Pretty Girl Thirteen

by Liz Coley

  “Ambulance?” you squeaked. “I’m fine. I don’t need an ambulance.” Then you were babbling. “Maybe Yuncle the creep needs one. Yeah, I hope he needs one.” Babbling out Tattletale’s delight at the turn of fortune. “Now who’s gonna be in trouble?” she taunted.

  “Oh, Mitch. Let her up. Let me hold her,” Mom begged.

  “Margie, please. Just … I’ve got her.”

  “Daddy, you’re hurting me,” you pleaded.

  Tears filled his eyes, and his hands loosened slightly, but still he kept you under his control.

  Bill stared down at you with false pity. “Poor child. Complete psychotic breakdown. I’ve seen it after combat. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying.”

  Angel pushed to the front again. His growling voice tore through the confusion. “You lying bastard. You molested her. For years.” He twisted away from our father’s hold with renewed strength and broke free. He jumped to his feet, a towering fury. He reached to his side for the jeweled sword that hung there in the inside world, found only belt loops on your blue jeans. His dark eyes fixed on the knife block next to the sink.

  “What is she saying?” Grandma demanded.

  Angel reached for the knife block.

  “Watch out, everyone!” Bill yelled. “Get back. I’ve got her.”

  The sound of an ambulance siren drew closer. Mom ran to the front door.

  Bill sprang at you, at Angel, at Tattletale, all messed up together in a tangle. He socked you in the stomach and wrenched your arms behind your back. “Sedative,” he called toward the approaching paramedics. “Quick. Knock her down.”

  We felt a sharp pinch in the arm, and everyone collapsed into unconsciousness.

  CONFRONTATION

  ANGIE WOKE IN A CLEAN WHITE BED, IN A CLEAN WHITE room with green curtains. She felt dulled, empty. Where was she? Within moments of opening blurry eyes, she zoomed in on the chair next to the bed. A woman slept in it, her head tilted on her shoulder. “Mom?” Angie’s voice croaked between dry lips.

  Mom leaped from the chair to Angie’s side. She clasped Angie’s hand. Angie noticed soft restraints on her wrists. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. She hardly sensed it. “What happened? What did I do? Am I under arrest?”

  Mom stroked her forehead. “No, no, hon. You’re under observation. Something happened to trigger a very violent reaction. We were afraid you’d hurt yourself or someone else. You’ve been sedated for a day. Dr. Grant rushed back from her sister’s, bless her heart, and they did another one of those procedures that seem to help you.”

  “Is she still here?” Angie desperately needed to talk to her, to process what had happened.

  Mom tipped her arm to check her watch. “She said she’d check in very soon. I think she went to get some coffee. It’s been a long vigil.”

  Angie winced. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Well, you’ll be glad to hear that Bill’s arm will be just fine. No nerves or arteries hit after all, so two stitches, antibiotics, and a big bandage is all he needs. Of course, the broken fingers will take a little longer, but they’ll heal straight, the doctor said.”

  Angie was silent. Stone-faced.

  “Angie, aren’t you glad? You didn’t do any permanent damage, and he forgives you.”

  Angie’s stomach did a double flip. “He forgives me?” She tugged at the restraints in frustration. “What the hell!”

  “Calm, Angie. Or I’ll send for another sedative,” Mom warned.

  Angie froze in place. “Mother—that guy molested me for years, every time he babysat me. He molested me again a week after I came back. He’s just plain evil. I didn’t know how to tell you and Dad.”

  Mom’s expression softened, but not in the way Angie expected. “You poor confused girl. Bill said he thought it was something like that. You’ve got him confused in your mind with the man who abducted you, who raped and abused you.” She cupped Angie’s cheek with her hand. “Remember? It was that evil man, not your uncle Bill.”

  Oh, that sneaky bastard. Tears washed down her face. Someone’s tears, not hers. She was too tired to cry. “Mom, get this. Yuncle Bill, who I loved and trusted? He raped and abused me. For years.”

  Mom shook her head dismissively. “You were only six, hon. He was a little boy. You’re trying to make me believe he molested you every Friday night for four years?”

