Multiple Wounds

by Alan Russell

  “Tell me about Helen’s Olympus.”

  “It is far from the madding world. It’s not heaven, but it is a long ways from earth. At its entrance are clouds, great billowing clouds, she says. There is never any rain or snow. There are rolling fields, and expansive forests, and picturesque lakes. The gods make wonderful company, and there are always enormous flagons of ambrosia and nectar to quench any thirst. Musicians play, witty conversations abound, and there are diversions and games available to all.”

  “Can you book me passage?” Cheever asked.

  Rachel offered her first smile that he could remember. “Me first.”

  Cheever remembered his own retreat after his daughter had died. It had taken him deep inside of a bottle, a view that hadn’t been nearly so pleasant as Mount Olympus. “All her personalities live there?”

  “Except for Helen and Holly and Caitlin.”

  “They’re stuck with us mere mortals?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Helen Troy keeps getting more and more—exotic.”

  “Her behavior is consistent with that of many multiple personalities. If you are going to escape, doesn’t it make sense to choose a place you want to go? Remember, these are masters of avoidance. Most multiples live in a Shangri-la where it’s beautiful. The brooks run gently, the trees offer shade, and the weather is perfect.”

  “Why would they ever want to leave?”

  “Many of them don’t. Some of the personalities conspire against integration. They think of it as murder.”

  “Since you’re working toward Helen’s integration, aren’t you worried that her personalities might respond violently to your trying to bring that about?”

  She shook her head. “It’s common for patients to have ambivalent feelings toward their analyst, and certainly not unique to patients with DID. The job of any therapist is to do psychic surgery. We often ask a patient to dredge up painful memories, memories that have been purposefully and methodically suppressed. No one enjoys being forced to reexperience terrible traumas. For many, reliving the past is something to be avoided at all costs.”

  Cheever knew that all too well. He looked at her and no longer saw the doctor with a huge chip on her shoulder. She appeared to be as tired as he was. Cheever was almost tempted to ask her out for some coffee or a drink. That was the kind of thing two professionals did, wasn’t it? But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. Instead, he asked her a question that had been nagging at him.

  “Helen, or perhaps I should say Hygeia, referred to you as Antiope,” he said. “What did she mean by that?”

  Rachel wondered whether she was blushing. On those rare moments when her emotions superseded her intellect she didn’t flush red, but instead showed white patches on her cheeks, what her former husband had called “frostbite imprints.”

  She considered telling a half-truth, but then heard herself telling the real story. “There is a part of Helen that is amazingly intuitive. I’ve seen this gift revealed too many times to discount it.

  “Antiope was the queen of the Amazons. I’d like to be able to argue that I am a woman warrior, but that is not why Helen has linked me with Antiope. My connection with Amazons is apparently a physical one. Statues and paintings of Amazons often show them without a right breast. The Greeks interpreted the word Amazon to mean ‘without breast.’ According to legend, the offending right bosom was removed because it was considered a hindrance in battle; it inhibited their archery skills.

  “Very few people know that I had breast cancer. It is not something I discuss casually. Five years ago I had a modified radical mastectomy on my right breast. There is no way Helen could have known this, but somehow she does.”

  Rachel didn’t like how she sounded. Her speech lacked the professional timbre she was known for. Maybe he thought she was looking for pity. “Funny,” she said in a much too cheery voice, “I never even took up archery.”

  “Thank you,” said Cheever.

  He stood up, nodded to her, then began to walk out of the room. “Wait a second,” she said. “I have something for you.”

  She walked over to her bookshelves, picked out several books, and brought them over to him. “If you are really interested in dissociative identity disorder,” she said, “you should read these.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said, then stood there awkwardly. Cheever wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. He wanted to make things right between them, but didn’t know how.

  “I keep thinking about Trojan horses,” he said, “and how they’re inside all of us.” He wanted to say more, but it was hard for him to get beyond that image, so he settled on repeating the words, “Trojan horses.” Cheever raised his hands and opened his mouth, but no other words came out. Shrugging, he walked to the door, opened it, and quickly shut it behind him.

  Rachel let out the air she had been holding back, and it escaped in a long, tortured sigh. During the telling of her Amazon story she had noticed his eyes had never left hers, hadn’t surreptitiously peeked at her right breast. He hadn’t reduced her to a piece of anatomy, had, in fact, been far more considerate than she would have expected.

  She walked back to her desk. Before leaving for the day she wanted to make notes of their conversation. That was the pattern, the routine she adhered to.

  Rachel tried to summarize what had been said. Her focus wasn’t sharp. She remembered the dream from the night before. There was a large banquet going on and she was the featured speaker. In the middle of her talk she opened her blouse, unclasped her bra, then exposed her right breast to everyone, swiveling it around for all to see. Her plastic surgeon had liked to talk up its advantages, how it was firmer than her left breast and would defy gravity longer. He was proud of his handiwork, acted like his breast creation could pass muster in a showgirl’s act, but she was still suspicious, still unsure of what was there. It made her feel like a fraud somehow.

