there is a cancellation at two,” he says.
“Wow. Seriously?”
“Two a.m.,” he clarifies, and my heart sinks a little.
“Could you be persuaded to come in and run it for me?” I ask. “I can bribe you with doughnuts.”
He reaches out and this time does lay his hand on the tip of my skull, his thumb softly stroking my temple. “I have always wanted to see the inside of your head,” he says very matter-of-factly until he meets my gaze as my eyes widen.
“Oh.” He removes his hand with a jerk. “Too creepy?”
I nod. “Yes. But this time I’ll let it slide.”
9
Mackenzie isn’t there when I get home from work. But on the kitchen counter is a plate of what look like chocolate brownies and a note:
May contain beets. Not terrible but not good either. 5/10. If you need the good stuff, there’s some in the cupboard. Help yourself.— Mac
There is a very large corner brownie missing from the pan.
I am starving, so I cut myself a small square and take a bite. It’s chewy and chocolaty at first, but there is a very distinct aftertaste that most closely resembles dirt. Mackenzie was being very generous with his five. I grab a pen.
That was edible at best. I think I need to knock two points off your scale to match mine. Excellent guinea pigging though.— AL
I can’t get the weird taste out of my mouth. I try water. I even brush my teeth. Finally, I open the cupboard, hoping Mackenzie’s “good stuff” might do the trick but freeze the moment I lay eyes on the foil-covered chocolate bar.
It’s a Ghirardelli 72 percent dark cacao bar. Definitely the good stuff. It’s also the same brand Larry used to buy for his hot chocolate. Since his death, I haven’t been able to bring myself to buy it.
However, now it’s within arm’s reach.
I unfold the foil paper. Just like with the brownies, there is a single square missing from the bar. I break off its matching square and put the entire piece into my mouth.
