“So when did you first notice that you could turn invisible?” Dr. Lake asked the question without a trace of disbelief or laughter. As an exclusive, Park Avenue psychiatrist, he had pretty much heard it all.
Zoey Emerson fidgeted in the soft leather chair. “I don’t turn invisible. I just – become invisible. I have no control over it happening.”
“Uh-huh. And this happens to you when?” Dr. Lake knew the answer, but it was important that Zoey hear herself say it. Maybe then the source of this delusion would become obvious to her.
“When I’m alone in the house. When the housekeeper and cook are gone, and Palmer too.”
Palmer Emerson was her husband; a very wealthy, very important, very busy financier on Wall Street. He was often in the newspapers, giving opinions on the state of the economy, and frequently featured in glossy money magazines offering advice on investments. No wonder Zoey felt “invisible” next to him. It was textbook insecurity coupled with feelings of worthlessness.
“So no one sees you when you’re invisible? I mean,” Dr. Lake smiled at his inadvertent joke, “no one is present when you become invisible?”
Zoey nodded. “But it really happens, Dr. Lake. I know how it sounds, but when I’m alone in that big house, I can feel myself vanishing.” She looked up at Dr. Lake, her face troubled. “It started gradually; first my hand disappeared, then my arm, next a leg and soon it was all of me. Now I can’t see my own body. When I look in a mirror, there’s no reflection.”
“And when do you become visible again?” Why wasn’t she getting this? It was just basic inferior complex stuff. Dr. Lake felt guilty charging Zoey so much for her treatment; any undergrad student in psychology could figure this one out. Lately, Dr. Lake had wondered just how effective he really was with his patients. They were more bored and lonely than truly neurotic or emotionally disturbed.
“When Palmer gets home. It’s usually late. I can feel myself reappearing then. Sometimes I watch the process in the mirror.”
Dr. Lake wrote “H. G. Wells did this better 100 years ago” on his legal pad, smiling at the comment.
Zoey gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “But it’s worse now, Dr. Lake. It’s more than just becoming invisible.” She dropped her head, staring at the floor.
She wants more drugs. That’s all his patients wanted from him. No therapy, no mental progress and breakthrough to solve their problems (if they really have any at all), just perfection in a little blue pill. Or pink. Or orange. Any color you want; pick the most trendy one this week.
“I’m…” this was difficult for Zoey, “I’m becoming intangible. I’m not only invisible, but I’m fading away. I can feel it, Doctor. I can’t touch things. I’m like a phantom, floating through my house. You have to help me.” She buried her face in her hands, crying quietly.
She just wants attention. These twice weekly appointments are nothing more than that. Most, if not all of his patients, he had to admit, didn’t need him or his psychiatric expertise. They just needed someone to listen, and then reassure them they were fine. Dr. Lake felt a little useless. Maybe he was just tired. Avoid late afternoon introspections, he reminded himself.
“But you’re here now; I can see and touch you. So you’re not really fading away, at least not in a permanent sense. Perhaps it’s the Paxarine I prescribed for you; maybe a side-effect that makes you feel “not all there.” That’s common with this type of medication.” He wrote out a new prescription, something that was mainly a placebo, but a brightly colored one and popular with patients who didn’t really need anything except to feel important or valuable to someone.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Zoey stood up, her session over. “Thank you for believing me. For listening to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.” She smiled and squeezed his arm in appreciation.
Dr. Lake felt an odd tingling snake through his limb.
Then Zoey stepped into the outer office, where Miss Powell, Dr. Lake’s receptionist, copied down the new prescription for Zoey’s patient file.
Dr. Lake walked over to the window and looked down out at Central Park. So many people who feel worthless, useless, lost in the tide of aimless humanity.
When Dr. Lake leaned forward to rest his hands on the window ledge, he realized his right hand was missing. It was there; he could feel it, move his fingers, touch the ledge. But it was invisible.
Rod Drake lives and writes in the neon city of Las Vegas. He appreciates all the comments received on his stories and hopes for more of them.
Rod has had stories published in Flashes of Speculation, Flashing in the Gutters, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward and AcmeShorts.
I find this quietly disturbing. I love the analogy of individuals who feel insecure becoming invisible.