by Merry Jones
I wondered what his thoughts and feedback would be about child pornography. I hadn’t told Susan yet about the flash drive or its contents. Hadn’t even told her about Derek’s blackmail insinuations. I knew I should, that the pornography might be important, might play a role in Charlie’s murder. But I couldn’t talk about it. Not yet. Couldn’t say the words “pedophile” or “child pornography” out loud in the same sentence as Charlie’s name. I felt too sickened. Too ashamed.
I checked the clock on my cell phone. It was time. The top of the hour—
“Mrs. Harrison?”
He was balding and blond. Lighter than blond. His hair was almost white. Glowing. His clothes the same color as his waiting room.
“I’m Don Schroeder.” Not Doctor. He shook my hand. Firm. Warm. Strong. My hand wanted to stay in his.
And then I was sinking into a brown leather sofa in his book-lined office, accepting a cup of blah-colored mint tea.
“Do I call you Mrs. Harrison?”
“No, no. Call me Elle.”
He smiled. His cheek muscles were thick. So were his fingers. White blond hairs on his hands. “Good. Call me Don.”
So. We were on a first-name basis. Now what?
He sat in an easy chair, facing me. Not pushing. Waiting to see what I’d do?
“Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”
“I’m glad I had an open spot.”
Silence. We had run out of amenities.
“I guess you want to know why I’m here.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” He tilted his head. Watching me gently. Maybe wondering how I’d hurt my forehead. Or maybe he knew. Maybe Zoe—Susan’s—friend had told him. Or maybe he’d read about it in the newspapers. He probably knew all about Charlie. And about Somerset Bradley and my head bump. Probably, he was just waiting to see what part I’d tell him first. I sipped tea, stalling, not sure how to begin. The mug was heavy. Soothing in my hands. Too hefty for tea, better for coffee.
Dr. Schroeder—Don—waited. Crossed his legs. Sipped tea. I didn’t start with the flash drive and the pedophilia. Or with Somerset Bradley’s death. Or Charlie’s murder. Or the holes in my memory. There was something I needed to find out first.
“Because I’m color-blind.”
Oh. So that was it.
“Rather than make dire mistakes, I go for things that, I’m told, will blend. Does the lack of color bother you?”
No, not anymore. Actually, I was relieved. I hadn’t meant to make an issue of it. But not one item in his waiting room or office had any but neutral tones. Not even Dr. Schroeder, whose hair was colorless and skin was pale. And the bland tones had disturbed me, seemed too passive and indefinite. But now I understood. The man lived in a colorless world, couldn’t comprehend, much less, select colors. I wondered what it would be like, not to see reds or purples or yellows or blues. How different life would be. Would it be like tasting only one flavor? Hearing only one sound?
But time was passing. I had only an hour, needed to use every minute. Decided to be direct. But I had plenty of reasons to give him for why I’d come. Like hearing Charlie’s voice after he was dead, seeing him at the funeral. Or stabbing a man in the eye. Or finding Charlie’s photos of naked children. But I didn’t mention any of those. Instead, I said, “I’m here because I have holes in my memory.”
He uncrossed his legs. Folded his hands on his lap. “Holes?”
“Yes. Lately—no.” I started over. “See, my friends—I’ve always been spacey. I wander in and out of conversations. I go off in my head. It’s like I’m watching from the ceiling. Or taking a break from being in the room—”
“Sorry—This ‘spacey’ faraway feeling. Is it new?”
“No. That’s normal for me. And it’s not all the time. I can actually kind of control it. If I get bored or nervous or tired or stressed, I just kind of wander mentally away. Why? Is that bad?”
“Bad?” He smiled, leaned forward. “Nothing we talk about here is ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ Elle. Those are judgments. We’re here to understand, not judge.”
Right. Psychobabble. Probably it was bad.
“So tell me what you mean by wandering mentally away.”
Why? I didn’t want to get bogged down in normal stuff. I wanted to get onto the important parts. Like how I couldn’t remember if I’d killed Charlie.
