by Tom Bierdz
For a long time she stared at me blankly, probably deciding what and how much to share. She ran a finger up and down her martini, wiping the condensation off her glass, then began, “When I came to the house, Sasha was squinting and holding her head. She was having one of her fucking migraines and was pissed that I chose this time to come over. But I had to see her as something had been gnawing at me, little nibbles of the past, and the gnawing became ravenous, chewing big chunks out of me, leaving me in such a state...I can’t explain it, only that it was an urgent need. I insisted she take a Relpax despite having taken one earlier. Sasha sunk down into the couch, seized a throw pillow, and buried her face in it. I knew Sasha kept the pills by the sink, so I stepped into the kitchen, filled a glass with water, removed a pill from the vial and brought it to Sasha who swallowed it. Still feeling rotten she wanted to know what was so damn important. I told her I needed to know about her and Daddy.”
She had been looking over my shoulder as she told her story. Now she focused on me. “She acted surprised, like she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
I saw a flash of something in her eyes that I couldn’t quite read.
Her face a blank, she hesitated as if she were replaying a scene in her head. “I had a dream. No, it was more a revelation, a memory. I remember having a childhood nightmare, waking and seeking comfort from Sasha in her room. But she wasn’t there. I went looking for her and saw her leaving Daddy’s room. She said she was scared, sought him out, but the back of her nightgown was lodged inside her panties. When I confronted her she dismissed it claiming she was just a kid who sometimes put her clothes on backwards.
“She didn’t like me confronting her. Especially with the migraine. She said, ‘Daddy’s been dead for over ten years. Why are you bringing this up now?’ ”
Looking at me as if I was her therapist, she said, “I needed to know.” Then she padded to the wall, looked beyond the rain that streaked the window. Her face a blank, she didn’t focus on the scene before her. Her mind was working overtime, traveling back in time. She sauntered back to her spot on the sofa, looked straight at me and said, “I thought I was protecting you.”
At that moment I had become her sister. Transference at its zenith. “Protecting me from what?” I said.
Megan looked dazed, then slowly as if my words were registering, her eyes became hard, relentless, the eyes of someone with a deep grievance that was never far from her mind.
Thinking I had figured some of it out, I decided to risk it, “You killed him, didn’t you? Our father didn’t die from a heart attack. His heart gave out because you poisoned him.” My breath ran ragged. I saw the hate in her eyes. “How could you do that to your own father? How could you take my father away from me?”
“I did it for you, you spoiled brat. To save you from him. He tired of me. He was going to start creeping in your bed. That’s not what fathers are supposed to do.”
I didn’t know what came next, so I sat motionless, waiting for her move.
Momentarily, she shot out of the sofa. “He did, didn’t he? He crawled into your bed.” She rushed me, grabbed me by the shirt, pushing against my leg and jolting me with pain.
I seized her wrists, pushed her away. “Megan, it’s me!”
She startled, as if awakened from a dream, drifted back to the sofa.
When I thought she was back in the present, I said, “You were there back in that scene with Sasha the night she died.”
She reached for her martini, put it to her lips, paused before sipping, trying to reconnect with that lost bit of memory. I had recognized similar behavior from patients who suffered from dissociative states.
She set her drink down, moved to the edge of her cushion. “What did I say?”
“You told me you poisoned your father because he abused you. Also, to protect Sasha from him” Her eyes widened.
“Then you attacked me...Sasha...when you learned she was already sleeping with your father.”
Her face nearly crumpled. There were tears in the corner of her eyes. “Sasha spit in my eye. She said I wasn’t his favorite. That Daddy liked Sasha best. That he was fondling her at eleven. She scoffed at me as her protector. I didn’t even know what was going on.” Blinking incredulously, she continued, “I wanted to know why she never told me.” She hesitated.
“And?”
“I couldn’t believe what she told me next. She said she didn’t tell me because she didn’t want me to have him all to myself. Then she said that Daddy said that she was better than me. More passionate. A better kisser.” A tear slid down her face. “That’s when I broke...slapped her.”
