Chapter Forty-Eight
11th January 2017
Dear Journal,
This is the first time I’ve written in you, but it feels like we know each other quite well. I’ve been getting to know you over these pages. Mary was quite the writer. It’s a shame you’ll have to burn once I’ve written your final entry.
We haven’t officially met, but you know a version of me. My name is Sophia Baker. Sophie. And this is my story. The real story.
When I was a little girl, we lived in a big, beautiful house and I had everything I ever wanted. I was spoiled, most people would say. Pretty and privileged. From the outside, my life was idyllic.
My family lived in a grand old house in Melbourne and were the proud owners of a sprawling vineyard in the Victoria countryside. My mother was a chef turned celebrity-chef after she published a string of popular cookbooks. My father was a successful businessman who bought several wine brands producing some of Australia’s most acclaimed wines.
We went on overseas trips every school holiday, attended media events, picked grapes, dined in Michelin star restaurants and drank mouth-watering wine long before I was legal. Dad travelled a lot for business and Mum and I spent hours creating recipes and filling our home with wonderful aromas.
But from when I was very young, Mum suffered migraines. Ever since I can remember, after a busy day in the restaurant or a photo shoot or television appearance, she would eat dinner, pop a pill and go to bed. And later, my father would come into my room. He’d read me fairy tales and sing nursery rhymes from my favourite book. He’d tell me that all the princes in all the world could come to my rescue, but there was only one man who truly loved me, who would truly protect me.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary. That one was my favourite. I’d ask him to sing it to me again and again, shivering under the bedclothes as the inevitable drew nearer, praying I could delay it. And then he’d close the book and place it on the nightstand. He’d turn out the light.
It went on right up until the Christmas just after I turned fifteen, when we were staying in the cabin by the sea. That was when my mother found out our secret. Her sleeping pills hadn’t done the trick – or she’d forgotten to take them, perhaps. She saw the empty space beside her, thought she’d find out where her husband went at night.
For all our sakes, I wish she’d never found out.
After she struck him, he fell backwards. His arms flew out and he grabbed her by the wrist. They both fell over the edge of the deck. To this day, I can hear the screams. I ran to the edge, stared down into the rolling grey sea, but it was too dark. I couldn’t see a thing.
I didn’t speak about what happened that night. It wasn’t that I chose not to – I couldn’t because I didn’t remember. Or Mary didn’t, I should say. Apparently, when Aunty Anne arrived for Christmas and found me hiding in the cupboard, I didn’t say a word. And I stayed silent for two whole months.
I can still see the inside of my wooden cell; it is etched into my memory. I traced the splintered wooden interior with my fingers as the light rose and faded through the crack in the doors, murmuring the old nursery rhyme over and over. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. I suppose that somewhere along the line, as the minutes and hours ran together, the name stuck.
As Doctor Sarah explained, now that I’ve remembered, now that I am Sophie again, she can tell me more about my condition. As Mary, I was too fragile. Doctor Sarah feared I would be unreceptive, that it could do more damage than good. But now I know. Dissociative Identity Disorder, they’re calling it. Gradually, in order to block out and separate myself from all the bad things I’d seen and experienced in my life as Sophie, I took on a new identity. I became Mary.
Memory is a fickle thing when it comes to the average mind, but in the mind of a DID sufferer it’s another thing entirely. I’ve had plenty of time here in the clinic to google the crap out of my condition. It’s fascinating, in a morbid way. There are personal accounts on various sites and blogs ranging from people blacking out multiple times a day (that’s all they remember – it’s the people in their lives who have to deal with their other identities) to people fully becoming another person with no memory of their previous life. Some people have multiple personalities – one lady had eight! – hence the old term ‘multiple personality disorder’.
My case is unusual. Mary seemed to remember our childhood, our teenage years, our family, Doctor Sarah, Aunty Anne and Uncle John. She remembered things from before she became Mary. But she’d blocked out the bad parts, invented a different version of her life, her childhood, where she was happy, carefree, confident. She chose to see our life the way it appeared from the outside rather than the way it really was. Her – my – our brain’s way of coping with the unthinkable.
