by Liz Coley
Angie smiled weakly. The mild sedative kept her calm enough to hold still, but she was alert and awake. The tiny holes in the top of her head were hidden under her hair and filled with sterile biological putty. Three weeks ago they had prepped her brain by letting a virus carry those special genes into the web of neurons where the alters Slut and Angel lived. Who could’ve dreamed that a gene from an archaebacteria would save her sanity?
Dr. Hirsch confirmed that the genes were absorbed and working, making these special light-sensitive membrane proteins called opsins. So far, so good. Now, finally, Slut’s neurons were at the mercy of the laser lights on fiber optics that would be oh-so-carefully threaded through Angie’s brain into just the right places. Yellow light would blast aside the total darkness inside her skull, and those opsins would stop working—would shut down the ability for communication. Painlessly. Instantly.
Angie was almost surprised that Slut hadn’t taken over by force and hitchhiked out of town. She’d been strangely quiet about this whole thing, and that worried Angie. Was she resigned to her fate or biding her time for some dramatic explosion?
Dr. Grant had warned her about the possibility of memory cascade. “Often in therapy,” she cautioned, “there may come a point where the walls are fractured. Something will add the final stress, and the whole structure will come tumbling down, flooding you with memories. Repressed and hidden stories will whirl through your mind with hurricane force. If Little Wife unloads her personal history of abuse on you all at once, the overload could be devastating. But,” she advised, “if that happens, I promise I will be here to help you clean up the mess and rebuild.”
“Great,” Angie answered. “You’re my personal disaster-response team.”
So Angie held tight to the hope that this would all be uncomplicated, that Slut would leave her, not with a bang, but with a whimper; that the worst of the experience would forever remain someone else’s memory—not hers.
Gowned and gloved, Dr. Hirsch stood behind her where she couldn’t see his expression. She knew he was excited, though. Another success, and his technique would be on its way to a major medical journal. There were whispers among the techs and nurses about a future Nobel Prize in Medicine.
She felt only the slightest jostle as he threaded the optic bundles with their microfibers deep into her hippocampus, the location of all her memories, good and bad. Angie had time for one moment of complete terror. What if the genes had leaked? Would anything else be wiped out? And then the doctor said, “Roll the laser.”
Angie, while you sat immobilized in the surgical chair, amber and green light traveled down the slender filaments deep into your brain. The tiny glow penetrated the folds of matter that taken together were not one but many consciousnesses. One by one, the specially prepared cells began winking out. Your eyes rolled back, and immediately you were with us at the cabin. You stepped toward the broken porch, your attention sweeping the group, recognizing us one by one.
Little Wife clutched a hand to her throat as pieces of memory were stripped away. She sat frozen in her rocking chair, her black lace camisole fluttering in the breeze. Her face, your face, was melting away before your eyes.
Girl Scout watched in terror, knowing the same execution was in store for her. Her sash lay abandoned in her lap, a pile of merit badges spilled at her feet.
Tattletale watched from the meadow, seated high on a large black horse. The horse trembled, ready to bolt.
Angel manifested suddenly above the cabin. He stood before Little Wife, threatening you with his sword. “Are you the destroyer?” he demanded. He spread his enormous wings to hide her from your view.
“No,” you said. “I am the survivor. Step aside and let me live my own life.”
Angel furled his wings, sheathed his sword, and stepped behind Little Wife’s chair.
Her legs were gone now, her body translucent. She reached toward you with her arms, her face a pale blur.
Angie, something moved you to step forward, to take her hands. You braced for anything, a flood, a hurricane. Her voice came from a lipless face. “Take these.”
A picture. Your journal, hidden in your desk drawer. There was a final message.
