Gradually, I was fed the facts. My father, in a rage during an argument, had struck my mother. He had never hit her or me ever, but according to Dr. Nettles, all that my father had kept pent up inside him had exploded. The story he created about her leaving us with a lover was how he dealt with fatally injuring someone he did love. His behavior with me was another way for him to tolerate his tremendous guilt. He was hoping I’d accept her being gone. That would help him live with it.
Dr. Nettles thought that somewhere deep inside me, I had known all this, and my refusal to accept my mother as being gone for good was my way of keeping the truth buried, maybe alongside my mother in the basement.
For weeks afterward, I struggled with it all, but then one day, I awoke and began caring about my appearance, my hair, and my clothes, everything I used to care about. I wondered what had happened to my clothes, to our house. I asked more sensible questions, until finally, a week or so afterward, my aunt Rachel and uncle Benjamin came to see me. They had been waiting for Dr. Nettles to tell them I was ready.
She brought me to her office in the clinic and left me sitting on the settee. The door opened, and they entered, almost on tiptoe, I thought. I hadn’t seen them in so long. They looked much older. My aunt had dyed her hair a more brassy-like blond, and my uncle’s dark brown hair was quite gray on the temples. He always kept his hair short. They both looked a little terrified, but my aunt quickly smiled and rushed over to me.
“How are you, darling?” she asked. It was comforting to see the resemblances to my father in her face. When I didn’t stand, she knelt to hug me.
“Hello, Scarletta. It’s good to see you,” my uncle said. He stood by, obviously waiting for my reaction to seeing them.
My aunt stood up, looked at him, and then smiled at me.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“You look very good. You’re as pretty as ever. So,” she added, slipping on a serious face the way my father would, “we’re not going to go over it all with you. We’re never going to talk about it in any detail unless you want to,” she promised.
“Nora is really looking forward to seeing you,” Uncle Benjamin said. “With her sister off to college, she’s eager to have a new buddy in the house.”
That was the way they were telling me I would live with them.
My aunt explained that she and my uncle had gone to my house and packed as much of my things as they could. Everything had been brought to their new house, a bigger house than the one they had after they had gotten married and moved to North Carolina. I was going to have my own room, a room no one had yet used, even guests. I would start school there, a new school, a private school that their daughter, my cousin Nora, attended.
“You’ll find it a lot nicer than the school you were in,” my aunt assured me.
“What about my house?” I asked.
“It’s been sold, as was the furniture business. We’ve set money aside for you, of course,” Uncle Benjamin said. And then he smiled and added, “You’ll never have to worry about your teeth.” It was his way of joking about his being a dentist.
No one here had told me anything more about my father, so I thought I’d ask. They looked at each other first, and then Aunt Rachel said he was in prison and that he’d be there a long time, maybe forever.
“But we’ll deal with all that later,” she added. “First things first, and the first thing is to get you home and help you get started on a new life.”
“A new life?”
She smiled and nodded.
Could you have a new life? Where do you put your old life? I wondered.
Dr. Nettles came in after that, and we all sat in her office and talked about the steps to my adjusting to this so-called new life. I was still going to be on medication for a while, but she was convinced I was ready to move on, to what I really would have to consider being reborn.
Although you don’t know it, the day you’re born, you have your name. It’s rare that your parents wait to give you that, unless they’re arguing about it. The day after I had arrived in North Carolina and had been moved into my aunt and uncle’s beautiful new home, my rebirth began. They had brought most of my clothes, and everything was hung up and neatly put in my dresser drawers in my room. I didn’t say it, but I liked this room much more than my room back in our historic house in South Carolina. The walls were papered in a pink texture, and all the furniture was a pink-tinted white. I had a king-size bed with oversize pillows and a ruched rosette quilt. There was a computer desk with a brand-new computer in the right corner. The room was bright, with two large windows that looked over the east side of the property. I had a plush pink shag rug.
I thought to myself that they were determined to make everything bright for me, down to the colorful hangers in my closet. Neither my cousins nor I had television sets in our rooms. My aunt and uncle told me they encouraged their girls to watch television with them, either in the den or in the living room.
“We’ve always tried to be a real family,” Aunt Rachel said. “To be a real family, you have to want and like to do things together.”
I didn’t know all that my cousin Nora had been told about me, but either she was excited about me living with them because I’d be a project for her, or she was genuinely lonely with her sister gone. I wasn’t to begin school for a while. Dr. Nettles had described it as being like lowering yourself into a hot bath, getting used to it, and then just soaking it all up with delight. She was sure it would be that way for me.
It was a three-day weekend for Nora, so she and I, practically strangers, really, had time to get to know more about each other, Nora carefully skating around all that had happened to my parents. Her questions were mostly about my friends at school and boys there.
On Sunday night, after dinner, we adjourned to have what my aunt and uncle called a family meeting in the den. Nora had filled my head with stories about her friends and the boys in her class and the class above. She wove a picture of small romances, parties, picnics, rowing on the lake, and hanging out in the mall on Saturdays, where they could meet boys they liked. She talked quickly, incessantly, really, like someone afraid of any silence between us. In a matter of hours, I knew her favorite songs, singers, movies, colors, and fashions.
