She followed Becca’s gaze into the large window of a new vintage clothing store, one of several such trendy triflings dotting Capitol Hill. This shop was not of the classier variety. Lifelike mannequins wore glittered, spaghetti-strapped halter tops, net shawls, and artfully tattered denim skirts. Not to Jo’s taste, but she claimed no real discernment when it came to fashion. She looked at Becca’s still face, at her eyes.
They were rolled back, exposing only the whites.
“Ms. Hawkins!” Jo took her arms and turned her from the window. She spoke her name again, with no reaction. Becca’s features were slack and shining with sweat, and her breath came in swift, shallow pants. Seizure? A severe allergic reaction. She was allergic to peanuts. Had there been nuts in her cupcake? “Becca, talk to me.”
Becca’s eyes fluttered, and Jo glimpsed slivers of green irises. She stood stiffly in Jo’s grip, apparently dazed, and then turned back toward the window.
Becca punched Jo in the chest, hard, knocking her aside, and bolted past her. Air woofed out of Jo’s lungs. She clutched her sternum in one hand and gaped for only a moment before taking off in pursuit.
“Becca! Ms. Hawkins!” Jo pounded down the sidewalk, ducking under the low-hanging eaves shading it. Becca was running full-out, but at least she had the presence of mind to weave through the few pedestrians she encountered rather than plow them down.
Jo was intensely aware of the spectacle they were creating on a public street. To her relief, Becca’s cheap Target sneakers proved, literally, her downfall. She scuffed a toe over a raised edge of asphalt and went airborne, sailing, thankfully, onto a wide patch of grass bordering the walk. She landed with a frightening crash and sprawled gracelessly on her belly.
Becca scrambled mindlessly to her feet, still driven by the horror of the corpses.
“Hey! Hold on!”
It was Joanne Call. For a moment, Becca’s disorientation was so extreme she couldn’t remember where she was or why Dr. Call was with her, clenching her arms so fiercely. Saliva flooded her dry mouth, and she swallowed convulsively. It had never been this bad before.
“Becca, you look terrible. What’s the matter with you?”
Becca wanted to offer a coherent reply, but she looked up into those mirrored sunglasses and saw the distorted reflections of her own face, inches away. She felt the strength drain out of her legs in a rush and her head filled with static. She had a fleeting impression of Dr. Call lunging to catch her as her knees buckled.
Becca had never fainted in her life, so she didn’t realize she had until she came to. She was lying in the grass, cradled in a pair of strong arms, one supporting her back, the other clasped across her waist. She could see the lower legs of a few people standing around them. She heard a voice ask if they should call 911.
She rested her head on Dr. Call’s crisp white sleeve. Dr. Call had removed her sunglasses, and Becca stared up into those blazing dark eyes.
“I think,” Dr. Call said, “you should call me Jo.”
“Okay,” Becca said. She turned her head and threw up.
“It’s called pediophobia.” Becca pulled deeply on the straw immersed in her thick milkshake.
Jo watched her in amazement. A half-hour after regurgitation, Becca’s yearning for chocolate was fully restored. The woman required regular chocolate infusions like others needed water to live. “Pediophobia? A fear of children?”
“No. Pediaphobia is a fear of children. Pediophobia is a fear of dolls.” Becca looked at her watch. She sighed and slipped a cell phone out of the pocket of her shorts. “Excuse me just a minute.”
Jo sipped her green tea and suppressed a flood of questions as Becca clicked keys. They were sitting in wrought iron chairs before a very small wrought iron table, typical of the never-quite-comfortable outdoor furnishings fronting Capitol Hill cafes. But the fresh air seemed to be helping Becca. Her face was losing that unnerving, distant cast, and she was no longer as pale.
“Hi. We’re not coming. I’m so sorry I made you drive over for nothing.” Becca kept her voice low, cupping her hand over her cell. Her tone was warm. “A hard trigger, a bad one. I’ll fill you in later.”
Becca smiled at the table as she listened. “Yes, I’m okay now. No, I’m not alone. I’ll be fine.” She darted a shy glance at Jo. “I’ll call you tonight, I promise. Love you, too.” She folded her phone and returned it to her pocket. “That was Rachel, the friend with keys to my uncle’s house. She’s been waiting there for us.” She touched the table. “I’m sorry, Jo. I just can’t go there today. I don’t think my nerves could take it.”
Jo was mightily tempted to offer Becca a box of Hershey bars if she’d change her mind. She was chafing to get inside that house. She managed to mask her disappointment. “We can go another time. A fear of dolls?”
Becca stirred her milkshake, her eyes downcast. “Yeah. It’s more common than you might think. It’s not just dolls. Pediophobia is a fear of any false representation of a human being. Anything that looks like it should be human, alive, but isn’t.” She smiled wryly. “Which covers a lot of territory. I can’t go into the Quest Bookstore because they have these little lifelike figures in the window, carvings of various gods. I can’t go into toy stores, of course, or clothing stores, because of the—ˮ
“Mannequins.” Jo remembered the posed figures in the shop window.
Becca nodded. “To me, those mannequins looked like living corpses.” Her lip trembled, and Jo steeled herself, afraid tears would follow. “It wouldn’t have been as bad if they were stylized, with half-arms or faceless. They were pretty realistic.”
“Do you see these false representations as physical threats?” Jo’s chest still ached with the power of Becca’s blow, her desperation to run from the window. “That the dolls or the mannequins might come to life and hurt you in some way?”
“I don’t even get that far.” Becca sat back in her chair, a weary wonder in her voice. “They don’t have to come to life, they don’t have to chase me, they just have to exist. I can’t explain it. But I’m sorry you had to witness it. I’m embarrassed. I’ve never, ever been triggered so hard as today.”
“Well, that’s good.” Jo couldn’t imagine enduring fear like that on a regular basis.
“Normally, all I have to do is turn my head and walk away. I’ve done that in the middle of a sentence before, which can be awkward, but it’s always worked.”
“And you say this isn’t a rare phobia?”
“It’s common enough.” Becca rested one sneaker on the table and brushed grass from her lightly skinned knee. “The makers of the Shrek films had to change the Fiona character, the princess, because she was drawn too well. Too lifelike. They actually had to make her more cartoonish, because she made so many people uneasy.”
Jo had never seen the Shrek films. What an interesting morass of contradictions Becca Hawkins was. Obviously intelligent, warm, prickly, funny, confident. And haunted by this bizarre terror. She felt the silence grow between them and struggled to think of something to say. “Have you never looked into the origin of this fear? Hypnosis, therapy?”
Becca’s face changed subtly, and Jo knew she was going to lie before she spoke. “Rachel Perry, the friend I just called, was my therapist a long time ago. We worked on this for years. I still have no idea why I freak out so badly.”
“I see.” Jo pondered this for a moment. This study held little promise if she kept running into these random deceits. If learning the truth meant picking delicately through Becca’s psyche with sensitivity and restraint, Jo didn’t know how to do that. She slid out her wallet and laid a few bills on the table. “Are you sure you’re all right physically, now?”