And this. A memory. Of the last time she stole control. The sweet taste of it filled your mouth:
Abraim held you close on the dance floor while the slow music played. She slipped into your place and nestled tighter into his arms. Safe, comfortable. He kissed her brow. She kissed his neck. Later in the night, when the party was done, Ali drove you all up the mountain to watch and wait for the sunrise. He surprised Kate with a couple of blankets from the trunk, and they laid a fire in the stone fire ring and sat together close to the glow, wrapped up in each other, literally.
Sparks rose on hot air currents and flew up like stars. Beautiful, but it made us nervous, the untamed flecks of fire.
Abraim took you back into the warm car and you watched each other with shy glances. The firelight reflected on the windows and into his eyes. Little Wife looked through you and read his thoughts, his desires. She knew how to read men.
She moved your hands to your back zipper and pulled. The shoulders fell open, and Abraim sucked in his breath. Speechless, he understood her offer. Then he stroked her arms twice, kissed you above the heart, and settled the dress back together again. He zipped the back and pulled her/you into his arms. “I just want to hold you,” he said. His arms were trembling and his heart was racing, but it was a safe place. A harbor for the shipwrecked soul. She/you settled into the fold of his shoulder and slept deeply until the sky turned red.
She gave you the memory, of love, of peace, of rest, of comfort. And then she was gone.
“All done,” Dr. Hirsch said. “The effect should be instantaneous and permanent.”
Angie felt around in her brain for any sign of … of Slut. A wave of shame rocked her. How could she have thought of that lonely, broken girl that way? She searched her brain for any sign, any hint of Little Wife.
She was gone.
As soon as Angie got home, she rummaged through the bottom drawer of her desk. Under a layer of theater programs, she found it—the journal Little Wife had hidden again. She opened it to a new entry, dated from the Friday before, from the day Angie had signed her death warrant. Angie’s stomach clenched. Yeah. Death warrant. Be honest. Because for all her problems, at the last moment, Angie had recognized Little Wife as both a part of herself and as a separate person with her own wants and needs, history and present. But no future. In that moment she had understood.
Angie’s throat closed up painfully, and she thought about burning the note unseen. What would the condemned person say to her in the only way she could?
She spun Little Wife’s silver ring on her finger. She could take it off now, and she started to, but something held her back—maybe just the guilt.
The journal demanded her attention. It was all she could do to make herself go on, but she did.
Ange,
That Lynn is a persistent one, and patient. You’ve gotta give her that. She’s been trying hard to get me to answer her questions but, sneaky as she is, I’ve managed to keep her off. You have to hear it from me. Because I know what you need to know and what you don’t. There’s things you’ve gotta understand about the man. And me.
No, first of all, I don’t know his name. Never did, and that’s true. What did I call him? She asked me that a hundred times already, like she’s the freaking police detective or something. I called him “Husband.” That’s what he wanted, so that’s what I did. Whatever he wanted, I did. That’s how you don’t get hurt.
The ring was my idea, early on. It made things righter, you know what I mean? He made this huge deal about giving it to me, down on one knee. And that was when I convinced him I didn’t need to be tied to the bed when he did his thing on me—not if I was his Little Wife. I mean, if my hands were untied, I could make it better for him. My freedom at his price.
He only trusted me so far. Still t
ied me for sleeping. Not that I slept much, spread out on my back with his snoring self half on top of me.
Did I ever find a piece of paper with a name? she asked. No. Did I ever look? Yes. I tried. He brought a briefcase home with him, but it was never in the same room as me. He was very careful about that, no matter how much he trusted me in the end. There were a few books in the bedroom, Leaves of Grass, a few westerns, some Shakespeare, and a Bible. None of them had a name in them. I’d put them in a pocket when he wasn’t looking, so Girl Scout could read them in the daylight. Kept her busy and out of my domain, not that she wanted in, at least at that point.
All I was, all I knew, all I felt—it happened within those four walls, with only a narrow doorway between my world and hers. But we learned to exchange a word at the threshold as we passed through and exchanged places. Yeah. A word. At night she’d say, “Your turn, Slut.” In the morning, I’d say, “Your turn, kitchen bitch.” Not exactly the best relationship for two people who completely depended on each other.
