Rikki, Kyle, and I moved into our new home on Blackhawk Court with nothing but three suitcases and a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips. The house was an airy, two-story, California design with large comfortable rooms and vaulted ceilings. No stone walls, no deer, no hot tub, no pool, no runs, no hits, no errors (we hoped).
The first day in Leona we met Linda and Peter Withington and their two children Jack and Taylor, Australian neighbors two doors down. Jack was Kyle’s age, and the two of them went together like good teeth. Linda loaned us some sheets and pillows and things to use until the truck arrived five days later with all of our stuff and our cars. In the meantime, we got Kyle set up in the second grade at Canyon Elementary School, right around the corner.
Rikki and I cautiously tooled around town in our rented Buick, trying to look as if we belonged in California. I cut my hair so I wouldn’t scare the neighbors. We got California drivers’ licenses and read the California newspapers and bought California food from the California Safeway.
On our third night there I ventured out to Oakland for the multiples’ support group meeting. Cameron West … the wild West … out in the Wild West. On the way to Sedona House I developed an incredible thirst and began looking for a convenience store. Driving through San Leandro on Route 580, I spotted one by an exit and ducked off the highway. The jangling clutter inside my head was overwhelming—the anxiety of being in a new place, of venturing out on my own, at night, to a meeting where I didn’t know anybody, a crazy people’s meeting. I was in a highly dissociated state—everyone and no one at the same time. Not good.
I drove half a block through a rundown neighborhood and pulled into a tiny parking lot in front of a shabby store with a bunch of neon beer signs in the window. I walked in and stopped about five feet from the counter. I couldn’t remember what I’d come in for.
I gazed blankly at the clerk, a heavily muscled, mean-looking kid in his early twenties, wearing a skintight T-shirt with the words I’M READY on it in big letters. He was chewing on a plastic coffee stir. We were the only people in the store.
He fiddled with some things behind the counter, waiting for me to pick up some Chiclets or ask him a question. I said nothing; just gave him the blank stare of a mentally ill person.
The stir bobbed in his mouth as Mr. Ready worked on it, sizing me up. Was I there to rob him? I certainly didn’t look like the kind of person who’d hold up a convenience store. I made him nervous, though, because after a few darting glances and some more fiddling he stood up straight, narrowed his eyes, and gave me the hard stare—the “bigger dick” stare he probably used in bars.
“What’re you looking at?” he snarled through yellow teeth, jabbing his chin at me.
His threatening tone triggered Leif, who instantly came out to protect us, and my vacant, dissociated stare quickly changed to a penetrating fiery gaze.
“What did you say?” Leif said icily, and inside I felt my body and my mind harden.
Mr. Ready shifted his stance, screwing down his mean look. His lip curled. “I said, ‘What’re you looking at?’”
Working the night shift in that neighborhood, Mr. Ready probably saw a lot of weirdos, and he was used to scaring them off with the muscles and the vicious look. Probably liked it, too. Probably practiced in the mirror. He didn’t know Leif would just as soon chew on his larynx as buy him a toy.
Leif grinned at Mr. Ready the way a panther would if panthers could grin, and the muscles in his jaw flexed and relaxed. Leif said softly, dangerously, “Ask me nicely if you can help me find something ... son.”
The veiled ferocity in Leif’s look and voice jarred Mr. Ready, and he didn’t like it. He looked confused for a moment and glanced toward the door, hoping for replacements.
Leif’s gaze clamped down harder on Mr. Ready. Outside, the heavy night drooped uncaring over the buzzing freeway, but inside, in that bristling moment, it was high noon. Leif repeated, “Ask me nicely if you can help me find something.” Back down or draw.
In an instant Mr. Ready’s hard stare melted; he’d sensed something in Leif much more powerful than himself. Mr. Ready’s face flushed and he looked like he wished he had a lap to jump into.
“Can I ... uh ... help you ... uh ... find somethin’?” he said carefully. Leif relaxed—we all relaxed. No more danger.
After a long pause Leif said, “Club soda.”
With a puzzled look on his ugly face, Mr. Ready nervously pointed a thick finger at the cold case. “It’s over there.”
