It is Sunday.  I have an appointment with Dr. Nakajima this afternoon,
and want to make a good impression.  Sorting through my clothes, I
realize that most of my wardrobe is either self-consciously wicked or
just plain tacky.  So many black leotards--you would think one or two
would have done.  And a white wedding dress? Please.  I finally select a
scoop-necked cotton sundress in a light plum which gives off a cheery
air of mental health.

	Putting it on, I examine myself in the mirror, turning this way and
that.  The dress is a little tight, especially across the chest, but
there are advantages to that.  I hike up the hem and pinch at my thigh. 
There's still very little fat, but the muscle is not as firm as I would
like.  I'll have to start practicing again.  Even if I can't compete
officially, I can still get back into condition.  How did it go--sound
mind in sound body?  I can still do one, at least.

	I add white pumps and belt, a little makeup, and a new hair ribbon. 
Smiling coquettishly, I flirt with my reflection for a few minutes. 
Why, hello, Ranma.  Fancy meeting you here.  Of course, I would probably
collapse and die of pure shame if I met Ranma, or anyone, really, at a
mental health facility.  With that sobering thought, I sigh and prepare
to leave.



	Dr. Nakajima is a thick, bearish man in his mid-thirties, and his
office is a rather musty, shuttered room with several chairs of
different types scattered about.  His desk is at one end.  As I enter, I
see him place a manila folder into a drawer--my file, I assume.  "Have a
seat, Miss Kuno," he says, "preferably on a chair this time, okay?"

	Back when I first came to this place, I was brought in for a similar
interview.  He told me to sit "anywhere I felt comfortable."  Looking
around at the furniture--the old overstuffed sofa by the wall, the high
hardbacked chair near the door, the two folding metal chairs--I decided
I was being tested, that each seat had a list of diagnoses to be applied
if I sat in it.  So instead, I hopped onto his desk and perched
seductively on the edge, feet practically in his lap.  His chair slid
back and hit the wall with a quiet thump.

	"I'm comfortable right here, Doctor," I said, crossing my legs lazily. 
"Are you comfortable?" 

	He wasn't.  

	At first, I was proud of my "victory" that day.  Later, I came to be
ashamed, and to privately wish he would not tease me so.  But as I sit
quietly in one of his larger chairs I feel again a small surge of
triumph.  I have felt so besieged lately.  His face, grotesque with
surprise and yes, panic, returns to me.  I smile to myself.

	I remember Eriko, and a deep wave of shame breaks over me.  Bully. 
Arrogant.  Selfish.  Vain.  I make a motion towards my purse, but
realize I don't have my medication.  It's not time anyway.  The air is
chilly and harsh.  

	Dr. Nakajima suddenly stands, comes out from behind the desk, and pulls
another chair closer to me.  "Kodachi," he says, sitting down.  "What's
wrong?  Talk to me."

	"I don't like me," I whisper, and burst into tears, bowing my head as I
struggle for control.  Dr. Nakajima waits patiently.  As my sobbing
diminishes, he reaches forward and touches my arm softly.  "It's okay,"
he says.  "Take your time."  My tears increase, and he slides closer so
I can lean against him.  

	"I wish you wouldn't tease me about the chairs," I say, after a while.

	"I'm sorry," he says.  "I'm sorry.  I won't do it again."

	I look up at him.  He doesn't understand, not really.  I straighten,
consciously arranging myself into a decorous posture.  He moves away.

	"I think my brother is ill, Doctor," I say formally.  "I think he
should be placed under institutional care.  I think . . ." my breath
catches in my throat.  "I think he is like me."   

	He nods.  "Why is that?"

	I tell him about Akane, his non-girlfriend, and how he doesn't seem to
properly listen anymore.  "He hears you, and he knows what you mean, but
he acts like you haven't said anything.  Isn't that what I used to do?"

	He sighs, and rubs at his eyes.  "More or less.  I'll talk to him.  Can
you bring him here sometime this afternoon?  I'll reserve some time
then."

	I nod.  "Thank you, doctor."

	Well, that's done.  My brother may well hate me for this, but I must
see it through.  The rest of the visit is uneventful, even dull.  We
discuss possible changes in my medication, but decide to leave things as
they are.  He asks questions about my return to society, and eventually
pronounces himself satisfied.

	As I am walking to the door, I turn and ask a question.  "Doctor . . .
do you like me?"

	"In what sense?"

	I consider that.  "Am I someone you would want as a friend?"

