Phantom Limb: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Lucinda Berry

  “Can I ask you a question?” I’d started out the conversation while we were walking to the bus stop. We’d reached the point where it was no longer cool to have Dalila drop us off in the front of the school building.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Remember a few weeks ago when you got so mad at me for talking to Chrissy after class and we got in that huge fight?”

  Emily rolled her eyes and nodded. “Of course I remember. And we’re still not talking to her.”

  Emily struggled in math. She always had, and the more difficult it got, the harder she struggled. At the beginning of the quarter when we started algebra, they divided everyone in our grade into specialized math classes based on ability. The teachers tried to pretend it wasn’t what they were doing, but we all knew it was exactly what they were doing. Emily was placed in the class with other people who struggled with math, but unlike Emily, who struggled in math but passed other subjects, the kids she was placed with failed nearly every subject. They were the ones who’d been teased since elementary school for not being smart. By the time we’d gotten to high school, they were popping pills, skipping school, and had a hardened exterior towards everything related to school. It was the first time Emily had been placed with them and she felt like a loser.

  Chrissy singled her out in the hallway after the class when we’d all been given the lists. “Looks like you’re going to be going to class with all the morons,” she sang out while her two closest friends stood next to her smirking.

  Emily glared and said nothing.

  “It’s too bad. I got placed in the accelerated math class. Guess we know who will be going to college and who’s going to be stuck flipping burgers at McDonald’s.”

  Everyone laughed and Emily turned bright red. That night she made me swear not to speak to Chrissy again. It was an easy promise to make. Hurting Emily was the same as hurting me. However, a few days later, Emily had found me in the hallway having a conversation with Chrissy and her friends. She’d blown up on me for breaking my promise not to talk to her. The problem was that I didn’t remember talking to Chrissy. I remembered leaving the lunchroom and the next thing I knew I was in World Studies. I’d lost two periods. Rather than tell Emily I didn’t remember anything about it, I told her Chrissy was trying to be nice and figure out a way to apologize to Emily for what she’d said. My deception had eaten away at me until I had to tell Emily the truth.

  “The weird thing is that I still don’t remember talking to Chrissy in the hallway. I really don’t. I don’t have any memory of it. But that’s not the first time something like that has ever happened. It happens a lot. Does it ever happen to you?”

  Emily threw her arms around me and gave me a big hug. “Oh my God, I had no idea it happened to you, too. I should’ve said something to you about it. I always wanted to. I tried to, but I felt super weird about it. The same thing used to happen to me all the time when we were younger.” I held her hand as we walked, a sense of relief washing over me. “Do you remember when Bob used to catch me stealing his lunch all the time?”

  I nodded. Back in the days when Emily couldn’t get enough to eat no matter how much food was around and all of the cupboards and the refrigerator were locked, she’d started stealing food. She’d gotten busted on more than one occasion with the leftover remnants of sandwiches and bags of potato chips under her bed from the lunches Dalila prepared for Bob each day. She always denied it, but nobody ever believed she didn’t do it. Not even me.

  “See, I knew I did it. Just like all of you knew I did it. But I swear to God, I didn’t think I’d done it. I never remembered taking one of his lunches. Not one. Believe me, Bethy, I totally get it.”

  We shared our stories about losing time with each other, especially if one of them scared us, and it became another thing we had in common, but I’d never told anyone else. No one had asked me about it until now.

  “Losing time is a big part of your diagnosis. Your psyche is disconnected and fragmented into different parts. Sometimes in dissociative states people function very differently from the way that is typical for them. When this state becomes very severe, some people develop other states of being or might even act as if they’re a different person.”

  For a moment he had me, but he was losing me again. My psyche was fragmented?

  “What makes a person have a dissociative disorder?” I asked.

  “It almost always stems from severe trauma. Many people would experience the extreme disassociation like what I’m describing from experiencing the type of horrific neglect and abuse you experienced as a child. However, you demonstrated an unbelievable amount of resiliency in managing to recover from it within a supportive and nurturing environment. When it comes to resiliency, we know that certain factors serve as protective factors that can help predict how well an individual will respond to trauma. In your case, I believe the reason you were able to demonstrate such a high level of resiliency is because Emily served as your protective factor. It explains why her death caused you to split from reality.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  I wanted to get it, though. I needed to understand what they thought was wrong with me.

  “Let me try to explain this another way. Your early childhood trauma predisposed you to developing a dissociative disorder, but because of your relationship with Emily, you were able to retain a measure of stability. When she died, it was more than your frail psyche was able to handle, so instead of dealing with the reality of her death, you continued to live as if she was alive.”

  “She’s really been dead for two years?”

  “Yes. I can absolutely assure you Emily has been dead for two years.”

  “And this isn’t a test? You’re not trying to trick me?”

  “On the contrary, I’m trying to help you.” He paused, searching my eyes for clues. “I’m not going to lie to you. Your level of impairment is severe. I’ve never seen someone who was able to be so gravely disconnected from reality, but still able to maintain a relatively stable and normal life in the way that you did.”

