“And you’re cured? You’re really,
“A, ah, paragon of mental health,” replied Lyssy, once again mimicking Dr. Al.
5
Alan Corder had long maintained that the standard setup for a modern psychiatric evaluation-two people sitting on opposite sides of a desk; one asks questions or administers tests while the other responds-left much to be desired.
Once she’d recovered from her initial shock at finding herself face-to-face with the man who still figured in her nightmares, Irene had to agree. Walking with Lyssy in the pleasant pocket forest after she and Corder had caught up to their patients at the gazebo, observing him as he interacted with the enriched sensory environment, she found that the disarming awkwardness of his body language, his mercurial attention span, his childish delight in the magical appearance of a hummingbird, as well as his eagerness to share that delight with his companions, all spoke volumes-volumes that would never even have been opened in the usual office setting.
What she didn’t see was equally as important. As a multiple, Maxwell had almost always exhibited an upward, rightward eyeball roll when changing alters, and the new alter had frequently exhibited grounding behavior afterward, rubbing a thigh as if to verify that he (or in the case of one alter, she) was in fact in the body.
But Irene observed none of this behavior during their walk. When she made eye contact with Lyssy, even when she caught him unawares, there was no sign of Max or Kinch, the Maxwell alters she’d learned to fear-with good reason.
“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” she conceded to Corder when they were alone in his office, sitting in matching leather armchairs in front of the fireplace. “How long since an alter has surfaced?”
“Just under two years,” replied Corder.
“You’re sure about that?”
“I can show you the optical exams if you’d like.” Variations in optical functioning were among the most reliable indicators for a personality switch: a 1989 study had confirmed that DID subjects had close to five times more such changes than control subjects who’d been asked to feign the disorder.
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Irene, smoothing the travel wrinkles from her skirt. “What about the possibility of co-consciousness?” That was a state of being, uncommon but not unknown, where one alter was able to directly and simultaneously experience the thoughts, feelings, and actions of another. (Researchers still weren’t exactly sure how the mind managed the feat, but one thing they all agreed on was that the human brain seemed to have evolved with redundancy as one of its basic design principles: there was more than enough gray matter in there to operate two personalities simultaneously.)
“There’d have been some indication-confusion, mini-fugue states, contradictory responses.” Corder grinned suddenly, then slapped the arm of his chair. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to face it sooner or later, Irene: I
“But you’re not going to tell me how, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” Corder grabbed a poker from the brass stand by the fireplace and prodded at the neatly stacked logs-a bit of fidgeting that would have been less revealing if there’d actually been a fire going at the time. “And for good reason. I’m sorry to have to be so mysterious about this, but the last thing I want to do is get caught up in a debate about my methodology until I have my ducks in a row and I’m ready to publish.”
“At least give me a hint-I’m feeling badly enough about leaving Lily, as it is.” The decision to have Lily committed to Reed-Chase had been made by her new guardian, her uncle Rollie, who’d learned about Corder’s success with multiples from various DID websites. Irene’s feelings had been hurt, of course-her first inclination had been to wash her hands of the whole damn case. She and Lily had grown too close over the last dozen years anyway, she’d told herself-it would probably be a relief to have all that weight off her shoulders.
But that was sour grapes, and she knew it. And in the end, she couldn’t leave Lily to be hunted down and dragged off to an asylum by strangers. So she’d enlisted Ed Pender in the cause. Pender in turn had brought in a skip tracer from Santa Cruz who’d tracked Lily to Shasta County; the rest of the story had played itself out in the coffee shop in Weed.
“All right, one hint,” said Corder, begrudgingly. “But you have to promise not to tell
“I swear on my DSM.” A little professional humor: the
“Okay, here it is: screw integration.”
That brought Irene up short. The standard approach to treating multiples was to integrate the alter identities with the original personality to the greatest achievable extent. And the alternative to that would be…?
“Good lord, Al-you’re not talking about somehow eliminating the alters instead of integrating them, are you?”
Corder’s response consisted of a wink so smug and feline Irene could practically see canary feathers floating behind him as he led her up to Lily’s provisional quarters on 2-South. The security precautions were impressive as always-he had to punch codes into keypads to gain entrance to the glassed-in elevator lobby, again to summon the elevator, and a third time to gain access to the observation suite, a largish room decorated in shades of peach, apricot, and burnt umber. Lily lay on a comfortable-looking single bed-not a hospital bed-with her head turned resolutely toward the wall.
“Good seeing you again, Irene,” said Corder, framed in the doorway. “I’ll leave you two alone to talk-when you’re done, just press that intercom button over there. And Lily, you have a good night, don’t be shy about asking the nurses for anything you need.” He stepped backward as the door slid closed again.
“What a lovely room,” said Irene, approaching the bed. “And look, you have your own television!” As if that were something entirely new and marvelous. Attagirl, Irene told herself, perching on the edge of the bed. Could you
“What do you care?” Lily’s elation at learning that Corder might be able to cure her DID had been short-lived, disappearing as soon as the door to her room had closed and locked behind her. “If you cared, you wouldn’t go away and leave me here.”
Lily stiffened at the touch, then wrenched herself around almost violently, turning a tear-streaked face toward Irene. “I miss them, Dr. Irene-Grandma and Grandpa, I miss them so much. And I’m so scared. Please don’t leave me here. Something terrible is going to happen, I know it is.”
“Ssh, ssh, it’s okay, I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” Irene crooned soothingly, taking the girl into her arms and hugging her tightly-something she’d never have been able to do before her ordeal with Maxwell. Awkwardly, one-handed, she fumbled around in her enormous purse for her card case and a pen, scribbled her home and cell numbers on the back of one of her business cards, and handed it to Lily. “Here, take this,” she said. “I’m no farther than the telephone. You can call me anytime you like, even if it’s just to talk, and if you really need me, just say the word and I’ll come running.”
A tear plopped onto the card; carefully, so as not to smear the ink, Lily brushed it away with her sleeve. “Is that a promise?” she said, slipping the card into the tight back pocket of her jeans.
“Cross my heart,” said the psychiatrist. They hugged for a few seconds, then Irene pressed the intercom button. Lily flinched when the door slid open, then lay back and turned her face to the wall; when she turned around again, she was alone.
Welcome to the snake pit, Lily told herself. She knew why they used to call mental hospitals snake pits: because-no lie! — doctors once thought the best way to cure people of certain disorders was to hang them upside down over a pit filled with poisonous snakes!
Of course, there were no snakes here at the Reed-Chase Institute-or if there were, they were very expensive, exclusive snakes, she thought wryly.