I thought she looked more like her mother, just like I looked more like mine. She wasn’t beautiful or stunning, but she was cute and energetic, with her short bobbed light brown hair in a simple side twist. She had her father’s friendly hazel eyes and her mother’s nose and mouth, and she expressed her thoughts and feelings with her mother’s expressions and gestures. I was about three inches taller than she was and still quite thin.
Although we were close in age, I thought she was a lot less mature, but I also thought that the maturity I had was not what I’d want for anyone else, especially her. I felt as if I had already skipped my childhood. Everything she was excited about seemed terribly unimportant and juvenile, but I smiled and did my best to be as enthusiastic as she would like me to be.
At dinners and when we all went for rides, everyone was as kind and considerate of me as could be. My uncle proudly bragged about their community, showing me where improvements were either made or under way. It was apparent that they wanted me to feel at home as quickly as possible. I did my best to show my appreciation, but getting excited about anything was like climbing a very steep hill. For now, I thought, my smile would have to do. No one seemed disappointed. They appeared overjoyed at my having an appetite, wanting something new to wear, and being eager to watch television, listen to music with Nora, and especially sleep through the night in my new room and surroundings.
“You’re doing so well,” Aunt Rachel began when we all sat down for the family meeting. “I spoke with Dr. Nettles, and she says she’s going to wean you off the medicine soon.”
I nodded. I saw how the three of them were looking at each other, so I readied myself for the next statement, request, or announcement. I had thickened my skin for when sudden news and r
evelations were sent my way. I had gotten so I would do no more than blink at a hydrogen-bomb explosion.
“Unfortunately,” Aunt Rachel continued after her short pause, “the events, the horrible events that occurred, attracted great interest, salacious interest. It went national and was highlighted in one of those network dramatizations of terrible crimes. Fortunately, your picture was not shown.”
“But the family name was,” Uncle Benjamin inserted, obviously impatient with my aunt’s lengthy prologue. She gave him a sharp look, but he explained that Dr. Nettles thought this was fine, was necessary. She took a deep breath.
“It’s known as the Barnaby Furniture Murder,” he revealed.
“And with the Internet being what it is,” my aunt followed, “even though your name and picture were kept out of most news stories, for now, I’d like to take you to my hairstylist and change your hair color . . . something you would like, of course, just a little added protection. Later you can return to your natural color if you want . . .”
“So what we were thinking, so as to make things even easier and more comfortable for you and for Nora,” Uncle Benjamin said, “was we would enroll you under a different name as well. Because this is a private school, we have more cooperation from the administration, and secrets will be well locked up.”
“What name?” I asked.
My aunt smiled. “Well, that’s the biggest surprise of all, dear,” she said. “Benjamin and I have decided we’d like to legally adopt you and therefore give you our name, our surname, Benjamin’s family name, Dunning.”
“We’ve got all the legal documentation started,” Uncle Benjamin said.
“However, we left something big for you to decide,” my aunt said. “If you want, of course. We think it would really help.”
“More added insurance,” my uncle said, smiling.
I looked at Nora. She actually seemed very excited by all this. She thought it was a wonderful adventure. Her mind was already running away with scenarios, cover-ups, ways to invent a new former life for me.
“And what’s that?” I asked.
“You can choose your own new first name and a middle name if you like.”
“I’ll help you,” Nora blurted. “It’s like you’ll be the star in a great big play. I’ll be costar.”
“Play?”
“You have to do a lot of acting,” she said. “But we’ll sit down together and invent everything.”
“Yes.” I turned to my aunt and uncle. “What happened to my fake parents?” I asked. “The Dunnings.”
“I thought car accident on vacation in Europe,” he said. “Your father was the son of my father’s brother. You and Nora are still cousins.”
“You don’t have to start school until you’re comfortable with it all,” Aunt Rachel said. “We’ll keep Tess informed about everything, every little detail, of course,” my aunt said. “She knows most everything up to today, so when she comes home for the holidays, she’ll help.”
“I’ll help you right now,” Nora said. “I have lists and lists of great names, names I wish I had.”
“So I really am being reborn,” I thought aloud.
“We’re all so sorry you have to go through this,” Aunt Rachel said.
Nora didn’t look at all sorry. “We can start right now,” she said.
My aunt and uncle were silent. They both looked like they were in real pain, suffering for me. I did appreciate that, but I also thought that what they were doing would make things easier for them, too. Maybe that was their chief reason, but why should I blame them? I didn’t want to blame anyone for anything anymore, and becoming someone new did seem like the easiest and quickest way not to do any of that.
“Okay,” I said, smiling and thinking. I had to create a different smile, a different voice, and maybe a different walk, too. I would need Nora’s help to build my new background, listen to her music and read her magazines. Together, she and I could create a past romance for me. I’d be reborn a little more every day.
