The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [95]
“To Stirling.”
“Yes, who was beginning to act strange.”
“I … I read about that, about him giving names to his furniture and kitchen appliances. After the accident. What happened exactly?”
“Well, he was a vegetarian, right? Which is fine. So was I, more or less. Except he became more and more radical, obsessive, evangelical. He’d take forever in the health-food stores, pestering the staff, peppering them with questions about the labels, the packaging materials, how and when the fruit was delivered to the store, carping about this and that, you name it. If the salesperson didn’t have an answer, there’d be hell to pay. Insults, threats to have him fired … The veins on his neck would just bulge. If the food was touching paper or Saran wrap, he wouldn’t buy it. He’d comb the racks with crystals that checked the ‘life force’ of foods, or with Geiger counters or ray-guns that buzzed and beeped. I’m not kidding. The man was insane. He was a raw-foodist. The only thing he’d eat was fruit and vegetables—but only if they’d been picked less than fifteen minutes before he ate them. Which cut down on his choices, n’est-ce pas? And he wouldn’t chop a vegetable, because it would destroy its ‘etheric field.’ Or eat out of pots and pans, because they were contaminated by ‘fleshy vibrations.’ So he nibbled on alfalfa sprouts, umeboshi plums, quinoa seeds ... He ended up looking like Gandhi after a fast. His big aspiration was to become a Breatharian.”
“Which is …?”
“People who fast and live on pure air. Anyway, if you ever confronted him about not eating he’d just say he was going through a ‘purge, a cleansing process.’ He’d faint from time to time—from protein deficiency, I guess. And then he had the big accident, crashing his Ferrari into a hairdressing salon, which I guess you read about.”
“Is that how it happened? He passed out while driving? And how is he now?”
“No idea. When he got out of the hospital I left him for good.”
“Probably wise.”
“Yeah, except I’ve not been lucky in my choice of men since then either. Norval included.”
Noel jumped, at least on the inside, but strained not to show it. “So you … never went back to acting?”
Samira shook her head. “No, I went back to Ithaca, to school, which my film money paid for more or less, without having to go back to Wendy’s.”
“And did your mother ever … you know, chill? Did she realise your father’s death had nothing to do with you? Am I asking too many questions?”
“No. It’s nice to get some. Especially after being with Norval. No, my mom’s still blaming me, tormenting me, living in the past. The house is like a museum, a shrine—with a stopped clock marking the time my father died. An Arabic tradition, she says. And she sold the restaurant.”
Noel looked down, dolefully, at the floor. “That’s a shame, that’s so …” He let the sentence trail, the right word not coming. “So now you’re studying psychology? I mean, art therapy?”
“Just started this year.”
“Is that why you went to see Dr. Rhéaume after you were … drugged? She’s one of your teachers, right?”
“Yeah. In fact, she and her husband—Dr. Ravens croft—were there that night. It was an Art Therapy party, a get-acquainted kind of thing.”
Noel nodded. He’d been to one of those. “Charles Ravenscroft? He’s her husband? I didn’t know that. So what happened exactly? That’s a stupid question, you can’t remember.”
“I really can’t, I just … blacked out. One minute I was drinking cranberry cocktails and the next I was feeling dizzy and disoriented, seeing everything in multiple images. And losing control of my movements.”
“Was Dr. Rhéaume there when it happened? Did she know who could’ve done it, who could’ve spiked your drink?”
“Yeah, she and her husband were both there, just about to leave. In fact, they’re the ones who drove me home. But she hasn’t a clue who could’ve done it. She insisted I report it to the police. In fact, she took me there herself. She and Charles.”
“So the police … Dr. Vorta also did some tests,