  “Yes.”

  Mom’s head still shook slightly. None of this was getting through to her. “And you never said a word? Never hinted? Never told us not to go out? Why not?”

  A question Angie had asked herself a hundred or more times since she’d learned Tattletale’s story. “Because he made me promise not to.”

  “Oh, hon. You’re really, really confused.” Mom’s forehead creased with concern. “Our Bill would never do anything to hurt you. You should have seen how worried he was for you, even while he was bleeding like crazy. Somehow your wires have gotten crossed, is all.”

  She reached out to stroke Angie’s hair.

  Angie pulled away. She could read the verdict on Mom’s face—entirely unconvinced. Damn. Why did she believe him, not her own daughter? Angie turned her head as far to the side as she could. “I want to see Dr. Grant,” she said into the pillow. “Please leave.”

  A pained gasp came from Mom’s direction. Then she was gone.

  The next ten minutes felt like ten hours. The leg and arm restraints reminded her too much of the memory flash from captivity that Little Wife had shared with her in a fit of anger. She felt around in her head for the presence of the others, but they were scared into corners. Everything was quiet inside. Maybe the sedative had that effect too.

  Finally, Dr. Grant knocked and entered. She took the same seat Mom had vacated. “That must have been terrifying for you,” she said, “to have your alters manifest so blatantly in front of your family. What happened? Was it a memory cascade?”

  “I feel so stupid telling you this now,” Angie said. “If I’d spoken up sooner, none of this might have happened.”

  “Well, now is now,” Dr. Grant said. That was the great thing about her. No judgment in her voice. No blame. “What should I know that I don’t?”

  “Can you unstrap me? I feel sort of vulnerable like this.”

  Dr. Grant peeled back the blanket and saw the restraints. “Good heavens. Of course you do. Why did they do this? It wasn’t on my orders.”

  “I assure you you’re safe. There’s no sharp cutlery around here.”

  Dr. Grant smiled gently. “No. There isn’t.” She unbuckled Angie’s right wrist. “So. I’m listening.”

  Angie felt the strength of Tattletale’s inhibition. No tattling allowed. She opened and closed her mouth a few times. Nothing came out.

  “Angie, child abuse is one of the few exceptions to our doctor-patient confidentiality. I am required by law to report within twenty-four hours. Do you want to go on?”

  How did she know? “Yes. Yes, I do.” Angie blurted it all in a rush—the history of Tattletale and Yuncle.

  Dr. Grant pursed her lips. “Ah,” she said. “I had wondered. That makes much more sense now. Your mind already had an escape hatch. Creating new ones was a natural defense in a similar situation.”

  “Yeah. I get that,” Angie said. “So you believe me?”

  “Of course I do,” she replied.

  “My parents don’t,” Angie said glumly. “They’d rather believe in Bill and think I’m insane. Isn’t that so twisted?”

  “It rocks their world to think the other way around. Think of the burden of guilt on their shoulders if they let themselves believe you. They let it happen. That’s awfully bitter to swallow. I’ll help you talk to them about it, if you wish.” She smoothed the sheet over the side of the bed. “When did you find out?”

  Angie swallowed. “The first week I came back, Grandma and Uncle Bill came over to see me. I lost eight hours—pretty much the whole visit—but I didn’t know why. Then, a couple weeks later, Tattletale left m
e a message asking for a tape recorder. As soon as I got one, she told me the whole story.”

  “Do you remember it for yourself?” the doctor asked.

  “Not directly. And I’m positive that during those dropped hours he got me to switch and raped her all over again.”

  “Her or you?”

  Angie understood the question immediately. “Her. All I had to show for it was a small burn on my arm. No memory.”

  Dr. Grant frowned. “Are you on birth control of any kind?” she asked carefully.

  Angie’s stomach swan dived. “Oh. My God, no. But hang on. I started my period after that. Yeah, way after that.”

  “Started, you say?”

  Angie blushed. “Yeah, I kind of freaked out since it was so unexpected.”

  Dr. Grant patted her hand. “Well, not exactly started. Girl Scout once told me she had terrible cramps and very irregular periods.”