All she had to do was keep the front room clean and put a decent meal on the table. Boring as hell. And she had the nerve to look down on me.
Little did she know, that bedroom was my heaven. The man, he brought me the most beautiful things to wear for him, lace and satin. He dressed me up and stroked and admired me. He made me gorgeous. My only mirror was his eyes. He loved me. He was the only person I ever knew for a long, long time.
That bedroom was also my hell. The man, he told me I could never leave him. He tied me to sleep. He feared me. And yes, Ange, I feared him. Hated him too. I especially hated him that time when I started getting fat. It had to be Girl Scout’s fault, because I never ate. He put me away and had no use for me. I don’t know what I did to make him so angry. For months, I was all alone, so lonely, and she took my place. From our porch, I couldn’t see her, but I heard her crying. She screamed a lot—for something, for someone. She disturbed him. Finally he called me back, and things went on as before. I was thin and I was happy again.
What happened after that was all her fault. She was the one who let the Angel in while I slept. Always remember that, Ange. It was all her fault. It had to be her. I could never have harmed my husband. And yes, Ange. I loved him.
I’m so tired. I know you hate me now too. So I don’t mind going away. I just wish I could feel a little love again before the end.
Angie closed the notebook.
She began to sob. All the sadness, all the regret, all the pain of three years exploded with shoulder-heaving, gut-wrenching wails.
What had she done?
APPARITION
TUESDAY MORNING, GREG WAS ON THE LOOKOUT for you, Angie. In fact, you found him leaned casually up against the wall right inside the school entrance, striking a pose. “Mornin’, beautiful,” he said.
You weren’t beautiful, you knew. Especially not this morning, after spending the whole night tossing, far removed from actual sleep. Much as you usually avoided mirrors, you had actually spent a full five minutes admiring and trying to conceal the puffy circles.
“Mornin’, Greg.” You were surprised that the sight of him didn’t give you any kind of warm, buzzy feelings. In fact, you just felt vaguely annoyed.
“I told her,” he said.
Your mind went blank. Was that supposed to be important?
He stepped up to you and put his hands on our shoulders. He gave you a little shake. “Get it? I told Livvie about us. I was going to tell you yesterday, but you weren’t here.”
“What about us?” you asked.
“Well, not all the details,” he said, pressing close and grinding his hips against you suggestively.
You took a step back so that his hands tumbled from our shoulders. You studied him curiously. Why had you been so attracted to him?
He sensed your distance. “What’s the matter, Ange?” he asked you. “I did what you wanted. I broke up with Liv. Ho, boy. When I saw that senior with his paws all over you at the dance, I nearly lost it. Point made. It should have been me. I get it.” He took a step toward you, a simpering smile on his face.
To his astonishment, Angie, you whirled away, avoiding his touch. “No, Greg. The moment’s gone. It probably wasn’t meant to be, after all.”
You go, girl, we cheered in our silence.
But then Greg grabbed our right arm from behind, squeezing his fingers hard into our bones. “What? You tease! You manipulative tease!” His fingers tightened.
Pain radiated from the grip on our shoulder. A loud rushing sound in your head—the sound of enormous white wings unfurling—nearly drowned out his next bitter words.
“You just wanted to break us up! You played me.” He yanked our arm, hard. “Damn you. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
With narrowed eyes, you rotated slowly to face him. Our left hand clenched into a fist. A terrible brightness filled your field of vision. You stepped aside, inside, and let another take your place. Angel. We swelled with power and grace.
Greg’s eyes widened in surprise.
Without warning, we backhanded him across the face. Our sharp knuckles cracked against his cheekbone.
He shrieked in surprise. “Shit!”
Greg dropped our elbow and retreated, one hand clasped to his face, bleeding where the ring cut him.
Angel’s deep voice dropped an octave and commanded him, “Don’t you ever touch her again.”
