YOU OWE ME Dr. Christina Dalcher Dear Stephen King and Mom, Everything is your fault. We’ll start with that evil sonofabitch Silent E on The Electric Company, which you, Mr. King, didn’t create, but may as well have. No, Silent E was Mom all the way. Forget the redeeming pedagogical qualities—did you stop to think whether subjecting your toddler to the mystical machinations of that wand-waving thing was appropriate? You should have known better. My analyst says the lingering fears of my twin sister Rita spontaneously morphing into a ball of twine should resolve themselves any year now. Hmm. Later, you two colluded. Take Carrie. Sweet, bible-thumping Carrie with that pig-blood-stained prom gown. You cooperated here: Mr. King wrote a book no nine-year-old had read, but we all saw the movie trailer and, damn, we related. Mom said we weren’t allowed to see such horrors, so, naturally, we snuck into the cineplex and did just that. When Salem’s Lot first aired on television starring that wife-beating blonde dude, we watched it. With Grandpa. (Nice attempt to seduce me into thinking the movie was child-friendly, Mom.) The real problem here is the basement, and how Mom yelled her head off when I locked little Javier in ours. I swear I only wanted to see what would happen. And Mr. King was the one who said the unrealities of dark basements aren’t as terrible as the realities of Russian satellites. (Speaking of basements, can one of you send someone to fix the sump pump again? I can't go down there by myself. I. Just. Can’t.) I've held something back for a long time, but my analyst thinks I should 'share,’ so here I am sharing: Mom, you were sweet to set up a private screening of The Shining for my fifteenth birthday. It was—how can I put this without hurting your feelings?—less sweet of you to write REDRUM in bloodcolored lipstick on my bedroom mirror later that night. This is not what relating to your teen is all about—Dr. Sanders says so. Dr. Sanders also says she would like her bill paid. Are you getting this? I'm asking because Dr. Sanders says I should be more direct. Here's the lowdown: I'm fifty years old, and I sleep with the lights on. I can't use my own basement (and Javier won't set foot in it—I suppose that's understandable). Rita stopped answering the telephone because her husband is sick of me ringing every day to check on whether she's turned into a ball of twine. I don't mind so much because I've never liked Rita and I wish the little bitch would turn into string. I’m surprised you haven’t already met each other, being of the same ilk. You two are monsters. I still love you both, but meanwhile, I hope one of you will have the good graces to write Dr. Sanders a check. (Note to Mom: King is loaded. Make him pay.)
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