by D. J. Palmer
She showed him the cover.
“I need more time to think about it,” he said.
“What’s there to think about?” Her voice carried a note of desperation. “Penny came to us for a reason. I know it. I feel it in my soul.”
Grace gave Arthur’s face a gentle caress. This was a huge decision, and one he needed to make on his own terms. Before they could discuss it further, the bedroom door creaked open and in came Penny, wearing the penguin pajamas Grace had bought at Old Navy weeks before her arrival. She took quiet, cautious steps toward the bed.
“Mrs. Grace … Mr. Arthur…” She called them that because they weren’t yet Mom and Dad. “I made something for you,” she said in the smallest, most tender voice Grace had ever heard.
“Come here, honey,” Grace said, patting the bed before opening her arms wide. Over shuffled little Penny, holding a piece of brown construction paper in her tiny hand. She handed the paper to Arthur before falling into Grace’s embrace. Arthur had to unfold the paper to study it, which he did for a long time, saying nothing, until Grace saw his eyes had gone red and watery. He showed Grace the drawing Penny had done.
One look, and her heart burst open.
Despite Penny’s rudimentary artistic skills, Grace had no trouble making out what she had created. There were five figures—clearly meant to be Grace, Arthur, Penny, Ryan, and Jack—standing in front of a house, their little stick-figure hands overlapping to illustrate a chain. Above, in a scratchy blue sky decorated with a lemon-yellow sun, she’d written the words My Famile in green crayon—misspelled, yes, but heartrending as could be.
Arthur bit his top lip and said to Grace, his voice cracking a bit, “We’ll sign those papers. We’ll sign them in the morning.”
* * *
Grace didn’t explain the significance of that particular drawing to Mitch, allowing him instead to look at it and the others without any narration on her part.
“What’s this?” he asked after some moments of quiet contemplation. “I’m seeing it on her later artwork.”
His finger indicated a drawing of an anchor, tucked into the bottom left corner of a street scene of New York that Penny had copied from a book.
“When she was little, Penny told me she had a necklace with an anchor hanging down—I’m sure she meant a pendant—but she’d lost it. It was something she remembered having from her life with Rachel. I know she wasn’t wearing it the day we found her, so I bought her a replacement necklace after she told me about it, one with an anchor pendant attached. When she outgrew one necklace, I’d buy her another. Some years later, when she was probably eight or nine, she started drawing anchors everywhere—on notepaper, even on her walls sometimes—thankfully those were in pencil. Then she started to put them on her artwork, like it had become her trademark.”
Mitch studied the design closely, and he seemed perplexed by it.
“It’s not a normal-looking anchor,” Mitch said. “It has two stocks coming off the shank below the crown. I’ve done some boating, and the anchors I’ve seen only have one.”
He showed Grace the anchor drawing—as if she didn’t know it from memory.
She offered him a blank stare in return.
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “Penny made up the design as a kid. I didn’t really think much of it other than it was her take on an anchor, which she’s always had a thing for.”
Grace did a quick scan of the other pieces of artwork she’d brought. The quality of Penny’s drawings clearly improved with age, but the anchor design remained essentially unchanged.
“Is this the same design as the first necklace you bought for her?” Mitch asked, stroking his beard in thought.
Grace tried to picture that necklace in her mind.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I have a bunch of them at home. As I’m sure you know, only plain wedding bands and religious necklaces can be worn in here.”
Mitch flipped to the last drawing in the stack, a seaside cottage done in acrylic paints.
“Was she doing much art in her teens?” he asked.
“No,” Grace said, shaking her head once the answer came to her. “She was trying to master landscapes, and then one day she sort of stopped doing art altogether. It was sad, because she loved it. She wasn’t necessarily a natural. Wouldn’t take art lessons, though I encouraged it. I wasn’t expecting her to be Rembrandt. I was just happy she’d found something she enjoyed, a creative, constructive way to express herself, that’s all.”
“Hmmm,” Mitch said, studying the drawing of the cottage closely. “I’m wondering if she was expecting she’d be Rembrandt.” He surveyed some of Penny’s later pieces once more.
For reasons Grace couldn’t fathom, Mitch placed his fingers over the two stocks on the left side of the anchor symbol. He turned the paper around to show Grace the result.
“Look at it closely,” he said. “Get rid of the pointed flukes, and the curved arm forms a C. Covering the two stocks on the left side of the shank, you get the letter F. I don’t think this is an anchor at all—or if it is, it serves a dual purpose.”
“And what purpose is that?” Grace asked, still not seeing it.
“C. F. Initials. Chloe Francone.”
A gasp rose in Grace’s throat.
“I think in addition to being a perfectionist, Chloe here, for a time at least, was also a budding artist—until single-mindedness stifled her creativity.”
Mitch fell silent for a time, long enough for Grace to ask what he was thinking.
“I’m thinking we might be able to stoke those creative fires once more, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll give me a way to reach her.”
CHAPTER 27
MITCH WAS CONCERNED THAT his next experiment might not go well in front of an audience, but Grace wanted to watch, as did Navarro. As a compromise, Mitch reserved a room with one-way glass, allowing Penny some illusion of privacy during their session.
