by A F Carter
long periods of time. But, then again, where does your anger go, Doctor, when you’re not angry? Your laughter, your hunger, your thirst?”
I watch his eyes narrow. My feeble challenge has annoyed
him and he’ll try to put me in his place. To prove the point, he asks a question I think he was saving for later on.
“Describe the incident that brought you here. Or better
yet, perhaps you can summon the identity who precipitated
your encounter with the police.”
“That would be Eleni. She’s not around, and I have no
way to reach her. As for summoning?” I pause long enough
to smile. In the movies, split personality types call their various identities into consciousness at will. If only that were true, our lives would be a lot easier. “The truth, doctor, is that we have no central identity to do the summoning. If
Eleni were observing, there’s a chance she would appear
spontaneously. But she’s in hiding, in disgrace, hopefully
repenting for the monumental screwup that put us in this
position.”
“That’s fine, Victoria. Just tell me what you know. Eleni
and I will meet later on.”
Do I detect the beginnings of a leer? Because we could
live with the sexual interest, a natural consequence of a
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childhood passed in bondage to a sexual sadist who liked
to entertain his friends. Eleni, especially, would be eager to accept the challenge, assuming there’s a deal in the offing.
“All right, I’ll describe the events as best I can. Eleni? Well, she has a theory. Bodies have needs. There are the obvious,
of course, to eat, drink, breathe, and sleep. But there are others as well, including sex. Eleni has decided—”
“On her own? Against your will?”
“Very much against my will.”
Suddenly, Eleni’s mocking laughter—maybe she’s been
listening all along—rolls through my brain. I’m a virgin, by inclination and necessity, and Eleni never loses an opportunity to remind me.
“Go on, please.”
“Eleni has chosen to provide for this need.”
“Does she have a lover?”
Should I tell him the truth? Do I have a choice? Halber-
stam’s surely read the police report. Like any good lawyer,
he knew the answer to his question before he posed it. For
all Eleni’s pretense, she’s a reckless fool who’s never met a risk she didn’t want to take. Her preference, over the last few years, has been for drug-fueled hookups, often with multiple partners. More than once I’ve reclaimed our body only to
find it bruised and battered.
“Eleni is promiscuous, Doctor. Six days ago, she traveled
from our Brooklyn apartment to an area on the waterfront
notorious for street prostitution.” I take a breath, utterly humiliated. Just words, I tell myself, just words.
“Go on.”
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“Well, she propositioned a man standing outside a bodega
who turned out to be an undercover cop working a prostitu-
tion sting. I don’t know what she said, but as she never asked for money, she couldn’t be charged with a crime. Still, something in her manner, in her words, in her dress activated the cop’s radar, and he decided that he was dealing with an EDP.”
“An emotionally disturbed person?”
“Exactly.”
A red light flashes on the intercom to the left of Halbers-
tam’s notes. He glances at it for a moment, then turns back
to me. “I’m afraid our time is almost up, but please describe what came next.”
“We were taken to Kings County Hospital for observa-
tion.” By then, Eleni had fled the scene, leaving me to handle the inconvenience. Wearing, of course, the slutty outfit she’d chosen for her excursion. “Prior to our mandatory hearing
three days later, we were poked and prodded by psychia-
trists and psychologists in one-on-one and group sessions.
We were tested as well, with objective tests, projective tests, attitude tests. We even took what the examiner called an
EPES test, an Erotic Preferences Examination Scheme.”
I don’t have to state the purpose of all this testing because the issue was and remains simple. Are we fit to live independently? Or does the danger we present to ourselves or to
the public justify indefinite confinement—accompanied by a
regimen of psychoactive drugs, many of which have a sedat-
ing effect that leaves our body’s multiple personalities with no personality at all.
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Psychiatric hospitals are not prisons. So it’s said,
especially by the politicians and medical personnel who
run them. They just look and function like prisons. The
doors are locked, and you exercise, sleep, and eat on a
schedule you play no part in creating. True, the women
on your ward usually aren’t criminals. Instead, three-
quarters are either schizophrenic or bipolar. Despite the
sedating medications, they howl, scream, bawl, and beg at
every hour of the day and night. Patient-on-patient attacks
are commonplace.
When I finally walked our body out of the psych ward at
Kings County Hospital four days ago, I felt like I’d escaped death itself.
If so, that escape was tenuous. Our court-appointed attor-
ney, Mark Vernon, had pulled no punches when he spelled
it out only a few days before: “This is not a trial, Ms. Grand.
