Come Closer Read online

  Ed rolled his eyes. “I’m always out of the office a lot, Amanda, that’s half my job. You know that.”

  Then why not get a phone? “Then why not get a phone?”

  “Why, so you can keep tabs on me?”

  “No, not so I can keep tabs on you. So if I get bitten by a rabid dog you can drive me to the emergency room.”

  Ed dropped my hand. “Do you plan on doing this often? Bothering stray animals and then getting rabies? Because if so, maybe we can get you vaccinated or something.”

  We sat stiffly on the sofa, side-by-side now. “Yes, Ed,” I told him. “I plan on doing this often.”

  WHEN I WENT TO Dr. Flynn for my seventh day rabies shot, the story about fainting a few weeks before at the magazine stand came out. Dr. Flynn was my age and blonde. She had been Ed’s doctor for years. The first time I saw her, the day after my trip to the emergency room, I was immensely jealous. She wasn’t who I would have picked to examine my naked husband. But my own doctor, Jeff Winston, had died of a stroke two months before, and Ed raved about Dr. Flynn.

  She gave me a full physical, took blood for testing, and interrogated me for half an hour about the day I had fainted. What had I eaten? When had I eaten it? Did I have any strange food cravings? Strange dreams? Irrational thoughts? Had I been exposed to any toxic chemicals? On and on.

  At the end of all the questions and tests and needles and samples she said I had low blood pressure and ought to eat more salt. I liked the sound of Dr. Flynn’s diagnosis. Everything could be explained, my life could go on. All I needed was more salt.

  I took the fact that Sister Maria’s potion had done nothing as proof that there had never been anything wrong. Of course it had only been for a laugh, anyway. Just out of curiosity. But the dreams about a woman on a red beach continued just the same. And Ed and I continued to fight, and I kept doing things like snapping at cab drivers and occasionally going back for a drink to the bar where I had drunk all that tequila. A heat wave came over the city and everyone was on edge. Ed would come home each night and complain about the heat and I wanted to kill him. I knew it was hot. I didn’t need to talk about it.

  Occasionally I thought about how much I had changed over the past few months and I was able to take a step back and look at the situation and I was horrified. The old Amanda, the one I had chosen for myself and cultivated for years, would rear her head and scream.

  Just when I was on the verge of seeing the truth, when the pieces would start to fall into place and I could almost see that the situation was horribly, drastically, wrong, the demon’s voice would step in and tell me No, I was the same Amanda I had always been. Only better.

  THEN THERE WAS THE Earmark Hotel party. The Earmark was a Jet-set hotel downtown. Fields & Carmine had remodeled the lobby, restaurant, and bar, and we were all invited to the reopening party. Ed, naturally, had to work late that night, so I took a cab down with the other single people from the office.

  I was planning to just stay for a few drinks, fulfill my obligations as a Fields & Carmine staff member, and then take off. But the party was swinging and the hotel was packed, and clearly there would be no quick in and out. The people I had come with drifted away. I found myself talking to Tom and Bill Earmark, the brothers who owned the hotel. I barely knew them—we had made a little small talk in the office and I had sat in on a few meetings. But very quickly Tom was taking me behind the bar for a martini he made himself, to avoid the line, and showing me around the new space. He took my arm to lead me through the crowd, and when he touched my arm I had a flash of intuition—He likes you, he always has,from the first time he saw you in the office, walking in the door with a sunburn across the bridge of your nose and your hair down.

  Then everything got kind of blurry. I was talking to Tom. His eyes, which had always been good, big and clear and bluish gray, got better and better. We drank martinis but I wasn’t getting drunk. I was becoming less there. I was sliding away I was talking to Tom, I didn’t know what we were talking about, and his eyes were getting better and better, and so were his cheekbones-irresistible, really—and I was talking, not just talking but flirting, horribly flirting, putting my hand on Tom’s forearm and then on his shoulders, tossing my head back when I laughed. But I wasn’t there. I was watching it all, I could see it, but I wasn’t inside of myself. It was all so muddled—I caught snippets of conversation and odd sensations, like a strong smell of gin, the feel of the loud music pounding in my chest. I was watching a movie too late at night, half-asleep, not grasping the plot at all. We were talking and laughing, and then I got a tour of the empty kitchen, alone. Then we were getting into an elevator together. His arm was around my shoulder. I thought maybe I was here, in this elevator with Tom, but I could be in a different place. I could be a different person. I tried to get hold of the situation, to see for sure exactly who and where I was, but I couldn’t get my hands around it, the situation kept slipping out from my grasp and I was left wondering, unsure.