Grace used the cover of that glass to take in Eve’s every movement—noting first and foremost that it was still Eve’s hard expression on display. The girl was seated at a sturdy wood table in the center of a bright white, starkly lit, wide-open space. She stared directly into the mirror across from her, anger seared on her face, as if she knew her mother was on the other side to receive her message loud and clear: It’s your fault that I’m here.
At least that was Grace’s interpretation. Mitch had stepped out into the hallway to answer a phone call, leaving Eve with nothing to do but wait—and stare.
On the floor beside the table was the same container of art supplies Grace had seen in Mitch’s office on the day they first met. Eve stole occasional glances at the contents, visible through the clear plastic sides, but revealed nothing of her thoughts or feelings.
While waiting for Mitch’s return, Navarro had another opportunity to review the artwork Grace had laid out on a table in the viewing room.
“The anchor symbol isn’t on all of the drawings,” he noted, examining an earlier piece of her daughter’s—a lopsided house rendered in a variety of colors on a sloping green hill, all done in frenzied crayon strokes.
“No, that symbol came about later,” Grace explained, happy to have the distraction from Eve’s cold eyes. “Mitch thinks Chloe might have replaced her desire for perfection in art with getting perfect marks at school—which would mean we were living with Chloe for years and didn’t know it.”
“So interesting,” Navarro said, flipping through drawings done on different shades of paper. “And drawing will get Chloe to appear?”
“There may be a subconscious response brought on by the tactile stimulus of the drawing materials,” Grace explained. “Mitch is hoping that a reminder of youthful innocence, especially here in a scary place like Edgewater, might make Chloe feel safe enough to come out.”
Navarro, who made his living with words, seemed at a loss for them.
“So it’s like the ammonia,” he said eventually. “Some sensory stimulus to encoura
ge a switch, is that it?”
Grace nodded. The look of curiosity on Navarro’s face deepened.
“Do you think she’s … what, parsed out her memories from the night of the murder to her different alters?”
“It’s an avenue Mitch is exploring,” said Grace. “He’s not sure. But I’m certain of one thing: Penny’s trying to tell us something. Something she’s too afraid to come right out and say, or something she’s repressed, and she won’t let us in unless we find the keys.”
Navarro appeared nonplussed. “I thought Dr. McHugh wasn’t sold on Penny having DID,” he said.
“He’s not, at least not yet. He still thinks the alters could be make-believe, meaning she’s aware of all of them at all times, which is different from the truly distinct personality states of DID.” Grace shuffled Penny’s artwork back into the portfolio. “Either way, he’s helping us, and that’s what’s important.”
Navarro, who was helping Grace put the artwork away, held up a drawing of Penny’s—one of Grace’s favorites, a girl in a yellow dress wearing a blue hat.
“That he is,” he said, studying the picture, his voice a bit distant. “And we can use all the help we can get.”
* * *
After finishing his call, Mitch reentered the interview room, acknowledging Eve with a slim smile—one she did not return.
“I hope you brought a pair of sunglasses,” she said, peering up at the lights blazing overhead. The white-walled room with matching linoleum flooring amplified the brightness. Eve directed her attention to the plastic container of drawing supplies on the floor. “What’s all that?” she asked impatiently.
He hauled up the box, set it on the table, removed the lid, and gestured to the contents within.
“I want to try a little experiment.”
Eve groaned. “I’d much rather do a maze with a hunk of cheese at the end. Is that why we’re here in this room—aka the sun—and not our usual spot?”
Aware how Eve might try to dominate and direct the conversation, Mitch maintained a neutral expression.
“What I’m asking of you is simple,” he said. “I’d like you to draw something for me.”
“Draw?”
“Plenty of supplies to choose from,” he said. “Have your pick.”
Without further prompting, Eve thrust her hands inside the box and began sifting through the contents in a manic way. She shoved aside stacks of colored paper, yellow containers of Play-Doh, safety scissors, glue sticks, and eventually settled on two items that held some special interest for her: a large box of crayons and a sheet of white construction paper. She smoothed out the paper with her hands. For a time, she sat quite still, intently studying the open box of crayons as though she’d never seen such a glorious array of colors. After that period of silent consideration, she selected a blue crayon and put the tip to the paper.
On the paper, she wrote in large capital letters: THIS IS DUMB! She gave a throaty laugh that held all the drama of a silver screen starlet.
“Eve,” Mitch grumbled dejectedly, letting it be known he was expecting it to be someone else.
“Oh, Dr. Mitch,” Eve said in a placating tone. “You sound so disappointed to have me around. And here I was thinking we were becoming pals.”
Mitch gave a loud exhale. “Eve, please, this is important. I want you to draw something … anything at all that interests you.”
She brushed the air with a wave of her hand. “Chillax. You’re way too serious.”
She pointed at Mitch before her focus switched to the wall behind him. He didn’t turn because he knew exactly what she was looking at.
“Is someone watching us through the mirror?” she whispered in an overly dramatic way, as if they were both part of some nefarious plot. “Are you going to get fired if this doesn’t work?”
