by A F Carter
left, as though he’s about to peek over his shoulder, but
then he catches himself and takes a breath. Behind him, the
reporter’s fingers fly across the keyboard: click, click, click, click.
“Regarding the death of Carolyn Grand’s father, I’ve
inquired, of course, at every session, with the same result
each time. On one level, this is unsurprising. As individual 169
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identities may be absent for relatively long periods of time, dissociative identity disorder inevitably produces memory
loss. On another level, the constant reply ‘I didn’t exist’ to any question regarding Carolyn Grand’s movements on
the night her father was killed seems artificial. More to the point, it mirrors a pattern of evasion that manifested itself early in therapy and that I have not yet penetrated. Carolyn Grand is extremely guarded and quite intelligent. She inten-tionally withholds. This is only to be expected, given her
childhood experience, but unless there’s a breakthrough, the main goal, to integrate her various identities, is very likely to fail.”
Halberstam drones on for a moment, excoriating us for
our collective failure to trust him, but I find myself drifting away. Now that the record’s official, recorded by the court
and the media, Halberstam’s merely covering his risk-averse
butt.
Jefferson waits patiently until Halberstam pauses for
a moment, then leans forward. “Your recommendation,
Doctor?”
“I recommend, short term, that Carolyn Grand remain in
therapy. I would also recommend that her status be reviewed
again thirty days from now.” He lifts his chin but doesn’t
look at me. “Assuming, of course, the police take no action.”
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
VICTORIA
Should I applaud Halberstam’s cleverness? It’s tempting.
He’s requesting a sword he can dangle above our necks
for the next month, at the very least. I watch him flip his
notes over so that the writing faces up and I’m wondering
what’s written there. I can’t help myself. Then Malaya speaks out.
“May I ask the witness a few questions, Your Honor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Dr. Halberstam, you initially scheduled Carolyn Grand
for five sessions per week. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“A short time later, I don’t have the exact date, you reduced the number of sessions to three.”
“I did.”
Halberstam raises his shoulders, expecting, I think, to be
asked why he reduced the number of sessions, but Malaya
simply moves on.
“Dr. Halberstam, you referred to the murder of Carolyn
Grand’s father, Henry Grand. As you raised the issue, I need to ask you a few questions regarding the investigation.”
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“Fine.”
“Tell me, Doctor, have you viewed the crime scene?”
I glance behind me. The reporter’s tapping away, a slight
smile pulling at the ends of his mouth.
“No.”
“Do you know how Mr. Grand was killed?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he was killed?”
“No.”
“Have you had access to the autopsy results?”
“No.”
“Have you reviewed any forensic examinations of trace
evidence collected at the scene?”
“No.”
“Have you interviewed any witnesses, perhaps at the site
of the homicide?”
“No.”
“Have the police given you definite reason to believe that
Carolyn Grand is a target of their investigation?”
“No.”
Malaya finally takes a breath. She looks at Halberstam for
a moment, maybe giving him a little credit. Halberstam’s
tone remained firm and steady throughout when he might
easily have become defensive.
“I have no more questions, Doctor. Thank you.”
Malaya shifts her focus to Judge Jefferson. I sense a warn-
ing in that look or at least a challenge. Jefferson blinks and says, “Do you want to call any witnesses?”
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“I believe Dr. Halberstam to be my witness, Your Honor,
but I have no one else to call. I do, however, want to speak to the issue at hand. For the record.”
Jefferson manages to raise a hand. “Please.”
“Okay,” Malaya smiles, a thousand-watter that seems,
at least from the side, thoroughly genuine. “This is an
administrative hearing, not a trial, so I won’t bore the
panel with legal jargon. My basic argument is simple
enough to be reduced to one short sentence: nothing has
changed. For example, while she was in this hospital,
you determined that Carolyn Grand did not present an
immediate danger to herself or to the public. Nothing
has changed. You demanded that Carolyn Grand enter
therapy as a condition of release, which she immediately
did. Nothing has changed. Her therapist kept a close watch
on her initially, demanding that she appear every weekday,
but then reduced the number of sessions when he, too,
decided that she presented no immediate danger to herself
or to the public. Nothing has changed. Carolyn Grand has
been living independently for ten years, paying her rent,
maintaining her household, cooking, cleaning, taking long
walks in one or another of the city’s parks. Nothing has
changed. The incident that brought Carolyn Grand to your
attention was unfortunate but not illegal, and you factored
that incident into your decision to release her. Nothing has changed. Henry Grand, Carolyn’s father, was murdered
shortly after being released from prison. The police are still investigating, but there’s nothing to indicate that Carolyn
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Grand is a suspect, not a scintilla of actual evidence. She was and remains Henry Grand’s victim. Nothing has changed.”