Nora clapped her hands together. Everyone in my new family was smiling.
Fix your posture, my mother was telling me in my mind. I was leaning awkwardly forward.
You’re talking to the wrong person, I replied.
I heard her laugh. You’ll never be free of me, Scarletta. No matter what they tell you or do for you, I’ll always be there.
Pru
I WAS SITTING in the same interrogation room by the time Chandler and one of the criminal attorneys at his firm, Anthony Basso, arrived. Chandler hurried over to me to kiss me and introduce Anthony.
“Tony will take over from here,” he said, “but I’ll be right beside him as much as possible, Pru.”
Lieutenant Julio and Detective Gabriel entered. Lieutenant Julio was carrying my answering machine under his arm. He turned on the recording device for the interrogation room as soon as the two of them sat across from us. He then explained what he had and what he was presenting to me and my attorney.
“Is this your machine?” he asked me.
I looked at Chandler, who nodded slightly.
“Yes,” I said.
He then lifted off the cover of the machine so that the parts were visible. He took his pen out of his top pocket and pointed to something.
“We have had the machine examined, and as you can see here, one of the elements is burned out. We can tell that it has been burned out for some time. It was not possible for anyone to record anything on it during the period you claimed to have received messages from a stalker you call Scarletta,” he said.
“We’ll have that property analyzed by our own technicians,” Anthony Basso replied.
Lieutenant Julio nodded at Detective Gabriel, who took the machine, put the cover back on, and pushed it to the side. She then handed Lieutenant Julio a folder, which he opened in front of him.
“Miss Dunning,” he began, his eyes on his paperwork, “how long have you been Pru Dunning?”
“What?” Chandler exclaimed.
Lieutenant Julio glanced at him and then looked at me. “Is Pru Dunning the name you were given at birth?”
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled, but something he saw in my face made that short-lived.
“We have done a full background check on Miss Dunning,” he told Anthony Basso and Chandler. “Pru Dunning is not her given name.” He looked at me again. “Were you not born Scarletta Barnaby? Are your real parents not Raymond and Doreen Barnaby?” he asked.
“Let me see that,” Anthony Basso demanded.
Lieutenant Julio passed the documents to him. Both he and Chandler read them.
“It’s a very clever way to cover your actions,” Lieutenant Julio said. “You have created a new life for yourself. You did well in high school and went on to nursing school. Considering what your father did to your mother, I don’t blame you for assuming a new identity, but . . .”
“She did this,” I insisted. “She’s very clever. She’s always been jealous of me. She never wanted me to succeed at anything.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Some of the news clippings are in there, too,” Lieutenant Julio told Anthony Basso.
Chandler was still perusing the documents.
The two of them looked at some of the news stories.
I sat back while they were reading and closed my eyes. Scarletta was smiling at me. She was in my mirror. She would often slip in behind it and turn it into a window.
“You hid the good-bye note,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Lieutenant Julio asked.
I opened my eyes.
“Under the circumstances,” Anthony Basso said, “we’re going to ask for a psychiatric.”
“Oh, the DA’s anticipated that and is going to do the same.”
“Then there is no reason to continue,” Anthony Basso told him. He looked at Chandler, who had the appearance of someone just struck in the back of his head with a brick.
Lieutenant Julio took back the pa
perwork and put it in his folder. Then he and Detective Gabriel stood.
“We’ll have the answering machine available for your technician,” he said, and Detective Gabriel picked it up.
Neither Anthony nor Chandler replied. We three watched them leave the room.
“Do you realize what they are accusing you of doing?” Anthony asked me.
“I’m sick of her,” I replied. “I want her gone from my life.”
He nodded and looked at Chandler. I thought there were tears in Chandler’s eyes.
“I’ll wait outside,” Anthony said, rising. Chandler nodded, and Anthony walked out.
Chandler moved to the seat beside me and took my hand. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.
I smiled. “Yes. My father always said that.”
He leaned over to kiss me. The door opened, and the female officer who had brought me to the room stood there. Chandler sighed and stood up, reaching for my hand so I would stand, too.
“I’ll be there for you every step of the way,” he promised.
“She won’t like that,” I said.
He smiled. “She’ll have to get used to it or maybe . . . maybe leave you alone.”
I nodded. We walked to the doorway together. He turned to say something else, but I had something more important to tell him. I was thinking of him, but I was really thinking more of her.
“Do you know what is the hardest word to utter?”
He shook his head. “What?” He smiled.
“Good-bye,” I said.
Author’s Note
DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID), as defined by the American Psychiatric Association, is a severe condition in which two or more distinct identities or personality states are present and alternately take control of an individual. This disturbance is not due to the direct psychological effects of a substance or of a general medical condition. When in control, each personality state, or alter, may be experienced as if it has a distinct history, self-image, and identity. Certain circumstances or stressors can cause a particular alter to emerge. The various identities may deny knowledge of one another, be critical of one another, or appear to be in open conflict.
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