by A F Carter
Kirk is being denied any active time.
I don’t know how to fight for Kirk. I’m only sure that if
the prunes succeed, if they banish him, Serena will be the
next to go. Then me.
I take the meat out of the shopping cart as soon as I get into the apartment. I put it in the refrigerator but leave everything else. I can’t help but notice the Post-it note with the phone number written in red ink. On impulse, I punch the
number into our landline. I’m expecting some kind of breath-
less response. It’s a hotline after all. Instead, I reach a man who identifies himself as Detective Phil Wocek. I explain the situation as best I can, Hank Grand out on parole, the order of protection, the conditions of parole. Wocek maintains
complete silence—I’m not even sure he’s still there—until
I finish.
“Okay, lemme check it out,” he says.
For the next ten minutes, I listen to the faint chatter of a police radio and the voice of a desperate-sounding man who
keeps shouting, “No, no, no.”
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Finally, the phone’s picked up. “Sorry for the delay,”
Wocek announces. “But it looks like your order of protection hasn’t been processed yet.”
“My father’s release has been in the works for months.
But what? The judge couldn’t get around to it?”
“No need for the sarcasm, Ms. Grand.” The cop’s tone has
all the passion of a computer-generated voice on a corporate phone menu. “We’re paddlin’ as fast as we can.”
I take a breath. “He still violated his parole. Why don’t
you call his parole officer?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.
But I wouldn’t expect much. I mean, your father was on the
other end of the store when you saw him for the first time
in twenty-seven years. He never spoke to you, never even
approached you. So, unless he admits to deliberately making
contact, he’s not gonna get arrested. Period, end of story.”
The state has failed us again. How shocking. I hang up and
head for the shower. On the way, I double-check the dead-
bolt locks on the door, making certain they’re engaged. I’ve got a hot date with the showerhead and I don’t care to be
interrupted.
As I pull off my clothes, I become more and more aroused,
that glow in the darkness making its very specific demands.
It’s a pure pleasure to strip off the sweaty housedress, to
shed bra and panties, to adjust the water temperature, then
switch the shower to pulse. I stand beneath the water for a
moment, allowing the heavy jets to wash through my hair
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and across my face before reaching up to lift the showerhead off the hook.
That’s when the present drops away.
* * *
I’m little and I’m in a tub and the water is hot, so hot I’m
burning and I’m screaming and I can’t get out. I can’t get out, I can’t get out. Daddy holds me down and he’s so strong, too strong, please, please, please, and then his voice, his calm, calm voice.
“This is what happens to bad girls, Carolyn. I told you not
to be a bad girl. I told you again and again. Now, see what
you made me do?”
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KIRK
When I come alive, our body’s on the bathroom floor,
sobbing. There’s nothing I can do but wait for long
minutes until it calms. But that’s all the latitude I’m allowing.
There’s no room for bullshit self-pity, no matter how fucking pitiful we really are. I’m not afraid that Hank Grand will kill us. I’m afraid he won’t, that he’ll bend us to his will, that he’ll eventually break us, that he’ll leave us even more fucked up than we already are. If that’s possible.
I make my way into our little bedroom, pull on under-
wear, a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a gray hoodie. Then it’s off to the silverware drawer in the kitchen where I retrieve the paring knife I usually carry. It’s obvious, by now, that Hank Grand’s willing to bide his time, that he’s content to
study his prey. It’s been a long time, and the asshole needs to know who we are before he makes his move.
All to the good, the extra time. I’m a fucking Boy Scout
and I intend to be prepared, even if that means cutting the
bastard’s throat. I head for Marshal’s, dragging all our memories with me. Eleni was right. There’s no escape. No more
hiding behind poor Tina. We are Tina.
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Marshal has a woman in his apartment when I arrive.
Her name is Mary and she has the sort of contented look
that follows a serious workout. I’m hoping she made up for
me punching him in the eye.
“You here about the material?” Marshal asks.
“Yeah.”
“I looked it over and there’s something you gotta see.”
He glances at his girlfriend. “Mary’s gonna head home as
soon as her ride shows up. We’ll take a look after. In the
meantime . . .”
There’s a half-smoked spliff in a cut glass ashtray. Marshal gestures to it, but I refuse. Weed can sometimes take you to a whacked-out place, a paranoid place. Which, when I think
about it, is pretty much where I’m already at.
“I’m gonna go for walk,” I announce, mostly because I
can’t sit still. “Be back in a half hour. Nice meeting you, Mary.”
