THE INSCRIPTION ON the wedding band this man, this Paul, has just put in my palm reads TO D, MY LOVE FOREVER, P.
“Here, Dee, let me help you with that,” he says from the chair next to me, and reaches for the ring, but I close my hand tight around it. I’m considering using this ready fist I’ve formed to punch his lights out, but the voice counsels calm.
Keep your cool. See what this man is up to. What kind of enemy he is.
She’s right. “Paul” holds all the sanity cards, and I hold none. I calmly place the ring on the desk, say to Sherman, now sitting behind it, “This man is not my husband.”
“But—” the man starts.
“Mr. Frasier, remember what I said,” Sherman warns.
So, they’ve chatted about me, my so-called doctor and my so-called husband.
“Right. Take it slow. Sorry, Doc.” Paul turns to me. “I brought some things I thought might help jog your memory.”
“About a husband who doesn’t exist? Go ahead, give it your best shot.”
Easy.
But then he pulls a square black-and-white photo from the shoe box—
And there we are, Paul and I, in swimsuits on the sand, hugging each other, big goddamn smiles on our faces. How is this possible?
“Virginia Beach, summer of ’51,” he says, then hands me another. In this one I’m dressed in a frilly apron, standing in an old-fashioned kitchen, proudly holding a platter on which sits a dome-shaped, gelatinous mound. And behind me, hands on my waist, is Paul. “That’s your confetti lime Jell-O mold. Your nana’s favorite. You used to make it every Christmas—”
“No way these are real,” I say. “They’ve been faked using … the … the thing…” And I try to remember what snapshot-faking machine my faulty brain is so sure exists. But if it does exist, it’s beyond the horizon of my recall. The men exchange woeful glances, fueling my rising anger. But the voice again urges caution.
Do nothing, say nothing that’ll convince Sherman to assign you to a ward with high security.
So I wait silently for Paul to pluck the next rabbit from his hat.
“Did you know Dee’s an ace bowler, Doc?” he asks.
“I do recall some mention of it in her file,” Sherman says, and Paul pulls from the shoe box a bronze trophy of a woman in a skirt throwing a bowling ball. Holds it up for the doctor.
“First place in regionals,” Sherman says, smiling. “It seems you have some real hidden gifts, Dorothy.”
When Paul hands me the trophy, his eyes linger a moment on my wrist scar—and I feel something stirring inside me just beneath my skin, springing back to life.
Shame.
It’s got deep roots, this shame, invasive and strong as kudzu. Nothing I want to unpack right now. I pull my sleeve down over the scar and examine the trophy. Inscribed on its plaque: “First Place, Mrs. Paul Frasier. Northern Virginia, Ladies Under 25’s All-League, 1952.”
“Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble creating these artifacts,” I say to Paul. “Why do it, why invent our life together?” I search his eyes for clues but find none. “What could you possibly be after?”
Careful. It’s an act, but Sherman’s buying it. Don’t get drawn in.
“I just want you back, Dee,” Paul says.
“Mr. Frasier, as you know, we’ve been assessing your wife’s memory as well as her mental status the past few days. A bit of a challenge, given her limited compliance. But the results we were able to obtain through testing and conversation tell us a few things—and I believe it’s important Dorothy also hear them.”
Paul nods. “Whatever you think is best.”
Now that he’s gotten my fake husband’s permission, Sherman continues. “Her procedural memory—how to perform a given task like darning a sock, chopping onions, driving a car—for the most part appears intact.”
“That’s good news, right?” Paul asks.
“Indeed. But her semantic memory—the recall of people, places, and things in our world—that’s quite spotty. Some things she remembers, others…”
“I see.”
Silently listening to the two men toting up my mental scorecard is—well, you can imagine.
“In spite of her coarse language,” Sherman says, “it’s clear Dorothy’s highly intelligent. An IQ of at least a hundred and forty.”
Paul smiles at me. “I always say she’s the smart one.”
“Do you, ‘Paul’?”
Sherman ignores me. “Her vocabulary, both real and imagined, is quite extensive.”
“Imagined?” I ask.
“Yes, what do you mean, Doctor?” Paul echoes.
“I’m referring to her neologisms,” Dr. Sherman says, “words and phrases patients like Dorothy will make up or use in an odd new way—nonsensical to everyone else but all quite real to her. What makes your wife’s case unique is the sheer number she’s invented for things she believes exist. Such as ‘quarter hour,’ ‘the guest,’ ‘grabble and snag,’ to name just a few.”
What is he talking about? Those are real phrases! I can feel my fury again starting to build, my need to defend myself to these men like an itch I can’t scratch.
“Some of her terms are more worrisome,” Sherman says. “‘Leaning in’ on someone, for instance, means a violent action specifically taken by a woman toward a man.”
He and Paul exchange more looks of concern. More eyebrows pitched with worry.
“And still no personal memories?” Paul asks.
“There is one she’s recalled,” Sherman says.
“Oh? Can you tell me what it is, Dee?”
Let me get right on that.
“Unfortunately, she refuses to discuss it at present,” Sherman says.
Paul’s sad eyes roam over me. “I see.”