  We were in the penthouse. It was a great little space, separate bedroom off to one side, really modern and spare, all neutral colors, and of course, there was that great relaxing hotel anonymity. It was like looking at a photograph, seeing the room but not being in it. And then we were on the sofa with a bottle of wine and then we were in bed. Tom was beautiful without clothes. Tom screamed, he said my name, I saw red and heard a roar in my ears like an ocean, I didn’t know who or where I was ...

  And then it was over. I was back solidly in my own body, completely present, sure of myself and my surroundings. I sat on the edge of the bed, naked and shivering. Tom lay on the bed, snoring a revolting drunken snort. I was disgusted. My stomach turned. How, I asked myself, how—how—how did this happen? A filthy horrible thing. The most filthy horrible thing I had ever done. As quickly as I could I put on my clothes and ran out to the street, where I vomited once in the gutter and then got a taxi to take me home.

  WANDERING THE aisles of a brightly lit supermarket in the city the next evening I couldn’t get the night before off my mind. In the meat aisle I stopped and looked at the steaks. I would make Ed his favorite dinner tonight, steak with mushroom sauce, and I would start again, retrain myself to see him as my husband, the man I had chosen to love and respect for the rest of my life. All this nonsense had to end. We fought almost every day now. In a rare lucid moment I saw that we were dissolving as a couple, and if I didn’t stop it now there would be nothing to save.

  I was comparing prices on T-bones when the demon slithered back into my thoughts. Make dinner? she said. Hours in the kitchen and then he won’t even come home on time and will never appreciate it. Besides, Ed hasn’t cooked for you in ages, not since that horrible string bean mess he concocted months and months ago.

  I dropped the steak back into its bin, abandoned my cart, and left the supermarket. The rest of the evening was spent shopping for shoes. The demon loved to shop. Two or three times a week I would take out my credit card for little luxuries that later, at home, confused me. Why had I bought a leather jacket when I already had two in my closet? What made me think I needed a red cocktail dress?

  I came home that night with three pairs of high-heeled pumps and nothing to eat. When Ed came home at eight, only one hour later than promised, we had a terrible fight over why I hadn’t brought home dinner, which, he reminded me, I had said I would do.

  THE NEXT day I went to a bookstore, a big multilevel place, airless and empty so early in the day. I browsed a few titles; psychic fine tuning, chakra realignment, aura cleansing.

  “Can I help you?”

  It was the voice of an adult woman, not the usual bookstore clerk squeak.

  “No, thanks.” I looked up with a smile. But no one was there. I turned in a circle and looked through the whole aisle. No one.

  Back to the books. I looked at a few more titles. And then—

  “Are you looking for something?”

  I spun around as quickly as I could. No one. Over the top of the next
shelf I saw the tip of a head, with thick dark hair, quickly darting through the next aisle.

  Behind me I heard a bang. I screamed and jumped, turning around. The crash was just a book that had fallen down from from a top shelf and onto the floor. Immediately I felt like an idiot. Just a book. Two young clerks came running over, a boy and a girl.

  “Are you okay,” squeaked the boy.

  “Yes, I just—it fell. It surprised me. Sorry.”

  The girl bent down to pick up the book. The Encyclopedia of Demons.

  “Actually,” I said. “Can I—”

  “Sure,” the girl said. She handed me the book. I added it to the pile I already had, paid, and went home to pack; the next morning we were going away, to Alex and Sophia’s beach house for the weekend, and Ed wanted to leave early to beat the traffic.