It’s over. The review board’s accepted Halberstam’s recom-
mendation, perhaps, as Malaya explained, to shift the blame
should I be arrested. But we’re out for the next thirty days and I feel like I’m standing two feet above the floor. Call it a Serena moment, like someone reinvented the world with
me at the center. I can’t help myself. I put my arms around
Malaya and then we’re hugging and hopping. Dignity be
damned.
“Who was that guy?” I finally ask.
“His name is Mitch Yerewin.”
“Is he really a journalist?”
“Yeah, he’s credentialed by the city. Mitch does podcasts
for a site called SimmeringCity. It’s very insider, but he does okay. He did an interview with a male escort that got thirty thousand listens.”
“A male escort?”
“The man described himself as a thirty-year-old pool
boy.” Malaya hesitates for a moment as we step away from
each other. “Bureaucrats,” she tells me, “hate to be looked
; at. They want to operate in darkness whenever possible. Jef-
ferson didn’t know exactly who Mitch was, only that some
other bureaucrat issued his credentials and there was no way to get him out of there. You might think about that as you
go forward. I noticed Halberstam turn over his notes when
Mitch arrived. I don’t know what he might have said, but I
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can’t bring myself to believe it would have been beneficial.
So take notes as you go along, lock him in.” She gives my
hand a final squeeze. “And most of all, don’t talk to the cops.
Remember, I’m not your attorney. I’m court appointed to
represent you in front of the review board. But if the cops
pick you up, call me and I’ll get them off your back.”
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MARTHA
Three days since the review board cut us loose and we’ve
descended into chaos. Driven there by memories better
left forgotten. Memories that I had forgotten. No more. Now I feel every pain, every degradation. They come at me in bits and pieces, all the more powerful for being long suppressed.
At times, I can hear Carolyn Grand screaming.
So, it’s not just Tina. It’s all of us as we come and go, as we’re shoved into the front ranks. Until we prefer oblivion
to existence.
Who’s to understand this? Who’s to fix what’s wrong
with us? Who’s to protect us? Halberstam? There’s no one
to call. No lover to offer a comforting hand, no parent or
friend, not even each other. Because when it hurts bad
enough you think only of escaping your own pain. Better
them than you.
I must be exaggerating because a casual observer would have
to conclude that we’ve drawn closer together. The memos
on the table prove it. Before Eleni propositioned the cop
and our father was released, before Halberstam and Kings
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Country Hospital, before Judge Jefferson and his review
board, we almost never cooperated. We schemed instead, our
dysfunctional family dedicated to assassination. We plotted to kill each other off.
We’re past that now and our alliances have shifted. When
I’m not around, I want Kirk or Eleni to run the body. I want someone tough in place, ready to go. The threat might come
from the cops or from the man who followed Kirk. He’s
taken up his station by the streetlight for the past two days.
Chain-smoking cigarettes and spitting into the street. Yesterday, he showed up in a sleeveless T-shirt, his tattoo-covered arms fully revealed. I couldn’t make out the tattoos, but I
imagined them to be devils and skulls and broken women.
The markings of a dangerous moron.
I walk over to the window and peer out across the street.
He’s not there, but I suddenly realize that he reminds me of someone.
The Acevedas had three foster children, including me.
They were all girls and old enough by then to make a run
for it if they got a chance. Where they’d go—except onto the street where life would be even harder—was anyone’s guess.
But our foster parents took precautions anyway. When they
were off to some family function, they’d leave Uncle Este-
ban to mind the store. Uncle Esteban was short and very
thick. He was a man not of few words but of no words. He
never touched us, although I can’t imagine Benny or Angela
objecting. He didn’t talk to us, either, and his routine never varied. The first thing he’d do was angle the television.
Then he’d fetch a chair from the kitchen and set it against
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the door. Finally, he’d wait, expressionless, for his patrons to come home.
When Carolyn Grand first entered the Acevedas’ apart-
ment in the Bronx, there was one of her. When she left, four years later, there were nine and the family was growing.
