I’ve been chosen to confront the adversary. Another example of the family coming together in the face of a threat. We know what’s on the line. The danger’s now coming from two sides. Daddy and the doctor. Victoria can’t get beyond the injustice. Kirk cannot put aside his rage. Serena hasn’t the fortitude. Eleni’s never learned to restrain her tongue.
So, here I am, sitting across from the always-dour Tanya in Halberstam’s waiting room. My appointment should have started ten minutes ago, but Tanya offers no excuse and no apology for the delay. Sit, wait, be patient.
I don’t know exactly how it happens, but Tanya turns to me a few minutes later. Her face expressionless, she says, “You may go in now.”
I find Halberstam on his feet. Posed before one of his precious objects, the lacquered box with the gold fish. Recently, he’s taken to remaining on his feet through much of our appointment, often with his back turned. When he does approach, I associate the posture forced upon me by the tilted chair with fear. I’m find myself leaning away, as if ducking a blow.
I assume the position without being asked. Halberstam ignores me for a minute as he repositions the box. “I want to try a different approach this time, if you don’t mind, Martha.”
I nod and spread my hands, though he’s not looking at me. “I’m all ears.”
Halberstam turns to me, his face all the more threatening for its friendly expression. His eyes are crinkled, mouth turned slightly upward.
“Why are you here, Martha? What do you hope to gain from therapy? What does Carolyn Grand hope to gain?”
I’m tempted to say nothing, to throw it in his face. But that wouldn’t be true. We do have a goal and that’s to dump his ass without getting ourselves committed in the process. Fortunately, when it comes to therapy—and especially bullshit therapists like Halberstam—I’m no virgin. I know exactly what I need to say.
“Two roads, Doctor. No third way. Either integrate the personalities into one, you might say a reconstructed Carolyn Grand, or eliminate those who prevent us from keeping a simple dental appointment.”
“Too general, Martha. Specifically, why are you here in this room at this time? Is it merely because the court ordered you into therapy, then hired me to provide it? You’ve told me that you cannot work because you cannot show up for work every day. Some identity or another inevitably takes control, whereupon you vanish for two or three days, whereupon you’re fired. And yet, you’ve managed to keep all of your appointments with me.”
I don’t hear a question, but I respond with the company line, the one our Legal Aid lawyer’s already told the court. Still, the words ring so hollow I want to cringe.
“We know we need help, Doctor. Without therapy we’ll never meet our goal.”
“Which is?”
“To have a life, a real life. Like Pinocchio becoming a real boy.”
Halberstam retreats to his desk and takes a seat. He fumbles in the center drawer of his desk, but his hand comes out empty.
“Let’s explore that for a moment. How do you pay your rent, Martha? Where does the money come from? Specifically?”
One thing about our doctor, he knows where to insert the probe. I’m to be shown the extent of our dependence. But there’s no room for a lie here. Halberstam already knows the answer.
“Two hundred dollars comes from our disability check. The rest from a Section Eight voucher.”
“And the food you eat?”
“A hundred dollars in food stamps, plus cash from our disability check.”
“And the laundry, who pays for the laundry? And the electric bill? And the cable bill. You do have cable, don’t you?”
“Basic.” Despite my best intentions, I explain, “You can’t get any reception with an antenna. Not in that part of Brooklyn. We tried, believe me.”
“I’m more interested in who pays for these things. Who pays for your clothing, your haircuts, your toothpaste, your therapy?”
“The government.” There, I’ve said it. I’ve said what the bastard wants to hear. I’ve submitted. “The government pays for everything.”
“That’s correct. At present, Carolyn Grand is a dependent ward of the state. You say that you wish to become independent, but as I speak to you, I see little evidence to support that assertion. Last week, Victoria, who you claim to be a separate, independent identity, launched a tirade directed at me. She accused me of being a voyeur and called me a fucking bastard.” His smile, when he pauses, is cold enough to be a sneer. “My apologies, I’ve got that wrong. It wasn’t Victoria who cursed me. It was still another identity, Tina, who I’ve been waiting weeks to meet, but who vanished in an instant and hasn’t been seen since. Convenient, yes? Carolyn Grand propositions an undercover police officer. Carolyn Grand curses her therapist. But Carolyn Grand need never assume responsibility because she doesn’t exist. And let me be quick to add that the language Tina used hardly seems that of a cringing nine-year-old, a little mouse. Something’s wrong here, very wrong.”
I don’t argue the point because I agree with him. I was present when Tina went off on Halberstam. Her tirade was on point, every word cutting to the bone. The only problem is that a nine-year-old couldn’t have made it.
“Do you find that surprising, Doctor? That Tina’s fear should conceal her rage?”
“No, I find it convenient.”