“You were jealous. Even though he abused you, you’d been special at the same time. Your father’s favorite. The apple of his eye. The one and only.”
“Yes, and how did I not know about Daddy and Sasha? The bastard was unbelievably good at sweet talking his girls to keep his secret. How he could press his face to mine, tell me how special I was, and make me promise to tell no one, not even Sasha. Was I so blind, so taken in, that I neglected to see the closeness between Daddy and Sasha?”
Something flashed in her eyes. Her mouth flew open. “Sasha snatched a fireplace iron, charged me, viciously swinging the iron at my head, screaming, ‘You killed my father, bitch!’ We fought. I blocked the fireplace iron with my arm, slammed my head into Sasha’s stomach, putting all of my energy into it, whooshing the breath out of Sasha’s lungs. We crashed to the floor. I was always the stronger and twisted the iron out of Sasha’s hand, sending it spinning away. Then I grabbed her hair, banged her head on the floor.” She grinned, remembering. “Oh, how she screamed with that migraine. It shook the walls.
Even chilled me.
“She laid listless on her back, cowering. She looked pathetic like the unwitting child she was, helping her old man get his rocks off, mistaking sex for love.
“I seized the gun from my purse, pointed it at Sasha, and ordered her to get up. She rested on her elbows, taunted me, and said, ‘What are you going to do, shoot me?’
“Don’t egg me on,” I said, “I’m itching to pull this trigger.” I pushed the gun closer. Sasha crawled to the couch, braced herself on the arm of the sofa, and raised herself up. Pointing with the gun, I ordered her into the bedroom.
She sneered, edging to the bedroom, saying, ‘You want a piece of me, too, like everyone else? I didn’t know you were bi-sexual, sister,’
“On the bed,” I yelled.
“Sasha sat on the bed, mocked me, ‘Should I take off my clothes?’
“I yanked my arm back to pistol whip her, and yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” I grabbed the Zoloft vial from the nightstand, tossed it to Sasha, and demanded she take them. There was a glass of water on the nightstand.
“Sasha glanced at the container, said, ‘There’s only four. If you want to kill me, you better use the gun.’
“Take them! I insisted.
“‘Are you that jealous of me?’ she said.
“I said, I won’t let your anger do me in now that you know I poisoned the old man.”
Instead of saying Sasha said and I said, Megan began to speak for Sasha in a different voice, a higher octave.
In Sasha’s voice, “You think I’d tell the police? He molested us. He deserved to die.”
Anger stiffened her voice. “Take them! I shoved the gun into Sasha’s face. Sasha swallowed the pills, washed them down. She pleaded, ‘No one is ever going to know you killed him. You’re my sister, Megan. You’re all I got.’
“I took the handcuffs out of my purse, cuffed Sasha’s hands in front of her.
“You’re supposed to cuff them to the bed posts,” in Sasha’s voice as she tenuously hung on to hope that her sister who helped raise her could not possibly kill her.
“I ignored her and removed the Z
oloft samples I took from the drug room from my pocket, tore off the cover, and placed the container in Sasha’s hands. “Now, take these!”
“Sasha flung them but with cuffed hands, they didn’t go far, many spilling out on the floor by the bed.
“I picked them up and punched Sasha in the jaw. I poured the pills into my hand and squeezed Sasha’s cheeks. Sasha fought but the Zoloft in combination with the Relpax, and boosted by her adrenalin, was working through her system, weakening her resolve. I forced her mouth open, shoved in the pills, and poured water into her mouth. She gagged, spit out some of the pills, but was forced to swallow the remainder with me manipulating her throat.”
Chilled by her cold-bloodedness, I watched and listened in awe, thunderstruck by her capacity to replay the incident precisely as it happened with all the accompanying emotions. All, except guilt, at least up to this point. As a psychiatrist I was used to people sharing their most precious intimacies with me, but never like this. It was like being a fly on the wall, a performance like none other.
