Page 18 of Last Seen

Chapter Eleven

Catriona

Brockville Artist Colony

Literature Workshop

2002

I look up to see every person in the critique group staring at me, and not in a good way. I shuffle the typed pages into a neat stack.

“Um, that’s the end of the story.”

The assignment was to write something autobiographical, and admittedly, I’ve gotten a bit carried away, especially imagining the gruesome deaths of my fictional husband and the nanny.

But all in all, I thought it was a solid short story—one of my better ones.

Though by the rude interruption and the shocked looks, I have clearly unnerved my fellow students.

I fight back a smile. I’m not entirely surprised. I have that effect on people.

After a few beats, there is a smattering of applause.

Tammy Boone gives me an approving glance.

“It’s quite visceral, Catriona. Very nice.

I felt Ellie’s reaction was well captured, and I like how you pulled us out of her fantasy of killing her husband into the sad reality she was faced with.

And I apologize for the interruption just as we were finding out that her imagination had run amok.

” She turns to the group, to the jury, pushing her oversize glasses up her nose.

“Does anyone else have notes for Catriona?”

The jerk blonde—damn, what is her name? I’m usually better with names—chimes in.

“I was very pulled out of the story by the aside, when you say Ellie has a small issue with anger. Clearly. Furthermore, it felt redundant, as you so vividly portray her fury. I think you could lose that without impinging upon the integrity of the story.”

Impinging upon the integrity of the story? Screw you, lady.

There are murmurs of assent from the circle of writers, which infuriates me.

Tammy purses her lips. She seems to think that I’m vulnerable and am hurt by the group’s reaction.

I’m not. I can’t be. I don’t have access to those kinds of emotions.

I want approval as much as the next person, sure, but the disapproval doesn’t cost me as it might you.

“I don’t know that I agree, Brenda.”

(Brenda! That’s it. In my defense, she doesn’t look like a Brenda. She looks like a Farrah, or a Courtney, or a Sloane. It’s the hair, of course. She probably spends more time with her hot rollers than her typewriter.)

Tammy continues. “I think that sort of experimentation in the narrative allows a whole new storytelling mechanism. Think of it as a voiceover. I was particularly reminded of the television show My So-Called Life , with Claire Danes. Have you seen it? It has that sort of autobiographical voiceover that gives the viewer more information about the character’s internal life.

Let’s not discount this as an effective technique to understand Ellie’s rage.

I imagine there’s more of that to come, and it could be quite interesting to the story. ”

“But it’s a cheat,” Brenda continues. We took an immediate dislike to one another last night.

The whole evening had been colored by her condescension and aggressive need to show how smart she was.

I simply do not respond to that sort of fire hydrant marking.

I’m incapable. God, she’s still talking.

“Not only a cheat, but it’s also a tell.

The rule is, we shouldn’t tell, we should show.

Inserting this sort of aside isn’t showing.

It’s telling.” She sits back in her chair, quite pleased with herself.

Tammy turns to me. “Catriona? Do you have a response?”

I have several responses, most of which include colloquial phrases designed specifically to inflame and irritate.

I’ve been trained not to say the first thing that pops into my mind, as it is generally something not socially acceptable.

I’m very much like my character Ellie in that regard.

Full of rage. The kind of rage that leads one to murder. I just do a better job of hiding it.

Instead, I shake my head. I am acutely aware that the long hair I normally use to hide my face when I’m trying to seem embarrassed is gone. I stupidly cut it off to chin level before I came here, and it sucks. It was a wonderful mask, and without it, I feel exposed.

Tammy shifts in her chair, and the spell is broken. “All right. More thoughts? Anyone?”

And they’re off, a round-robin of negative opinions.

The more people speak, the more shell-shocked I am.

It is quite clear that instead of being the solid story I thought it was, I have just laid a gigantic egg on the most important stage of my life.

I have to tune out their “constructive” comments, not making eye contact, just stare out the window at the impenetrable screen of dark-green trees, my anger building to a peak, until finally, Tammy calls time.

That was excruciating. But I’m proud of myself for taking it, not reacting.

And I promise myself I will not slink into anyone’s cabin tonight. Make myself swear it.

But I might watch . . .

No, you will not!

“All right, folks. I think perhaps now is a good time to break for the morning. Great work, everyone. Tomorrow, I want to hear from you , Brenda. Since you were the first to jump in with a critique of Catriona’s work, you win that honor.

I’m sure we will all be dazzled by your words.

” The slightly accusatory note in Tammy’s voice makes me inwardly gloat.

Brenda was overtly harsh, has been since the moment we touched hands in greeting.

She’s just jealous that you’ve got more talent than she does.

Stop. Please. Not now.

I have also been trained to turn off the voice in my head, the one that lures with false promises and seduces with honeyed words.

And sometimes tells me to do things that I know aren’t right.

My demon. It has taken years of therapy, years of mind-body integrations, biofeedback, meditation, medication, to learn how to tell the voice to fuck off and leave me alone.

I gave in once. And it almost cost me everything. That will never, ever happen again.

Tammy puts a hand on my arm as she passes, following the rest of the fiction class filing toward the cabin door. I stop myself from yanking my arm away; I do not like being touched.

You’re a frigid bitch.

That voice is not my demon’s, but my husband’s. Ex-husband, now. The papers came the day before I left for the retreat. I shoved them in my bag and am planning to sign them tonight. A private celebration of a marriage that has run its course, and then some.

“What’s your plan for the rest of the day, Catriona?”

What is the right response here? Drink some hemlock because I’m so mortified? A bit over the top.

Instead, I sigh as if summoning what tiny bit of dignity I have left. I am very good at acting. I have to be.

