Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

She stared at him. “So all this, just to tell me I’m an idiot? A suspicious, neurotic, hypercritical, misanthropic idiot who takes for granted all the wonderful people in her life who love her in spite of that. You couldn’t have just told me?”

He shrugged. “Would you have believed me? They say it’s more about the message than the magic, but I think there’s more bang in the buck with the magic; it’s more fun, and the message is less likely to be forgotten too soon.”

“Yeah, forgetting this isn’t likely.”

He tipped his head to one side. “It happens. And don’t beat yourself up when it does. You’re going to keep screwing up and reverting back to those safe, dark, life-wasting caverns in your mind, because you’re just like everyone else, Elise. You’re human.”

“Then what’s the point of all this?”

“You tell me,” he said, distracted by the long black queue hanging over his shoulder. It looked like a long braid of hair with many little pink, hairy, wormlike neural tendrils on the end—an extension of the Na’vi nervous system. He gently poked at it, quivered and then tossed it away to hang down his back again. He looked at her. “If you were me, what would I tell you next?”

Her stare was blank; she had no idea. So many things had come up and gone down in ways she’d never dreamed of—what could possibly be next?

In mild desperation, she closed her eyes, hoping to become Waldo—he was perpetually lost, and that’s exactly how she felt.

“He isn’t lost; he’s a traveler,” the lovely blue avatar said, getting in her head again. “Wherever Waldo happens to be, he chose to be there.”

Dashed but still hoping, she sought out an omniscient character, all-knowing and wise. The Matrix Oracle maybe—she’d know plenty, and cookies would be involved.

Abruptly, she opened her eyes. “I’m not changing.”

“Of course you are.”

“No, I’m still me.”

“Of course you are.”

“No, I mean, I’m not becoming something new.”

“Why would you want to?” He grinned at her confusion. “You only get to choose what you feel, Elise. It’s the magic in this enchanted space that decides how best to show it to you—a picture worth a thousand words and all that.”

“And now I feel like me?”

“Now you’re feeling what there is no costume for; what lives naturally inside you, always.” He turned his long-fingered hand palm up. “Always.”

“What is it?” she asked. His brow rose—it wasn’t his question to answer. “If I were you what would I tell me?” She spoke slowly, thinking. Rewinding, rolling forward and rewinding recent events. Her gaze came to rest on the large golden-green eyes that shown Martin, through and through, encouraging her. “I’d say: Go back to the last time I felt . . . not myself. What changed? How? Why? When did I feel completely myself again?”

“And?”

“And it was when Max said he loved me.”

He shook his head, no. “No one, no matter how much they love you—or don’t love you—has the power to change you, Elise. That’s all you. You choose to be happy or bitter or cruel or kind. Max loving you is a damn nice thing, but it can’t make you feel whole.”

“But my accepting that I love him can. Right? That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not about his love, it’s about mine. It isn’t him loving me. This is about me trusting him enough to let him. All this, and it isn’t about all the garbage that piles up in my life; it’s what I decide to do with it—the choices I make. Good or bad. I choose. Max, Jeremy, Liz Gurney, Cooper Winston . . . even the costume I want for Liz’s ridiculous party. I choose.”

He smacked his lips. “I do enjoy the smart ones, I really do.” He stretched his arms out over the dividing walls. “And me? What am I here to tell you now, in this disguise?”

“How should I know?” But then—and with a distinct sadness in her heart—she said, “How to get out of here? How to find Molly?”

“Before I do that.” His smile was gentle, but then he wagged his head and teased her. “Think of something insightful and profound; something more in keeping with my previous incarnations, which, let’s face it, had considerably more wisdom and dignity than all of yours put together.”

“Yeah right, the Cat in the Hat.”

“Curious George.” He looked at her pointedly—then used his finger to point to himself. “Abe Lincoln.” He aimed the finger at her. “Angry Bird, Grumpy and Charlie Brown.” There was a swagger on his face. “Hank Hill and Superman to your Daria. And now you as . . . well, you, and me as this magnificent and way too cool ten-foot blue avatar? Who’s winning this one?”

“Tsk. You are so annoying.” He grinned. She considered him carefully. “So . . . Jake Sully. He’s all about leaving the past behind; about changing and reinventing himself and then deciding how he wants to live the rest of his life. You’re about choosing new adventures over wallowing in self-pity.” She laughed, uncomfortably. “Not too shabby for wise and dignified advice, my friend. The last of it, I’m guessing.”

Before he could speak, the rumbling came again; a thundering like a stampede of Pandoran thanator plowing through the jungle. And then it went silent.

“Okay. Enough now! Tell me what that is. It’s driving me crazy.”

“You’re hungry.”

“What?”

“You’re hungry. It’s your stomach, it’s growling.”

“Seriously?”

“A lot of things can make your stomach growl, of course, but in this case it’s hunger. You skipped lunch to have an early supper with Molly after helping her decide on costumes.”

“You’re right, I did. And that’s been my stomach growling this whole time?”

“Well, you haven’t actually been here a whole time ; it’s only been a tiny bit of time.”

“What is a tiny bit of time to you?”

“Same as you: a couple of seconds.”

“What?”

“When you first got here you asked if you were dead or in a coma or hallucinating and I said No, not exactly . You didn’t ask about dreaming, and I avoided the subject of day dreaming.”

“What?”

“Daydreaming. Wandering around inside your own head, thinking, fantasizing—”

“Fantasizing?”

“Trying to decide what you want to be, who you want to be, how you’ll go about—”

“Fantasizing? I made you up? I made it all up? Me? It’s been me all along?”

“Of course.” He looked like he wanted to tickle under her chin and call her a silly button . “Who knows you better than you know yourself?”

“I—”

“That’s right. You. You’re in control.”

She stood perfectly still. “So you, Martin, you’re not magic? You’re just . . . me?”

His smile was lopsided and lovable. “Elise. We make our own magic, you know that.” He gazed deep into her eyes and sighed. “Time for you to go.”

Her reluctance surprised her.

“Will I forget all this?” He turned his head first to one side, then slowly to the other; then did it again when she asked, “Can I come back if I do?”

“You need to go now. Molly will start to worry about you.”

“How?” She turned in a circle. “Where?”

“Just put the mask down.”

“What? No, wait . . .”

“Put the mask down, Elise.”

Martin and the corral of costumes around them started to fade away. But slowly, growing clearer and clearer into focus, was a reflection of a Noh theater mask with golden-green hazel eyes peering through from behind. Her eyes.

“. . . Max is a sweetie. He’s really smart and he’s funny. And I think he’s serious. He likes you. You can see it when he looks at you,” Molly was saying. “Why do you keep pushing these guys away?”