  She analyzed other people’s dreams, but avoided her own. Rachel remembered what Cheever had said about Trojan horses, and how they were in everyone. He was right.

  The doctor reached for the box of tissues on her desk. She allowed herself the luxury of pulling out a single one, then put the rest of the box away. A half-minute later she returned to her note taking.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  While driving away, Cheever realized he no longer thought of Rachel as the shrink or the doctor. She had a name now, and that surprised him. Would that he could pin a single name on Helen, he thought. There were questions about her that he had meant to discuss with Rachel, but they would have to wait. To Cheever’s thinking, that wasn’t such a bad thing. That was a reason to call upon Rachel again, something he wanted to do. That surprised him too.

  He stopped on Market, picked up a gyro to go at a Greek hole-in-the-wall. Cheever debated on calling Helen from his car, but decided he was close enough to chance a surprise visit. He took large bites of the gyro as he drove. Cheever had never learned how to eat slowly, and whether by chance or design, he usually ate by himself in his car. During his career he’d probably eaten more on the road than most truckers. Finishing a last bite, he parked on Seventh, but didn’t immediately approach Helen’s building. From across the street he took in the view of the converted lofts and picked out her window. The curtains were still open, but there was a light on now. The illumination afforded him a good view of the room’s interior. This time he saw not one but two unmoving statues. Or was one of them Helen, posing again?

  Cheever crossed the street and pushed on the intercom. When he pushed a second time a breathless woman was heard between the static: “Yes?”

  “Ms. Troy?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Cheever. I wonder if I could come up and talk with you.”

  The static seemed to last a long time. “Give me five minutes,” she finally said. “I just took a sink bath.”

  “Fine.”

  Cheever passed the time by pacing, w
alking from one end of the block to the other. Cars passed and allowed him only blurred glimpses of humanity. There was very little pedestrian traffic in that part of the downtown at night. With working hours over, the commuters had packed up and escaped to their bedroom communities.

  “Detective.”

  Her voice drifted down to him. She was leaning out the window, her wet hair hanging down.

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t buzz you in because the security door’s on the fritz. You’ll need this key to get in. Catch.”

  Cheever tried to follow the descent of a baseball cap through the semidarkness. It fell about ten yards from him, its landing marked by metallic clinking. He tracked down her hat parachute. The cap advertised her loyalty to the Twins. It figured.

  The key worked on the door, and Cheever climbed the stairs. Halfway to the fourth floor the dog started barking. No one would have mistaken the sounds for a Chihuahua. Helen shouted, “Be quiet,” and the dog obeyed, but not without a final bark to show his independence.

  She stood at the door waiting and motioned Cheever inside with one hand. With the other she held the dog. He was growling, and she said, “Shush, Cerberus.” The rottweiler obeyed, but didn’t take his eyes off of Cheever.

  He handed her back the baseball cap. “Landlord promises the door will get fixed tomorrow morning,” she said. “We’ll see.”

  Her loft looked lived in, but not settled in. There was a futon bed, partially unrolled, some cinder block bookshelves, and a few plastic milk containers full of knickknacks. Her refrigerator was hotel-sized, and a ten-foot section of rope was stretched across a corner where some clothes were hanging. There were two unmatched chairs, and she waved for him to sit in one. He motioned back, indicating he preferred to stand.

  “Would you like a peach?” she asked. “I got some at the farmer’s market today. They’re good and fresh.”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I already ate.”

  “I think there’s a Diet Pepsi in the fridge.”

  He shook his head, remembered to smile to show he appreciated the offer. She was wearing jeans and a man’s faded button-down shirt that was large enough to serve as a nightgown. Her hair was wet, the black and white strands matted together and not yet delineated. There was no hair dryer in sight. No bathroom either.

  “It’s down the hall,” Helen said, as if reading Cheever’s mind. “I share with the six other lofts on this floor. The bathroom doesn’t have a shower, which I guess is a hint that we’re not supposed to be living here.”

  “Do the other renters ignore that hint as well?”

  “I’m the only one who calls this home sweet home on a permanent basis,” she said, “but people are always crashing around here for one reason or another.”

  The loft had worn hardwood floors. There were some drop cloths thrown around, but no carpeting. Cheever started walking around, his footsteps setting off groans in the wood. Clicking nails followed him, stopping when he stopped. Cerberus was trailing him.

  “He’s friendly,” she offered, “most of the time.”

  Cheever decided not to test her qualified endorsement. He stopped in front of a partially completed bust of two faces sharing a common head. The faces were looking in opposite directions. They shared very similar features, but they were somehow different.

  “Janus,” Helen said. “He was always portrayed with two faces, one for the sunrise and one for the sunset. One of his moods was light, and the other dark. He was a solar deity, associated with the beginning of things, and the ending of them.”

  The one face was happy and innocent, the other grim and foreboding. The amazing thing, Cheever thought, was that they were the same face, the only difference being a few lines and some coloring. But those were enough to make a world of difference—a difference of night and day.