It’s a medical hearing and many of the protections afforded
defendants at trial are unavailable. Do you need to be pro-
tected from yourself? Doctors will examine you and doctors
will ultimately decide. It’s a rare judge who’ll override a recommendation from the medical community.”
“May I sum up?” Halberstam asks, yanking me away from
my thoughts.
“Certainly.”
“You’ve been granted a conditional release dependent
on your entering into therapy. I’ve been assigned the task of conducting that therapy. You know this, right?”
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“Yes, I do.”
I watch his eyes narrow slightly, a shift mirrored by his
small, thin mouth. He’s about to assert his rightful author-
ity as he leans forward to place his palms on his desk, as he tucks in his chin, as he peers over his glasses.
“I know your therapy has been forced on you. I know
that you’re probably resentful and not without reason. But
while I’m not a fan of coercive therapy, we are stuck with
each other, which means in essence that only a short time
from now I will be required to submit a recommendation
to the court. I must choose, at that point, between three
possibilities: return you to your ordinary life, continue your therapy, or recommend that you be confined. I’m hoping to
make an informed choice and not an educated guess, which
I cannot do unless I become acquainted with each of your
identities.”
There’s nothing to be said here except: “I understand.”
“That’s good, Victoria.” He rises, our session now com-
plete. “I’ll expect you to
morrow at ten a.m. and every week-
day thereafter. We’ve a lot to go through before I make my
recommendation.”
I can hear Martha’s voice offering advice, as usual. “Keep
your mouth shut,” she tells me. “And get the hell out of there.
Begging will do you no good.”
But I can’t stop myself. “I know it looks bad, Doctor. I
mean Eleni and what she did. But we’ve been reintegrating
for years. Jackson, Logan, Riley, Aria, and Chloe? They’re
gone, Doctor, banished. Others are on their way out. It’s a
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hard path we’re on, but we’re moving. If you can help us, all the better. We want to unify.”
“Each of you? Every one?”
A gotcha question, but I’m ready this time. “Those who
don’t will be eliminated. They’ll be the first to go.”
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CHAPTER TWO
MARTHA
As I come out of the shower, I stop before a full-length
mirror to examine our thirty-seven-year-old body.
It’s an attractive body we share. Sexy enough for Eleni’s
purposes anyway. But arousal’s not on my schedule. No,
I’m fascinated by the scars—our legacy—the perfectly
round cigarette burns on our abdomen. A spider’s web of
thin white lines that could only have been made by a razor-
sharp blade. There are other scars, too, but they only show
up on X-rays.
I have no memory of my father, now in prison, or of his
sadistic friends. Nor do I remember Benny Aceveda and his
wife, the foster parents who rented us by the hour. I can’t
picture these assholes. I wouldn’t recognize them if they
walked into the room and farted. That’s not my job. That
task belongs to our rememberer-in-chief, Tina. It’s not fair to put this on a girl who will remain nine years old forever. But we’re not some academic paper on functional psychology.
We’re not some bullshit theory. We’re real and the proof is
Tina, herself. That she exists. That she suffers. That despite everything, she hopes to survive.
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Our past is imprinted somewhere inside the brain we
share, but Tina alone has access. If that saves the rest of
us a lot of pain, the arrangement has a serious downside.
Tina’s attempted to kill herself twice. The last time, only six months ago, she came very close to solving our problems
once and for all. Fortunately, we woke up in our own bed.
No cops, no hospital, no doctor. All in the family.
I’m not much interested in our past this morning and my
inspection of our body is cursory. I’m Martha, family func-
tioner. Without me, the rest of the assholes wouldn’t have food on the table, clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads.
They wouldn’t have electricity or a telephone or toilet paper.
Victoria, if you talk to her, will claim that she’s the one
who got us on disability, food stamps, Medicaid, and a Sec-
tion 8 rent subsidy. The four engines of our economic sur-
vival. The only problem is that she’s full of shit. Yeah, she went to the interviews (and did a good job), but I filled out every form and there were hundreds. I also made the necessary calls when things went wrong, as they usually did.
And I kept track of the bureaucrats, their names, their phone numbers. And I wrote the goddamned appeals and deposited the checks and created our tight, tight budget. And I’m still the one who pushes a shopping cart over to the food
bank when no amount of budgeting can turn our monthly
fifteen hundred dollars into a living income.
What I am, when I think about it, is a nasty old lady trapped in a young woman’s body. (Not the worst, really. My brother, 11
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Kirk, is a heterosexual male trapped in a woman’s body. His
few friends think he’s a dyke.) Still, bottom line, joy is not part of my game plan. I’m a drudge, by necessity and inclination. This is my value, toilet paper on the roll in the bathroom, a clean towel hanging on the rack, a shiny white sink.
