I wake up inside our body, no complaints here. Even with the body reeking of last night’s sex, I’m not resentful, although Eleni might practice a bit of hygiene, the omission quite deliberate, a taunt thrown at our two sisters, Martha and Victoria, the prunes. I’m not a virgin, Kirk either, and I suspect the prunes wouldn’t be virgins either if they could find a way to fall into bed with each other.
A shower awaits, the urgency apparent from the condition of the clothing scattered across the floor. I gather the skirt, the blouse, the panties, only realizing there’s no bra as I dump the bundle into the hamper. Then I’m in the shower, soaping, shampooing, raising my face to the oncoming stream, this treasure not to be taken for granted, only given now, use it or lose it. I stay where I am until the water so predictably cools, until it finally runs cold, too cold even for August in New York.
I grab a towel, dry off, slip into a terrycloth robe Eleni long ago lifted from a hotel room, my first stop the windows overlooking South Portland Avenue in the kitchen and living room. This sequence is now to be undertaken many times each day by whomever controls our body: look to the left, look to the right, is he there, waiting, waiting, waiting, immobile as a lizard on a rock? Our fear marks the boundaries of his and our prison, that we’re locked inside with Hank Grand, dancing his dance even when he’s nowhere to be found, the orchestra playing on without a conductor.
Ritual complete, the god of fear served, I make coffee, our one true luxury, sadly said because Martha buys the cheapest off-brands on the shelf, Eldorado, Pilon, Café Bustelo, whatever we don’t need an extravagance by definition.
I finally settle at the little table we use to dine, a plastic circle three feet across, the surface spattered with the memos we now leave for each other, anything unusual, anything we all need to know, a real family at last. Halberstam’s email, Victoria’s flight from Prospect Park, the lawyer’s petition now delivered to the court, Eleni’s vain attempt to activate the coldest of cold hotlines. Our order of protection she was told is still in limbo, so sorry, contested by Hank Grand who insists that his daughter prove that he’s a threat, so, so sorry.
A note from Victoria: Halberstam claims that my interaction with Hank Grand in Prospect Park and on the streets of Brooklyn will be reported to our father’s parole officer. We have only Halberstam’s word for it. Contact our lawyer? Yes? No?
I get up, restless, as are we all, knowing what we know, that Daddy is coming, the waiting apace with his strategy, until I yearn for the climax, the final act, the closed door, the period at the end of the sentence. The windows beckon, my thighs forcing me forward though I make no decision to rise, I want out of the apartment despite that the weather turned brutally hot again, a bench, perhaps, in Fort Greene Park near the tennis courts where an overhanging elm offers dark, dense shade.
Look to the right, look to the left, off to the kitchen, look to the right, look to the left, no Hank Grand and I’m so unprepared for the knock on our front door I constrict, literally, arms pressed to my sides, eyes jammed shut as if Daddy were already in the room.
“Hey, it’s me. It’s Marshal.”
I almost ask, “Are you alone,” but I catch myself at the last second. I like Marshal, admire him for his soft soul, a man who bears no grudge, an outlier unfit for the universal competition.
Marshal looks me over when I usher him in—who the hell am I—his curiosity genuine. And me, I’ve met Marshal but only briefly and I know he’s wishing for Eleni, Kirk a second choice, no-nonsense Martha as a last resort.
“Serena,” I want to caress the side of his face, to reassure, but instead cross my arms behind my back. “What can I do for you?”
He continues to evaluate, unafraid, unjudging. We are who we are, passing souls, elusive as the music he writes in the dark bedroom of his tiny apartment. “I intercepted another email,” he explains, “from Halberstam. I thought I’d bring it over.”
Ah, Zenia, I write to you in the best of moods, though with little time to spare. My multi has drawn her sword. We are joined in battle. She’s submitted a petition to the court demanding she be freed of all supervision. After which, of course, she will surely dismiss your correspondent. That’s what comes of being thoroughly disagreeable. Me, not her. Nevertheless, I’m far from finished with Carolyn, who’s proven stronger than I expected. I mark her as a true survivor and all the more a challenge because her (many times) tested IQ places her in the very superior range.
First question: is her diagnosis, dissociative personality disorder, accurate? There are those in our community who deny the diagnosis entirely. These patients, they contend, influenced by years of therapy (Carolyn Grand has been in and out of therapy for twenty years, long enough for her various “identities” to become aware of each other), create these personas to avoid personal responsibility, even personal responsibility for their own welfare. As for Carolyn, I’m certain her “identities” tell me only what they think I want to hear, hoping to become free not just of Dr. Halberstam, but of all therapy. They are essentially content with who they are, even if who they are includes propositioning strangers in dangerous neighborhoods.
Two mitigating facts. In the literature, multis are almost always female and almost always have a documented history of horrendous abuse. Carolyn Grand checks both of those boxes. Her childhood was almost beyond imagining. I write this as a therapist who’s suffered through many a sad, sad story. We all have. And we’ve all had patients who use their pasts to justify unacceptable behavior in the present. This behavior further isolates them, leaving them more miserable than they already were. Friendless Carolyn Grand is certainly one of these.
But enough of Carolyn Grand. The court, I promise, will not be releasing her anytime soon. As for me, I intend to reveal her dilemma, whether she likes it or not. I am, as you know and as you taught, ever the manipulator, never the manipulated.
Motto of the story: under no circumstances should you draw your sword on a jaded psychologist.