She continued, “Sasha slumped down, sunk into the bed like water in a crevice, slowly fading into oblivion. I pulled a chair over to the bed, sat and watched my sister, reminiscing how I had protected her from Daddy, finding ways to intercede, to prevent them from being alone, like popping into a room to watch tv or play games with them when I preferred to do something else, joining them on errands, even arranging my class time to limit their time alone. Especially after Daddy tired of me. I never imagined their rendezvous at night, convinced Sasha would tattle to me. The little slut kept it a secret. Even liked it!
“I was jarred by the ring of my cell phone. Checking the caller ID, I saw it was you, Grant, giving me the chance to redeem myself. I could call an ambulance. There was probably still time to save Sasha’s life. Unwavering, I let the call go to voicemail.”
I couldn’t specifically remember the call. I made several during that timeframe.
“The eletriptan,” Megan continued, “the ingredient in Relpax, and the Zoloft combination was close to lethal certainty, but I needed to be absolutely sure. I took the cuffs off Sasha, put them in my purse. Then, I reached inside and pulled out a bottle of liquid Zoloft and a syringe. Filling the syringe, I climbed on top of Sasha, facing her feet, and knelt on her arms to prevent any final survival instincts, then plunged the needle between her toes and emptied it.”
Suddenly, I felt tired, a little woozy. I calculated I could handle a certain amount of Zoloft in my system without being affected even if my body wasn’t used to antidepressants, but I hadn’t figured on the much faster-acting, liquid Zoloft.
“I climbed off Sasha, picked up the few pills on the floor, put them, the bottle, the sample container, and the syringe into my purse, then wiped down the glass and the vial that had been legitimately prescribed and placed it on the bedside table. I carefully checked the scene for anything unusual. When satisfied, I locked the front door with the spare key I had, and left the premises. On the way home I threw the incriminating evidence into a garbage container.” She beamed with pride for a job well done.
“You see, Grant, Sasha was deceitful. I couldn’t trust her anymore. After everything I did for her. Now you’re the only loose end.”
“You’re wrong. Detective Rollins knows you’re a murderer.” I blinked, squeezed my eyes together, trying to shake off my stupor.
“Knowing isn’t enough. He has to prove it. I’ll make us another drink.” She took my glass.
She was gone before I had a chance to protest. I couldn’t take another swallow. I had to figure a way out of this soon. I glanced at my watch. Carrie and Rollins had to have come for me by now. They probably tried to call and reached my voicemail. Mentally, I tried to send them my whereabouts. Megan returned with the drinks. “Get up. We’re going upstairs.”
“It’s cold out there,” I said, struggling to get to my feet.
“I have a heater up there.”
With a drink in each of her hands I thought this was my chance. If I swung the crutch at her head...
“Here, take your drink.”
“How? I need the crutches.” I stood, my arms on them.
She foiled me again, getting a tray for the drinks she held in one hand, the gun in the other, and marched me to the elevator.
She hadn’t planned for me to die in her bed. No one would believe I’d suicide there. Instantly, I realized she was going to drug me and send me over the balcony. An accident was believable. She had seen how I suffered from vertigo on her balcony. I didn’t know how she would pick me up and toss me over. She was strong but not that strong. She wouldn’t have considered it if she hadn’t figured it out.
Whatever I did, I couldn’t pass out.
Megan couldn’t resist checking herself out in the mirror.
I hobbled out of the elevator into the bedroom where we spent those delicious entwining hours.
How could this Megan be the same person? She pressed a button on the wall and the doors opened to the balcony, a cold breeze rushing inside. I welcomed it’s sobering effect as I shuffled outside. I knew it wouldn’t last but I was grateful for the respite. The rain ceased. The balcony was wet. I heard the water’s roar, the waves crashing against the rocks.
Megan strutted to the wall. “It’s beautiful out here. I never tire of it.” Grinning sinisterly, she added, “Come closer.” She had balanced our drinks on the railing, kept the gun in her hand.
I scooted over.
“Drink this.” She handed me the drink.
I had drank too much already. I felt nauseous, had trouble keeping my eyes open. Megan was beginning to fade in and out. I nearly lost my balance accepting the drink. “You expect me to drink this so I pass out and you can throw me off the balcony.”