  “Oh? Oh. Maybe I should be thankful I missed that,” Angie said lightly.

  “Why do you think you had such an aggressive response with your uncle this time?”

  Angie grunted. “Well, for one thing, I knew Tattletale’s secret, and I was already pissed off. I was determined not to let him get to her again, and yet there he was, so smug and confident and weaselly, I wanted to vomit. Also, Angel knew I was mad and wanted it to stop. Angel didn’t exist for her when she was little and alone.”

  “Angel. The protective male alter. Yes, I knew he must have come to the front. A physical attack was so unlike you.”

  “I felt him trying to get through. It was so bizarre. A power struggle.”

  Dr. Grant had that listening look on. She didn’t interrupt again.

  “Tattletale was trying to get me to leave so she could take the abuse for me; Angel wanted me to get out of the way so he could teach Bill a permanent lesson; I was stuck in the middle trying to protect Tattletale. Eventually, Angel won. He protected all of us. He can’t help himself, right? I mean, that’s what he was born to do. He is strength. He is vengeance. It’s his only job.”

  “Yes, of course. And that’s why you wanted him eliminated next. Right?”

  “I’m so worried about what he’s capable of doing.” She looked at her own hands, imagining them streaked with red. “About what he might have done. I have … you can’t say anything, right? About what I tell you?”

  “Not unless you grant me permission.”

  Angie’s voice shook. “Even if it’s criminal?”

  “Are you planning to commit a crime?”

  How she could ask that question with such a bland, neutral expression was amazing.

  “Not planning, no. Dr. Grant, I didn’t know I had that kind of violence in me. And yesterday, everyone saw it.”

  Dr. Grant made a hmm sound.

  Angie’s throat tightened. “You should have seen the look in my grandma’s eyes. She was terrified of me. And Dad … even worse. He hates me. He hates what that man made me into.”

  “It wasn’t only your abductor, Angie. It didn’t start there, remember.”

  She clenched the sheet with white fingers. “He will never in a million years believe that about his little brother. And I’m going to be forced to see him year after year. Although he probably won’t wait long to find a way to get revenge.”

  “No way, Angie. We’ll get a restraining order. Trust me. Now, what are you really afraid of?”

  She bit her lip. “It could have been the knife. It could have been his chest. If I, Angie, hadn’t blocked Angel, I think he would have killed my uncle. Right there in the kitchen on Thanksgiving. Without hesitation or remorse. And—”

  Angie stared at her hands. She couldn’t say it. All that came out was, “But only Angel knows.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Grant sighed. “Knew, I’m afraid. While you were heavily sedated, I called Dr. Hirsch and we went ahead with the deletion procedure you had scheduled for Monday. He was willing, under the circumstances. So you don’t need to be afraid anymore, my dear. Angel is gone.”

  Angie felt a tremendous tearing inside. Heard a wailing scream. Felt a stranger.

  Nothing showed on the outside, though. She turned her face to the wall, a tear escaping.

  The hospital smell was strangely comforting. Angie hung on to one thought only. What she couldn’t remember, they could never get out of her, even with a lie detector. Even with hypnosis. Angel had stayed self-contained and taken his guilty memories with him. No last-minute confessions when he went. She was safe. She was just done. Her breath pulled in and out more easily.

  Dr. Grant said, “Well, that’s two down. How are you feeling?”

  “Quiet. Empty.”

  “I’m glad. All right then. I’ll set up some mapping time to go after the other two.”

  “Oh.” Angie hadn’t thought that one more step ahead. Erase Girl Scout? Erase Tattletale? That was the next logical step, she supposed. Still, it seemed sort of ruthless to delete them. They weren’t harming her.

  “Dr. Grant. Actually, I was wondering if we could take a stab at doing more therapy, maybe that integration thing you were talking about. Do you think they’d cooperate?”

  Inside her head, a voice said, Oh, yes. Better than dying!