Of course, some things couldn’t be ignored – like the fact that her parents were gone. So she invented some story that they went missing – which sounds mysterious really, almost romantic – rather than the truth. Because, let’s face it, anything is better than the truth.
I suppose Mary could have carried on that way forever. Perhaps I would have eventually been eradicated. I don’t know – I don’t think it works that way. Because if it did, we could all be anyone we wanted. If we didn’t like who we were, we could literally become someone else. Erase the past, create a new identity. The ultimate self-reinvention.
But as Doctor Sarah says, our memories have a way of coming back to us when we least expect it. Our psyches can’t protect us from the truth forever.
I don’t share Mary’s memories. Sometimes I have dreams so vivid they feel like memories and I wonder if they’re hers. Sometimes I have flashbacks – see images of things I’m sure I’ve never experienced. Many sessions with Doctor Sarah and the psychiatrists here at the clinic have taught me that Mary didn’t share my memories either – not consciously. That’s why there were gaps – those blank spaces. That’s why she didn’t know about the things I’ve done.
So fifteen-year-old me became Mary, once I started talking again. I started going to therapy and I met Mark and … well, I’ve read Mary’s entries here. We both know the rest. At times I’d switch to me again. I have memories of Mark, of the kind of man he was, of the things he did to me. To us. I remember our apartment. I remember parties. I remember the aftershave he wore. But Mary stayed with him for three years, and the memories I have make up all of a few months, tops. They’re just snippets, snapshots of a life someone else lived. Mary’s journal entries are all I have of the life she led in my body.
I remember the first time I, Sophie, ‘met’ Mark. Waking in an unfamiliar bed with a stranger next to me – naturally, I freaked out. He thought I was taking the piss, that I was pretending to be someone else on purpose. Once he figured it out, he wasn’t happy. But being the opportunist he is, I guess he found a way to take advantage of the situation.
Mark preferred Mary to me. He told me. He’d be angry with me, shouting at me to fuck off, fuck off, fuck off and I couldn’t understand why. I can now. Meek, trusting Mary who’d had a nice childhood and did what he said was infinitely preferable to her rage-filled, fucked-up alter-ego. Plus I suppose she stuck around longer than I did, was more ‘stable’. I’d wake up thinking it was Sunday when it was Thursday, wondering what the hell had happened, angry and confused and scared, and he couldn’t stand it.
He stayed because of the money. He sought me out when I left because why wouldn’t he? He had a nice little arrangement going. It was the perfect situation for a guy like him.
Anyway, back to the story. So, on the night of Dealer Dan’s party, Mark disappeared after we scored the drugs from Bruce (Mark was with Rachel, I now know. Turns out he was cheating – no surprises there) and Tom Forrester held a knife to my throat and tried to rape me. So I killed him. Simple as that.
Was it an accident? In the dead of night, when I can’t sleep with the thuds and screams coming through the wall, I can’t be sure. And I suppose no one will ever know, because Rachel told the police it was
Mark who did it. Her and me? We were just innocent bystanders. Only we know what really happened. Only we know what I did.
I’m not like most people in here. I cop ‘princess’ a lot, amongst other names I won’t mention. But – aside from this one girl who gives me the finger every time she sees me – once people find out what happened to me, why I’m here, they all get this same look. A combination of pity and perverse fascination. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.
They’re all suffering from severe mental illnesses, of course, but most of them are actually okay. They know what it’s like to have seen or done horrible things. To suffer in ways most people will never have to imagine.
Maybe they wouldn’t be so sympathetic if they knew the truth. If they knew what I did, and that I’m not sorry for it. How differently would that night have ended, how many lives might Tom have gone on to destroy if I hadn’t done it? It was self-defence. Him or me. Why would I be sorry?