I know it—we all know it—but at least I’m not a pompous
asshole. Like Victoria.
Today is laundry day at the Grand residence, a tiny apart-
ment in a crumbling Fort Greene tenement. I grab the laun-
dry basket, empty the hamper, change the sheets in the
bedroom. The same routine tasks that none of the others
will do. Instead, they toss their clothes on the floor and leave dishes in every room. If I didn’t clean up and go heavy on the Combat, it’d be cockroach heaven up here. As it is, I trap a mouse in the apartment at least once a week.
Changing the sheets on our bed isn’t as simple as it seems
because the room is barely wide enough for the bed frame.
There’s not even space for a night table and I have to wiggle my way down to the head of the bed, my ass jammed against
the wall. I’m about halfway down when someone knocks on
the door in the other room.
I think I know who it is. Our deal with Section 8 requires
us to pay $200 a month toward the rent, our $1,500 income
($1,400 from disability and $100 in food stamps) too grand for a total subsidy. In New York City, housing crisis capital of the goddamned world.
Our check from disability is direct deposited into our
checking account on the first Wednesday of each month.
That can be as late as the sixth when the rent’s due on the
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first. My landlord is aware of this, but he always sends Doyle, his scumbag super, to break balls. Doyle instinctively realizes there’s something’s wrong with us. He’s been at the
door too many times, met too many of us. That includes
Eleni, who blew him off for the pitiful jerk he is.
I open the door, but it’s not Doyle. It’s a black woman
about my age extending an ID from the Human Resources
Administration.
“Ms. Portman,” she announces. “From Adult Protective
Services.”
My hand, the one on the door, twitches. That’s how
much I want to slam the door in her face. I pretty much dis-
like everyone—Victoria insists that I’m not fit for human
company — but I actually hate bureaucrats. We come to
them as beggars and they never let us forget it. Or lose an
opportunity to display their power over us.
I make it as simple as possible: “What do you want?”
“To inspect your apartment.”
“Just like that?”
Portman shakes her head. She’s tall and thin, wearing a
midnight-blue pants suit over a lavender blouse. An expensive leather briefcase hangs from a shoulder strap. When she speaks, her tone is sympathetic yet firm. So sorry, but step aside.
“The inspection is court mandated,” she tells me.
“And that gives you the right to come here without call-
ing ahead?”
Her lips move, but she doesn’t speak for a moment. I
know she’s choosing her words, but, again, her tone is not
unkind.
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“I’m not your enemy,” she claims. “Our mission at Pro-
tective Services is to protect. That means evaluating your
everyday living conditions, which doesn’t work if I call you in advance.”
“What if there was no one ho—” I have to close my eyes
for a moment as Doyle appears at the head of the stairs. The moron’s wearing his customary T-shirt and a pair of faded
jeans belted across fifty pounds of quivering blubber. He’s
flashing his customary smirk, too. Displaying a row of large, nicotine-yellow teeth behind a pair of wet lips.
“What the hell is that?” Portman asks.
I glance at her, noting the faint smile on her face. “That’s Doyle, the super. He’s after the rent.”
“You’ve fallen behind?”
“Yeah, four days.”
The farce intensifies when the door across the hall opens
to reveal Marshal, my neighbor. He steps into the hallway,
closely followed by a cloud of marijuana smoke. Marshal’s
apartment is usually Kirk’s first stop when he’s in control
of our body. Nevertheless, Marshal is hard not to like. He’s a dedicated slacker who supports himself by selling small
amounts of weed, a thirty-year-old boy obsessed with the
electronic music he creates in his bedroom.
“Hey, what’s happening,” he mutters as he heads for
the staircase. Doyle, an aspiring slacker himself, turns and follows.
“Yo, Marshal, got a minute.”
* * *
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“Another morning at Chez Nazari,” I explain. Our build-
ing, our home, was named Chez Nazari by a defunct iden-
tity. Muhammad Nazari is our bastard of a landlord. He’s
adopted a simple business model. Provide only the most
basic services (every ten days or so, his tenants go without hot water) and evict tenants whenever possible. Our building is rent stabilized, so the rents go up slowly, if at all. On the other hand, the law authorizes a 20 percent jump whenever an apartment becomes vacant. Throw in a few bullshit
improvements and you can easily get to 30 percent. Turn-
over is the name of the game.
The disgusted expression on Portman’s round face as
she surveys the corridor’s peeling walls tells me all I need to know. I gesture for her to enter and she saunters through the doorway. We catch a lucky break here. I’ve been piloting our body since early last night and the apartment’s in good