“I don’t know. Like at the funeral. I kind of drifted off. I saw and heard everyone, but it was like I’d floated away. Like I was there but not there. Kind of outside myself.”
“Outside yourself.”
“Yes. Like I was watching.”
“Watching.”
God, was he going to repeat everything I said? “Yes. The way you’d watch a movie, only you’re in it and it’s real.”
He paused, watching me with gentle eyes. He asked more questions. I answered. Told him about drifting in and out of conversations and events. How usually I could be in charge, coming back into focus when I wanted. I explained that drifting was normal for me, didn’t seem strange. That my friends found it quirky, called it, “pulling an Elle.”
He tilted his head, raised his eyebrows.
“And you’ve been ‘pulling Elles’ for how long?”
Forever. For as long as I could remember. In fact, at that moment, I was tempted to drift off and watch the session from a safe distance. Maybe from the colorless ceiling.
“Despite these wanderings, you’ve been functioning with no problem. You said on the phone that you teach school.”
Yes. I functioned pretty well. And, yes, I taught school. Second graders. I thought of my class, saw sparkling eyes and shining faces. Benjy. Tommy. Molly. Aiden. Lily. Josh. An unknown child, posing naked.
“I’d like to spend more time on this subject. But you said it’s normal for you. Which leads me to think that ‘pulling Elles’ is not what you meant by ‘holes’ in your memory.”
No. It wasn’t.
“So what did you mean?”
“Just—I’m having some trouble remembering stuff.”
“Remembering stuff.”
Oh God. The man was a living echo.
“Are we talking about short term? Like remembering appointments or, say, where you’ve put your keys?”
I met his eyes. “No. It’s more about specific events. Like, for example, I can’t remember whether or not I murdered my husband.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. He continued as if I’d said I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car. “Tell me about your husband’s death, Elle. About what you don’t remember.”
And so, I did, sort of. My telling was hurried. I was afraid that my hour would run out before I finished. And what I said was out of sequence, in flashes, like my memories. But, in no particular order, I told him about the night I’d found Charlie’s body. Not remembering the hours between coming home from school and going to Jeremy’s bar, including cutting my hand. I told him about the rose that moved around the house. And that I didn’t remember the actual killing of Somerset Bradley.
Dr. Schroeder—Don—asked few questions. When I finished, I couldn’t look at him. I hadn’t told anyone the things I’d told him. I’d never articulated it even to myself. And, having done so, I felt exposed. Naked. My chest hurt. I couldn’t breathe.
For a moment, Don said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and met my eyes. Put his hand on my arm, squeezed gently.
“My goodness, Elle, you’ve had a terrible time all on your own, haven’t you?”
My eyes flooded. I wanted to ask what was wrong with me, why I couldn’t remember significant events like, for example, killing a man. But I couldn’t speak. Would have choked if I’d tried.
“We’re going to work on this, Elle. But first of all, most important, I want to reassure you.”
To reassure me? Tears gushed suddenly over my lashes, down my face. Dr. Schroeder—sorry, I couldn’t think of him by his first name—he wanted to reassure me. He would work with me. I sniffed, swallow
ed a sob. He handed me a box of tissues and sat back, waiting for me to collect myself.
“Do you want me to tell you my initial thoughts?” He watched me blow my nose.
Of course I did.
“Let’s start with what we talked about first. About ‘pulling Elles,’ okay? Normally, I wouldn’t come to so swift a conclusion, much less share it. But in your case, your descriptions of your ‘Elles’ are almost textbook examples of a certain dissociative disorder.”
Wait. Dissociative disorder? I remembered the term—“Dissociation disorders” from college psychology classes. It was the term they used for people with multiple personalities. Like Eve, in The Three Faces of Eve. I crossed my arms. And my legs. Was Dr. Schroeder saying that I was like her? That my personality was divided into different distinct identities? No, that wasn’t possible. Was it? Was one of my parts a killer? I took a breath. Made myself speak. “You mean like split personalities.”
He smiled broadly. “So you’ve taken psychology courses.”