I’ve seen first-hand how powerless the authorities are to help people like me. I’ve lived through the consequences of complacency and incompetence. I’ve seen how they violate the victim who’s already been violated enough, conspiring to expose them as liars, whores, as willing participants in their own assault. It becomes about the crazy bitch attacking the helpless, confused man, not the abused woman reaching the end of her tether and lashing out in self-defence.
It would be us on trial, not them.
Now, more than ever, I wish Mum were here. The grief Mary didn’t let me feel has poured out in a deluge and it just keeps coming. I grieve my father, too. That surprised me at first, but apparently it’s normal. It’s not because I miss him or forgive him or want him in my life. I think it’s because it’s the opposite of that. My grief for him is tainted, more violent, because I both hated and loved him; the fury and the guilt threaten to suffocate me.
Doctor Sarah says I may need to grieve my father three times. Once for the man he was – a man who hurt me when he should have protected me. Once for the man who died that night by the sea. And once for the father I wished he’d been – a man who would nurture and love and protect me. The kind of hero every daughter dreams of: someone who champions her rights, not someone who steals them from her.
I can see that Doctor Sarah’s right. She usually is. I hope when that final phase of grief has passed, I will be at peace.
Rachel was the first one to visit me here, after Aunty Anne. I didn’t recognise her, not exactly, but she seemed familiar, like an old friend or a distant cousin. I thought she was a nurse at first, dressed in white with her gentle smile, fair hair backlit like a halo.
When it was just the two of us, she explained what happened. She brought me this journal from my bedroom in the apartment we shared. She told me to read it when I was alone, and hide it. She explained exactly what she saw That Night – what she did for me. I’m not sure that I deserve her loyalty.
Rachel said that after I realised what I’d done, who I was, I turned pale and passed out. I must have panicked and pressed my alarm at some point because the cops turned up at the cabin. But Rachel had a story ready to tell them that would save me, not implicate me. She even put herself in jeopardy. She told them Mark had attacked me on the cliff and would have killed me if she hadn’t stepped in. He was swinging a baseball bat wildly, and she was trying to wrestle it off him. All it took was one final tug from him, and as Rachel let go of the bat, he lost his footing and stepped backward, off the cliff edge. We escaped with our lives. He wasn’t so lucky.
I don’t know what really happened; it was Mary who saw, not me. But I backed up Rachel’s story, no questions asked. I owe her that much. Because of her, I’m free. Or, at least, I will be soon.
It’s funny the way two people come together in life, sometimes. As far as I can gather, Mary and Rachel barely knew each other. Mary doesn’t mention her much in this journal. She’s practically a stranger. But because of one man, we are bound forever.
It’s all worked out pretty nicely, I guess. Mary’s journal entries support Rachel’s testimony. The blood on my shoes was Tom’s, which proves I was there and backs up Rachel’s claim that Tom attacked me before Mark killed him. Turns out the pair were affiliated – drug dealing, of course, which gives Mark further motive.
I sometimes wonder how things would have turned out if it weren’t for Rachel. Would I be in this place? Or would they have locked me away somewhere a million times worse?
I don’t mind it here, most of the time. It’s funny, but the insomnia, the anxieties, even the anger I lived with all my life, like I was hardwired that way – it’s all lessened. Maybe it’s peace of mind. I have my life back, and now everyone knows the kind of men they were – my father and Mark. They got what they deserved. And I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.
I’ve had some other visitors, which has been nice. Aunty Anne comes a lot and she brings me home-cooked meals because the food is terrible here. This guy called Ben came about a week ago and apparently Mary was involved with him. He seems nice enough, kind of sweet but not much to look at. I don’t remember him at all. Poor guy, he looked devastated. Mary hasn’t mentioned Ben much in her journal. I wonder how close they were, what he meant to her. Maybe I’ll get to know him, over time.