  If what he said was true, then I didn’t know how I’d done it either. Emily still felt real to me. She was as real to me today as she’d been two weeks ago. I wished we’d studied dissociative disorders in my Introduction to Psychology course. We hadn’t covered anything like what he was describing.

  “Why don’t we save the rest of this for our next session? We are almost out of time,” Dr. Larson said. “I’m very pleased with your progress today.”

  15

  I couldn’t wait to look up the diagnosis Dr. Larson gave me in Rose’s book and see if we could make sense of it together. I wanted to do it in private but unfortunately, it wasn’t possible because I was still being followed. I was the only one on the unit being followed. The team had assured me the restriction would be lifted as soon as they were convinced I was no longer a threat to myself or anyone else. It was unsettling that they still thought I was a threat, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  We got lucky because both Polly and Felicia were off. The two of them didn’t miss anything, especially not Polly. There were times when Polly looked like she wasn’t paying attention, but she always knew what was going on. My substitute babysitter was the hippy-looking guy who’d been there a few nights ago. His name was James and his hippy-looking appearance wasn’t solely about the way he dressed. He had the droopy bloodshot eyes to match.

  Rose pulled out a big, thick gray book. It was a huge textbook. She handed it to me. The front read: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. I was shocked by how massive it was. I thumbed through it quickly and discovered it had over nine hundred pages. How was it possible that there were nine hundred pages of mental disorders?

  I was holding the Holy Grail in my hands. For the first time since my ordeal started, I was going to have an idea of what they thought was wrong with me. I would be privy to some of the knowledge they possessed. It gave me a small sense of
control over my situation.

  “Crazy, huh?” Rose giggled. “You should see your face. You look just like I felt.” She grabbed the book back from me. “Let me show you what they think is wrong with me.” She flipped through it easily, coming to rest on a page I was sure she’d visited hundreds of times before. She pointed to a black heading. “Here I am.”

  The bold black letters read:

  Diagnostic criteria for 307.1 Anorexia Nervosa.

  “What does the number mean?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “No idea. I’ve asked different doctors and they all say it’s for classification purposes. Whatever that means. Who knows?”

  Underneath the heading were lettered lists of what I assumed were symptoms. There were four criteria and as I read through, I was surprised at how accurately the book described Rose. I did a mental checklist on the way down.

  “Refusal to maintain body weight at or above a minimally normal weight for age and height.”

  Check.

  “An intense fear of gaining weight or becoming fat, even though underweight.”

  Absolutely.

  “Denial of the current low body weight.”

  Check. She really did think she was fat and even though she’d already had a heart attack, she laughed it off.

  “The absence of at least three consecutive menstrual cycles.”

  “Do you get your period?” I asked.

  She beamed proudly, “Nope. Not for almost two years. How lucky am I?”

  Should’ve known. Another check.

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Not really. They always try and make a big deal out of it, but basically I can’t get pregnant, which would be great birth control if I was actually having sex.” She slapped her thighs. “But c’mon, who’s lining up to have sex with these big ole’ things?”

  “Do you really think your thighs are big?” I asked. “Your legs are the size of my arms. They might even be smaller.”

  She punched my arm. “Shut up. You don’t see me naked. They are flabby, trust me. I can pinch an inch.”

  “Of skin! There’s no way you have an ounce of fat on you. You have to have skin and it has to be elastic. That’s all you’re pulling.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc. Someday when you don’t have to be followed around wherever you go, I’ll show you what I look like naked. You’ll see what I’m talking about then.”

  “Deal.” I was excited about looking up my disorder, given the accuracy of hers. I handed the book back to her. “How do we find mine?”

  “Okay, tell me again what he said you have.”

  I recited our conversation to her again like I’d done earlier when I came out of my session. The name of my disorder was permanently embedded in my mind. As I talked, she moved through the book with the ease of a professional.

  “Here it is,” she said. “I—”

  I snatched the book from her. I’d been waiting for this moment all day. My eyes quickly scanned the page and landed on the bold heading:

  300.15 Dissociative Disorder Not Otherwise Specified.

  However, my disorder wasn’t as neatly laid out in a concise list of symptoms like hers. Mine began with a small paragraph that read:

  “This category is included for disorders in which the predominant feature is a dissociative symptom (i.e., disruption in the usually integrated functions of consciousness, memory, identity, or perception of the environment) that does not meet criteria for any specific dissociative disorder.”

  It went on to list six examples. The six examples used words I’d never heard of before. Things like “derealization” and “depersonalization.” It listed “dissociative trance disorder” and the more detailed explanation used words from another language called “amok” and random letters stacked together, making a foreign word called “piblotkog.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense. It might as well be Spanish.”

  “Let me see,” Rose said, taking the book back from me. “Sometimes it takes time to figure it out.”

