The doctor took out a prescription pad and began scribbling on it. "I'm going to give you some cream to cover your veins for now, but really, it's nothing to worry about. I'll see you in the spring."
"Why? Is something going to happen in the spring?" But the doctor wouldn't say.
Schuyler left the doctor's office with more questions than she had answers.
Whenever Mimi felt upset, she went shopping. It was her natural reaction to any intense emotional experience. Happy or sad, depressed or triumphant, she could only be found in one place. She stormed out of the doctor's office, took the carpeted elevator to the ground floor, and walked across Madison to the haven of Barneys. Mimi loved Barneys. Barneys was to Mimi as Tiffany's was to Holly Golightly, a place where nothing terrible could ever be allowed to happen. She loved the clean lines of the beauty counters, the pale wood fixtures, the glass cases displaying tiny, exquisite and exorbitantly priced jewelry, the small selection of Italian handbags, everything so clean and modern and perfect.
It was a great antidote to everything that had happened—because of course, Aggie was still dead. That's what scared her the most. Her death meant there was something The Committee was keeping from them. That there was something they didn't know, or something The Wardens weren't telling them. She didn't want to question them, but it was maddening when her father wasn't forthcoming with any answers.
And that Van Alen girl—the one with the spooky grandmother—showing up at Dr. Pat's office like that. There was something about that girl she didn't like, and not just because Jack seemed to be interested in her. A wave of revulsion had washed over her when she saw the two of them together, and she wanted to exorcise the remaining ill feeling that had made her feel like vomiting. She wished her brother would quit hanging around scraggly sophomores like Schuyler Van Alen. What was wrong with him?
A woman in a sleek pantsuit approached Mimi deferentially. "Would you like to see anything I've put aside for you, Miss Force?"
Mimi nodded. She followed her personal shopper to the private dressing room in the back that was reserved for VIPs and celebrities. It was a circular room, with suede couches, a small bar, and a hosted buffet table. In the middle of the room was a rack of clothes that her shopper had selected especially for her.
She took a chocolate-dipped strawberry from a silver tray and chewed on it slowly while she perused the racks. She'd already made her fall purchases that August, but it didn't hurt to see if she'd missed any trends. She caressed a gold Lanvin ball gown, a shorn Prada jacket, and a floral Derek Lam cocktail dress.
"I'll take these," Mimi said. "And what do we have here?" she cooed, finding a wisp of chiffon on a padded hanger.
She brought the dress into the dressing room and emerged a few minutes later in a devastating leopard print Roberto Cavalli silk gown. She looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was slashed down from neck to navel, revealing her pale, ivory skin, and ended in a haze of feathers that fluttered down her calves.
"Bellissima."
Mimi looked up. A handsome Italian man was staring at her, his eyes resting on her exposed cleavage.
She covered herself with her hands and displayed her curvy back to him. Her black thong peeked above the waist. "Zip me up?"
He walked over and put a finger underneath the strap of her thong, toying with the lacy fabric. Her skin tingled with goose bumps at his touch. He stroked the crescent underside of her back, stopping right above her lower hip. He smiled at her in the mirror and she returned his smolder. He looked to be in his early twenties, twenty-three tops. A gold Patek Philippe glinted on his wrist. She recognized him from the society pages. A famous Manhattan playboy, who was rumored to have sent half the society girls in the 10021 ZIP code into therapy.
"That dress is wasted on you here," he said, as he pulled the zipper up slowly.
Mimi took a step back, arching her neck and observing how the dress barely covered her nipples. Definite side cleavage.
"Then why don't we go somewhere else?" Mimi asked, her eyes sparkling dangerously. She could sense the blood beneath his skin, almost taste the rich, luscious, pulp in his veins. No wonder she'd been feeling irritable and weak— with all the distress from Aggie's funeral, she'd hardly had any time for a new boy.
Some people would probably advise a young girl not to step inside a stranger's Lamborghini. But as Mimi folded her legs inside the passenger seat, her black Barneys shopping bags safely stowed in the trunk, she could only smile to herself. She was still wearing the Roberto Cavalli dress.
He revved up the engine and powered the accelerator, quickly shifting gears so that the flat, yellow sports car screeched up Madison. He gazed at her with a predatory hunger, and when he placed his right arm over her backrest, he rested a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Instead of protesting, Mimi drew his hand farther down so that it rested on her cleavage, feeling exhilarated as he squeezed her breast through the thin fabric with the one hand, and with the other, maneuvered the car deftly down the avenue.
"Is good, yes?" he asked with a heavy Italian accent.
"Very good." She licked her lips slowly.
He had no idea what he was in for.
CHAPTER 12
"Tell me again what happened."
Bliss sat on the white leather recliner in Dr. Pat's office. Her parents had made the appointment after she'd woken them up last night, screaming her lungs out.
"Yesterday, you were at the temple," Dr. Pat prodded.
"Right. The Egyptian wing at the Met," Bliss agreed. "He'd just taken his hands away from my eyes, and I saw the temple." She was sitting on a white Eames fiberglass lounge chair in a treatment room. She wasn't exactly sure what kind of doctor "Dr. Pat" was. It looked like a dermatologist's office, but she also saw several pregnant women getting ultrasounds in the other rooms.
"Yes, you said that."
"And then—" She blushed. "I think he was about to kiss me. I think he did kiss me, but then, I don't know—I blacked out. The next thing I knew, I was just walking around with him in the American wing looking at furniture."
“And that's all you remember?"
"I remember screaming."
"You were screaming?"
"No, someone was screaming. Far away." Bliss said. She looked around at Dr. Pat's office. It was the cleanest, whitest office she had ever been in. She noticed that even the medical instruments gleamed and were arranged artfully in Italian glass canisters.
"Tell me about it."
Bliss reddened. She hadn't decided to reveal what bothered her so much. Her parents already thought she was crazy—what if Dr. Pat did too?
"Well, it was really weird, but all of a sudden, I was standing outside the temple, when it was still whole. In Egypt, I mean. The sun was really bright, and the temple— it wasn't a ruin. It was complete. And I was there. It was like, being inside a movie."
Suddenly Dr. Pat smiled. It was so unexpected, Bliss found herself grinning back. "I know that sounds insane, but I felt like I was transported back in time."
Now Dr. Pat was definitely cheerful. She folded up her notebook and put it away. "What you're experiencing is perfectly normal."
"It is?" Bliss asked.
"Regenerative Memory Syndrome."
"What is that?"
Dr. Pat provided a long-winded explanation about the effects of "cell restructuring cognizance phenomenon," a cataclysmic event in the brain that produced the subsequent «time-warp» effect. Her explanation went completely over Bliss's head. "It's like déjà vu. It happens to the best of us."