“Oh, well, I thought I’d take a walk? Then maybe work on this scene some more. Maybe take away a bit of the visceralness. It’s too much, I see that now. People recoiled when the knife came out. Not exactly what I was going for.”

“Don’t do that,” Tammy says. “It’s a very strong opening.

I’m very interested to see where you take this.

You know we chose you because your work has an edge.

As a matter of fact, from what I’ve seen of your other poems and stories, this one feels almost tame.

Let it all go. Don’t hold back. You can allow your natural darkness into your work.

It’s part of your voice and will become your signature style, if you let it.

I’d be happy to do a one-on-one tomorrow after class, if you’d like. ”

I immediately nod. I don’t need the class’s approval, but the teacher’s? She can be of great use, and I am more than happy to take advantage of her interest. “I would like that. I’m missing something here, and I’m not sure what. Maybe I need to change the point of view?”

“We can talk about that tomorrow. First person could be very effective. It would allow us to get deeper into your character’s actions, her thoughts. Think on it, and maybe rewrite a few paragraphs, just to see how it feels.”

It’s going to feel like you were holding the knife as it slashed him open, and it will feel so good.

Shut. Up.

“I’ll do that, Tammy. Thank you. And please, call me Cat.”

She smiles at this invitation to familiarity.

“Okay. Cat? Don’t let this lot upset you.

They’re all just trying to get my attention.

I’ll tell you a little secret. I’ve seen parts of Brenda’s story, and predictably, it is excellent writing, but lacking soul.

The execution is there, but there’s none of the passion and wildness that I see in your work.

She has, and will continue to, spend her career writing small.

These retreats are an excellent way to cull the writers trying to get noticed who are in love with their own prose.

Brenda has been doing this for a long time, and she hasn’t had any real success yet.

You’re young. You’re supremely talented.

You’re going to get pushback, so you might as well learn this lesson now: Be above it all.

Don’t let them get to you. You will succeed where they fail. ”

This can’t be real. Tammy Boone likes my work. Loves my work.

Don’t be an idiot. They pay her to say these things. She gives all of the students the same line.

Shut. Up.

Tammy has a benevolent smile. I’ve seen them before, from people who are genuinely good inside.

There was a therapist, once, when I was young, who had that same shining light inside her.

She probably saved my life. And now, in a similar vein, Tammy Boone is glowing like an angel and offering me a leg up.

“Um . . . thank you?”

“You’re welcome. So buck up. I guarantee we are going to see it all again tomorrow. This is what the first few days are like. You are a gladiator in the arena, and you are still standing.” She gives a symbolic thumbs-up. “Okay?”

Fine. She likes you. Smile pretty for her.

I am desperate to escape now, feeling the claustrophobia build, just me and Tammy Boone— and me!

Don’t forget me! —talking about writing like this is any other day.

Being encouraged like this is too much. I am absolutely going to take a pill the second I get back to the cabin.

The psychotropics help dim the demon’s voice.

They ruin the creative voice, as well, but I’d rather write shitty fiction than indulge the monster in my head.

I can’t believe I’ve let him in while I’m here, of all places, of all times.

Where I’ve gone to escape. Where I’ve gone to relax.

To connect with my creativity, and finally, finally, write the book I’ve always dreamed of writing.

I am here for two months, and damn it, I’m going to make this work if it kills me.

I have so much to see. So much to do. I’ve been trying to get here for a long, long time.

The Brockville Writers’ Retreat almost guarantees a publishing contract when the query letter mentions a successful graduation.

If you have to query at all—it’s well known that the retreat leaders often pass the favorites along directly to their own publishing teams. The deal announcements in the publishing trades read “a graduate of the Brockville Writers’ Retreat” as if the writer earned a double PhD in astrophysics and mythology from Harvard.

I’m not going to screw this up, damn it. There is too much at stake.

I’ve wanted to be an artist since I could pick up a crayon and scribble on the thick art paper in my kindergarten class.

A writer since I started making the dot above my i a cheery little open circle.

At first, the voices were plentiful, and I drew them on the page, skilled drawings for one so young.

Then came the words, a torrent of imagination.

My childish stories had many points of view, enough that they put me into the gifted-and-talented program at school.

I thrived under the individualized attention of the teachers, but it was always a struggle to keep my mind under control.

The voices, the characters, the points of view—they were all living in my head.

As I got older, many of those internal characters peeled off.

My mind became inscrutable, even to me. It was cacophony, chaos, impossible.

I stopped showing people my art, because the darkness of those bleak lines freaked people out.

I remember once seeing Munch’s The Scream and feeling at ease.

This was me. I was The Scream personified.

And then there was the horrible time when I lost my mother, which I never talk about.

After that, I had professional psychological help. A million meds, a million conversations. And eventually, I was left numbed and with only one extraneous voice. I hate him. He loves me in too many unhealthy ways to count. And we are stuck with one another.

I am twenty-nine years old, about to be divorced, having an early midlife crisis.

I’ve cut my hair and run away to the Blue Ridge Mountains, to a small town in the middle of nowhere, to a retreat that might or might not help me get where I need my career to be, and I am already screwing it up.

I don’t want to be on the radar; that woman, Brenda, sensed it and called me out at every chance.

This kind of attention makes me uncomfortable.

As if some people can see inside my mind, see the scrolling black circles that live there. As if they, too, can hear the voice.

My demon loves every minute of discord. He feeds on it. Stress makes it worse.

You know it, baby. Come to Papa.

I need my meds.

I leave the writing cabin and hurry toward mine. I will suck down a pill, drown the bastard out, take a walk, do my assignment, and all will be well. It has to be. I have nothing left.