And I say to my own reflection, “Not attached. Not attached at all.” Beside me, I feel the jellyfish quiver in its tank. Like it’s sighing.
* * *
How long have I been lying here in the dark? In the eucalyptus fog? On the heated table beside the little white jellyfish? Don’t know. Time’s not here. She said, Why don’t you lie here and we’ll get started? And I thought, Haven’t we already started? I said, This is some facial. And she said, Treatment. It’s a treatment.
Treatment, I repeated. Of course.
There are sleek black discs taped to either side of my face now, at my temples. The discs feel somehow connected to the small jellyfish tank, because the moment she pressed them against my temples, the creature began to glow even brighter. Like a dimmer switch turned all the way up. For the extractions? I said. Exactly, the woman said. For the extractions. She was about to leave when I felt her hand on my shoulder. You may find you’re in a bit of a fog after this. You may find you have some blanks.
Blanks?
Letting go is so worth it. You’ll see tomorrow in the mirror. Now just lie here. Are you comfortable? And the only answer to that was Yes. My entire body under the blanket was so terribly comfortable. I was warm to my core. I was floating, floating there on the table. I didn’t know where I began or where I ended. I didn’t know my own body from the fog, from the bell. There was a smile on my face. A soft one that caused no wrinkles. My eyes were closing and opening on the small, pulsing white jellyfish. Light as a wish. And that’s how she left me. Come back, I whispered. But my lips weren’t moving at all.
Above me now, the ceiling rolls back, look at that. Like a sunroof or a tarp over a swimming pool being rolled back. What’s there? A sky full of stars? Not quite. A glass ceiling, awash with blue-green light. The light of water, of aquariums, fills the dark, steam-thick room. Through the steam, I see them floating by. Red, pulsating, trailing tentacles. Giants compared to the small, glowing white creature beside me. I must be right beneath the Depths. The tank goes far beneath the main floor, so I must be deep under. Wow. It’s terribly beautiful up there. Primordial is a word that floats alone in the lagoon of my mind. I’m in the lagoon of my mind now. Deep in the lagoon, there’s a black box. A black box with many locks, like metal teeth. It lies there on the lagoon floor, half covered in silt. I feel the box open its black mouth.
And then?
I can’t feel my body at all anymore. The heated table is getting warmer. The room is getting darker, the only light coming from the blue water above. The little jellyfish shines beside me like a star. The steam has grown thick, thick. I’m rising up from the table. Drifting up toward the glass ceiling, to where the giant red jellyfish float. Nothing beneath this body I can’t feel but air. The sleek black disks are still attached to my temples, throbbing along with my pulse. I should be afraid. But I’m so comfortable. And the red giant jellyfish are so beautiful up close like this. Look at them drifting redly in the water. They’re putting me in the mood to drift myself, to dream. And there, suddenly on the glass, something like a film begins to play. Like the aquarium glass has become a movie screen. Oh, are we watching movies? I want to ask. But there’s the problem of my mouth again. How it won’t move the way I want. How my lips feel dead on my face.
I look at the glass screen. I see a young girl tiptoeing down a dark hall. She’s wearing a white frilly dress. She’s ugly. The dress is ugly too, but the girl doesn’t know this. She’s ten years old. How come you know that she’s ten? asks a voice inside.
“I just do,” I try to whisper.
Look. Now she’s in the doorway of a blue-and-white bedroom. Her bedroom? No. Not her bedroom. How come I know that? Because she looks guilty.
Also you just know, don’t you? says that inside voice. You know the way you know your own bones. You know the way you know your cells, your breath.
Yes. I can see the red jellyfish through the glass screen, through the scene of the young girl as she creeps into the bedroom that is not her own. Looking both ways. Looking all around her now. What are we watching? I think. And that question is hilarious. As hilarious as the question, Is this a facial? I’m laughing though my mouth isn’t moving. My mouth is frozen open wide like the black box inside my mind. The black box is where the movie of the little girl is coming from. The film projector is my eyes.
You know what you’re watching, says the voice. You’re watching you. You’re the little girl, aren’t you?