	"I'm very fond of you, Kodachi," he says softly.  "You've had some
severe problems and you've made a lot of very difficult progress.  I'm
proud of you, and I hope we already are friends."

	Warmth floods me.  "Thank you, doctor."  I walk out.



	I do not go home, but wander about the neighborhood with no
destination.  Tatchi will not simply go quietly with me to what might be
a long or permanent stay in the asylum.  He will object.  He will fight,
as I did.  But I do not want to subject him to a court-ordered,
police-enforced imprisonment, or the label of criminally insane.  I keep
my feet and my thoughts moving.  

	I could drug him, render him . . . no.  I will not return to my old
ways, not even for a short time, or a good cause.  The old patterns have
too much strength.  I fear relapse, the reawakening of the worm.  If
both my brother and I fall mad, our house is doomed.  I cannot take such
a risk.

	A few more turns, another street.  Must I lie to him?  It seems the
only way.  Perhaps begging might achieve something, but I can thing of
no other useful alternative.  I turn my attention to what lie I will
use.

	On and on my feet carry me, until I see two figures approaching.  I
recognize Akane Tendo, but the other girl is a stranger.  I stop and
wait for them.

	"Hello, Kodachi," says Akane.  She smiles and gives a polite bow.  The
other girl neither smiles nor bows, but looks away uncomfortably and
receives a swift sideways kick for her trouble.  

	"Hello, Akane," I say warily.

	"I want to apologize for what I said about your brother.  I had no
right to say that."  She looks down.  "I'm sorry."

	"What did you say?"

	She flushes. "I . . . I said I wished your brother had broken his
neck."

	What on earth is she talking about?  Oh, that's right.  "It's okay."  I
give a half shrug.  "Don't worry about it."


	"Thank you."  She smiles gratefully, and I find myself smiling back. 
I'm beginning to see why my brother was so taken with her.  She has
charm, and to spare.  The other girl watches her, an odd look on her
face.

	"Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" I ask.

	The two look at each other.  "Well," says Akane.  "This is.  Um."  She
seems at a loss as to her friend's name.

	"Ranma Saotome," supplies the other.

	Ranma Saotome?  How strange.  I suppose I should have known she would
be related to my . . . to Akane's fianc�.  They look much alike, even to
the pigtail.  "Your fianc�'s . . . sister?" I offer.

	"Uh, sure." says Akane.

	"Whatever," adds the pig-tailed girl.

	Silence descends.  Akane smiles again, but there's no charm in it. 
It's a dishonest smile, a covering smile.  The other girl stares moodily
at a clump of weeds.

	I smile back, equally falsely.  I have no idea what their little secret
is, but I wish they had had the courtesy to tell me a believable lie. 
"Well!" I say.  "My brother needs tending to.  I guess I'll see you at
school, then?"

	"How is your brother?" asks Akane.

	The unanswerable question.  "His arm is healing." I offer, then
counter-challenge.  "Why?  I thought you didn't like him?"

	"Yeah," says girl-Ranma.  "You like him?"

	"You jealous?" asks Akane.

	"Not me."  Girl-Ranma looks away.

	"What's going on?  Oh I see."  I guess Ranma--boy-Ranma--was right
after all.  "Does your fianc� know about you two?"

	"You've got it all wrong!" objects Akane.  "I . . . We . . ."  She
splutters to a halt.  The two look at each other.

	"Screw this.  I'm gonna get some hot water."  Girl-Ranma turns and
heads into a nearby house--hers, I presume.  I glare at Akane.

	"So what's going on?"

	She sighs.  "Well, there's this curse and . . . actually, it's easier
just to show you."

	We wait.  Soon the pig-tailed girl emerges from the house, carrying a
kettle.  She walks to Akane's side and turns to face me.  I fold my arms
as she upends the kettle over her head.

	She . . . she grows.  Changes.  I find myself looking up into Ranma's
face.  Boy-Ranma.  Oh.  Oh, impossible.

	"Oh, my," I gasp.  My vision turns dark and I slump forward.


	

	Movement.  I am being cradled, and I feel motion.  My head is resting
against someone.  Someone's shoulder.  Damp.

	I raise my eyelids slowly.  Ranma is carrying me.  I nestle closer and
close my eyes again.

	Ranma was a girl, but became a boy.  It wasn't real.  Hallucinations. 
Crazy Kotchi didn't take her medicine and had a hallucination. 
Perfectly normal behavior for the insane.  I feel like laughing, but
stifle it.  

