Free Better Homes and Corpses by Kathleen Bridge

I saw someone, so I started running. The lightning scared me. It reminded me of the blade, silver . . . A hand held the blade . . . red . . . walking away . . . away from Mother . . . She was on the floor . . .”
    “The storm probably triggered flashbacks like Dr. Greene mentioned.” I squeezed her hand in reassurance. “Was it a man or a woman?”
    “I don’t know. I sensed they were strong . . . like a man . . .”
    “Are you sure it wasn’t your imagination?”
    “I don’t know. Someone was there. I just don’t know.” She sobbed.
    “I think we should call Dr. Greene. He’ll know what to do.”
    I started the car and we continued up the driveway. I thought I saw a figure on the far side of the pond. Was it the person Jillian thought she’d seen or just a tree trunk come alive in the storm?
    I helped Jillian out of the car. She walked zombielike to the front door then grabbed on to the sleeve of my jacket like I was her lifeline. Cole stood in the open doorway with a frown, his hair damp, his boots covered in mud.
    “Where’ve you been? What happened?” Cole pulled Jillian inside.
    “She had some kind of episode. I almost ran her over.”
    “Get out of the rain and take her up to her room. I’ll call Dr. Greene.”
    Yes, sir
.
    Jillian took my hand as we climbed the stairs.
    Based on her side of our dorm room, I expected Jillian’s room to have Marcia Brady décor; instead, it was brothel madam meets Ernest Hemingway. Animal hide rugs coordinated with black and tan print pillows trimmed in gold. There were enough tassels to supply a pre–Mayor Giuliani strip bar. A gauzy canopy hung over a circular-shaped bed, giving the room the air of a sultan’s slave tent. For some reason my thoughts went to the ugly stuffed boar up in the attic. It would fit in nicely here.
    Jillian collapsed under the doorway then crawled to her bed. She fumbled for the net opening and positioned herself in the hub. I left her curled like a fetus and went in search of towels.
    What I assumed was a bathroom turned out to be Jillian’s closet. It held a double row of beige clothing. On a shelf at the top of the closet was an assortment of bisque dolls dressed in elaborate Victorian costumes. Three were female and one male. The girls, two blonde and one brunette, had perfect ringlets, rosy cheeks, and open mouths showing ivory teeth. The boy had painted brown hair and blue glass eyes. He wore a satin sailor suit with a frilly lace collar. They sat companionably like they were awaiting the E train to the Bronx. Compared to the garish bedroom décor, the dolls seemed more in line with the Jillian I remembered at NYU—pampered, protected, and childlike.
    A second door led into a luxurious bathroom with a glass-enclosed shower and a step-up Jacuzzi. Behind the tub was a sizeable bowed window with an unencumbered view of the garden, the pool, and, ultimately, the ocean. I went to the sink. My reflection in the mirror was beyond scary. I forgot vanity when an old yearning surfaced. In high school, my friends and I made a game out of opening medicine cabinets. You could learn a lot about a person by what they kept in their medicine cabinet. Pill vials of all shapes and sizes filled Jillian’s, many three deep. The drug-packed shelves explained some of her strangeness. If I searched hard enough, I’d probably find a cobalt bottle filled with laudanum, the opium-laced medicine prescribed for Victorian women at the turn of the twentieth century. I remembered Jillian taking what I thought was a handful of vitamins from an unlabeled brown bottle back when we’d been roommates.
    “What are you doing?”
    I slammed the cabinet door on my hand. “Shit! Damn! Shit! Shit! Shit!” The Detroit in me surfaced. I bounced from one foot to another, holding the fingers of my left hand.
    Cole didn’t seem moved. “Sorry I startled you, but I don’t think Jillian needs to be drugged without the directions from her