by Liz Coley
“But you’re not sixteen.”
She felt a glimmer of hope. Finally. Someone believed her. “I’m thirteen. Three years passed for them? No time at all passed for me. Like …” How could she explain? She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Grant snapped her own fingers, with a puzzled expression. She gestured to a large filing cabinet. “The case notes the department gave me are very sketchy. Why don’t you tell me about the last three days you remember, in as much detail as you can recall.”
So Angie told her about packing for camp, about almost forgetting her toothbrush. She did remember details, like taking her journal, like needing new flashlight batteries, like looking up the weather online and seeing that it might be colder than usual, especially at that altitude, and deciding to take sweatpants. That couldn’t have been three years ago—it was all so clear. She remembered the early morning meet-up in the parking lot at school. She remembered sitting next to Livvie in the Suburban and talking about Greg and how excited she was to have a for-sure date for homecoming. Everything was crystal clear in her head—the first day of hiking in, the campfire songs that first night, ghost stories in the leaders’ tent, then s’mores and off to bed without brushing teeth anyway. Angie told Dr. Grant about waking up early and wondering whether anyone had started the breakfast fire. She remembered eating thimbleberries and looking for a private place.
The doctor listened intently as Angie’s narration came to a sudden stop. She raised her brows with encouragement. “Go on.”
But there was nothing else, like a door had slammed. The hollow silence echoed. Angie glanced around the office in dismay.
Over the doctor’s shoulders, she noticed a pair of pine knots in the paneling. They watched her, like dark, staring, narrow eyes peering out of the wood. She tried to look away, but they nailed her with a rising sense of panic. Strange and familiar. The breath froze in her lungs. Trapped. The roar of storm winds filled her ears. Through the swirling gale, someone screamed, “Quick. Hide!”
And then the room was perfectly quiet.
“Angela … Angela?” the doctor asked. “Hide from what, Angela? What was in the woods?”
Angie stared at Dr. Grant. “Hmmm?”
Dr. Grant leaned forward. “You said, ‘Quick, hide.’ Hide from what?”
“No, I didn’t,” Angie said. “I said, ‘Thimbleberries.’ That’s what was growing in the woods.”
The doctor’s blond eyebrows pulled so tight they nearly touched. “After thimbleberries. It was quite clear. You became frightened and you yelled, ‘Quick. Hide.’ Who were you talking to? I thought you were alone.”
Angie plucked another petal and dropped it on the carpet. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hmm. Okay. Maybe I misheard,” Dr. Grant said. “So you gathered and ate the berries. Then …?”
“Then I was walking home.”
“All the way from the campsite to home? You knew the way?”
Angie shrugged. It was hard to care. “I guess. I don’t remember.” Three more petals hit the floor. “No, I don’t know the way. But I realized I was nearly home, just at the end of our street. My feet hurt a lot—I must have walked a long, long time.”
“Did you notice anything else unusual?”
Angie picked at the only thorn on the smooth-stemmed rose. “You mean besides it was September instead of August? Besides it was three years later? Besides I was taller and thinner? Besides I was wearing strange clothes instead of my pj’s? Anything unusual?” Her voice climbed the scale with each besides. “Nah. Not a thing.”
“So everything had changed. Instantly.”
A rising sob squeezed the back of her throat. “Everything except me. I’m still me when I close my eyes. I don’t know who’s been living in my body for the last three years, but I assure you it wasn’t me.” She waited for the doctor to say how silly and unreasonable that sounded.
Dr. Grant didn’t even blink. “So where do you think you were?”
“A rocking chair,” she answered reflexively. Then, “I don’t know why I said that. I have no idea.”
Steepling her fingers under her chin, the doctor pursed her lips. “Curious. Angela, I think I would like to get your mother’s permission to try hypnosis. We may be able to push past the thimbleberries. How would you feel about that?”