	I never had hallucinations before.

	Ranma is setting me down now.  No, please.  My arms curl around his
neck, but someone pushes them away.  They lay me down on a sleeping mat,
on my side.  I curl up like a child.

	I open my eyes.  There's a man playing shogi with a panda.  The panda
is cheating.  I roll the other way.

	Ranma is here, the _real_ Ranma, and Akane, and someone else, a young
woman I do not know.  She has a ponytail and the sort of pleasant,
placid expression used by automatic elevator girls.  I find it
comforting and familiar, and focus on her as she offers me tea.

	"Yes please."  I sit up slowly.  She hands me the cup and withdraws
with a slight bow, still smiling placidly.  I sip at the cup.  "Who is
she?"

	"Older sister," says Akane.  I sip again, and feel the warmth flow
through my body.  From behind the door comes the faint clatter of
dishes. 



	"Thank you for . . . having me in."  I slip my shoes off and Akane
takes them, leaving me alone with Ranma.  I have no idea what to say to
him.  _You know, for a while there I thought you were a girl, isn't it
funny, ha ha,_ perhaps?  I settle for smiling at him.  

	"I suppose you're wondering what happened," he says uncomfortably, and
launches into a monologue.  I have trouble following him, and he seems
to be saying the most impossible things.  Cursed springs?  One of us
must be crazy, and it's probably not him.  I gather that the panda is
his father, and look back over my shoulder.  He still looks like a
panda, but he does appear to be winning the game.

	I must be having a psychotic break.  But it's strange--there are none
of the feelings of fear or pent-up frenzy that I associate with the
disease.  It's a pleasant, drifting feeling.  I thought a break with
reality would be terrifying, but I feel lucid and calm.

	I keep smiling at Ranma, nodding vaguely. He's talking about Akane now,
how his father and her father forcibly engaged them.  He doesn't want to
marry the "tomboy."

	"Oh, and who'd want to marry you, you pathetic shape-shifting pervert!"
Akane interjects.  I hadn't realized she was back, but there she is,
fists set on hips, glaring at him.

	"Well, I think he's wonderful," I say, turning my attention back to
Ranma.  

	He leans back and laces his fingers behind his neck, basking. "Yeah,
I'm pretty wonderful, all right."  He smirks at Akane, who turns on her
heel and stalks out.

	"I think it's terrible that you're being forced to marry her," I
breathe, sliding closer.  "I think you should be free to marry whomever
you want."  He looks up, and I realize someone is standing over me. 
It's the man and the panda, both looking unhappy.

	"Um, within reason, of course," I temporize.

	"Ranma," the man says, scowling, "I think you'd better go upstairs and
talk to Akane."

	"Aw, man, I didn't do nothin'," says Ranma.

	"Growf," adds the panda, folding its arms.  Forelimbs.  Something.

	"I have to go!" I blurt.  I have to get home and medicate myself.  Lie
down for a while.  I scramble to my feet and dart for the door, grabbing
my shoes on the way.



	Outside, I bend down and pull the shoes on, stumbling around in my
haste.  Ranma steps through the door, looking puzzled and . . .
concerned?  Is that concern?  I stand up, staring.

	"Hey, you okay?  You're kinda . . ."

	Without quite planning it, I lunge forward and press against him,
kissing him as hard as I can.  He lets out a sort of "Murmph" or gurgle
and stumbles back.  I release him.  He falls, and I stagger, nearly
falling on top of him.  "I'm sorry," I gasp.

	I don't know what to say now, so I turn and flee, out the front gate
and down the street.  I feel like laughing.  Raising my arms, I twirl
around like Julie Andrews.  I am 
laughing.

	Calm, girl.  Calm, calm.  I really really need my medication.  Calm
down.  Go home.  Just go home.

	I head for home, stumbling slightly and out of breath.

	Upon arriving, I head up to my room, swallow the pills, and lie down. 
Calm descends, along with the accompanying leadenness and stomach
discomfort.  Why does my madness feel better than my sanity?  It's not
fair.

	Rising, I make my towards the stairs.  As I pass my brother's room, I
hear him muttering to himself.  His door is open a crack, so I push it
further and peer in.

	He is sitting on his bed, hunched over, staring at a collection of
photographs.  Spying me, he starts guiltily, and tries to hide them
between his legs.  One flutters to the floor.  I step forward and pick
it up.