“No,” Mitch said, in a loud voice to encourage Eve to stop using her hushed tone. “I won’t be fired. And chances are if I can’t help you, you won’t be a patient of mine here anymore. You’ll be in prison, Eve, for murder. For life. Do you hear me?
“Now, if you’ll work with me, there’s a chance—a slim one, I’ll give you that—that I can be of some service. But I can do that only if you help me by taking … this … seriously.” He slowed the cadence of his speech to drive home the last three crucial words.
Eve’s expression turned a bit more somber as she appeared to contemplate Mitch’s plea. “Okay, Doc,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air in a show of surrender. “Let’s get on with it then.”
From the container, she took out a second sheet of white construction paper, picked up a green crayon, and began to draw, her hand moving back and forth in a rhythmic motion. After a few more hurried strokes, the pace of her hand movement slowed down, seeming to become more purposeful. She continued making those slow, intentional crayon strokes for a time, eventually lifting her head to meet Mitch’s alert gaze. Right away, he detected something different about her: a calmness, almost a childlike wonderment, that hadn’t been there moments ago.
She began moving the green crayon up and down at the bottom of the paper until it became evident she had drawn the green grass of a wide lawn. She switched colors, and on that lawn, she drew a large tree with many crooked branches. On one of those branches, she rendered a tire swing in black crayon dangling from a line of rope, done in brown crayon.
As she worked to create the rest of her drawing, Eve bit the side of her lip, tilting her head this way and that, appraising her effort with an artist’s critical eye. He noticed her right leg bouncing to the rhythm of the crayon strokes, up and down, her focus intensifying with each pass. Instead of sitting shoulders back with Eve’s world-be-damned posture, she was looser and more relaxed as she quietly assessed her creation.
She continued to draw, acting as if she were alone in this room, just her and her art.
“What are you making?” Mitch asked.
“Oh, you’ll see,” she said proudly. To his ears her voice had a different cadence, flatter and slightly higher pitched, too. “Younger” was a word that came to his mind.
To make sure Mitch couldn’t see, not yet anyway, she hunched over the table, positioning her free arm across the top of the paper to block his view.
“Eve, I could leave the room if you want to work in private.”
“No, it’s fine. You can watch if you want.”
She didn’t flat out reject the name, which Mitch had used on purpose. Something told him, though, that it wasn’t Eve he was addressing. He watched her work, saw her body grow increasingly still, her focus intensifying as the crayon strokes became more purposeful. Smiles came and went from a face that now looked sweet to him, almost innocent. Surely, the expressions she made were nothing like Eve’s natural intensity.
She created in silence, eyes seldom leaving the paper, glancing up only to switch crayons. She kept her body hunched forward, arm strategically placed, to prevent Mitch from getting an early preview. There was a fierce determination to her effort, like she had to get whatever was in her mind onto the paper before it vanished.
When she appeared to have finally finished her masterwork, she leaned back in her chair to give it an appraisal. It took great restraint on Mitch’s part to resist the temptation to look at what she’d drawn, even upside down. He knew to respect the artist’s wishes and let her make the big reveal on her own terms. Eventually, her facial expression morphed from a contemplative look to a pleased one, and she spun the paper around, giving Mitch his first peek at her efforts.
She kept a hand over the lower portion of the drawing, blocking out whatever was underneath, but the rest of it Mitch could see. He had no trouble making out the cross-section of a house, one that allowed him a view inside its many rooms. It did not look like a drawing a seventeen-year-old girl would make, but it wasn’t a young child’s drawing, either. There was perspective and proper scale to the structure she’d made, though it was a bit lopsided. Some of the furniture, the windows, and even th
e doors were a bit too big for the rooms they occupied, while other pieces came out too small.
Everything about the work felt intentional. There was nothing to suggest she’d made it in a spontaneous creative frenzy. From what Mitch knew of the developmental stages of art, he would have said the artist of this piece was somewhere between the ages of eight and ten.
Scale issues aside, the contents within were easy to identify. Standing in the kitchen were two figures: a woman with large ears and a blue dress, shaped like a triangle, and a smaller figure, also adorned in a dress (this one red), who had pigtails for hair. The table between them was a simple line with legs descending down to the floor, as if it were a one-dimensional object. For whatever reason, she had neglected to draw the chairs.
Mitch concluded the large rectangle near the kitchen table was a counter. On it, she’d drawn a coffee maker, a bowl with oranges in it, and a small box, from which poured gray and black swirls drawn using long, billowing strokes to represent smoke.
“This is really terrific,” Mitch said, instinct telling him to offer the kind of praise Eve wouldn’t be receptive to hearing. “It’s such a beautiful house.”
“I hate it,” she said, sounding discouraged. “It doesn’t look right. My drawings never look right.”
“I knew what it was,” Mitch said brightly.
“It’s tilted. It needs to be straight, but I can’t draw straight lines without a ruler. I should have used a ruler,” she said with a sibilant vent of anger, her face dipping into a frown.
Mitch couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the child’s harsh self-critique.
“What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer.
“Where is this house? Is this your house growing up?”
She stared back at him blankly.
“Did you have a tire swing in your yard?”
Again nothing.
“Is this your mother?” He pointed to the woman with the triangle dress and big ears. Still no response.