  She read through and crinkled her forehead as she went along. She burst out laughing suddenly and in a snooty voice recited, “Possession trance involves replacement of the customary sense of a personal identity by a new identity attributed to the influence of a spirit, power, deity, or other person. So, it sounds like you’re possessed by the devil.”

  “Shut up.” I leaned toward her to examine the text with her. “It’s not just me, then, huh? This doesn’t make any sense to you either?”

  “Nope. Not at all. Some of the stuff in here is pretty confusing, though, so I’m not all that surprised. I was hoping you’d get an easy one.”

  I hoped Dr. Larson would explain it to me if I asked him, but it was unlikely. He seemed much more interested in asking questions than he was in giving answers. Even when he did give answers, they didn’t answer the question asked. Like yesterday during the team meeting when I’d asked when I could stop being on a one-to-one restriction, and he’d answered that it depended without explaining what it depended on.

  Rose had helped me more than Dr. Larson or any of the team doctors. For all of their education, the doctors didn’t seem to have a clue about how to talk to people. They weren’t like Lisa. She knew how to talk to people.

  My heart sank. I’d been so excited to learn my diagnosis. I’d thought it was going to help things begin to make sense. Even if I wasn’t able to put all of the pieces together, at least it would’ve been a place to start. I felt like crying.

  What would Thomas think? He was always so logical and practical. What would he say if I told him about everything happening in here? How much did he already know? I felt the first pangs of missing him.

  My reason for not seeing him during visiting hours was different than my feelings about avoiding Bob and Dalila. For the most part, I blamed myself for my situation, but there was a small piece that blamed him. If I hadn’t fallen for him and been so pressured by him to meet Emily, none of this would’ve happened. It wasn’t logical or rational, but I still felt the same way.

  More than anything else, though, I was embarrassed. I was sure his image of me was shattered. I couldn’t imagine what he must think of me now. He had to think I was some kind of freak. But, if anyone could look past something like this it was him. Was there a possibility he could find a way to look at me like he did before? I didn’t expect him to still want to be with me, but he’d been a good friend and we could talk about anything. I missed our talks. Even if we couldn’t go back to the way things were, there might be a chance we could still be friends and talk like we used to.

  Over the last year, Thomas had become my support. Whenever I was excited about something, he was the person I told, or if someone made me angry at school, I couldn’t wait to be able to give him the details. Even though I couldn’t talk about what things were like for me at home with Emily, he had a way of making me feel like everything was going to be okay. He told me everything was going to be all right if I didn’t get an A on a test or made me laugh about not making any sales at work.

  As hard as it was for me to admit to myself, Thomas had slowly begun to take Emily’s place as my confidante. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d told her about a bad day I’d had at work or school and she’d offered me encouragement. Everything was about her and her moods. I stepped delicately around them and they dictated everything I said or did. I’d lost the Emily I knew a long time ago and I’d been mourning her disappearance for years.

  It was one of the reasons it’d been so easy to fall for Thomas. I wasn’t able to acknowledge it then, but the truth was that I’d been lonely. If Dr. Larson was right and I’d been creating Emily for the last two years, then why did I make her sick and give her such a miserable existence? If I imagined her because I couldn’t let go of her, then why did I invent a scenario that suffocated us both and left me feeling so alone?

  I wanted to talk to Thomas about it. I didn’t expect him to be able to answer any of my questions, but it would
be nice to get his perspective on what was happening. I told myself I was calling him because I wanted his help, but more than anything else, I just wanted to hear his voice.

  16

  I’d been in the psych ward for five days and hadn’t made a phone call, which was unusual because everyone fought to use the phone. There were only two on the unit and there was a ten-minute limit, so somebody was always yelling at somebody else to get off the phone because their time was up. Even Darin and Rick used the phone. I couldn’t imagine who they talked to, but they used it.

  During the week, there were only two scheduled phone times, but it was Sunday and the phones were free on Sundays until lights out at ten. There wasn’t much of a routine on Sunday because the regular doctors didn’t work. They were on call if there was an emergency that the regular staff members couldn’t handle. I breathed a sigh of relief to learn that the team wasn’t there on Sundays either. We had something called occupational therapy instead of regular group with Mark.

  A woman named Teresa, dressed in yoga pants as if she’d come right from the gym, took us into a room resembling an elementary art classroom. Everywhere you looked there were plastic boxes with miscellaneous craft materials inside. Glitter, fabric, and glue littered the two long tables lining the center of the room.

  “All right, everyone,” Teresa said, beginning to pull out boxes and plopping them onto the table. “Express yourselves. Really try to get in tune with your feelings and release them here.”

  She began digging into the boxes and pulling out crayons, colored pencils, stencils, and paintbrushes, handing them to Rick and Darin. Tobi plopped down next to Teresa. Shelly and Denise took a seat next to her.

  “I’m working on my god box again,” Tobi announced.

  “Great idea,” Teresa said. “I’ll get it. Shelly, do you want yours too?”

  Shelly nodded.