	It is not Akane Tendo.  It is that female Ranma Saotome.  The
pig-tailed girl.

	Head whirling, I sit on the bed.  Two thoughts war in my mind.  The
first is that the other Tendo girl, that Nabiki creature, must have
visited my brother while I was gone.  She certainly is persistent, I'll
say that much for her.  The second is that if this female Ranma is
simply a manifestation of my illness, how is it that my brother has a
picture of her? 

	"What's her name?" I say quietly.

	My brother frowns.  "Truly, I misremember.  But she is lovely, is she
not?  A vision, nay, an apparition--a *spectre* of pure beauty."

	She's pretty enough, I suppose, though I rather doubt she's actually a
ghost.  "How much did you pay Nabiki?"  I look up at him.

	He colors a little.  "You'll be pleased to know I received a set of
five for one low price of fifteen thousand yen.  Truly a bargain, is it
not?"

	"It is not."  I can't be truly angry with him, poor thing, but I manage
to look disapproving.  "She has cheated you, brother.  Again.  I . . ."

	I trail off.  It has suddenly struck me that my brother has decorated
his room in early Akane Tendo.  Every available surface is covered with
pictures of her.  Smiling, scowling, exercising, laughing, eating, and
sleeping, her visage faces me wherever I look.  

	"I thought you loved Akane?"  I look at the picture in my hand, then
back at my brother.  "Why the new girl?"

	" I love both," he says gravely.  "Can one choose between the moon and
the stars?  A love of beauty transcends mere partisanship."  He closes
his eyes.  "I will not limit my love so."

	Two-timer.  I toss the picture onto the floor.  

	"Dear brother," I say.  "You need help.  I would very much appreciate
it if you would come with me to see Dr. Nakajima this afternoon."

	"I have no need of such a man."

	"Please?"

	He looks away for a moment, a puzzled frown on his face.  "The
pig-tailed girl--do you know her name?"

	"Would you believe 'Ranma Saotome?'"

	He considers.  "I would not believe that, no."

	"Please, Tatchi."  I lean against his shoulder.  "Please come with me
to the doctor."

	"A beautiful girl.  And yet Akane Tendo is also lovely, and I have long
been devoted to her."

	So.  He will not come.

	I sit up suddenly, pretending to remember something.  "Oh!  Akane Tendo
asked me to tell you she wants to see her!"   The lie tastes bitter in
my mouth, but I smile as if it were candy.  "Do you want to?"

	"Akane Tendo wants to see the pig-tailed girl?"

	"Huh?"  Where did that come from?

	"Well, you said . . ."

	"Oh, silly me."  I giggle cutely, but it comes out a horrible mad
cackle and rings through my ears.  "I mean she wants you.  To see her, I
mean.  Akane.  Akane wants you to come and look at her because . . .
because she likes that.  When you look at her."  Choking down panic, I
press my lips together before I say something even more stupid.

	My brother stands slowly.  "I enjoy looking at her, as well.  Thank
you, sister.  I know you always look out for me."

	That hurts.  It shouldn't, but it does.  I know that I'm getting him
the help he needs, but somehow I feel that I am betraying him to his
enemies, turning in his head to save my neck.

	That's my mother thinking.  Save face, hide everything.  Protect the
family name.  For years she struggled to protect father from himself,
and in the end it did nothing.  We Kunos, we need help.  There's no
shame.

	My brother is regarding his pictures, and I know he has forgotten me. 
I slip out of the room quietly.

	Please let there be no shame.



	I am worried.

	I was unable to dissuade my brother from bringing his bokken.  He said
Akane Tendo would think less of him if he were unarmed and launched into
a soliloquy that would have made Sigmund Freud fall out of his chair
laughing.  He walks with it tucked under his good left arm, and though
he is not left-handed, he is still quite capable.  I fear his reaction
when he finds out he has been deceived.

	For now, he is happy, and he expounds upon the beauties of his Akane to
passersby.  He has mentioned the she-Ranma only in passing, and I hope
that his temporary fascination was solely due to the visit by Nabiki
Tendo.  If he cannot be reasonable in his affections, let him at least
be constant.  I love seeing him in this mood, insanity though it be, and
try to put my forebodings aside.  But with every step we take, my fears
grow.

	As we near the place, I take his arm.  "Come inside with me, brother,"
I say.  "Akane will be along soon.  I need you with me."

	His face darkens, but he follows me in.