  ALTHOUGH IT WASN’T discussed, it was clear that Ed and I would both be on our best behavior this weekend, and get our relationship back on track. Saturday morning it seemed like it would be easy. It was a brilliant day, the sun was still summery yellow and warm, and we listened to a rock and roll marathon on the radio as we drove out. Ed sang along with the radio in a silly voice; I took off my shoes and rested my newly pedicured feet on the dashboard. We rolled down the windows and the sun shone into the car. When Ed’s hand wasn’t needed on the steering wheel, he put it in my lap.

  Alex and Sophia’s house was as bland as they were: lots of pale blue throw pillows and store-bought seashells scattered around. But it was neat and comfortable, and most important, it was steps from the beach. At the house I changed into a black one-piece swimsuit and Ed put on his loose khaki trunks that went almost to his knees. After a quick look around the house to check for necessities—soap, shampoo, towels, coffee—we walked down to the beach and settled in on a worn pink bedsheet we had brought from home. Ed took out a paperback novel, and after a few pages fell asleep, snoring on the sheet next to me. I lay down and tried to nap.

  But I couldn’t fall asleep. The sun was too hot, the small patch of sheet was confining, and Edward was annoying, snoring as he was. I was burning hot. I decided to go for a swim.

  I stood up and walked towards the water. Officially, the season had ended. No lifeguards were out and swimming wasn’t allowed but no one was there to stop the handful of us who bobbed in and out of the shallow water.

  I swam up and down a few yards of the ocean, and then out a little further. The water was still shallow enough so that I could stand. I closed my eyes and felt the cold of the water and the heat of the sun. When I opened my eyes I saw a little girl, maybe five or six, a few feet away, between me and the shore. She shouldn’t have been in the water alone at all, let alone out so far. Ordinarily I would have led her back to the shore. Today, though, I just watched her. She splashed happily around in the small waves, dunking her head in and out and letting her small body get tossed around by the gentle undertow. Her nutmeg skin was sunburned red on the shoulders. She saw me watching her and smiled. I smiled back.

  “You shouldn’t be out so deep,” I said. She shrugged and dunked under again. A little wave came in and tossed her around. I saw the top of her head poke up from the water, then her tiny feet. When she finally righted herself and got her head above water she was coughing, maybe crying a little. Not hurt, but scared.

  “I’ll help you,” I said. I swam towards her. While I was on my way another little wave came along, knocking her down again. I dove towards her and then reached out and grabbed her hair, as if to pull her head above water.

  But I didn’t. I grabbed her hair in my right hand and pulled down. Sickeningly, I could feel the life drain from her as I held her under the water, feel the heat from her body trickle away. I saw her life before my eyes, most of it lived in a cramped railroad apartment. Just before she drowned I pulled her up and let her take some air, then pulled her back down again. It was a game. Up down, up down. The girl had a head on her shoulders though, and the next time up she started to scream. A fat middle-aged woman swimming near the shore perked her head up and looked around. I plunged the girl under one more time and dunked my own head too, as if we’d both been caught in an undercurrent, and then jumped back up with my arm around the girl’s head.

  “I think she’s drowning,” I called out to the woman, who was quickly walking through the water towards us. “Give me a hand.” The strong woman grabbed the limp child out of my arms and ran with her towards the shore. I ran after her.

  Back on the warm sand the child started crying, which was a good sign that no permanent damage had been done. The commotion woke up Ed and he came running down to where a small crowd had formed around the girl. She sat up, looked around, and threw up a stomach full of salt water—another good sign, the crowd agreed. The girl’s mother came running, crying and screaming, as if she hadn’t done worse to her daughter at home. I had seen it all.

  “You saved my baby’s life!” she cried to the older woman and me. The older woman looked at me oddly but said nothing. I could imagine her telling herself that of course I had been pulling her out, not pushing her in. That must have been what she saw. I must have been pulling her out. The girl herself was still in a mild shock. If she were ever to tell anyone that I had been trying to end her life, not save it, I was sure no one would believe her.

  The older woman went off to the spot where her fat husband was waiting. The crying mother took her crying daughter back to their blanket. Edward took my hand and led me back to our own pink sheet, where we sat down and I started to cry myself.

  “Shh.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Everyone’s fine. You must have been terrified, poor baby.”