Cat’s visited more often than anyone. After hearing her side of the story it’s painfully clear how devoted she was to stick by Mary – me – all this time. Despite the things I did to her over the years. Dumb kid stuff, admittedly, but still hurtful. Like going after boys she liked, because I knew she liked them. To prove to myself that I was better, that I could win. I cringe to think of it. Back then I had so much to prove – all that hidden shame and self-loathing, all that anger with nowhere to go. It’s a wonder I had any friends, and somehow I’ve ended up with two: Rachel and Cat. Fierce, devoted Cat, who made it possible for me to break free and move on, who – under Doctor Sarah’s strict instruction – went to great lengths to make sure the ‘Mary’ delusion went unshattered. Everyone knew – Ben, Rachel, Gia. Cat told them, to protect me. To make sure I was safe. Until I was ready to understand.
That’s why it such a shame that, after everything, someone else succeeded where she failed. The new girl was the one who broke through, who got me where I needed to be. Because for all the psychoanalysis the professionals and the do-gooders threw at me, Rachel was the only one who truly understood. Maybe that’s why Cat and Rachel never visit together, and don’t speak of each other much.
I’m getting used to the routine here. I like knowing what’s going to happen every day. It’s a comfort. Security. My meals are brought for me, I can watch all the films and read all the books I want. They even let me cook sometimes, under supervision. I might learn to be a chef, like Mum.
In some ways I actually like being in this place. There’s no ocean, no roaring waves to taunt me with their whispered memories. And if I play my cards right, someday soon, I’ll be out of here. I can go anywhere I like, start afresh. Maybe Rachel will come. I’ve got money, I can head north, find myself a little place of my own. Far from the sea.
Acknowledgements
There are so many wonderful people to thank:
Agent-extraordinaire Lorella Belli, for believing in this book and in me. You hadn’t even read the entire manuscript when you jumped in with an offer – and it’s been a rollercoaster ever since! I feel extremely privileged to have you in my corner. Thank you for everything.
Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks, for being such a zealous advocate of The New Girl. I’m so grateful for your faith in this story.
My brilliant editor, Katie Loughnane, who has been such a passionate and enthusiastic supporter. You’ve understood the heart of the story and have made me feel comfortable placing my work in your (very capable) hands – thank you so much for that.
Jade Craddock for her exceptional copy-editing skills, Bella Bosworth for proofreading, and Alison Groom for the stunning cover design.
And, of course, enormous thanks to the entire �
�dream team’ at Avon! I couldn’t have hoped for a better home for my book. You’ve given me a wonderful introduction into the publishing world and I am so grateful for your unparalleled energy and hard work. Every one of you is a star!
My mentor, Laurence Daren King, who guided me through a thorough re-write and helped me turn a decent book in to one that had agents grappling for it. Thank you for everything you’ve taught me.
Harry Bingham for seeing potential in this manuscript and steering me towards the right agent. I have learnt so much from the information and resources you provide aspiring authors with.
Huge thanks to my talented friend and fellow author, Sarah Epstein, who has been there since the very beginning. You’ve supported me in countless ways and I don’t know what I’d have done without your advice, guidance and friendship.
Heartfelt gratitude to Sonia – without your care and support, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
My wonderful family-in-law – Mai, Kjell, Kjell Magne, Dagfinn, Henriette and Lene for your enthusiasm, support and for being my international cheer squad! Tusen takk alle sammen.
My mother, Judy, for reading to me as a child and ensuring that I was always surrounded by stories. You planted the seed that became a life-long love affair with books. I am so lucky to have such a selfless, loving parent. Thank you.
My grandparents, Marjorie and Arthur, who worked so incredibly hard to provide for this family. Everything I have, I owe to both of you.
Thank you to my aunt, ‘Tilynn’ Lynn Day, who has been such a special part of my life – and an endless source of information and enthusiasm for all things literary!
My stepfather, Andrew Mack, for being someone who understands the insanity of the writing process! You have been ever-ready with a listening ear, an appropriate article or the loan of a book. Thank you for the support.
My baby son, Milo, who has opened my mind and my heart in ways I hadn’t imagined possible. I couldn’t love you more.
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