"Yes," Vicky agreed, "she certainly did. And Billy could never understand--after Sybil came back--why the Dorsett girl acted as if she didn't know him."
Mary, who was interested in poetry, became grandiloquent, telling Vicky that for Sybil the mighty heart of the world often lies still and that at such times there are for Sybil no fresh woods, no pastures new, just pastures fallow with forgetfulness. "Sybil calls it nothingness. And that's not very flattering to us!"
In the months that followed Sybil found herself floating in and out of blankness. Disguising the fact, she became ingenious in improvisation, peerless in pretense, as she feigned knowledge of what she did not know. Unfortunately, from herself she couldn't conceal the sensation that somehow she had lost something. Nor could she hide the feeling that increasingly she felt as if she belonged to no one and to no place. Somehow it seemed that the older she got, the worse things became. She began repudiating herself with unspoken self-derogating comments: "I'm thin for a good reason: I'm not fit to occupy space."
Spring was bad because of her grandmother. Now summer was approaching, and summer would be bad because of Danny. Sitting on the front steps or high in the swing, Sybil would remember the summer leading to Danny's departure.
"Break, break, break, ar On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! ar ... But O for the touch of a vanished hand, ar And the sound of a voice that is still! ... But the tender grace of a day that is dead ar Will never come back to me," Mary recited as she took over the swing from Sybil.
During the late spring of 1935, Sybil faced a new terror, brought on by the vulnerability of puberty. The terror centered around hysterical conversion symptoms that were part of her then undiagnosed illness. For hysteria-- grande or otherwise--is an illness resulting from emotional conflict and is generally characterized by immaturity, dependency, and the use of the defense mechanisms not only of dissociation but also of conversion. Hysteria is classically manifested by dramatic physical symptoms involving the voluntary muscles or the organs of special senses. During the process of conversion, unconscious impulses are transmuted into bodily symptoms. Instead of being experienced consciously, the emotional conflict is thus expressed physically.
Suddenly, half of Sybil's face and the side of her arms would become numb.
She would grow weak on one side, not always the same side. Almost constantly her throat was sore, and she had trouble swallowing. She began to suffer from tunnel vision; sight would often leave one eye. She--and some of the other selves as well, notably Mary--developed a nervous tic, which, like that of the telephone operator, caused consternation in the town.
Sybil or one of the others would twitch, jerk, and carry on with unrestrained body movements. Sybil or the others would aim for the doorway and run into the door, aim for the door and run into the doorjamb. The symptoms were intensified by headaches so bad that following such an attack, Sybil had to go to sleep for several hours. Sleep after one of these headaches for Sybil, who was generally a light sleeper, was so sound that it seemed she had been drugged.
Most disturbing of all, life seemed to be floating by in an unreal kind of way, filled with strange presentiments. Sybil would remember that she had been somewhere or had done something as if she had dreamed it. She seemed to be walking beside herself, watching. And sometimes she couldn't tell the difference between her dreams and this dreamlike unreality.
One night Sybil mentioned this feeling of unreality to her parents, who then decided to take her to Dr. Quinoness, the town's doctor.
Dr. Quinoness diagnosed Sybil's case as Sydenham's chorea, a form of St. Vitus dance. Explaining that there was a psychological component, he advised that Sybil should see a psychiatrist and made an appointment for her with a doctor in Minneapolis. Willard and Hattie refused to keep the appointment. If it were only psychological, Willard claimed, he could handle it himself. Upon this assumption he bought Sybil a guitar and engaged a guitar teacher for her. Father and daughter practiced together and later gave recitals. Since Vicky, Mary, Peggy Lou, and some of the other selves also learned to play and did so with different degrees of enthusiasm, the performances Willard Dorsett's daughter gave were strikingly uneven.
Despite her father's easy optimism, Sybil admitted to herself that she was having "mental trouble," which in the Dorsett household and in the town of Willow Corners was considered a disgrace. Indeed, new fears began to revolve around the state hospital, where her uncle Roger worked as a purchasing agent and her aunt Hattie, as a nurse. Sybil had often visited her uncle and aunt at the hospital.
Trying to take her mind off her trouble, Sybil threw herself into her school work. At school, however, she was disturbed by not knowing the European history that had been taught while she was not present. Vicky carried history, just as Peggy Lou was the keeper of multiplication. With science, however, Sybil caught up quickly. Fascinated as Mr. Strong elucidated the mysteries of the human anatomy, she didn't even notice that he carefully bypassed the sexual parts. When students were required to draw a large sketch of a heart, Hattie bought Sybil a pencil that was red at one end and blue at the other, which made Sybil feel like a teacher, grading papers. Sybil's daydreams were filled with ideas about heart circulation and doctors, and she would pretend that she herself was a physician explaining heart function to patients.
One day Sybil dashed into the house after school to tell her mother about heart function. Refusing to listen, Hattie said, "I don't want to hear about that." Sybil, however, was so excited about the subject that she went right on explaining what she had learned. "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not interested?" Hattie screamed, lashing out at her daughter. Sybil, who had been standing on the polished linoleum in the sunroom, took the blow full on the hip, slipped, fell sideways over the rocking chair, and landed on the floor. Her ribs were badly bruised.
From that time forward Sybil was afraid of the science class, and even though science continued to fascinate her, she had a hard time getting through high school and college biology. She also became afraid of rooms without rugs.