  I looked up at the sky. A flock of birds was circling high above us, flying in and out of a V formation. One by one one they left the V and then regrouped, flying into place one at a time to spell out a name, perfectly as a pen on paper.

  NAAMAH.

  BACK AT the house Ed took the car and drove out to the bay to buy dinner, fresh steamer clams and corn on the cob, which he cooked himself. He asked me what I thought of dinner and if I was having a good time and I just kept saying “Mmm,” which he took as a positive response.

  After dinner we lay on the sofa. We had been planning on going back to the beach for the sunset but I needed to rest. After a few minutes Ed fell asleep again. I went to the bedroom and got out The Encyclopedia of Demons, which I had hidden in the bottom of my bag. With a sick feeling in my stomach I flipped through until I got to the N’s. There she was, with a few pages in The Encyclopedia of Demons all to herself.

  NAAMAH

  The most famous stories of Naamah come from the Kabala, the Jewish mystical texts formerly available in full only to Jewish male scholars over the age of forty. Her name is thought to mean “charming” or “pleasant” in her native Aramaic, a reference to her desirability to men. Due to the occult nature of Kabalic wisdom, there may be much more attached to the name than we can know; especially one wonders about its origins and its numerological significance. Like most of her type, she is made stronger by water (especially salt water), sexual desire, and other impure thoughts.

  Naamah’s story begins at the beginning of time, as Adam’s second wife: Adam’s first wife was Lilith. While Adam was made from pure earth she was made from filth and sediment, and she could not be a mate for Adam. Adam wanted Lilith to be submissive, but Lilith refused, and she went to live by the Red Sea and became the mother of all demons. So God made a second wife, Naamah, and this one he made in front of Adam, starting from scratch, in order to meet Adam’s specifications. He started with the bones, then the organs, then the muscles, blood, et cetera, and by the time God was done, Adam was so disgusted he would have nothing to do her. And Naamah, along with Lilith, was banished to the banks of the Red Sea. In another story, Naamah’s origins are vague but her purpose clearer. After Cain kills Abel, Adam is so horrified by his children that he refuses to sleep with Eve for over one hundred years. During this time, Naamah comes to him in his sleep and, pre
ying on his dreams, impregnates herself with his semen. This is the source of the Jewish preference that men, especially rabbis and scholars, be married—unless a man made love to his wife regularly, what he thought was a simple nocturnal emission could really be a demon making love to him, impregnating herself with his seed. In Genesis, we see Naamah yet again. In this story she’s the daughter of Lamach and Zillah. This Naamah wasn’t a demon, just a human. But oddly enough, this Naamah married her brother, Tubal Cain, and then gave birth to a demon—Asmodeus, who we still know today. Hence her reputation as a fierce and proud mother, whose secondary goal—after seduction—is to eliminate any children that are not her own. In Kings 3:16, she appears again (along with Lilith), as one of the two harlots sent to test the wisdom of Solomon. Posing as two mothers arguing over the maternity of a child, the demons attempt to trick Solomon into making a foolish decision; instead, Solomon offers to cut the child in half, knowing the true mother will give up her claim. Defeated, the two demons go back to whence they came. As with all stories concerning Solomon, this myth figures in Freemasonry legend as well.

  In addition to these, there are far more instances of Naamah’s unfortunate influence throughout Christian and Jewish history.

  The next morning I told Edward I didn’t feel well—sun poisoning—and that I ought to stay home while he went to the beach. Once he was gone I read some more from the book:

  If only the average person knew the early warning signs of possession, much heartbreak could be averted. The most common first sign is an unusual noise in the household, perhaps a scratching, a tapping, or footsteps ... Once inside its victim the demon will usually start off with small mischief—petty theft, arguments, and the like. Its usual MO is to slowly work its way to a stronghold over the victim before revealing its true nature, thus insuring it will not be recognized and exorcised while its grip is still weak. Unfortunately, we see and hear of too many cases where, by the time the demon is discovered, the victim is so far under its control that he or she cannot be brought in for a voluntary exorcism. The chances of recovery from possession in these cases are small.