I noticed that she was shaking her head. "You won't find her," she said. "You won't bring her home. I won't melt and disappear. She is gone and you couldn't have prevented it."
I smiled. "Elaine," I said.
And then I realized that she had answered thoughts I hadn't put into words.
"That's right," she said, "let's be honest with each other. You might as well. You can't lie to me."
I shook my head. For a moment, in my confusion and despair, I had believed it all, believed that Anansa was real. But that was nonsense. Of course Elaine knew what I was thinking. She knew me better than I knew myself. "Let's go outside, " I said. A failure and a cripple, out to enjoy the sunlight, which fell equally on the just and the unjustifiable.
"I don't care," she said. "Whatever you want to believe: Elaine or Anansa. Maybe it's better if you still look for Elaine. Maybe it's better if you let me fool you after all."
The worst thing about the fantasies of the mentally ill is that they're so damned consistent. They never let up. They never give you any rest.
"I'm Elaine," she said, smiling. "I'm Elaine, pretending to be Anansa. You love me. That's what I came for. You promised to bring me home, and you did. Take me outside. You made it stop raining for me. You did everything you promised, and I'm home again, and I promise I'll never leave you."
She hasn't left me. I come to see her every Wednesday as part of my work, and every Saturday -and Sunday as the best part of my life. I take her driving with me