Leif walked to the case, picked out the drink, returned to the counter, and handed a dollar to Mr. Ready, eyeing him steadily. Mr. Ready took the money and handed him the change without looking up. From the bleachers I noticed he had dirt under his fingernails.
Leif stopped in the parking lot and said inside, “Where’s the car? Where are we?” Immediately I switched back out, and he stepped into the background. I walked shakily to the rental car and climbed in.
The internal conversation began. “What the hell was that?” Bart said.
“Nothin’,” Leif replied. “The kid was being nasty and Cam was in outer space somewhere.”
“That’s not n-nice,” Clay said.
“I’m sorry. I meant Cam was ... I don’t know. He just needed a hand is all. So I stepped in.”
“Okay,” Per said. “We’re all under some pressure here and we need to relax. Let’s drink this water—”
“Club soda,” Switch corrected him.
“Let’s drink this club soda and take some deep breaths,” Per said. “That’ll help calm us all down.”
“Thank you, Leif, for helping out,” Dusty said.
“You’re welcome.”
Bart said, “Okay ... deep breaths.”
We breathed deeply and began to relax just slightly. I opened the can and took a drink. The cold, bubbly soda tickled my throat and helped me focus on my surroundings. We did some more deep breathing, talking back and forth amongst ourselves while we drank the club soda. Once I looked up and saw Mr. Ready peek out of the storefront window at me, then quickly look away when our eyes met. It was time to get out of there and down to the meeting.
Luckily, Sedona House wasn’t hard to find, and I arrived with about ten minutes to spare before the eight o’clock meeting. It was on a steep side street just off Lake Shore Avenue in Oakland. I nosed the car into a spot, careful to turn the wheels hard into the curb like I’d seen other people do on steep streets, just in case my rental car decided to make a break for it. Hell, I wanted to make a break for it. Just go in. There’ll be people like us. I wonder what they look like? You mean kids who are tall? Be brave, Cam. Okay, don’t leave me.
Sedona House wasn’t what I’d expected; I’d pictured a community center with fluorescent lights and Pepsi machines, not a regular two-story house from the fifties. I walked across the street, nervously fingering the keys in my pocket. There were some other people walking purposefully toward the building, and I wondered if they were multiples, too. The lights were on all over the house, and I could see a group of ten or fifteen people standing around in what must have been the living room at one time.
I climbed the stairs at the left side of the house, passing several people smoking and chatting casually on a large covered porch. The door was open and I walked in feeling very scared and alone. Inside looked like what it was, a community center in a house. I fell in behind a few people who were lined up in front of a sign-in sheet on a small desk against the right wall of the entrance hall.
To my right by the front door stood a round table with a stack of in-out trays full of notices printed on paper of different colors. There was a stack of Sedona House information packets next to it, and I picked one up and thumbed through it while I waited in line. I flipped open the first page and saw the list of all the different meetings held there: Survivors of Incest, Love and Sex Addiction, Multiple Personalities United, Partners of Survivors, Partners of Multiples, and maybe half a dozen more.
It was my turn to sign in. I looked at the sheet. People before me had written their first names and which meeting they were attending and checked a box if it was their first time. I scanned the sheet for MPU and saw nine other names, eight female and one male. I picked up the pen to sign in and noticed my hand was shaking. I put the pen down, turned to walk out, and practically ran right into a dark-haired woman who weighed maybe two hundred pounds, wearing a huge purple and orange cape.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry,” I said.
She smiled warmly at me and said, “It’s all right. I cut a wide swath.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Sally. You are ... ?”
I took her hand and shook it. “Cam.”
“Welcome, Cam.”
“Thank you, Sally.” I was having a little trouble breathing and wanted to get outside to some air. Inside I heard Bart say, “Cool out, Cam.”
“First time here?” Sally asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“Yes,” I said, noticing her deep green eyes. Something about them. “I just moved here from Massachusetts a few days ago with my wife and son.”
“Wow!” she said. “You must be nervous.” Sally was still searching my face for something, sizing me up.
“Yeah, I am,” I said, scanning the room. I brought my gaze back to hers. “Really nervous.”
She smiled again. “It can be a little overwhelming the first time. Which meeting are you here for?”
“I was thinking about going to the multiples’ meeting.” I was embarrassed to say it aloud.
