Jack’s keys jingled as he slipped inside through the back
door that led into the kitchen. There was a cake on the table, decorated and
frosted in chocolate icing that read “Happy Birthday, from all of us!” Jack
smiled. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and walked over, unlocking the
silverware drawer and pulling a butter knife out. He sliced into the cake, its
fluffy yellow interior beckoning. It melted on his tongue, rich, light and
velvety with chocolate. Shuffling toward the stairs, he decided resolutely to
do some work in his lab before bed, but as his foot hit the first step, a white-robed
figure caught his eye.
Curled up on one of the large chairs in the downstairs
hall, Dalia Hawthorne was sleeping. Jack started, surprised. Dalia had been at
the facility almost two months and had showed little improvement under the
influence of his prescribed treatments. He’d insisted she be put into solitary
on the third floor. But that was almost four days ago. How had she gotten
through security and all the way down both flights of stairs? It was
impossible. But there she was, asleep in the first floor common hall, where
most of the residents spent their free time during the day.
Cautiously, Jack set his cake on the banister and inched
toward her.
“Dalia?” He whispered, his fingers flickering against the
lamp switch.
Dalia Hawthorne was being treated for MPD, a problem that
had developed as a result of a nearly fatal car accident. Her parents had
brought her to Gaebler Park Mental Hospital three months after her accident,
claiming that she’d developed multiple personality disorder and were convinced
that she was under some sort of Jekyll-and-Hyde spell. When she was Dalia, she
was a sweet, child-like woman who had the innocence of a pet puppy. At other
times, she became violent and psychotic, referring to herself as Lorraine
Dixby, a name that the Hawthornes had never heard of before. Regardless of her
shift in personality, the young woman was terrified of everything and prone to
chills, nightmares, and extreme anxiety. Jack was surprised to see her sleeping
so peacefully. He put a hand on her shoulder, preparing for the worst, should
she be in one of her Lorraine moods.
“Dalia?”
Dalia didn’t
answer. She appeared to be smiling in her sleep, a sight that improved her
wonderfully. She hadn’t smiled or laughed or said a single coherent word since
her arrival. He found her present state of peaceful bliss odd, and tried her
other name.
“Lorraine?” He murmured, shaking her gently. Her eyes
popped open widely, and he jumped in spite of himself. “That’s right. Wake up.
You need to go back to your room. Do you understand me?”
She shook her head.
“Dalia, come on, I’m going to take you back to your room.”
He took her hand.
“I was waiting for you,” She murmured clearly and
precisely, with a shy smile, shocking him yet again. “I made a cake for your
birthday.” Jack went pale at her first words, and even paler at her second,
gagging. His mind spiraled downward into a sea of morbid worries about the
contents of that cake. He’d assumed his coworkers had made it, not a mad-woman
who had suddenly regained her powers of speech.
“That was very thoughtful of you, Dalia.” He said,
forcing a weak smile. Her brow puckered in confusion.
“I’m not Dalia.”
“Lorraine, then. Come on. It’s time for you to go back to
sleep.”
“Jack, don’t you remember me?” Her voice, soft and sweet,
melted into him. Suddenly it did seem terribly familiar. He turned and looked
down into her eyes. “Happy Birthday, my love.” She whispered.
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