  “I stopped by the library today,” Cheever said, “and checked out some books on mythology. Your statues at the gallery made me curious.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wanted to know about the puns and hidden meanings. There was one of a woman being sacrificed by a priest entitled Achilles as a Heel.”

  “Read your classics, Detective. Polyxena was sacrificed to the already dead Achilles to satisfy the shade’s clamoring. In death he still wanted her as a spoil of war.”

  “What about Jason’s Offspring?”

  “The innocent often suffer. Jason left his wife, Medea, and took up with Creusa. Medea took revenge on him by killing the children she had borne to Jason. She also sent a poisoned robe that killed his new wife.”

  “You created one statue of a woman crying—”

  “Niobe on Mother’s Day.”

  “What caused her that kind of grief?”

  “Niobe was proud, too proud. She tweaked the gods, and with their arrows, Apollo and Diana struck down her seven boys and seven girls.”

  “Cheery stories behind your statues,” Cheever said.

  “Don’t blame the messenger,” she said.

  Cheever continued his walk. Near the window were two shrouded easels. “May I see the paintings?” he asked.

  “Not without a warrant,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t like showing unfinished paintings,” she said. “It releases their magic early. As I work on them they change, take on lives of their own. If a painting’s viewed too early, it undergoes a stillbirth.”

  He respected her privacy, but Cerberus wasn’t quite as respectful of his own. The dog had started sniffing around his pant legs and worked his muzzle up to Cheever’s groin. Cheever offered the dog his hand; a stub of a tail started twitching.

  “Do you have a dog?” she asked.

  “A cat,” he said, “but I consider myself a dog person.”

  “I think I’m more of a cat person,” she said.

  “Consistent, aren’t we?” said Cheever.

  He finished his inspection of the room, ended at the chair that had been offered him originally, and this time sat down. Cerberus followed him and put his big head on one of Cheever’s knees.

  “I ran your name through the system today.”

  The silence built between them, until she finally said, “You can’t trust self-portraits.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I had problems. I was a kamikaze express. That’s changing.”

  “You were cited just three months ago.”

  “Eris was.”

  “Is that splitting hairs, or splitting personalities?”

  “In my case there might not be much of a difference.”

  “Why did Eris do her birthday suit pose?”

  “To embarrass me. She likes it when I’m put on the defensive. She enjoys stirring the pot. I’m glad Dr. Stern was able to get her to agree not to do her Godiva Galatea thing anymore.”

  Myths and more myths. Could Helen distinguish between myth and reality? “I learned about Galatea today,” he said. “She was one of Pygmalion’s statues that came to life.”

  “Is that all you learned?”

  “Pretty much. What else should I know?”

  “That Galatea caused a great deal of trouble before becoming inanimate again. Like some of my personalities.”

  “You have no memory of what your personalities do?”

  Helen nodded.

  “Do you resent them?”

  She avoided directly answering. “I’m coming to understand them better.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your insights?”

  Helen ran a hand through her wet hair. “From what I’ve been able to understand, the personalities often emerge to meet needs of mine.”

  “Such as?”

  “When I need to reflect, Eurydice comes out. She is thoughtful and melancholy. Her opposite are the Maenads—sheer energy. Caitlin is the innocent girl in me, Cronos the harsh adult. Holly is more passive than Helen, wants to fit in more, and Eris is the firebrand. Hygeia wants to help, to heal, and Nemesis wants only revenge. The Fa
tes are my intuitive selves and allow me glimpses into my past, my present, and my future. And Pandora knows the good and evil in all of me.”

  “What about Helen?”

  She shook her head, as if even she wasn’t sure, but then said, “Helen is the mulligan stew.”

  “Heinz 57.”

  “Sometimes the mix isn’t that complementary.”

  “You seem...normal...now.”

  “You haven’t pushed the right buttons.”

  Give me a little time, thought Cheever. “I talked to your father this afternoon.”

  She didn’t physically react, but Cheever sensed an alertness in her. “And how is he?” Helen asked.

  “Seems fine.”

  He let her think, let her dictate where the conversation led. “And what did the two of you talk about?”

  “Myths mostly. Your father recited some Latin and some poetry.”

  “That sounds like Father.”

  “He said you don’t see him much.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Perhaps I tired of his Latin and poetry.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What is this, therapy?”

  “Think of it as humoring me.”

  “How can I,” she said, “when the joke’s on me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father is a strange man. He lives in his mythological world most of the time.”

  “Like father like daughter.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “What do you remember about your mother?”

  “She was never happy. Most of the time she had a drink, no, a bottle, in her hand.”

  “Did she love you?”

  “I suppose so. But she loved booze more.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Are you asking whether he loves me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same answer: I suppose so. But he loves the gods more.”

  “Does that have a bearing on your personalities? Your lives imitating the myths?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Can you control your personalities?”

  “Dr. Stern has taught me self-hypnosis. That helps. She has also left several posthypnotic commands to assist in certain situations. And she tells me that I have an internal self-helper in the form of Pandora who has stopped some of the personalities from going too far.”