She felt—well, she wouldn’t call it hopeful. She was just being open-minded, that was all. “If you think it’ll help, go for it. I don’t see why you need Mom’s permission, though. I’m the one who needs help here.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, Angela. I’m glad you understand that you need help. Still, I am going to pop out and advise your mother.”
While she was out, Angie moved to the couch. Not knowing what to expect, she figured that if she fell over when she went under, it might as well be soft.
Dr. Grant smiled without comment at Angie’s relocation. “Mom’s on board. Are you ready?”
Angie nodded, wondering about the device in Dr. Grant’s hands. The doctor touched a switch, and Angie watched the light travel back and forth. It was vaguely annoying. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Am I supposed to feel different yet?” Angie asked.
“Patience. Relax. Just breathe in and out,” Dr. Grant said in a swaying voice. “In and out. Imagine a pine tree, a perfect pine tree.”
Angie let an image creep into her head, a perfectly symmetric dark green tree, like the kind a little kid draws. Like a Christmas-card tree.
“There’s another one beside it,” the doctor said. Angie imagined another tree, taller.
“Now there’s a woodsy smell,” she added. “Can you smell it? Breathe in and out, very slowly. In and out. In and out.”
Angie did. She breathed slowly, and caught a hint of pine and wood smoke. “Yeah, I think I can smell something.”
“Now add five more trees.”
She saw them. Unreal.
“Can you take a step toward them?”
In her mind, Angie stepped closer to the trees. She stood and turned around in a circle, slowly. The knots in the paneling watched her relentlessly.
“What are you looking for, Angela?” the doctor asked. “What do you see in the trees?”
“No. Stop,” a loud voice said.
“Angela, Angela.” The doctor had a hand on her arm.
Angie blinked. The light was gone, and she was sitting in the beanbag chair. “How … when?”
The doctor had an extremely serious expression on her face. “I think we have an unexpected complication,” she said.
That’s when she told you about us. That’s when the doctor said, “I think we’ve found the explanation for your amnesia.”
Of course, you wanted to know more.
Dr. Grant had a textbook open on her desk. In large, bold type, the section was headed with the words DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID). “I strongly suspect that your mind is carrying several alternate personalities—multiple personalities you developed to help you cope with the trauma of being kidnapped. We call them ‘alters’ for short.”
“That’s crazy!” you said. “You’re telling me I’m insane? Schizo? Delusional?”
“No, no. Not at all. The word is ‘dissociated’—pulled apart.” She hurried to reassure you. “Alters experience things that are too hurtful or frightening for you. They form a protective barrier between you and what’s happening. That way you don’t have to remember. They’re the brain’s ultimate survival mechanism.”
She was so right. We gave ourselves a pat on the shoulders.
But you laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why do you think I have multiple personalities?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s the long time period of lost memory.” Dr. Grant leaned over to collect the fallen petals from the floor. “For another, I’ve just spent half an hour talking to one of them. She calls herself Girl Scout. She’s worried about you.”
Part II
> REUNION
WHEN THEY LEFT DR. GRANT’S OFFICE, MOM GRIPPED A photocopy of the textbook article and a page of web references. Angie trailed her unhappily back to the car. She didn’t believe any of it. There must be more rational ways to explain her lost time, her blank memory. And jeez, they were just talking about camping. Of course Angie would have mentioned she was a Girl Scout. The doctor just got confused, is all—must have misunderstood something she said. Angie would straighten it out next time. She had been starting to like Dr. Grant, to tell the truth, and she didn’t want to argue with her.
“Do you think … ,” Mom began awkwardly as she started the engine.
“Come on, Mom. Isn’t that a bit out there? I thought we already decided that I have temporary amnesia from post-traumatic stress. That, I can believe. This multiple-personalities thing? Not.”
“Yes, well, Dr. Grant did say it wasn’t exactly typical, right?”
“Sure. The book she showed me said blah-dee-blah a pattern of abuse and blah-dee-blah in infancy or early childhood. I mean, I don’t have that. I had a perfectly normal childhood, right? I mean, you and Dad didn’t tie me up or stuff me in a closet and torture me, right?” She laughed.
