Seeing my uncertainty the woman doctor probes. “You see it differently now?”
“Yes,” I say, glad that she is at least following the story. “I think I was jealous of Laurel. I wanted to be her—or at least like her. I also think I was afraid. I must have sensed what was going on with Peter and Stan and when I came home and found Laurel . . .”
I stop. This is the part I can’t really explain. The part that makes me sound crazy. The part I still don’t really remember. When I try to think of it, my vision goes red, as if a red veil has been dropped over my eyes.
“That must have been traumatic,” the woman doctor says.
“Yes!” I agree gratefully. I’ve decided I like her. “All I can remember is going up the stairs. The carpet is wet. It reminds me . . .” I hesitate, realizing I’ve entered a trap.
“Of what?” Woman Doctor asks.
Do I tell her about the bathtub incident? For the first time it occurs to me that even if I convince them I’m Daphne Marist I may not be let out of here if they decide that Daphne Marist is crazy. But I’ve come too far. I’m convinced that Woman Doctor will know if I don’t tell her the truth.
“A couple of weeks after I gave birth I was very depressed. I took some pills and got in the tub. I don’t think I meant to kill myself, but I was so . . . tired. I think I just wanted to sleep. My husband found me . . .”
I recall Peter’s hands on my shoulders, pulling me to the surface, but now it occurs to me that if he were really pulling me up to the surface his hands would be on my arms, not on my shoulders. He wasn’t pulling me out; he was pushing me down.
Woman Doctor is still watching me, waiting patiently.
“I think my husband, Peter, tried to kill me,” I say, tears rising to my eyes. “He said I tried to drown myself, but I wouldn’t have done that. I think he wanted me gone and when he had the chance to say I was the woman in the bathtub he took it. That way he and Stan got control over Laurel’s money and he got me out of the way.”
“Why would your husband want you out of the way?” she asks. “Daphne Marist didn’t have a big inheritance too, did she?”
I almost laugh. “No, I don’t have any money. I—I don’t know why. Peter’s very . . . particular. Maybe it was too difficult having a wife with postpartum depression. But I think that’s why I don’t remember finding Laurel in the tub. I was going up the stairs, remembering when Peter found me in the tub and then when I got to the bathroom . . .”
The red veil descends. I can’t see anything else.
“When you looked into the tub, who did you see?” the male doctor asks. His voice is deep and persuasive.
I keep my eyes closed. I watch myself crossing the bathroom floor. The tiles are wet and stained red. Red water is dripping down the sides of the tub. I look down. I see—“Me,” I say, opening my eyes. “I saw myself. That’s why I ran.”
The woman doctor gives me a small, sad smile. “That’s why you had a dissociative break. You saw yourself in your friend’s dead face, so you ‘died.’” She holds up two fingers on each hand and wiggles them like bunny ears. “You became your friend.”
“You became Daphne,” the male doctor says. He turns to Dr. Hancock. “I think the patient is making progress with talk therapy. Is ECT really necessary?”
“She still thinks she’s Daphne Marist,” Dr. Hancock replies. “She’ll persist in the delusion until something jolts her out of it.”
“Perhaps,” the woman doctor says, “we should consider the possibility that she’s telling the truth, that she is Daphne Marist.”
Dr. Hancock barks a short, rude laugh. “Are you really buying this outlandish conspiracy theory? You’re feeding into the patient’s delusion.”
The woman glares at him. “Could it hurt to have outside verification? A friend or relative of Daphne Marist?”
“Well,” Dr. Hancock says, “in fact, we do have one. I was going to wait until after the evaluation, but since this has come up again . . .” He leans back toward his desk and hits the intercom button on his phone. “Rose, would you please send in Ms. Greenberg?”
Ms. Greenberg? “Esta’s here?” I say.
“Yes. After Ben Marcus was fired he contacted her and asked her to come up here to identify you. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted.” He makes a face and I can imagine how unpleasant Esta has made herself. I feel like cheering. Sour, disagreeable Esta! I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see right now.
The door opens and Esta bustles in. She’s wearing flowing layers of linen and wool and carrying an enormous tote bag. Her face is turned down in a scowl, her hair standing up in spikes. Miniature crystal chandeliers sway from her earlobes. She looks like Mary Poppins in Eileen Fisher. I could hug her.
“Esta!” I say, standing. “Thank God. Tell them who I am.”
Esta gives me a long, assessing look. Then she turns to the three doctors. “I can’t believe I drove three hours for this. This woman is Laurel Hobbes.”
Laurel’s Journal, August 2, 20—
I’ve decided that I have to leave. And I can’t trust JB anymore, which means I can’t depend on drawing my monthly allowance from the trust.
After Daphne left, Stan came home and sat down on the couch with his “concerned” look on his face. He said that JB had called him to say I’d come into the city and that I sounded