“I had a feeling that’s why you were here.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“How could you tell?”
“I’ve been running that meeting for two years. Have you ever met another multiple, Cam?”
I shook my head.
She nodded. “Just diagnosed?”
“Less than a year ago.”
“Well,” she said, smiling warmly. “The meeting’s about to start. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
Sally made a move for the stairs and I stepped out of her way. I stood in the lobby for half a minute watching her make a slow and labored ascent to the second floor, my hand in my pocket fingering the car keys again. Don’t run. I stopped fiddling with the keys, signed the sheet, and followed Sally up the stairs.
At the top, we turned left into what must have been the master bedroom back when people lived there. It was a large and airy room with two single-paned crank windows facing the side of the house I’d come in. Directly across from the entrance were two French doors that led to what seemed to be a small study facing the street. The doors to that room were closed and three empty folding chairs sat in front of them. Throw pillows were scattered around the room on the large worn Oriental rug, and there were two old lime green vinyl-covered chairs to the left, separated by an end table with a box of Kleenex on it. To the right was a dark brown corduroy couch. There were several standing lamps in corners of the room and track lighting along the borders of the ceiling.
A cardboard box filled with stuffed animals sat on the floor in the middle of the room, with a smaller box of coloring books and colored paper next to it. A wicker basket filled with crayons, markers, and colored pencils was next to that.
The nine people whose names I’d seen on the sign-in sheet were spread about, some chatting with each other, some quietly standing alone. A plump woman with rings on all her fingers and both thumbs was on her hands and knees, picking crayons out of the basket.
I crossed the room and sat down on one of the chairs against the French doors. Other people picked their spots and sat down, too. Sally lowered herself with difficulty into one of the green chairs and opened the binder. She glanced over at me and smiled before beginning to read.
“This is a self-run meeting for multiples. It is not monitored by a therapist. Each person here must be considerate of every other person’s feelings. There will be no cross-talk when people are speaking unless it is asked for. No one may describe incidents of abuse in graphic detail. Alters are welcome here, but child alters cannot come out and act out in any way. No self-harm of any kind will be accepted here. There is a meeting for child alters on the third Thursday of every month. Try to keep your sharing to no more than five minutes so everyone can have a chance. Once everyone who wants to has shared, then people are welcome to share again.”
I looked slowly around the room at the other people: a tall, thin girl with dark brown eyes and broken wire-rimmed glasses; a masculine-looking woman with short, choppy hair, an army jacket and jump boots; Sally; a blond middle-aged guy with piercing eyes holding a ratty-looking bunny; a woman wearing a beret with a lot of pins on it; a hollow-eyed woman with long frizzy black hair and three stuffed animals sticking out of a large backpack; a young woman wearing baggy overalls and a black watch cap furiously drawing on a big sketch pad; a wild-looking woman with freshly bandaged arms and a nervous twitch; and the plump woman with all the rings stretched out on the floor drawing in a Sesame Street coloring book. Clay had his eye on that book.
The woman with the rings spoke without looking up or stopping coloring.
“I’m Sarah,” she said in a child’s voice. “We’re having a bad, bad day so we’re just gonna color for a while. Our cat died today and we had to take him to the vet and we didn’t have the money but the man took him anyway. I’m out cause I’m not gonna cry, but everyone else wants to cry, especially Margie.”
A heartbeat later Sarah’s face went blank, lifted toward the ceiling, and then contorted with the kind of anguish you see in Life war photos of women holding their dead children. She dropped her crayon, sat upright, hugged her knees, and began to rock from side to side and sob pathetically.
“Sssaaaaaammm! You left meeee!” she moaned. “You left meeee!!” She gasped for air. “He was dead he was dead he was dead,” she repeated hypnotically, eyes staring straight ahead, tears streaming down her face. And then, click, the channel changed and she was gone and Sarah was back. She wiped her face on her sleeve, laid down on the floor, picked up the crayon, and started coloring Elmo.
“See?” she said nonchalantly. “I told ya Margie was upset.” And then she fell silent.
Outside a car accelerated up the hill, and in the room no one spoke; there was only the sound of colored charcoal being dragged across a page by the woman with the baggy overalls. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. This woman Sarah ... or Margie ... switched. Just like us.