“The good news is her medical exam confirmed there was no injury to the head. Just the perforated eardrums, which, as I’ve told you, were self-inflicted.”
“That’s a lie! That doctor never even ran tests—”
But Sherman cuts me off. “Dorothy, if you cannot remain calm, you’ll need to return to the ward.” No, no, no, that can’t happen! I need to know where all of this is headed. So I redouble my efforts to stay seated and silent. Sherman turns back to Paul. “Because there’s no physical injury, we believe her amnesia is dissociative in nature.”
“Dis…?” Paul asks.
“Dissociative. The result of her subconscious’s efforts to block painful memories, deny truths some part of her doesn’t want to face during treatment at Hanover. Which is perhaps why the amnesia emerged upon Dorothy’s transfer here.” What BS. “I know it’s an upsetting development, but one I believe will ultimately resolve if we successfully treat the underlying condition. Her schizophrenia.”
“The visions,” Paul says.
Sherman nods, lights his pipe. “Yes. Can you tell me about them?”
Paul looks uncomfortable. It’s got to feel awkward making up your pretend wife’s delusions right in front of her. But he manages.
“Usually she believes she’s someone named Bix on a mission.”
He’s definitely been clued in by Sherman.
“And how does this belief manifest?” Sherman asks.
“You mean what does she do?”
“Yes.”
Paul swallows. “Well, there are times when Dee imagines she’s arming herself against her enemies, gathering allies—I took to locking up the phone, things she could hurt herself with. Then there’s often some sort of skirmish in her mind. Eventually she comes out of it. Sometimes near home … other times farther away.”
“And does she remember her actions?”
“Not always,” Paul says. “On those days she often accuses me of making it all up, that I’m somehow out to get her.”
“Can’t imagine where I’d get that idea,” I say.
“That’s the paranoia,” Sherman says, “part of the disease. You shouldn’t take it personally. Tell me, has she ever mentioned someone named Ethan?”
Ethan. Paul’s eyes narrow just the slightest. He nods. “She started talking about an Ethan in her world soon after we hired a handyman by that name. Dee was … a bit sweet on the guy. Came to seek his attentions. She gets attached easily,” he says, and the doctor gives him an understanding nod. “The man took advantage of her. After that I was careful about who was allowed near Dee.”
Now I’m his slutty nutball wife. Every part of me longs to rise and do battle.
Don’t worry, we’ll make sure “Paul” gets exactly what’s coming to him.
I ignore the voice’s bloodthirsty promise. Bite my lip and stay in the chair.
“Actually,” Sherman says, “it’s quite common for patients to incorporate things, even people like this Ethan, from their real lives into their psychopathy.” Doc is full of the ten-dollar words today. “Tell me, does she ever get violent during these episodes?”
Paul looks at me, hesitates.
“It’s all right, Mr. Frasier,” Sherman says. “You’re not telling any tales out of school. I’ve personally witnessed her martial skills.”
Paul nods. “Well, yes, sometimes she can get a little physical. When she believes Bix is a leader of some military group called the Kids’—wait, that’s not it—the Child’s Army, that’s what she calls it. A soldier sent from the future back to 1954 in a time machine on a mission to help mankind…”
I never told Sherman about the Child’s Army or the time travel! How the hell does this “Paul” know about them? I try to keep my face neutral, my jaw from dropping, struggling furiously not to get sucked into the vortex of mindfuck now swirling inside my head—
Till I remember just how out of it I was in seclusion, babbling to Sherman about my “dream” or whatever the hell it was. I must’ve mentioned time travel and the Child’s Army.
“A time machine?” the doctor asks, jotting furiously.
“Yes, sometimes Dee will stand very still for a few moments,” Paul continues. “Afterward, she believes she traveled to the future for minutes, sometimes even hours before coming back to 1954.”
Minutes … like those minutes in the lab?
No. I shove the thought deep into a tansu drawer, pivot back to the men’s conversation.
Sherman puts down his pen. “So, not just a foot soldier, Dorothy’s in a position of command in this group. A leader, magically sent here to save the world,” he says, tapping his pipe against the desk. “It’s a fairly common delusional pattern for a man. A bit aberrant for a woman.”
“It is?” Paul asks.
“Yes. Possibly speaks to a subconscious need Dorothy has to atone for something she’s done—or left undone—that her mind is blocking the memories of. The proverbial ghost in the machine, influencing her actions and reactions. Dorothy feels tremendous guilt over something in her past, that much is clear. And there’s a relief for her in not remembering it. Any idea what it could be, Mr. Frasier?”
Paul slowly shakes his head. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t concoct some atonable deed I’ve done.
Sherman puts his pipe down, sits back in his chair. While he’s gathering his quack thoughts, I contemplate the letter opener, partially hidden by papers on the desk.
But Sherman’s big think is short. Soon he’s sitting forward, elbows on desk, hands steepled. He wants to be frank.
“Mr. Frasier, can I be frank?”
“Please,” Paul says.
“I believe your wife, as a result of her disease, is experiencing some powerful urges welling up from her subconscious. Violent, crude, sometimes sexual impulses fed by a disease that’s left her profoundly disconnected from our real world and its norms and beliefs.
