The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 31

"Did you ever use any of her designs?" Arthur asked.

"Oh no, we couldn't do that," replied the mother. "We tried to encourage her, sent her to Paris, Milan, for inspiration. But when she came back to us, she wasn't the same enthusiastic little girl we had sent over. She was not our Brixton. I think she started taking drugs over there and getting involved with the wrong crowd. Oh, it's difficult to talk about."

Arthur waited patiently while she stifled her tears, regained her voice.

"She tried to hurt herself, so we had to send her, you have to understand, to keep her safe." Arthur could tell it was difficult for the mother to relive. "We thought it was working. She started listening to music, writing poetry, painting. We thought this was it. She was better. Then she disappeared."

Then she appeared, Arthur thought.

"She's gotten worse?" Arthur asked.

"Much," replied the mother. "If you could please come. I think it would make all the difference."

Arthur thought about this. He thought about Brixton in boarding school, Brixton modeling, Brixton in Europe, getting sucked into the nightlife. He thought of her dancing at the club, smiling and laughing. He thought of her sleeping near him in the bed, a sister kitten purring next to him. He thought of her kneeling on the bathroom floor, patches of hair between her fingers. He thought about her fear. He thought about her mortality. He agreed to visit. One time.

Sixty-five days.

***

Mrs. Jones met Arthur in the lobby. She was an older photocopy of Brixton – platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, svelte figure in white slacks and yellow blouse. She wore heels that clicked noisily on the white linoleum flooring. Family were the only ones permitted on the premises, so she escorted him herself. She was not warm like Brixton, but she was grateful. She pointed him toward the room and retreated to the family lounge where she would be drinking tea and waiting.

A young man about twenty stood outside Brixton's room, staring through the open door. He rocked back and forth on his bare feet, arms crossed, a black star tattooed on the thumb he was picking at with his teeth. He had shaggy brown hair that fell in his eyes, and a weekend's worth of stubble shadowing his face. He wore institution-issued clothing that could make him pass for a patient or an inmate. Arthur cleared his throat when he approached, which had the opposite effect intended, startling the young man.

"Whoa, dude," said the young man with a west coast accent. "You scared the shit out of me, man."

"Sorry," Arthur said quickly.

The kid pointed through the door. "You visiting her?"

"Yeah."

"Think you can give her these for me? They won't let me in." He held out his hand, three small plastic boxes in his grasp.

Arthur took the boxes from the kid's outstretched hand. They were cassette tapes, the once clear plastic cases scratched and fogged. David Bowie cassette tapes: Ziggy Stardust, Hunky Dory, Lodger. The hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stood on end. "What are they for?" Arthur asked.

"I found them in the library," the kid continued. "I don't know if she has a way to play them, but I thought she'd at least like to look at them."

"She likes him?" Arthur asked, indicating the tapes.

The kid nodded. "When she first came, she was so sad. I tried to cheer her up. I knew what it was like to be sad. I was sad when I came here, too. They let me play music back then. I played her Bowie. She didn't care at first, but when I played Rock N Roll Suicide, she made me play it over and over. I mean, I get it, that's a sick tune, man, but she really got into it."