And nothing she discovered in her assigned group home, or
at school when she was finally allowed to go again, slowed
that process.
The knock on the door comes at 10:30 a.m., as I’m scrub-
bing the bathtub. I’m hoping it’s Marshal or even Doyle, but it’s the two detectives, Greco and Ortega. They’re accompanied by three uniformed cops with CSU patches on their
shirts, one a female. All five wear blue latex gloves, including Greco, who hands me several printed pages.
“Search warrant,” he announces. “Step back.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He pushes past me,
starting a little parade. The three uniformed cops first, then Ortega. I’m seriously pissed and I make sure I get a good
look at Ortega’s face. His mouth is tight, his nostrils flaring as he draws breath. I think he wants to say something, but
he doesn’t meet my eyes as he passes. I understand. Yeah, he read Hank Grand’s file. Sure, he knows what Daddy did to
us. But he’ll do his job anyway.
I back into the apartment and close the door. The uni-
formed cops are already at work, Ortega, too. Only Greco
remains idle. He’s standing in the center of our living room, staring at me with tiny blue eyes so bright they seem to
glow. I don’t know what he wants and I really don’t give a
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shit. One of the uniformed cops tosses the cushions off the
couch. Now he’s running his fingers between the back and
the seat, looking, perhaps, for lost change.
“Miss Grand?” Greco says when it’s obvious I won’t be the
first to speak.
I’m still not answering. Mostly because I’m afraid of what
might come out of my mouth. A few feet away, my couch is
tipped onto its knees and the backing ripped off the under-
side. This furniture, crappy as it may be, is all we have. I want to smash the cops. I want to smash all of them. But
they’re grown men, large men at that, with guns at their
sides.
I feel myself shrinking. As if we weren’t small enough
already. As if we weren’t already helpless.
“Miss Grand?”
“What?”
“The warrant includes your cell phone. If you’ll show me
where it is . . .”
“We don’t have a cell phone. We used up the minutes on
the last one and I tossed it about a week ago.”
Greco looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t
know what it is. If we had a cell phone, of course, he could use its GPS to track our movements. But our cell went the
way of our many burner phones shortly after my visit to the
morgue. We’ll replace it when we have the money. For now,
the house phone will have to do.
Behind Greco, I watch Ortega approach the cop who
turned over our couch. He taps him on the shoulder and
says, “Keep it neat.” Ortega’s voice is low, nearly muffled, as 179
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if he were speaking against some restraint. The cop looks up
at Ortega in apparent surprise.
“Por favor, Carlos. Tell your buddies.”
My first thought, given my trip to the morgue, is good
cop/bad cop. Greco plays the bully; Ortega plays the pal. He plays the concerned parent we never had. Nevertheless, I’m
pleased when Carlos rises to feet and trots into the kitchen.
“When was the last time you had a cell phone?” Greco
asks.
I finally look down at the papers in my hand. What I have
is a search warrant not an arrest warrant. There’s even a
list of items to be recovered: knives, stained clothing, cell phones, computers and a DNA sample.
“I asked you a question. When did you last have a cell
phone?”
I watch Ortega rifle through the memos on our table. The
note from our father, the one with the address of the hotel is long gone, of course. Finally, I make myself clear. “Fuck off, detective. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
Greco shakes his head and smiles. “That’s not nice, Miss
Grand. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say you weren’t raised right.”
Forty-five minutes later, they’re gone. Leaving me with a
sore cheek on the inside where the female cop dragged the
DNA swab, and a list of the items they’ve seized. The list
includes the computer, our memos (already copied by Mar-
shal), our one decent chef’s knife, and a dozen bags containing various garments. Still, they’ve been neat and I suppose 180
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I should be grateful. They’ve emptied the cupboards and the
closets, piling pots, pans, cutlery, and food on any available surface. Nothing on the floor. Very considerate.
I can’t stand mess and I go to work right after I lock the
door. As I rearrange the shelves in the kitchen, I’m again
seized by the poverty of our life. Then a memory rises. My
father is sitting in the living room, eyes glued to the television. He has a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of orange
soda in the other. I’m crossing the room, headed for the
kitchen and a glass of water. As I pass the side of the chair, his hand shoots out, quick as a snake, and he grinds the cigarette into my belly. Why? Because Carolyn Grand has a urinary
tract infection and can’t fuck Cousin Mike.
This is how we marked the days of our lives.
This is how we marked the days of our lives and still we
survive.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE