CHAPTER TWO

Regan lay on her back on Klein's examining table, arms and legs bowed outward. Taking her foot in both his hands; the doctor flexed it toward her ankle. For moments he held it there in tension, then suddenly released it. The foot relaxed into normal position.
    He repeated the procedure several times but without any variance in the result. He seemed dissatisfied. When Regan abruptly sat up and spat in his face; he instructed a nurse to remain in the room and returned to his office to talk to Chris.
    It was April 26. He'd been out of the city both Sunday and Monday and Chris hadn't reached him until this morning to relate the happening at the party and the subsequent shaking of the bed.
    "It was actually moving?"
    "It was moving."
    "How long?"
    "I don't know. Maybe ten, maybe fifteen seconds. I-mean, that's all l saw. Then she sort of went stiff and wet the bed. Or maybe she'd wet it before. I don't know. But then all of a sudden she was dead asleep and never woke up till the next afternoon."
    Dr. Klein entered thoughtfully.
    "Well, what is it?" Chris asked in an anxious tone.
    When she'd first arrived, he'd reported his suspicion that the shaking of the bed had been caused by a seizure of clonic contractions, an alternating tensing and relaxing of the muscles. The chronic form of such a condition, he'd told her, was clonus, and usually indicated a lesion in the brain.
    "Well, the test was negative," he told her, and described the procedure, explaining that in clonus the alternate flexing and releasing of the foot would have triggered a run of clonic contractions. As he sat at his desk, he still seemed worried, however, "Has she ever had a fall?"
    "Like on the head?" Chris asked.
    "Well, yes."
    "No, not that I know of."
    "Childhood diseases?"
    "Just the usual. Measles and mumps and chicken pox."
    "Sleepwalking history?"
    "Not until now."
    "What do you mean? She was walking in her sleep at the party?"
    "Well, yes. She still doesn't know what she did that night. And there's stuff, too, that she doesn't remember."
    "Lately?"
    Sunday. Regan still sleeping. An overseas telephone call from Howard.
    "How's Rags?"
    "Thanks a lot for the call on her birthday."
    "I was stuck on a yacht. Now for chrissakes lay off me. I called her the minute I was back in the hotel."
    "Oh, sure."
    "She didn't tell you?"
    "You talked to her?"
    "Yes. That's why I thought I'd better call you. What the hell's going on with her?"
    "What am you getting at?"
    "She just called me a 'cocksucker' and hung up the phone."
    Recounting the incident to Dr. Klein, Chris explained -that when Regan had finally awakened, she had no memory whatever of either the telephone call or what had happened on the night of the dinner.
    "Then perhaps she wasn't lying about the moving of the furniture," Klein hypothesized.
    "I don't get you."
    "Well, she moved it herself, no doubt, but perhaps while in one of those states where she didn't really know what she was doing. It's known as automatism. Like a trance state. The patient doesn't know or remember what he's doing."
    "But something just occurred to me, doc, you know that? There's a great big heavy bureau in her room made out of teakwood. It must weigh half a ton. I mean, how could she have moved that?"
    "Extraordinary strength is pretty common in pathology."
    "Oh, really? How come?"
    The doctor shrugged "No one knows.
    "Now, besides what you've told me," he continued, "have you noticed any other bizarre behavior?"
    "Well, she's gotten zeal sloppy."
    "Bizarre," he repeated.
    "For her, that's bizarre. Oh, now wait! There's this! You remember that Ouija board she's been playing with? Captain Howdy?"
    "The fantasy playmate."The internist nodded.
    "Well, now she can hear him," Chris revealed.
    The doctor leaned forward, folding his arms atop the desk. As Chris, continued, his eyes were alert and had narrowed to dart points of speculation.
    "Yesterday morning," said Chris, "I could hear her talking to Howdy in her bedroom. I mean, she'd talk, and then seem to wait, as if she were playing with the Ouija board. When I peeked inside the room, though, there wasn't any Ouija board there; just Rags; and she was nodding her head, doc, just like she was agreeing with what he was saying."
    "Did she see him?"
    "I don't think so. She sort of had her head to the side, the way she does when she listens to records."
    The doctor nodded thoughtfully, "Yes. Yes, I see. Any other phenomena like that? Does she see things? Smell things?"
    "Smell," Chris remembered. "She keeps smelling something bad in her bedroom."
    "Something burning?"
    "Hey, that's right!" Chris exclaimed. "How'd you know that?"
    "It's sometimes the symptom of a type of disturbance in the chemicoelectrical activity of the brain. In the case of your daughter, in the temporal lobe, you see." He put a hand to the front of his skull. "Up here, in the forward part of the brain. Now it's rare but it does cause bizarre hallucinations and usually just before a convulsion. I suppose that's why it's taken for schizophrenia so often; but it isn't schizophrenia. It's produced by a lesion in the temporal lobe. Now the test for clonus isn't conclusive, Mrs. MacNeil, so I think I'd like to give her an EEG."
    "What's that?"
    "Electroencephalograph. It will show us the pattern of her brain waves. That's usually a pretty good indication of abnormal functioning."
    "But you think that's it, huh? Temporal lobe?"'
    "Well, she does have the syndrome, Mrs. MacNeil. For example, the untidiness; the pugnacity; behavior that's socially embarrassing; the automatism, as well. And of course, the seizures that made the bed shake. Usually, that's followed by either wetting the bed or vomiting, or both, and then sleeping very deeply."
    "You want to test her right now?" asked Chris.
    "Yes, I think we should do it immediately, but she's going to need sedation. If she moves or jerks it will void the results, so may I give her, say, twenty-five milligrams of Librium?"
    "Jesus, do what you have to," she told him, shaken.
    She accompanied him to the examining room, and when Regan saw him readying the hypodermic, she screamed and filled the air with a torrent of obscenities.
    "Oh, honey, it's to help you!" Chris pleaded in distress. She held Regan still while Dr. Klein gave the injection.
    "I'll be back," the doctor said, nodding, and while a nurse wheeled the EEG apparatus into the room, he left to attend another patient. When he returned a short time later, the Librium still had not taken effect.
    Klein seemed surprised. "That was quite a strong dose," he remarked to Chris.
    He injected another twenty-five milligrams; left; came back; found Regan tractable and docile.
    "What are you doing?" Chris asked him as Klein applied the saline-tipped electrodes to Regan's scalp.
    "We put four on each side," he explained. "That enables us to take a brain-wave reading from the left and right side of the brain and then compare them."
    "Why compare them?"
    "Well, deviations could be significant. For example, I had a patient who used to hallucinate," said Klein. "He'd see things, he'd hear things, things that weren't actually there, of course. Well, I found a discrepancy in comparing the left and right readings of his brain waves and discovered that actually the man was hallucinating on just one side of his head."
    "That's wild."
    "The left eye and ear functioned normally; only the right side had visions and heard things.
    "Well, all right, now, let's see." He had turned the machine on. He pointed to the waves on the fluorescent screen. "Now that's both sides together," he explained."What I'm looking for now are spiky waves"---he patterned in the air with his index finger---"especially waves of very high amplitude coming at four to eight per second. That's temporal lobe," he told her.
    He studied the pattern of the brain wave carefully, but discovered no dysrhythmia. No spikes. No flattened domes. And when he switched to comparison readings, the results were also negative.
    Klein frowned. He couldn't understand it. He repeated the procedure. And found no change.
    He brought in a nurse to attend to Regan and returned to his office with her mother.
    "So what's the story?" Chris inquired.
    The doctor sat pensively on the edge of his desk. "Well, the EEG would have proved that she had it, but the lack of dysrhythmia doesn't prove to me conclusively that she doesn't. It might be hysteria, but the pattern before and after her convulsion was much too striking."
    Chris furrowed her brow. "You know, you keep on saying that, doc---'convulsion.' What exactly is the name of this disease?"
    "Well, it isn't a disease," he said quietly.
    "Well, what do you call it? I mean, specifically."
    "You know it as epilepsy, Mrs. MacNeil."
    "Oh, my God!"
    Chris sank to a chair.
    "Now, let's hold it," soothed Klein. "I can see that like most of the general public your impression of epilepsy is exaggerated and probably largely mythical."
    "Isn't it hereditary?" Chris said, wincing.
    "That's one of the myths," Klein told her calmly "At least, most doctors seem to think so. Look, practically anyone can be made to convulse. You see, most of us are born with a pretty high threshold of resistance to convulsions; some with a low one; so the difference between you and an epileptic is a matter of degree. That's all. Just degree. It is not a disease."
    "Then what is it---a freaking hallucination?"
    "A disorder: a controllable disorder. And there are many, many types of it, Mrs. MacNeil. For example, you're sitting here now and for a second you seem to go blank, let's say, and you miss a little bit of what I'm saying. Well, now that's a kind of epilepsy, Mrs. MacNeil. That's right. It's a true epileptic attack."
    "Yeah, well, that isn't Regan," Chris rebutted. "And how come it's happening just all of a sudden?"
    "Look, we still aren't sure that's what she's got, and I grant you that maybe you were right in the first place; very possibly it's psychosomatic. However, I doubt it. And to answer your question, any number of changes in the function of the brain can trigger a convulsion in the epileptic: worry; fatigue; emotional stress; a particular note on a musical instrument. I once had a patient, for instance, who never used to have a seizure except on a bus when he was a block away from home. Well, we finally discovered what was causing it: flickering light from a white slat fence reflected in the window of the bus. Now at another time of day, or if the bus had been going at a different speed, he wouldn't have convulsed, you see. He had a lesion, a scar in the brain that was caused by some childhood disease. In the case of your daughter, the scar would be forward---up front in the temporal lobe---and when it's hit by a particular electrical impulse of a certain wavelength and periodicity, it triggers a sudden burst of abnormal reactions from deep within a focus in the lobe. Do you see?"
    "I guess," Chris sighed, dejected. "But I'll tell you the truth, doc, I don't understand how her whole personality could be changed."
    "In temporal lobe, that's extremely common, and can last for days or even weeks. It isn't rare to find destructive and even criminal behavior. There's such a big change, in fact, that two or three hundred years ago people with temporal lobe disorders were often considered to be possessed by a devil."
    "They were what?"
    "Taken over by the mind of a demon. You know, something like a superstitious version of split personality."
    Chris closed her eyes and lowered her forehead onto a fist. "Listen, tell me something good," she murmured.
    "Well, now, don't be alarmed. If it is a lesion, in a way she's fortunate. Then all we have to do is remove the scar."
    "Oh, swell."
    "Or it could be just pressure on the brain. Look, I'd like to have some X-rays taken of her skull. There's a radiologist here in the building, and perhaps I can get him to take you right away. Shall I call him?"
    "God, yes; go ahead; let's do it."
    Klein called and set it up. They would take her immediately, they told him.
    He hung up the phone and began writing a prescription. "Room twenty-one on the second floor. Then I'll probably call you tomorrow or Thursday. I'd like a neurologist in on this. In the meantime, I'm taking her off the Ritalin. Let's try her on Librium for a while."
    He ripped the prescription sheet from the pad and handed it over. "I'd try to stay close to her, Mrs.
    MacNeil. In these walking trance states, if that's what it is, it's always possible for her to hurt herself. Is your bedroom close to hers?"
    "Yeah, it is."
    "That's fine. Ground floor?"
    "No, second."
    "Big windows in her bedroom?"
    "Well, one. What's the deal?"
    "Well, I'd try to keep it closed, maybe even put a lock on it. In a trance state, she might go through it. I once had a---"
    "---Patient," Chris finished with a trace of a wry, weary smile.
    He grinned. "I guess I do have a lot of them, don't I?"
    "A couple."
    She propped her face on her hand and leaned thoughtfully forward. "You know, I thought of something else just now."
    "And what was that?"
    "Well, like after a fit, you were saying, she'd right away fall dead asleep. Like on Saturday night. I mean, didn't you say that?"
    "Well, Yes." Klein nodded. "That's right."
    "Well, then, how come those other times she said that her bed was shaking, she was always wide awake?"
    "You didn't tell me that."
    "Well, its so. She looked just fine. She'd just come to my room and then ask to get in bed with me."
    "Bed wetting? Vomiting?"
    Chris shook her head. "She was fine."
    Klein frowned and gently chewed on his lip for a moment. "Well, let's look at those X-rays," he finally told her.
    Feeling drained and numb, Chris shepherded Regan to the radiologist; stayed at her side while the X-rays were taken; took her home. She'd been strangely mute since the second injection, and Chris made an effort now to engage her.
    "Want to play some Monopoly or somethin'?"
    Regan shook her head and then stared at her mother with unfocused eyes that seemed to be retracted into infinite remoteness. "I'm feeling sleepy," Regan said in a voice that belonged to the eyes. Then, turning, she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom.
    Must be the Librium, Chris reflected as she watched her. Then at last she sighed and went into the kitchen. She poured some coffee and sat down at the breakfast-nook table with Sharon.
    "How'd it go?"
    "Oh, Christ!"
    Chris fluttered the prescription slip onto the table. "Better call and get that filled," she said, and then explained what the doctor had told her. "If I'm busy or out, keep a real good eye on her, would you, Shar? He---" Dawning. Sudden. "That reminds me."
    She got up from the table and went up to Regan's bedroom, found her under the covers and apparently asleep.
    Chris moved to the window and tightened the latch. She staffed below. The window, facing out from the side of the house, directly overlooked the precipitous public staircase that plunged to M Street far below.
    Boy, I'd better call a locksmith right away.
    Chris returned to the kitchen and added the chore to the list from which Sharon sat working, gave Willie the dinner menu, and returned a call from her agent.
    "What about the script?" he wanted to know.
    "Yeah, it's great, Ed; let's do it," she told him. "When's it go?"
    "Well, your segment's in July, so you'll have to start preparing right away."
    "You mean now?"
    "I mean now. This isn't acting, Chris. You're involved in a lot of the preproduction. You've got to work with the set designer, the costume designer, the makeup artist, the producer. And you'll have to pick a cameraman and a cutter and block out your shots. C'mon, Chris, you know the drill."
    "Oh, shit."
    "You've got a problem?"
    "Yeah, I do; I've got a problem."
    "What's the problem?"
    "Well, Regan's pretty sick."
    "Oh, I'm Sony. What's wrong?"
    "They don't know yet. I'm waiting for some tests. Listen, Ed, I can't leave her."
    "So who says to leave her?"
    "No, you don't understand, Ed. I need to be at home with her. She needs my attention. Look, I just can't explain it, Ed, it's too complicated, so why don't we just hold off for a while?"
    "We can't. They want to try for the Music Hall over Christmas, Chris, and I think that they're pushing it now."
    "Oh, for chrissakes, Ed, they can wait two weeks. Now come on!"
    "Look, you've bugged me that you want to direct and now all of a---"
    "Right, Ed, I know," she interrupted. "Look, I want it; I really want it bad, but you'll just have to tell 'em that I need some more time!"
    "And if I do, we're going to blow it. Now that's my opinion. Look, they don't want you anyway, that's not news. They're just doing this for Moore, and I think if they go back to him now and say she isn't too sure she wants to do it yet, he'll have an out. Now come on, Chris, talk sense. Look, You do what you want. I don't care. There's no money in this thing unless it hits. But if you want it, I'm telling you: I ask for a delay and I think we're going to blow it. Now then, what should I tell them?"
    "Ahh, boy," sighed Chris.
    "It's not easy. I know."
    "No, it isn't. Well, listen..."
    She thought. Then shook her head. "Ed, they'll just have to wait," she said wearily.
    "Your decision."
    "Okay, Ed. Let me know."
    "I will. I'll be calling. Take it easy."
    "You too, Ed. Good-bye."
    She hang up the phone in a state of depression and lit up a cigarette. "I talked to Howard, by the way, did I tell you?" she said to Sharon.
    "Oh, when? Did you tell him what's happening with Rags?"
    "I told him. I told him he ought to come see her."
    "Is he coming?"
    "I don't know. I don't think so," Chris answered.
    "You'd think he'd make the effort."
    "Yeah, I know." Chris sighed. "But you've got to understand his hang-up, Shar. That's it. I know that's it."
    "What's it?"
    "Oh, the whole 'Mr. Chris MacNeil' thing. Rags was a part of it. She was in and he was out. Always me and Rags together on the magazine covers; me and Rags in the layouts; mother and daughter, pixie twins." She tipped ash from her cigarette with a moody forger. "Ah, nuts, who knows. It's all mixed up. But it's hard to get hacked with him, Spar; I Just can't."
    She reached out for a book by Sharon's elbow. "So what are you reading?"
    "What do you mean? Oh, that. That's for you. I forgot. Mrs. Perrin dropped it by."
    "She was here?"
    "Yes, this morning. Said she's sorry she missed you and she's going out of town, but she'll call you as soon as she's back."
    Chris nodded and glanced at the title of the book: A Study of Devil Worship and Related Occult Phenomena. She opened it and found a penned note from Mary Jo Perrin: Dear Chris: I happened by the Georgetown University Library and picked this up for you. It has some chapters about Black Mass. You should read it all, however; I think you'll find the other sections particularly interesting. See you soon.


Mary Jo

"Sweet lady," said Chris.
    "Yes, she is," agreed Sharon.
    Chris riffled through the pages of the back, "What's the scoop on Black Mass? Pretty hairy?"
    "I don't know," answered Sharon. "I haven't read it."
    "No good for serenity?"
    Sharon stretched and yawned. "Oh, that stuff turns me off."
    "What happened to your Jesus complex?"
    "Oh, come on."
    Chris slid the book across the table to Sharon. "Here, read it and tell me what happens."
    "And get nightmares?"
    "What do you think you get paid for?"
    "Throwing up."
    "I can do that myself," Chris muttered as she pick up the evening paper. "All you have to do is stick your business manager's advice down your throat and you're vomiting blood for a week." Irritably, she put the paper aside. "Would you turn on the radio, Shar? Get the news."
    Sharon had dinner at the house with Chris, and then left for a date. She forgot the book. Chris saw it on the table and thought about reading it, but finally she felt too weary. She left it on the table and walked upstairs.
    She looked in on Regan, who still seemed to be asleep under the covers, and apparently sleeping through. She checked the window again. Leaving the room, Chris made sure to leave the door wide open and then did the same with her own before getting into bed. She watched part of a movie on television. Then slept.
    The following morning, the book about devil worship had vanished from the table.
    No one noticed.