  RENOVATION

  ANGIE RELAXED INTO THE SOFA, READY FOR THE ALTER team meeting. Dr. Grant had helped her come up with this plan. There was a lot of mess to clean up. She and the other two girls would work together in the imaginary world where they’d met before, the derelict cabin in her mind. Tattletale didn’t live there like the others had—she only visited—but Angie felt that with the threat of Yuncle neutralized, she’d be able and willing to join them. They had some serious personality renovations to tackle as a team. A building project together was a perfect metaphor for reconstructing Angie’s unitary mind. Not more shortcuts, not more losses and erasures. Girl Scout and Tattletale had been issued an invitation—let’s talk about complete integration.

  The pine knots in the wall paneling no longer looked like threatening eyes to Angie. That had to be a positive sign. The girls were much less afraid than they had been.

  Dr. Grant brought out the light bar to initiate the deep visualization; she would begin the guided meeting, but Angie would have to do the heavy lifting once things got started. She fell under the sway of the bouncing light within moments.

  Of course, I was there to help you, Angie. I heard everything you hear. I saw everything you see. I stood outside it all, recording and watching, controlling the walls and the gates. I supported your goals. We would have a happier and calmer, and certainly more predictable life if we worked together instead of taking turns.

  You came to the porch, ready for action, holding a broom and a bucket of paint. Daylight shone on the cabin, and the dry boards and rusty nails stood out. You began by sweeping the cobwebs that hung from the rafters and fresh webs that wrapped the runners of the rocking chairs. Tattletale crept out of the shadows to see what you were doing. “Come help me?” you suggested. “We need to clean these before we put them away.”

  “Away?” Tattletale asked. “Why? Where’s everyone going?”

  “Into the sunlight,” you said. “We’re not going to sit in the darkness anymore. We can all be in the light. Would you like to come too? Would you like to be with me all the time?” You were careful not to show how anxious you were.

  “Will there be horses? Real horses?” Tattletale asked.

  Sure. Why not? There were stables and a riding school nearby. If Friday night babysitting became a regular thing, you could take riding lessons and pay for them yourself. “Yeah,” you promised her. “If you come with me, we’ll ride beautiful horses.”

  Tattletale gave you a huge smile. She took the broom and started dusting the rockers. “Then as soon as we clean up, can we go?” she asked.

  So soon? You’d expected this to be harder. “As soon as we’ve put everything right,” you said.

  Girl Scout had been silent the whole time, rocking and sewing. She lifted h
er feet when Tattletale got to her chair.

  “Aren’t you going to help us?” Tattletale asked.

  “Why should I?” Girl Scout snapped. “We’ll just disappear like Slut and Angel.” She crossed her arms around her chest and frowned.

  You hurried to reassure them. “No, no. I don’t want you to disappear. I decided to take you with me. Please. I want you with me.” You handed a hammer to Girl Scout. “You look kind of mad. Would you like to pound some nails?”

  Girl Scout rose reluctantly, but she took the hammer and began taking huge whacks at the rusty nails poking out of the wall boards.

  I brought a can of cornflower-blue paint out of the shadows where nobody went. Angie, you noticed and said, “This is just what we need.” Three brushes were next to the can, so after you opened it, the three of you could stand side by side, painting the wall of the house—the only wall you had. The paint covered the weathered wood, making it fresh and vibrant again. Progress on the wall was quick. Soon, it was blue as the sky.

  Girl Scout stepped back and admired it. “That’s a good day’s work,” she said. “We’re a good team.”

  You understood the message. She wasn’t yet ready to merge, but she was considering it. That was great progress for one session, Dr. Grant told you. We were closer than we had ever been to integration.

  Angie was out of school for that full week, daily sessions with Dr. Grant and the girls taking all her time and energy. They made a ton of progress, both on the imaginary porch and on their mutual understanding. The rockers had been replaced by flower boxes filled with blooming chrysanthemums, appropriate to the colder weather. The front railing was painted a bright and welcoming yellow. The floorboards had been firmly nailed back into place and refinished, providing a firm foundation. The metaphor worked. Angie felt herself standing on firmer ground.

  “Any day now,” Dr. Grant said. “I think Girl Scout is ready to come aboard.”

  “That would be pretty cool,” Angie replied. “And will I actually absorb all her knowledge of cooking and living off the grid?”