[FN] The Unspooling Clinic

The clinic looked like a hotel. It was made of stone. Warm lights glowed out of a third of the windows, the rest were gloomy and vacant. If this were a hotel it would be expensive to stay at, thought David. He also thought that he didn’t know where to park and hoped that his room provided shower caps.

            A valet came out and took David’s keys and car.

​

            “How well acquainted are you with what we do?”

            “I read the leaflet.”

            “Good. The leaflet is a good start. Initial and sign these documents. How many do you have?”

            “Four. Three, plus myself. Jack, Martin and Nina. I’m David.”

            “Be sure to make a note of which one you want to hold on to.”

            “Well, I’m David. That’s on my birth certificate, and my driver’s license and my bank accounts.”

            “That makes it simple then. You will need to take the Myer’s test as will the others. All three personalities must consent to the procedure as well of course.”

            “Of course, that makes perfect sense. I signed everything. Here’s your pen.” David handed the secretary the pen and the signed forms. He felt tired from the drive and his thighs and feet ached. I need to exercise more, he thought, maybe I will start swimming. I like water and it doesn’t seem too strenuous. Relaxing, really. The secretary, who wore a black and white uniform, handed David a room key and told him the doctor would see him tomorrow and the maid would take his things. The secretary had a mole at the corner of his mouth and nice auburn hair.

            The room provided shower caps so David took a shower. The water made branching patterns down his arms and tummy. The soap was the color of charcoal and smelled of lavender. The scent reminded David of growing up in the country and the girl he used to play with who enjoyed putting salamanders in jars and watching them nip one another to death. To make her happy, Jack caught ten salamanders once and gave them to her. David never saw what happened to them. Nina was sorry for the salamanders. Martin was silent.

            The maid knocked on the door. She was small but strong, David could tell by the way she held his suitcases. Her nametag said Isabelle and her eyes were dark and glassy and big like a deer’s.

            “Where would you like these?”

            “On the bed is fine. I’ll unpack afterwards.” She entered, hefted the suitcases onto the navy blue bedspread. The window framed a view of conical pines and spruce trees; it was a pretty good view but got boring quickly. The maid stopped at a clay vase of flowers.

            “Your flowers are wilting; I’ll replace them. How do you like the room besides the flowers?”

            “It’s a very nice room. I like the view and the size.”

            “If I were staying here I’d stay in this room. It’s one of the better ones.”

            “Which one’s the worst?”

            She pointed straight up. “The one right above you I’d have to say. It’s too cold because the window doesn’t shut fully, even when it’s latched.” After this, she left with the flowers. David sat at the lacquered table. On it, three consent forms were fanned out, one for Jack, one for Nina and one for Martin.

            David wondered if the maid would return right away or later on or the next day. David began to flicker like a guttering candle. He always described it that way, as a flickering followed by a blowout. David blew out and Martin looked through his eyes. Martin was quiet and nearsighted; he tugged the spectacles from his breast pocket and read the forms. He’d been dimly aware of David’s thoughts before then.

            The maid returned with a vase of foxgloves, which she placed carefully on the table. Martin thought she detected the change in him because she didn’t make small talk and exited the room, closing the door behind her softly. Martin took a deep breath. He signed the form with his name on it.

            Then he sat back and enjoyed the view. Some people would have made a fuss. Some people would have cried or been angry. He did not cry and he was not angry. He wondered what he should do on his last day. He could go for a walk on the path between the woods and the lake. He could read a book he’d been meaning to. He could eat something rich and sweet. In the end he did none of these things.

​

            Nina ate breakfast next to a man with an alcoholic’s complexion and across from a woman with a painted on eyebrows. The man worked as a maitre d.’ The woman taught eurythmy to middle school students; the students were often rude to her and did not value her efforts. Nina crunched her toast and listened.

             The appointment was scheduled in one hour. Nina had not signed her form. In truth she’d been miffed that David made the decision without her. She resolved to speak to the doctor first.

            “The fact that your excess personalities will be stripped away should not bother you. I will explain everything that I can. There are things I can’t talk about because parts of the procedure are considered trade secrets.” Said the doctor. Nina shifted in the leather chair. The doctor was tall and rangy with thinning grey hair.

            “What can you tell me?”

            “I can tell you it’s humane. We tested on rabbits and then pigs and, afterwards, we’ve seen many successes on people. You’re free to back out at this point. However, if you do and change your mind later you’ll have to re-register at the bottom of the wait-list.”

            “I see.”

            “Good, good. We may begin as soon as all the forms are signed.” He shook her hand before showing her out. In the hall, Nina passed the maid. The maid pushed a covered cart that made no noise. She ignored Nina and turned the corner.

