Confidante
Susan Donim

I met my confidante when I was seven, and the first thing she said to me was:

“Don’t worry; you’re not schizo.”

I looked up from my colouring book and saw her, pale-skinned with shoulder-length black hair.

“What’s ’schizo’?” I had asked.

“Well, schizophrenia is a condition when people see and hear things they believe are real, which isn’t so. Like kids with imaginary friends, except adults think it’s healthy at their age because it develops creativity or something. Basically, schizos build castles in the air, and move their furniture in.”

I laughed, mostly at ‘castles in the air’.

“So you’re my imaginary friend?” I asked.

“No, I’m not, I’m as real as you are. There is another side to it, but that’s for another day. Promise me this, though: No one else can know about me. They’d just send you for therapy.”

“What’s therapy?”

*

Her name was Lisa. And suffice to say, I’ve never been to therapy.

When I was in high school, I looked up ’schizophrenia’, and found out that the mind is what makes it all real. It didn’t matter that she’d told me I wasn’t schizo; it was all in my head, I could’ve imagined it nonetheless.

“I was afraid you’d find out about that soon enough.”

She was standing behind me. “I meant to tell you, but… I just kept putting it off. I didn’t want you to think that you’re crazy or anything like that. That’s the last thing I’d want. But you’re not mental. Believe me.”

But I didn’t; instead, I thought I was more crazy than ever. My imaginary friend was still around even after all this time.

*

Lisa has been an integral part of my life for 15 years now. The fact that I actually cared about her, didn’t make it any healthier, but I do know where the line’s drawn, and I told her just as much. She retorted, “And since I’m ‘all in your head’, if you did fall in love with me, I’d say that you fell for yourself, you narcissist.”

We had a good laugh at that, but deep down, I guess she knew that I didn’t believe she was real.

A few years on, I met Joanna. Smart, beautiful; she was perfect. Lisa was excited for me; it wasn’t the ‘polite’ excited, when you’re sore and didn’t want to show it. Lisa’s always encouraged me to date; at 13, she told me that I should kiss Malory Jenkins on the lips.

Had detention for a week.

She couldn’t stop laughing when she found out.

“When you get married, I wanna be the Best Lady.”

“What?” I laughed.

“I wanna be the best lady. Then I’d get to wear a tux, and look dapper.”

“But you’re a girl,” I scoffed. “You’re one of the bridesmaids.”

“Yeah, but the bridesmaids are from the bride’s side. I’m on your side, remember?”

She was right. She’s always been there for me, whenever I was down, whenever I needed her. Funnily, she’s never around in class, or at work, even when I wanted her to be. Her answer? “I didn’t want to distract you. “

I still have doubts about my sanity, though. I mean, I thought that whenever I wanted her around, there she would, or should be, but sometimes, she just didn’t show. But there was that time I fell into that ditch cycling home from school, breaking my leg. Help came soon enough; however, I can’t help but feel that she’d something to do with the way Mr. Green was looking around himself after he’d helped me out.

*

“You look great.”

I turned from the mirror and grinned at Lisa. “I look dashing, don’t I?”

“Don’t get big-headed,” she said, walking up to me and adjusting my tie. “You still have to say your vows, say your ‘I do’s, wait for the pries–”

I laughed. “Alright, alright, I get it.” I looked at her. “Why aren’t you in a tux? I thought you wanted to be ‘Best Lady’.

She looked troubled. “Mark, we have to talk.”

“What about?” I said.

“Mark, you know I can’t be around forever, even though I want to. You know I have to leave sometime. And…” she faltered, “it’s time for me to go.”

I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew it to be true. For the past few weeks, she seemed sad, and distant, but she always changed the subject whenever I asked. I guess she didn’t want me to be distracted, what with the wedding and all, but I never stopped wondering what was wrong.

She went on, “Now you’ve found the perfect girl, I know you’re in good hands. Joanna’s wonderful, and everything’s gonna be great, that I can tell.”

I went over to her and hugged her, and she hugged back as warmly, tears in her eyes. I didn’t think it’d hurt this much, but it did.

“Good-bye, Mark. Have a good life.”

“Good-bye, Lisa.”

But as she faded away, that nagging thought got the better of me:

“Wait! Where are you from, if you’re not in my head?”

I heard her strange answer, only to my ears, just as my best man opened the door, telling me to hurry up.

*

Joanna and I moved into our own place in the suburbs, and although I would give my world for Joanna, part of me was sad that I would never see Lisa ever again. Puts a whole new spin on the schizophrenia thing, doesn’t it? I guess I cared for her more than I knew.

I was walking to the grocer’s one day, when a ‘Missing Persons’ flyer flew onto my feet. The face on it caught my eye. It was Lisa’s.

Old and faded, it was dated April 1988. And as I read that flyer, it made me realise the significance of her last, whispered words to me:

“I don’t know either, but I do know that I’ve been dead for as long as you’ve known me.”