Yes. A few.
“Well, no, not nearly as severe as split personalities. There is a whole spectrum of disorders that involve dissociation. Some are severe. Others relatively mild. And treatable.”
He paused, letting his answer settle in. “Specifically, you seem to be experiencing something called dissociative depersonalization disorder. Have you ever heard of it?”
I shook my head. No. I didn’t think so.
Dr. Schroeder got up, surveyed his bookshelves, pulled out a volume, rifled through pages. “Let me read a couple of phrases from this book—it’s a pop-psych book written by a Mayo Clinic doctor, but it’s pretty good at getting ideas across. Here: depersonalization disorder. Typically, it involves—quote, ‘the feeling of being outside yourself.’”
I stiffened. My face felt hot.
“Symptoms include: ‘the feeling of watching your life from afar.’”
That was the way I’d described my mental wanderings. Almost verbatim.
“Or of ‘viewing life as if you were viewing a movie.’” He closed the book, looked up at me. And smiled. “Sound familiar?”
I wasn’t able to smile back. Something was wrong with me. A doctor had described it, even used the same words. I had a disorder. And that disorder didn’t even address the more serious problems, the gaps in my memory that had brought me to get help.
“The good news,” Dr. Schroeder sat again, “is that these symptoms are often associated with depression and anxiety. So there has been marked success at reducing them with antidepressives and antianxiety medications.”
“And the bad news?”
He grinned. “Elle. Is there always bad news with good?”
I tilted my head. “Isn’t there?”
He sat up, lost the smile. “Well, it’s not exactly ‘bad’ news. Just possibly not so good. From what you’ve said, your condition sounds long term. Chronic. So it might—mind you, might—be more complicated to treat than something more acute, short term or temporary.”
Another pause. From his expression, I could see that more “not exactly bad news” was coming. “And?”
“And,” his eyes didn’t leave mine, “you’ve mentioned memory loss centered around specific events. That kind of memory loss isn’t typical of depersonalization disorder. It might be indicative of a second dissociative condition.”
A second dissociative condition.
I heard myself breathe, “Oh God.” Felt blood drain from my head. I was sick. Very sick.
Dr. Schroeder frowned. “Elle? Are you all right?”
I reached for my mug. Sipped sweet, now tepid tea. Nodded. Yes, I was fine. In a depersonalized kind of way.
“My theory, as of now, is that we’re dealing with a compound situation. On one hand, you have a preexisting tendency to depersonalize—or go away when things are stressful or difficult. And you have an acute condition that manifests itself during confrontations with severe traumas.”
He’d paused again, letting me absorb his points.
“Normally, Elle, when you face mild stress, you let your mind drift off and carry you away. You drift back when you’re calmer. This has worked for you for years. But now, traumatic events have occurred that were so severe that your mind couldn’t cope by doing its normal drifting routine and watching from afar. The events were too terrible, too horrible, to cope with even from the roof or a movie screen. So your mind went a step farther. It actually rejected the experiences, refusing to record them. Or possibly, it buried them so deeply that you wouldn’t be able to retrieve them. Either way, your mind protected you by not allowing these unacceptable, unbearable events into your consciousness. Do you follow so far?”
I thought so. When really bad things happened, my mind essentially shut down my memory.
“We psychiatrists like to give names to things, even amorphous conceptual things. We label them so they seem manageable and definite, even when they aren’t.” He smirked. “The name we give memory losses like yours is amnesia. But not the kind of amnesia one might get from a car accident or a blow to the head. This type has no physical cause, so it’s called dissociative amnesia. In your case, because the memory loss is limited to specific events and windows of time, it’s called localized dissociative amnesia.”
He paused again. Looked from me to his watch. Apologized with his eyes.
“It’s a lot to digest.”
It was.
He’d diagnosed me with conditions that sounded serious and had a lot of syllables. And might take a lot of time to work out. But because of the urgency of my situation, he arranged to see me daily, even on the weekend for the first week of therapy.