If there’s something to be said here, I don’t know what it is. Besides, the truth is right in front of his face. I’m wearing a pair of cargo shorts, a plain, white T-shirt, black athletic shoes, no socks and no makeup. My hair’s pinned close to the side of my head and my legs are unshaved. How likely is it that I proposition strangers on the street? Male strangers.
“You say,” Halberstam continues, “that you want to work, but you can’t. When was the last time you looked for a job?”
“A year ago.”
“Did you find one.”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because Eleni took the body for a long ride.” I can’t bring myself to supply the details and I conclude with a shake of my head.
“A character in a book I read a few months ago,” Halberstam tells me, “described himself as a half-assed Catholic. ‘I’m trying,’ he said. ‘Only not too hard.’ That’s you. That’s Carolyn Grand. Despite everything, you live a comfortable life, a life that allows your body to be taken for long rides, no obligations to be met. The government check is in the mail.”
I finally gather a response, this one true. “Yes, some of us are content. Serena is too fragile to work. Eleni is unconcerned with obligations of any kind. Not Kirk, though. And certainly not myself or Victoria.”
“Another excuse from an identity that isn’t available. It’s just too easy, especially for a woman with a tested IQ in the very superior range, a woman more intelligent than ninety-eight percent of the general population. But except for a free ride, what has it gotten you? That’s the question I keep asking myself.” Halberstam returns to the center drawer of his desk, but this time he’s clutching a sheet of paper when his hand emerges. “I spoke to Kevin Powell, your father’s parole officer, earlier this morning. Your father admits to seeing you in Prospect Park, but claims he never came within a hundred yards of where you sat. The other part, about following you home, he denies.”
My anger boils up, spills over. “Let me ask you a question, Doctor. Do you consider the word of a sadistic pedophile equal to the word of his primary victim? I say primary because there were many others out on the edge.”
This time Halberstam’s smile is genuine, the delighted smile of a twelve-year-old boy who’s just ripped the wings off a butterfly.
“I’m not judging you, Martha. But Victoria, when she recounted the incident, told me that her father did not approach her. True, she said he remained fifty yards away, not a hundred, but the separation was nonetheless substantial. In any event, only Kevin Powell has the power to charge your father with a violation of the terms of his parole. My function, at this point, is to relay information.” He raises the sheet of paper and waves it as though claiming a territory. “This letter is from your father. It’s addressed to his daughter, Carolyn Grand. Believe me, I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. I think it’s best if I read it aloud.”
Carolyn. I wanna call you my darlin’, but I know I got no right. Probably, I shouldn’t even be writin’ this. I don’t know what my PO’s gonna say when I show it to him. Maybe he’ll ship me back to prison, which I deserve anyway, but it’s worth the risk. I feel like I won’t ever get it right until I make some kinda peace with myself. I know you hate me and you should. You should hate me as much as I hated my own father, who treated me like I did to you.
I never had much education, comin’ here from Missouri after I run away, but I’m gonna put this as best as I can. When I got took to jail and then prison, I fought everyone, even sometimes the COs. My rage wouldn’t cut me no slack, no way, and I was a drunk, too, plus puttin’ anything up my nose that would fit, which didn’t help. There’s more drugs in prison than on the street.
They put me in solitary twice, thirty days, sixty days, but when that didn’t work, they just left me there, alone in a cell. About two years in was when the haunting began. There was me as a kid and what my father did to me. And there was you and what I did to you.
This come on me slow, like a feelin’ that something’s wrong, but over the years it wouldn’t stop growin’, just become bigger and bigger. Altogether, I spent fifteen years in solitary, and the two ghosts were my whole life by the end. What happened, what I did. I didn’t want it to be, only I couldn’t make it go away. After a time, I broke down. I’d get to cryin’ and I couldn’t stop. And there was no one gave a damn except the guy in the cell across the pod who called me a faggot.
I came around after a while, got stronger, the two ghosts now as much a part of me as my two eyes. But it still took another year before Admin decided that I was no longer violent and let me out of solitary. After that, I went straight into therapy. I didn’t care what kind of therapy, substance, antiviolence, sex offender. I wanted an answer to a question I didn’t know how to ask.
Carolyn, I am deeply sorry and deeply ashamed of what I done to you. I don’t seek forgiveness, don’t even ask it of the Lord, because what I done can’t be forgiven. That I now believe. But I want you to know this. Nothing of what happened then was your fault. You were born under a bad sign named Hank Grand, and I hope with all my heart that you’ve escaped.
The session concludes as Halberstam returns the sheet of paper to his desk drawer. I get up to leave but can’t resist a final jab. “Tell me, Doctor, which do you think is true? That my father’s remorse is genuine? Or that the bastard’s figured out what therapists want to hear?”
“Like you Martha, you and your sisters?” Halberstam shakes his head. “If I’m to help you,” he finally says, his tone weary, “I must take you out of your comfort zone.”