Outside, I scan the block to the north and south. There’s
no sign of Hank Grand, but I do get lucky. A woman I don’t
know approaches, a sudden smile brightening her face. She’s
an acquaintance, no doubt, of one of my sisters. Me, I’ve dealt with this situation before and my return smile is even more
genuine because she’s smoking a cigarette. Martha’s budget
for the Grand household does not include the price of tobacco.
I chat with the woman—her name is Dorian—for a few
minutes. It turns out she works at the library Victoria uses for research. Victoria’s been getting a college degree at City University for the past eight years. Taking one course at a
time, rarely completing any on schedule. Still, she’s close
now, or so she claims.
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“Listen,” I tell Dorian as she’s preparing to walk away. “I
wonder if you’d be willing to part with a smoke? I’ve been
tryin’ to quit, but right about now it’s killing me.”
“Been there,” she says as she reaches into her purse.
“Done that.”
Dorian’s about my age and cute. A pudgy blonde with
a quick smile and sharp, intelligent eyes. I’m instantly
attracted, but her gaze reveals zero interest. I have to content myself with a quick check of her ass when she strolls
away.
I decide to walk around the block, maybe burn off a little
energy while I enjoy my rare cigarette. Once I get started, I can’t stop. I keep walking, past the trendy cars and the shops on gentrified Fulton Street, then along Lafayette Avenue
with its impressive townhouses. My
eyes never stop moving
and I’ve made up my mind. If I spot our father, I’m gonna
make him admit his identity. I’m gonna make a point as well.
We’re not nine years old. We’re not his defenseless daughter, not anymore. If he fucks with us, we’re prepared to resist.
I’m thinking about how close fear is to hate when I knock
on Marshal’s door fifteen minutes later. I’m thinking either one is motive enough to drive the blade of my knife into
Hank Grand’s chest.
Inside, Marshal leads me to the spare bedroom that houses
his computers, keyboards, and a host of peripheral devices,
none of which I can identify. Marshal holds a degree in musical composition from NYU. In his unlimited spare time,
he composes electronic music that he shares with online
friends. Myself, I’m drawn to grungy rock bands working
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venues where the women have enough piercings to set off
metal detectors a hundred yards away.
“I worked with your shrink’s files for hours,” Marshal says.
“But I got almost nothing. The files are encrypted and I can’t find the key. Also, Halberstam’s permanently deleting his
emails. An expert might be able to recover them. Not me.”
I watch him tap the keyboard, watch his computer, a lap-
top, jump to life. “So, what am I doing here?”
“I found one email in his Sent message box and you need
to see it. According to the time stamp, it was written a few hours before his computer dumped its files. It’s probably
been deleted by now.”
“What about his patient files?”
“If you’re thinking I can break his encryption, Kirk, I’m
more likely to break into Billboard’s Top Fifty list.”
I smile as I wave him off. “Okay, let’s take a look.”
Zenia, my dear. Greetings from sweltering New York. On days like today, when it’s too hot for my daily run, how I do envy your move to ultra-temperate San Diego. In your part of the world, the average high in August is 76 degrees. In bustling New York, the temp broke 90 this afternoon, as it has for the past four days, cooking the brick, the concrete, and the asphalt in the process. I’m living in an oven.
But there’s good news, too. I’ve acquired a patient, a private patient who I’m able to bill at my full rate. No medical insurance discount, no cut-rate Medicaid reimbursement. The bills are being paid by Patricia’s daddy, the same daddy who molested her for years. As the crimes went unreported, Daddy continues to play a central part in her life, although he keeps his hands and his other 68
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parts to himself these days. The truth, that he lost interest when she matured, is as obvious as it is unavailable to her. She believes that he’s reformed.
Patricia presents just as obviously.
I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve weighed more than two hundred pounds since I was sixteen? Daddy came into my room at night.
I have no friends and spend my lonely nights watching reality television? Daddy came into my room at night.
My co-workers hate me, and I only have a job because my father makes them put up with my obnoxious behavior? Daddy came into my room at night.
Zenia, dear, you’re familiar, of course, with the underlying principal: don’t blame me for anything because I’m not responsible. In our profession, we listen to this blather every day. Patients like Patricia come to us because they’re in pain. They tell us they have a right to their pain, but it still hurts. Please take my pain away they demand, without damaging my sense of entitlement.
Under the circumstances, as you taught me so long ago, we’d be fools not to liven the long hours we spend absorbing their self-pity.
As for Patricia, I’m going to tell her that salvation depends on her performing a task she cannot possibly perform. I’m going to advise her to lose those hundred pounds.