	The reception area, like so much of this place, is dreary and bland, as
if the architect and decorator had been dosed with sedative.  White and
institutional beige predominate.  Music plays quietly over the intercom:
raindrops, roses, whiskers on kittens.

	The desk receptionist fits in perfectly--a young woman of no particular
beauty and the charm of old shoes.  I ask to see Dr. Nakajima and am
told he is in his office.

	I look over at my brother.  He seems edgy, as if sensing a trap. "I
think it would be better if the doctor came out here," I say.

	A few moments later, Dr. Nakajima emerges from the hall and greets me. 
"This is my brother, Tatewaki," I say.  Tatchi bows stiffly, but says
nothing.

	 "I am Doctor Nakajima," says the doctor.  "Your sister has asked me to
speak to you about . . ."

	Distrust spreads across my brother's face, then fury.  "Serpent!" he
hisses, his weapon whipping toward my face.  I manage to leap backwards
out of his range, but stumble upon landing.  My cursed medication.

	Doors bang open.  Two orderlies, huge, thick men, enter the room.  My
brother pivots to face them.  Dr. Nakajima has taken cover behind the
desk, next to the terrified receptionist, and a quick prayer for his
safety flashes through my mind.

	"C'mon,. buddy, put the stick down," says one orderly.

	"We don't want to hurt you," says the other, as if that mattered
somehow.

	I cast about the room, looking for a weapon, but the place is nearly
unfurnished.  There are some chairs, two snack machines humming to
themselves, and a row of pay telephones.  I curse my lack of
forethought.

	"Hurt me?" says my brother.  "The crude blows of a dozen such as
yourself could never hurt me.  Even wounded, the true Samurai . . ."

	Ignoring the rest, I walk over to one of the snack machines.  Yes.  It
sells Coca-Cola in thick glass bottles.  I insert a few coins, then open
the door and remove one.  Heavier than one of my clubs, and harder to
grip properly, it cannot be palmed effectively, so I slide it between my
belt and my backbone as I turn back to my brother.

	"Please, brother," I say, "let them help you."  He turns to look at
me.  "They've helped me.  I'm much better now."

	"Get him!" shouts one of the orderlies.  My brother snaps his arm once,
twice, in swift sharp motions and the two apish men lie on the ground,
moaning.  He reaches out, leveling the bokken at my face.  I walk to
within a handspan and stop.

	Icy wetness in the small of my back.  The bottle is sweating, and my
grip will suffer.

	"Liar," he says.  "They have made you as strange as a clockwork
orange.  You are not the sister I once knew."

	"Please?"  I glance behind his shoulder.  "Akane?" I say.

	He turns to look--he can't help it.  I step forward, grasping at the
bottle.  My grip slides, costing me precious time, and he begins to turn
back, raising his bokken to block.  I do a leap-turn, closing the gap
and turning my forehand blow into a powerful backhand strike to the
temple.  His bokken hits my back, exposed by my pirouette, causing me to
gasp in pain and stumble, but his eyes are unfocused and his knees
shake.

	Then he collapses, and I catch him.  The bottle tumbles to the floor
and breaks.  His bokken, too, falls to the floor and clatters in the
cold hissing puddle. Stooping, I pull him close.

	"That was amazing," says Dr. Nakajima, sounding shaken.  "I've never
seen anything like it."

	"The lie and the treacherous blow," I say softly, "have always been the
hallmark of my style."

	I kiss my brother's temple, where my blow landed, and tears fill my
eyes.  Do you hate me now, brother?  When will I see you again?  Will
you even acknowledge me as your sister?  I love you.

	They take him from me, and lift him onto a stretcher.  Already they are
fastening his arms down, treating him as a madman.  They begin to clean
away the puddle and the broken glass, and help the orderlies away.  I
take the bokken, wet and sticky with cola.

	They prepare papers, which I sign.  As I scrawl "Kuno, Kodachi," the
music changes.  Most would not think anything of it, but I know what the
song is about.  It's about striving, about the beauty of attempting
perfection, even if one fails, and it is sung my a man who is utterly,
utterly mad.  Somehow I take my leave politely and find my way to the
door.

	Farewell, my brother.  Be well.  Perhaps someday, you will emerge
healed, with your spirit straight and fine instead of bent like that old
man.  Perhaps you will find reality as bracing as the samurai past you
are so fond of.  Perhaps you will even win the love of that sweet
Dulcinea you adore so.

	Dulcineas.  Well.

	I walk.

-- David