Mom tried to match her light tone and failed. Her voice squeaked. “Of course we didn’t. What a ridiculous notion. No one could love a child more than we loved—love you.”
She corrected herself quickly, but the slip was another stab in the heart. Measuring Mom’s waistline, Angie wondered how long she had to get her feet back on the ground, to fix her life before the baby came and messed everything up again. She didn’t ask.
Angie put her guitar away, fingertips throbbing. Aside from mirrors, nothing else reminded her so much of the obvious time gap. Chords didn’t fit under her hands the same way—her longer fingers kept overshooting. And then, in spite of all the unexplained calluses on her palms, she’d lost the useful ones four years of guitar lessons had built up.
Mom’s call to supper echoed up the stairs. Angie hurried down, but her feet stuck fast on the landing at the sound of raised voices. Dad’s voice—no, his words—glued her in place.
“Just not the same,” he was saying. “Look in her eyes. Something’s missing. She’s angry, then she’s, I don’t know … brain-dead. Flat. For God’s sake, I haven’t seen her cry even once.”
What did he expect? That she would sob all over him? He’d never been that kind of teddy-bear dad, and now he was so uncomfortable and distant. She’d seen more of his back than his front.
Mom’s hushed reaction was too soft to hear, but Dad’s response sounded loud as a megaphone. “I don’t know. Just damaged. There’s no spark, no bounce in her.”
This time a few of Mom’s words came through. “… time to readjust … more if she remembers. And you know what Dr. Grant thinks… .”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” Angie had never heard Dad yell like that, or use that kind of language with Mom.
She thumped deliberately all the way down. Bounced hard so they had to notice. The voices stopped. She glared between her parents, who now had this strained silence to explain.
Mom whacked a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Angie’s plate. “We were starting to discuss school again,” she said with deceptive calm. The spoon clanged on the edge of the pot.
An obvious evasion. Plus, what was left to say? They’d already had a discussion about private school, a fresh start in a new place. Sadly, out of the question. Dad crushed that hope with the excuse that with Mom working, it was too far to drive. The crease between his eyes told Angie that the truth was, after the search for her, there wasn’t enough money. Sacred Heart was out for the same reason, plus they weren’t Catholic. That left La Cañada High School, the place where everyone knew her as the girl who disappeared. Sure, the grades seven and eight teachers and classrooms were separate from nine through twelve, but it was still a small world. Same campus. Too small.
The only remaining question was what grade. Thank God Dr. Grant backed up Angie. With everything else going on, she said, and now this possible weird diagnosis, she ought to go back to school at the level where she felt most comfortable. Also, as soon as possible before she missed any more.
“I’ve already decided.” Angie striped the pile of potatoes with her fork. “I’m going to start in ninth.”
“But—” Mom began.
Angie cut her off. “Look, my old friends will be around, but they’re juniors. I can’t take classes with them. You can’t expect me to, even with tutors.” Since she had been a year ahead in math, ready for Algebra I, that would put her in the regular stream for ninth. She’d always been an A student in language arts, so she wasn’t afraid of skipping one year. But that was where she drew the line. Skipping more than one grade was too stressful to think about.
“I still think you’d want to be with your friends,” Mom said, a slight whine in her tone.
Dad chewed his baked pork chop and kept his opinion to himself.
Mom couldn’t let it go. “I really think being with kids your own age will help … will help you feel like yourself again. Your words.”
“Two days, Mom. I’ve been getting used to this supposedly sixteen thing for two whole days.”
Mom sighed and rested her forehead on her hands, elbows on the table. “Sorry. Okay. It’s just strange to think you’ve been aging in my mind but not your own.” She gave a tight, sad laugh. “I even lit candles on all your missed birthdays.”
“So, where are all my presents?” Angie met Mom’s startled glance with the hint of a teasing smile. “Where’s that red convertible I always wanted?”