You also asked after my multiple. No real news on that front. I’m still waiting for the elusive Eleni. But the father has now been released. How I’ll use him, if I’m able to use him, remains to be seen. Something interesting, however, did arise in the course of 69
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Carolyn Grand’s second visit. I believe I mentioned that Martha was the particular identity on that morning and that she was late.
She excused her tardiness by claiming that an identity named Serena “hijacked” the body. How did she know that Serena was the hijacker? Martha knew because she was there, present, but unable to exert any measure of control. I don’t have to explain my instinctive skepticism. You know me too well. Two identities present at the same time? Why not three or four? But then I reviewed the literature and it seems this phenomenon has been commonly reported.
One identity in full control of the body with others (voyeurs?) along for the ride. Fascinating.
I’m not surprised by any of it. The arrogance or the narcis-
sistic chuckle at the end of every sentence. Halberstam’s the creepy asshole Serena took him for. But what I’m not finding is an immediate threat. Halberstam appears to be enjoying
his time with us. We’re okay for now.
“There’s more, a lot more,” Marshal says when I return
the printout. “I did a little checking online. I mean I don’t wanna pry and I definitely would’ve asked first. Only you
didn’t come around, and I didn’t know if I should talk to—”
“One of the other multis?”
Marshal’s grin is apologetic. “Yeah, like that.”
I should probably reassure him, but I don’t. Multi seems
too much like an epithet. Something a mob would hurl at
you. “So, you said there’s more. Give it up.”
“Okay, follow me. What jumps out at you in that email?”
“Halberstam’s a creep with power.”
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“True, but what else?” When I shrug, he adds, “The name,
man. C’mon.”
“What name?”
“Zenia.” He leans forward. “First thing, I checked out one
of those websites where they list baby names. Zenia’s a Greek name, something to do with Zeus, but it’s never been listed
among the top ten thousand baby names in the United States.”
“Which means exactly what?”
Marshal throws up his hands. He’s gone way out of his
way to help us and I’m acting as though I were doing him a
favor. Nice.
“Go ahead,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry. But what with
learning that our prick of a therapist thinks his patients are play toys, I’m not in the best of moods.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Marshal lights the spliff, takes a hit and passes it over. I know he wants me to join him and I do.
“Okay, Kirk, what I figured was that Zenia is such an unusual name that I’d be able to find your shrink’s Zenia without
too much trouble. No such luck. It seems like there’s not a
single Zenia on the planet famous enough to be included in
a Google search.”
“Nobody?”
“Right. In fact, the name Zenia is also spelled Xenia, and
I found a tennis player named Xenia Knoll. But no Zenias.”
Marshal takes a second turn on the joint. He offers it to me, but when I shake my head, he drops it into an ashtray and
heads off to the kitchen. A minute later, he returns bearing a pint of pistachio ice cream, a dinner plate, two spoons, and 71
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a carving knife. He cuts the ice cream container in half, lays the two halves on the plate and passes me a spoon. Being as
ice cream’s a rare treat for us, I get right to work.
“I wasn’t ready to give up,” he explains. “And I finally did what I should have done in the first place. I googled Halberstam’s name and found his Facebook page. No Zenias there,
either, but he listed his degrees, including the doctorate in clinical psychology he earned at the SUNY graduate school in Stony Brook. That was in 1996 when he turned twenty-five.”
“You think it’s real? The diploma?”
“I know it’s real, Kirk, because I checked out the med
school’s yearbook for 1996 and there he was. Take a look.
This was the on his yearbook page.”
Marshal’s grinning now, a proud little-boy’s grin as he
slides his chair to a nearby computer and starts it up. I watch, impressed by the computer’s speed. It takes less than a minute before Marshal raises a dramatic finger and brings it down on a single key. A second later, a photo appears on the monitor.
Maybe twenty years younger, Halberstam’s posed in a
laboratory alongside three young men and an older woman.
Oddly, though it’s Halberstam’s yearbook page, the woman
is in the center. The men stand to either side, with Halber-
stam all the way to the right.
“She got a name?” I lean forward to read the photo’s cap-
tion, but the letters are blurred. No biggie. Marshal’s printed out the page and blown up the caption. The woman’s name
is Zenia Burgos, professor of clinical psychology, founder
of the Burgos Trauma Resolution Center. Halberstam calls
Zenia, in the last sentence, “my guiding light.”
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“That’s it?” I ask.
Once again the satisfied smile. “Nope.”
Me, I don’t really care about Zenia because I don’t see
what she has to do with us. But I don’t want to mess with
Marshal’s high, either. I accept the printout he offers: a short article published ten years ago in Newsday. On page sixteen.
“I found it on a search for the Burgos Resolution Center,”
Marshal explains. “It’s the only relevant item out there.”