“I couldn’t possibly lift you over, Darling.”
“Quit the bullshit, Megan, you’d find a way. You’d never get away with it.”
“No one will suspect me, Grant. Just like they never suspected me of killing those other shrinks who couldn’t keep their pricks in their pants. They got what they deserved. You had a shitload of reasons to end your life. You lost your son, your wife. Your practice is falling apart.”
She wasn’t factoring in Carrie and Detective Rollins. “You really think they would believe I came over her to kill myself?”
“I’m irresistible, darling. There would be at least one or two male jurors who’d believe you couldn’t stay away, but it would never get that far. It doesn’t really matter what they believe. They need proof. My word against theirs.”
“Well, I’m not going to assist you.” I flung my drink over the railing.
Surprised, her eyes following my glass, I knocked the gun out of her hand. She bent down to reach for it, but I slapped it away with my crutch. We both dived to the floor. Leg pain sluiced through my body, but I couldn’t let it stop me. We scuffled on our stomachs, side to side, grabbing each other’s arm as it neared the gun. Megan socked me in the nose and reached the gun. I brought my forearm down on her wrist, knocking it and skittering it away on the wet tiles
Megan scrambled to her knees, crawled to the gun. Whatever size and strength advantage I had was nullified by the drugs and my injury. Unable to follow with a fractured thigh, I felt like a worthless blob, but stretched and clasped her ankle, dragging her back. She kicked my shoulder but I held on. The jolt helped keep me alert from surrendering to the drugs. But the next kick from her free leg hit me square on the jaw. I saw stars and released my grip.
She got the gun, scrambled to her feet. Pointed it at me. “Get up.”
I knew she’d resist shooting me. Use the gun only as a last resort. Suicide or an accident was easier to explain. “Bring me my crutches.”
She handed them to me.
I pried myself up. Agonizing pain pulsed my thigh. I stag
gered, braced myself on the eight foot, bronze patio heater. On wheels it moved, gave me an idea. Feeling confident with the gun and aware of my instability, Megan took her eyes off me long enough. Using all of my strength I sent the heater crashing down on her. She hit the ground, dazed, the gun sliding away. Shuffling to the gun, I picked it up, ambled over to the railing, and tossed it over into the sea.
At that moment watching it, I flashbacked to that earlier time on the balcony hit by vertigo imagining Kevin’s suicidal plunge from the bridge. Once again I was there.
Dizzy.
Nauseous.
Racked with indescribable pain.
The combination of visualizing Kevin’s suicide in my head, the drugs, and excruciating leg pain made me sick. Drifting over to the railing I leaned over and barfed, spilling my guts and drugs out. Instinctively, as if I had eyes behind my head, I knew Megan would use this moment to drive me off the balcony. I felt her charge, coming at me full speed, building up her power to push me over. Timing it perfectly, I turned just as she was on top of me, grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over my head. The look on her face was stark terror as she tried to grab the railing but her grip slipped and she tumbled downward.
I never heard her scream, just the splat of her body hitting the rocks, the sound only faintly heard above the roaring water. And, as if on cue, the last remaining particles in my stomach exploded outward.
Bent over the railing, I was gagging with the dry heaves when I felt Carrie’s hand on my shoulder.
Rollins stood behind her.
“It’s over,” she said, hugging me. “It’s over.”
52
For weeks, following, I was haunted by Megan. She was gone, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I couldn’t understand how I could fall for a serial killer and have no clue about the person she was. I had been questioning my powers of perception, but I wasn’t that dense. We were lovers. Megan wasn’t faking. Some other principle had to be operating. Then, I remembered Freud’s repetition compulsion. Despite Megan’s rage against her abusive, psychiatrist father, she unconsciously tried to rewrite her history. She would vacillate between blaming him and blaming herself. When she believed she was at fault, she believed she had the power to control and rectify her situation. Consequently, she would seek out a psychiatrist to win him over, be the good child, and receive the unconditional love she deserved. She kept repeating the same pattern, over and over again, but it never worked because the fault wasn’t hers. It was her parent.