“And since these impulses cannot be acted upon in our civilized society,” he continues, “what her mind has done is create a future, lawless and desperate, that allows her, as this Bix persona, to satisfy her need to lie, to fight, to lust—all in the pursuit of some fantastical mission to save the world. But as you can see, Dorothy,” he says, gesturing out the window at the blue November sky, “the world is just fine. It doesn’t need saving.”
I wonder, if I acquired the letter opener and leaned in hard on Sherman, plunged it deep enough into his chest, would that satisfy my urges and prove his hypothesis?
Tempting. But stick to the plan.
“Dear,” Sherman continues, “each time you pick up a weapon, real or imagined, each time you practice deception, or act on your baser carnal urges, you are, in essence, feeding your disease, pulling you even further away from the real world.” He turns to Paul. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?”
“What you discussed?” I can feel rage creeping upward, about to boil over.
Don’t do it—
“Who gave you two assholes the rum to decide anything at all about me!” I yell.
But Sherman just looks baffled, like I’ve spoken Swahili.
“‘Rum’ is one of her words,” Paul tells him. “I believe it means ‘power’ or ‘authority.’”
I turn to him. “Who the hell are you?”
“Capgras syndrome,” Sherman says, jotting a note in Dorothy’s file. “Where a patient believes that a loved one has been replaced by an imposter.” Sherman reaches for the intercom. “I think it best if an attendant takes your wife back—”
“Please, Doc, let her stay,” Paul says.
“Don’t pretend you’re on my side,” I yell at him. “You are not on my side!”
“But I am, Dee,” Paul says. “I love you. Please, try to remember—”
I lunge for Paul. He’s surprisingly fast, out of his chair like a shot, but then he simply stands there as I pummel him, skillfully blocking blows but refusing to go on the offensive. His arms begin to encircle me, and as I feel the embrace tighten, a truly unnerving thought emerges—I am turned on by this struggle. When my forearms are pinned flat to his chest, Paul releases his grip, but we both stay there, eyeing each other.
He reaches for a loose hank of hair in my face, and I do nothing as he tucks it behind my ear. Then his hand drifts down to my earlobe and he tugs it gently.
It’s a gesture that’s alarmingly familiar.
Suddenly, my true north memory comes rushing back to me. Only this time it’s fleshed out, like an artist has taken a brush and painted in the details of a sketch. Now I see:
I’m standing near the edge of a quarry. It’s warm. Summer. The sun’s low, the shadows of nearby trees long and thready. Can hear a pair of mourning doves calling to each other through the sultry air.
And somewhere close by a boy is laughing.
My mystery man is behind me, his exquisite kisses advancing up my shoulder. I take his left hand, kiss the crescent-moon scar in the center of his palm.
And I am brimming with love.
When his lips reach the nape of my neck, a need, low in me, quickens. It feels tortuous, base, sweet, this desire, like the man is the key to one of my most twisted locks.
When he gently tugs my earlobe, I turn—and finally see his face. He’s bearded, his hair longer, but there’s no mistaking who it is.
Paul.
I blink away the memory. Pull away from him.
But the need to be sure forces me back and I grab his left hand, turn it over, hoping madly, stupidly, not to find what I do: that crescent-shaped scar.
A “no” comes out of me, but it’s more exhale than rebuttal, because I know now with absolute certainty my mystery man is Paul. Was always Paul. I just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it. I’ve shared a life with this man. Loved him.
Which makes me Dorothy Frasier: housewife, bowler, schizophrenic, slut.
All that I was so sure about myself—that my visions were simply the temporary effects of concussions or of Hanover itself, that I couldn’t possibly be an actual patient here. That I saw the “real” Dorothy Frasier escape on the transfer bus—none of it was true. My gut instinct has been worse than wrong; it’s been lying to me this whole time.
And I come to one, inescapable conclusion: I cannot trust myself.
Bullshit! This is all a lie, even the memory’s a lie. Has to be. Paul’s the enemy—you’re gonna need to kill him and soon …
As the voice issues her desperate denials and threats, I feel myself begin to come unstrung. Can almost hear each cord inside me as it snaps. Finally I say to Paul, “I don’t care what the voice says, now I know it was you in my memory.”
“‘The voice’? Who’s the voice?” he asks.
But Paul won’t be getting an answer for a while. Ever, maybe. I just buried all my faith in myself. I need time to sit shiva, mourn my loss. When that’s done, I’ll decide when and with whom I talk about the voice. It’s the one thing I can control now, and I won’t give it up without a fight.
Tears are spilling over the banks of my lower lids, betraying me once again. Paul’s watching them, spellbound and still, like he’s come upon something incredibly rare and wondrous in the wild: a white tiger or a mother panda and her cub. When he reaches to wipe a tear from my cheek, I recoil, all twitchy and unbalanced by the adrenaline surging through me.
As I stand there shaking, Sherman approaches. Had forgotten he was even in the room. There’s a glow about the doctor now—like he’s picked up the scent of fresh breakthrough, gotten a whiff of all the shame and confession in the air.
“Do you know who you are now, dear?”
“I’m Dorothy Frasier. Now back the fuck off.”