“You’re fucking nuts!” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran off. “And you’re going to regret treating me like this.”
We laughed at his back. You, too, Angie. You laughed. Together, we were invincible.
Angie rubbed her bruised fingers, wondering what had come over her. She’d never hit anyone before in her life! Still, it felt good somehow, knowing that she’d gotten one over on Greg. Served him right. He’d used her and set her aside until he was jealous. He deserved more than a punch in the face.
It still mystified her what the powerful attraction had been. Probably Little Wife’s desires on top of Angie’s crush had led to … possibly disastrous results. Angie could only imagine what she had done to win Greg, but thankfully she would never have to remember the intimate details. To the end Little Wife had kept to herself exactly what had gone on in Greg’s backseat.
A twinge of guilt and sorrow pierced Angie’s moment of triumph. She felt just a little emptier without the raw energy of Little Wife, the first alter to leave.
The first one. Now Angie had a decision to make. Who next? Tattletale was most bruised, most injured, most betrayed. It would be a mercy to erase those firsthand memories of Yuncle so they could never return, wouldn’t it? And then there was Girl Scout, competent, practical, and actually skilled. Angie almost hated to think of losing her. What about Angel? The protector. It was kind of cool to have a personal protector, a strong friend who stood up for her—except this one was inside, which meant she could stand up for herself.
In the end, the decision was made for her.
Greg and Livvie found their own form of revenge faster than Angie thought possible. During lunch break, they called the press. By dismissal time, a crowd had gathered as close to the school grounds as they were allowed. Two news trucks were parked in the faculty lot. The local five o’clock news anchors were drooling for an interview with the lost girl, now found. They were staked out with their camera crews, just waiting in the cold November afternoon.
The moment Angie walked out the front doors of the school, flashes popped, and a bouquet of microphones unfurled in her face. The questions hit her like a hail of bullets. Who? What? Where? When? Why? And, of course, How do you feel about your ordeal, Ms. Chapman?
She blinked in confusion, blinded by streaks from the flashes. She felt a tug on her arm, and Abraim and Ali were pulling her back into the building. “We know a sneaky way out of here,” Abraim said. They hurried her away to their car, parked right behind an obscure side door that opened off the science lab.
“How’d you know it was
about me?” she asked.
Abraim took her hand. “I must admit, I Googled you after the dance. I wondered how I could have missed seeing you around all these years. When I realized you were the legendary missing girl and there was no public commotion about your return, I thought maybe it was deliberately suppressed. Are you in witness protection or something?”
Angie slipped into the backseat and buckled lying down. “I have an identity crisis, but not that kind of identity crisis. Everything I know about those missing years is secondhand. I don’t actually remember any of it. So even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer their questions. Can you get me home without anyone seeing me?”
“Sure. That was the general idea.” Abraim peeled out and took the side streets to Angie’s neighborhood. “Oh my,” he said as he pulled close. “You’ve got police protection.”
Angie popped up. Two squad cars were parked in her driveway. No news vans. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest. The timing was too close. They probably weren’t here about the press, or they would have shown up at school. “Just drop me off, guys. You’re the best.”
She walked into the house to find Detective Brogan and both of her parents home in the middle of a work day. Three other officers stood uneasily in the kitchen, shifting their weight from foot to foot, hands clasped behind their backs. Brogan was in a suit, all serious.
“Hi, everyone,” Angie said as normally as possible. Her pulse was just a little too fast. “What’s up?”
Brogan replied without a pause. “We’ve had a major break in the case.”
“That’s great!” Angie said with joy—at least, she meant to say it with joy. Suddenly her heart felt incredibly heavy. It was hard to catch her breath. “What … what is it?”
“We found it,” Brogan said. “We found the cabin.”
While Angie had been fighting her way toward normality, Detective Brogan had been pursuing the thin leads that her alters had offered. Not much to go on, but he was a man who didn’t miss much, as Angie had already realized.
