“And these voices,” said Dr. Sullivan, “do they tell you to do anything?”
“Even weirder,” said Lydia, twisting her tiny white hands together, the bones looking oddly like bird wings. “It’s all nonsense. Like scraps of conversations here and there. Things like, ‘guess that’s what you call a coop de grass.’”
Marcy Sullivan’s head snapped up. “What did you say? Don’t you mean ‘coup de grâce’?”
Lydia’s hands kept twisting. “No, that’s what I mean. It doesn’t even make sense. The voices in my head are as crazy as I am.”
Marcy looked down at her own hands this time. What was it her brother had said at dinner last night? That their mother had finally decided to have the henhouse torn down and planted with sod. “Guess that’s what you call a coop de grass,” he’d joked.
Were the voices in Marcy’s schizophrenic patient’s mind…Marcy’s voices?