Page 88 of Dual
“Integration isn’t always a linear process,” he explains patiently. “Different parts may integrate at different times, in different ways. What’s important is that you’re building awareness of all the parts of yourself—Mads, Red, and any others that might emerge.”
I shake my head, not entirely convinced. “It doesn’t feel like integration. It feels like abandonment. Like she’s just... gone. And I’m stuck here with whatever’s left.”
“Perhaps it’s not abandonment you’re feeling, but transformation,” he suggests. “Change can be disorienting, especially when it happens unexpectedly.”
“I don’t want to transform,” I mutter, aware that I sound like a petulant child. “I want things back the way they were! I want to understand what’s happening to me.”
Dr. Ezra’s expression softens with empathy. “I know this is difficult, Anna. But I’d like to try something that might help you connect with these parts of yourself. A technique that focuses on co-consciousness rather than separation.”
“Co-consciousness?” I repeat, the term sounding somewhat familiar from our previous sessions.
“It’s the idea that different parts of yourself can be aware of each other—can communicate and even collaborate,” he explains. “Instead of Mads taking over, or you pushing her away, you might learn to exist alongside one another.”
I consider this, trying to imagine what it would be like toshare my consciousness with Mads instead of being supplanted by her. “And Red, too?”
Dr. Ezra nods. “Eventually, yes. All parts of yourself deserve acknowledgment, even the ones that frighten you. But we’ll start with Mads, since you already have a relationship with her.”
“How does it work? This co-consciousness thing?”
“I’d like you to try a meditation exercise,” he says. “Find a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed. Focus on your breath until you feel centered, then imagine a space where you and Mads might meet—a neutral territory, so to speak. Some people visualize a room, or a garden, or even just a comfortable chair. The specifics don’t matter as much as the intention.”
It sounds simple enough, but also vague and a bit new-agey. Still, I’m desperate enough to try anything.
“Once you’ve created this space,” Dr. Ezra continues, “invite her in. Not to take over, just to join you. To talk, maybe, or simply to be present with you.”
“And if she doesn’t come?”
He smiles gently. “Then we try something else. This is a process, Anna. It takes time and patience.”
I breathe out. Fuck patience. I’m running out of time. I only have a little more than a week left here. What the hell am I supposed to do then?
We talk a bit more about logistics—how often to practice, what to do if I feel overwhelmed, and when to schedule our next call.
Through the window, I can see Domhnall still on his call, his expression serious as he gestures with one hand, making some point to whoever’s on the other end. He looks every inch the powerful businessman, even here in this desert retreat, and I’m struck again by the strange duality of our lives—his world of corporate power plays and international deals, my world of fractured identities and psychological battlegrounds.
Somehow, against all odds, we’ve made it work. We’ve found a way to bridge those worlds. If I can do that, surely I can find a way to bridge the divided landscape of my own mind.
I close the laptop, resolve hardening inside me. I’ll try Dr. Ezra’s meditation. I’llmakeit work. Because dammit, something has to.
The meditation space I choose is a small alcove off the main living area of our suite. I’ve pulled a floor cushion into the corner, positioned so I can see out through the floor-to-ceiling windows but remain slightly sheltered by the curve of the wall. The afternoon light is soft, filtering through the thin desert haze.
Domhnall is still working, now moved to the private pool area where he can take calls without disturbing me. I can just see the top of his head through the window, dark hair catching the sunlight.
I settle onto the cushion, crossing my legs and resting my hands on my knees. My posture feels artificial, like I’m playing at meditation rather than actually doing it, but Ipush away the self-consciousness. This isn’t about looking the part.
It’s about finding Mads.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of air filling my lungs, then slowly leaving again. In, out. In, out. The rhythm of breath, the most basic sign of life.
After a few minutes, my racing thoughts begin to quiet. The constant background anxiety that’s been my companion since Mads disappeared fades to a dull hum. I’m not completely relaxed—I don’t think I’ve truly relaxed in years, if ever—but I’m as close as I get these days.
Following Dr. Ezra’s instructions, I begin to visualize a meeting place. What comes to mind isn’t a room or a garden, but a beach—the wild, rocky shore of western Ireland where Domhnall took me a couple of months after I returned from Chicago. The memory is vivid—gray-green water, dark stones, a sky that couldn’t decide between rain and sunshine. We’d walked for hours along that shore, talking about everything and nothing, the wind whipping color into our cheeks.
In my visualization, I’m sitting on one of the larger rocks, watching the waves crash against the shore. The space beside me is empty. Waiting.
“Mads?” I call, my voice echoing oddly in this imagined space. “Are you there? I’d like to talk to you.”
Nothing. Just the sound of waves, the cry of distant seabirds.