Leaving his office, I still couldn’t remember what had happened in the hours before I’d found Charlie’s body. Still couldn’t quite recall killing Somerset Bradley. But, despite that, I felt optimistic. Hopeful. I wasn’t alone, covering up, trying to appear normal. Someone knew what was going on with me. Someone was going to help me. And, so far, no matter what I’d told him, he hadn’t appeared shocked or appalled.
But then, I hadn’t yet mentioned pedophilia.
When I left, I felt so cheery that I took some time to walk around Society Hill. Past historic homes and old churches to Washington Square, where I sat on a bench, drinking a yogurt shake I’d bought along the way. It was Friday, warm, breezy, almost seventy. Sunlight flickered through colored leaves, warm, like rays of hope.
Sitting on the bench, though, I began to question my mood. Charlie had died eight days before. Nothing had really changed. He was still dead. I was still a suspect in his murder. I had still killed a man. And I still had a flash drive full of child pornography. So what the hell was there for me to be cheery about? Was I not just dissociative, but also delusional?
Seeing Dr. Schroeder had changed nothing. If anything, my problems had become more complicated by what I’d learned. I had a personality disorder. No—I had two. I’d need to take medication, which might or might not help. My conditions might or might not be treatable. My symptoms might or might not get worse.
My cell rang. Susan’s ringtone. I sighed. Pulled the phone out of my bag.
“So?”
“So. Like you said, he tells you what he’s thinking. No bullshit. Thanks for finding him.”
“So did he help? Do you remember anything else?”
Did she think he was a magician? I thought of Joel. He was a magician. Maybe he could cure me. “Not yet, Susan. It’ll take time.”
She was quiet. I recognized tension in the silence. Pictured her, as usual, pushing hair out of her eyes, figuring out how to word something troubling.
“What?”
She exhaled. “We have to talk.”
Oh God. What now? I pictured Officer Moran slapping handcuffs on my wrists. “Tell me.”
But she wouldn’t. “Not now.” Susan sounded urgent. “In person. How’s your house? In an hour.”
She would tell me nothing, insisted on a meeting. By the time we got off the p
hone, my mood had darkened. What did Susan have to tell me? How catastrophic would it be? Why did she have to tell me in person?
I watched a squirrel scamper up a tree, across a branch. Saw a couple of tourists snap pictures of the memorial to the Unknown Soldier. And, from a great distance, I watched the woman on the bench down the last of her shake. Stand. Toss the empty cup in the trash. Begin walking slowing north toward Walnut Street to hail a cab.
I admit I wasn’t paying attention. I was deliberately drifting. Dulling my emotions by pulling an Elle. But I made my way across Washington Square without incident. I stopped the intersection of 7th and Walnut, waiting for traffic to break. Looking for a taxi. Seeing none, I walked west, aware of people on the sidewalk. Of engine noises. Of glass windows, restaurants, and shops.
But I was a safe distance away, watching myself and my surroundings. Oddly aware, though, that I was in the act of depersonalizing. Or was it dissociating? Disordering? What an odd word, disorder.
I walked up Walnut Street, thinking about words and prefixes. The meaning of the names Dr. Schroeder had given to my conditions. The aroma of Chinese food interrupted. Szechuan chicken? Peking duck? I wasn’t on Walnut Street any more. I’d drifted too far, hadn’t paid attention where I was going. I was on 9th Street in Chinatown, heading north.
I stopped, getting my bearings. Looked again for a cab. Saw one, down 9th Street at a stoplight. Stepped off the curb, through the row of parked cars so I could hail it as it approached. Didn’t notice the bicycle a few car lengths down or its rider watching me.
When the bike sped forward and came directly at me, I didn’t have time to be surprised. For a stunned nanosecond, I stood immobile, simultaneously gaping at the cyclist, noting the purple helmet, the lowered shoulders that braced for collision, grasping the danger, figuring the calculus of the bike’s speed and direction. And deciding that I’d better move. As fast as I could, I whirled around, pivoting, dodging the bulk of the impact, diving between parked cars, aware that I was too late, too slow.