“That sounds more like my Angel,” Dad said. The worry lines on his forehead smoothed down a bit. He leaned back and loosened his tie.
Angie’s newborn smile stretched into a grin. Peace restored.
She didn’t entirely know why the idea of contacting her old friends filled her with terror, why she couldn’t even pick up a phone. It was just so hard to jump into the middle—much easier to start over. Blending in with three hundred ninth graders who didn’t know her, who had no expectations of her, sounded safer. If she caught up, she could move up.
“So we’re agreed,” Angie said. “Ninth.”
Mom nodded. Dad shrugged.
“Anyway,” Angie added, “are you in such a hurry for me to graduate and get out of the house?”
“Absolutely not.” Mom served the green beans, and not another word was mentioned about skipping ahead.
Wednesday morning, she walked through the doors of La Cañada High School with a backpack full of school supplies. Angie still hadn’t called her old friends to tell them, to warn them. Only the school administration knew that the missing girl had been found and had re-enrolled. They were just as anxious as the Chapmans to avoid turning the school grounds into a media circus. Detective Brogan had performed a miracle, keeping the press off the scene so far.
According to Mom, the teachers had been instructed not to make a fuss of any kind. Since none of them knew her personally—she hadn’t had any of them in seventh—her mysterious return wouldn’t affect them anyway. She was just a curiosity, no more. So she hoped.
Somehow, she’d had this crazy notion that she could slip into school unnoticed and disappear in a sea of ninth graders. But Stacey Tompkin’s punky little sister, Maggie, who was apparently in ninth grade now, recognized Angie as she squeezed into the back of first-period English. Her round green eyes kept swiveling from the whiteboard up front to gawk at Angie, as if making sure. Stacey had been on the campout, and her tagalong sister knew all the “big girls” Stacey hung out with.
Five minutes into school and she’d already been recognized.
After class, Maggie dashed to the desk next to Angie’s before she could gather up her stuff. “You’re Angie Chapman, right?” she asked breathlessly. “You disappeared.”
Angie kept her voice low. “Well, I’m back.”
“Yeah. I can see that,” Maggie
said. “But why are you in my class?”
What was she going to say, anyway? She knew the question would come up over and over. “I didn’t go to school for three years,” she answered.
“Lucky,” Maggie said. “I mean …” She stopped with an embarrassed, stricken look on her face.
Angie took pity on her. “Not really. Now I have to catch up. A lot.”
Maggie’s face lit up. “I know what. I’ll make you copies of all my notes so far.” She grabbed Angie’s arm. “And I can come over and, like, tutor you, but just for English and history. Maybe Jessica should do math, and Alan can do science.”
She peered at the departing line of kids and yelled, “Hey, Jess, Alan, come here. Guess what?”
Angie slipped her arm away. “That’s okay,” she began. “I don’t need …”
But it was too late. The two who had to be Jessica and Alan headed in their direction. Another kid behind them yelled, “Oh my God. Is that Angie Chapman? The Gone Girl?”
Oh Lord. Angie stood helplessly as the kids who hadn’t left already surrounded her. She felt an arm on her shoulder, a hand on her waist.
“I’ll carry these,” a boy said, and snatched her backpack from her. “Where are you headed next? I mean what class?”
The clump shepherded her through the hall six doors down to math. Angie disentangled herself from the two girls who’d linked her arms on either side, like Scarecrow and Tin Man dragging her off to meet the Wizard. “I think I can handle it from here, guys,” Angie said. “Um. Thanks.”
Half the group dispersed and half stayed for math, waiting till Angie picked a desk before they surrounded her like bodyguards. Trying to plot her getaway, she didn’t hear a word the teacher said, but since she had two folded notes in her hand offering to study for next Friday’s test together, maybe that didn’t matter.
The classroom door opened onto a mob scene. Kids were holding their phones, supposedly off-limits during school, reading the screens. They looked up as the math class spilled out. She heard her name cut through the hubbub, spoken high and low. Everyone must know by now. The buzz of the excited mob was deafening.