            That evening, Nina hovered the tip of the pen over the form. The paper was creamy and thick. She started to flicker. The pen slipped. Nina blew out.

​

Jack sat up. The maid knocked on the door with a change of sheets, a new ice bucket and fresh towels. He let her in. She replaced the sheets first.

“I saw you in the hall.”

“Really. Is that unusual?”

“No.” He looked out the window. A flock of wild turkeys strutted at the edge of the woods; their combs bobbed. The maid finished with the sheets and followed his gaze. She laughed.

“Oh. I see what you’re thinking.”

“You do?”

“You think we transplant the spare personas into animals and release them into the woods. Then maybe we go hunting and feed them to the next round of guests.”

“That’s absurd. Why would I assume that?”

The maid shrugged, walked to the bathroom and replaced the towels and soap. When she came out with the used towels he grabbed her arm.

“That’s not what happens is it?”

She pulled her arm away. “No. Of course not.”

The maid clunked the door shut. He listened to her feet padding on the carpeted hall. She probably thought he was a crazy person. She’d probably talk about him later with the rest of the staff. Or maybe, when she got home to her boyfriend or girlfriend, she’d say “The nuts-o-meter hit a new high today.” And they’d both laugh.

The radiator purred. Rain streaked the windows and wind thrashed against the frame. Jack liked the rain and cold as much as David hated them. Jack checked the three consent forms on the desk. One was signed. The other two were not. Martin signed of course. The pen for signing resembled the old fountain variety except that it was very new. Jack capped it, set it aside. But he found it impossible to concentrate. Everything became murky and runny. He began to flicker. It’s too soon, he thought, I’ve still got time.

He took his consent form and slipped it into the dustbin.

When he came back around, Jack saw the fountain pen listing diagonally across the desk. Nina had signed her form. Her signature flowed better than Martin’s with more loops and connections. Jack felt slapped. The answering machine showed one message. He pressed the green OK button.

The call appeared to come from another part of the clinic. Ambience hissed. Voices mumbled in the far background. Doors opened and shut. Cutlery clattered. Somebody breathed and swallowed.

“You wanted to know what goes on here. I’ll tell you as well as I can. I don’t know whether this will make you feel any better. If you want to repay me, all you need to do is delete this message and clean your room before you leave.”

The maid, whose name, Jack remembered, was Isabelle, continued speaking. “This clinic operates on two fronts. On one hand, it extracts personalities from patients. On the other, it implants them into clients who have unlikeable or otherwise lacking personalities. Not unlike replacing a bad liver. It’s quite expensive, which is why the initial extraction can be so cheap. That’s how it goes. I was transporting one of our clients after the operation when you passed me. There, I’ve told you everything as fast and clearly as I can.”

The message ended.

Jack did not know why the maid risked losing her job on his behalf. Of course, it was not for him per say. He left the room. Outside, he asked the valet for his car. The country roads wound, climbed and dipped until they reached a town.

He drank beers and watched strippers coil and whisk around brass poles like gymnasts. They peeled away thin skirts. Their boots clacked. A girl in a baseball cap and thick glasses came up to tuck folded bills into the blonde one’s belt. The other one paused her routine to take slow, deliberate puffs from an inhaler; Jack wondered if this was a quirk of the performance or genuine asthma. He ordered one more beer and left.

Outside, in the cold, he walked around until he came to a tattoo parlor with a painted dummy in its window. He considered getting a tattoo across his forehead: Jack was here. But at the last minute he reeled back and sat in his car until he sobered up enough to key the ignition and drive back.

In his room he signed the form and deleted the message. Let Martin or David or Nina clean up. There wasn’t much of a mess so Jack ruffed up the bed, tilted some of the picture frames and upended the vase of foxgloves. He felt so woozy that the flickering didn’t register until it enveloped him.

​

Martin unspools.

Nina unspools.

Jack unspools.

The three of them fray, like something knitted in intricate and complicated patterns being tugged until it is nothing but a cascade of yarn. Then, eventually, even the yarn disappears. David feels alone for the first time.

After a period of observation, David leaves the clinic. It snows. At home, David dials up the thermostat to banish the draftiness. Work resumes tomorrow. Tonight, he curls up on the couch, warm and drowsy.

In ensuing months, David fulfills his responsibilities dutifully. He takes up swimming. He likes the sensation of the water as he does lap after lap. At night, he hears the maid, her voice, speaking indistinctly – crackly as through a bad connection. By degrees, it ebbs and disintegrates. Years parade by. But there are times when he thinks he detects a hint of something familiar in the eyes of a face on TV, in the sound of a voice on the radio, in the words of a book or newspaper article.