After a minute the woman with the bandaged arms raised her hand and said, “I’ll go.” Everyone looked at her. “I’m Cinnamon,” she said, fingering her lower lip.
Everyone said, “Hi, Cinnamon.”
Cinnamon took her finger from her lip and pointed it at me. “We want to know who that man is over there.”
Pow! Adrenaline shot through my body; I involuntarily jerked, and everyone in the room jumped. I sprang out of my chair, my heart thumping wildly. Go!
Startled, Cinnamon said, “I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m sorry. Please don’t go,” she pleaded, reaching out toward me with her bandaged arms. “I didn’t mean to scare anybody.” She smiled at me sweetly. “I just wanted to know who you were.”
Sally said, “Cam, please don’t leave. It’s my fault. I forgot we always announce it when we have someone new in the group.”
Her eyes swept the faces in the room. “Everybody, this is Cam. He just moved here from Massachusetts.”
Everyone said, “Hi, Cam.” Hesitantly, I sat down again. “Sorry to interrupt you, Cinnamon,” Sally apologized.
Cinnamon covered her face with her hands like a bashful child. “I didn’t mean any harm,” she mumbled.
“It’s okay,” Sally said. She looked over at me. “Is it okay, Cam?”
I nodded, not feeling okay at all. Everyone looked back at Cinnamon peeking out through her fingers.
Cinnamon mumbled, “That’s all I had to say. I just wanted to ask that question. I’m done.”
Now everyone looked at me expectantly. My skin felt too tight. I wanted to stay. I wanted to speak. I wanted to hide. I wanted to jump out the window. I wanted Rikki. I wanted Arly. Clay wanted to color.
I looked over at Sally for support and opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I forced them back. My gaze arced slowly around the room, and a rogue tear meandered down my cheek.
I tried to speak again, and this time words came out.
“I-I’ve never met another multiple. I want to talk here, but I’m afraid I’ll switch out and won’t be able to come back because I’m so nervous.”
My hands were freezing, and I clasped them together between my thighs and rubbed them against each other trying to contain, trying not to run. I hung my head. My nose began to run and it leaked onto my leg. The woman with the wounded glasses passed me the box of tissues and I took a few, wiped my nose, and nodded to her. I looked down at my hands.
“I want to stay. I don’t want to run. We don’t have a therapist. We don’t know anyone ... I’m so scared.”
The tears were scratching like dogs at the door. They wanted out. Back! Get back! Too late. I leaned forward, put my face in my hands, and let them out.
No one spoke while I cried. The woman with the glasses passed me the tissues again and I restocked, dabbed my eyes, and blew my nose. After a minute or so I stopped crying and was able to speak again.
“I’m sorry.”
Sally said, “It’s okay.”
Sarah said, “You don’t have to be sorry.” Shudder, switch, gone, and Clay was out.
“W-what are y-you coloring?” he asked Sarah.
“This,” she said, turning the coloring book around to show him. “Who’re you?”
“C-clay.”
“Hi, Clay.”
Other people in the room said, “Hi, Clay.”
Then he was silent, aware that everyone was watching him. Sally said, “Clay, do you know where you are?”
“N-no.”
“This is a group for people with multiple personalities. People with other people inside.”
Clay didn’t say anything.
“It’s Cam’s turn to talk,” Sally said. Clay looked at her quizzically.
Sally said, “Do you know who Cam is?”
Clay nodded, pointing his right thumb over his shoulder, indicating me somewhere behind him.
“Well, here we don’t just have conversations where everybody talks,” she said. “People speak one at a time, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to talk or do you want Cam or someone else to come back?”
Clay didn’t say anything.
Sally said, “Okay, I’m going to ask Cam to come back. Is that all right, Clay?”
He nodded.
“Cam?” Sally said. “We need Cam to come out.”
Shudder, switch, and I was back. All eyes were on me, and I looked around the room, scrambling inside to figure out what had happened. Switched ... Clay ... coloring book ... meeting ... California. I covered my face, mortified that I’d been seen, and the dogs were back at the door.
The woman with the glasses got up and patted me on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Sarah repeated. But it wasn’t.