That night Hattie took Sybil on an outing to Main Street. It was a Wednesday night, and the stores were open. There were popcorn stands on the corner and popsicles in the drugstore. Children always asked their parents for a nickel or a dime, but Sybil made no demands. Hattie asked, "What do we want tonight? Do we want popcorn or a popsicle?"
Sybil replied, "Well, anything is all right."
The remark, although characteristic, didn't indicate that Sybil had no preference. Just as she didn't dare tell anybody her secret about time, she didn't dare ask anybody for anything.
As mother and daughter were enjoying the popsicles Hattie bought, Sybil caught sight of some hair bows displayed on a counter. Thinking how pretty they were, Sybil hoped that her mother would ask whether she wanted one. But Hattie passed the counter, looked at the hair bows, and went down the aisle. Sybil gave up hope that her mother would ask her.
Then Vicky decided to do the asking and pointed to a light blue hair bow. "I'd like to have it," Vicky informed Hattie. "It matches our blue organdy dress."
"What do you mean by "our," you numbskull?" Hattie replied.
"Don't you know that organdy dress is yours?"
Hattie paid the cashier for the hair bow.
11
The Search for the Center
Vicky and Sybil, Mary and Sybil, Peggy Lou and Sybil--what was the connection? Dr. Wilbur decided to ask Vicky, who knew everything about everybody.
It was June 15, 1955, and the analysis had been proceeding for nine months. Doctor and patient were seated on the couch. "Vicky," the doctor said, "I should like to know something. Are you related to Sybil?"
Startled, Vicky replied, "You know I know Sybil because you ask me about her. I tell you about Sybil."
"Yes," the doctor agreed, "I know you know her. But how do you know what she thinks?"
An amused smile was Vicky's only answer.
"Vicky," the doctor persisted, "you've talked
of our blue organdy dress. What else do you and the others share?"
"Share?" There was a tinge of irony in Vicky's tone. "We sometimes do things together."
"You have told me that some of the others have the same mother? Then would you say they share a mother?"
"Yes, I suppose you could say that."
"Do they also share the same body?"
"That's silly," Vicky replied authoritatively. "They're people. I can tell you about them."
"Yes, Vicky, I know they are people. But people have relationships to each other. How are Peggy Lou, Peggy Ann, Mary, Sybil, and the others related? Are they sisters?"
"Nobody ever said they were sisters," Vicky replied, looking squarely at the doctor.
"No," the doctor answered with precise emphasis, "nobody ever said that. But Vicky, when people have the same mother, they must either be the same person, sisters, or brothers."
Ignoring the implications of the doctor's logic, Vicky concurred, "I have lots of brothers and sisters, and we all have the same mother and father."
"All right, Vicky," the doctor continued, "you have just acknowledged the kinship bonds in your own family. But you haven't said anything about the family of which Sybil, the Peggys, Mary, and the others are a part. You haven't told me how these people are related."
Vicky shrugged and said, "Well, Doctor, you just said they must be sisters."
"No, Vicky," the doctor replied firmly, "I didn't say they must .be sisters. I asked you if they were sisters, and I said that logically, since they have the same mother, they must either be the same person, or they must be sisters or brothers."
Vicky said nothing.
When the doctor, remorselessly pursuing the logical course, demanded: "Now, Vicky, tell me, are they sisters or are they the same person?" Vicky, forced to reply, spoke with great deliberateness. "Doctor," she said, "when you put it that way, I have to admit that they must be sisters. They have to be sisters because they couldn't be the same person!" Vicky closed the subject by opening her purse, putting lipstick on, closing the purse, tucking it under her arm. "Mon Dieu," she said as she rose to go. "What an absurdity it is to think of those complete individuals as the same. Marian Ludlow and I are more alike than are any two or three persons you have mentioned."
"Now, Vicky," the doctor said firmly, "the hour is not over yet, and I would like you to listen to what I'm going to tell you."
"Our discussion," Vicky said in a tone of great finality, "has reached its logical conclusion. What else is there to say?"
"This, Vicky. Now sit down, won't you, please?"
Vicky seated herself, but she didn't really acquiesce.
"You say," the doctor remarked unrelentingly, "that Peggy Lou, Peggy Ann, Mary, and the others couldn't be the same person. But they can be. Vicky, don't you see that they could be different aspects of the same person?"
"No, Dr. Wilbur," Vicky said thoughtfully, shaking her head. "I don't see. You, you're just you. You're Dr. Wilbur and no one else."
"Yes?" the doctor asked.
"And I'm just Vicky. There's nobody else here. See." Vicky rose from the couch, paced the room, and asked, "Now do you believe me?"
Vicky sat down again, smiled at the doctor, and remarked, "That settles the question. There's no one else here. You're just Dr. Wilbur, and I'm just Vicky."
"Vicky," the doctor replied, "we haven't settled anything. Let's be honest with each other."
"But, Dr. Wilbur," Vicky insisted, "we most certainly have. We've settled the large, philosophical question of who am I? I am I. You are you. I think; therefore I am. There's a Latin phrase for it: cogito ergo sum. Yes, that's it."
"We've settled nothing," the doctor reminded Vicky. "We haven't established the relationship among Sybil, Peggy Lou, Peggy Ann, Mary and the others. What ...?"
"Questions, questions, questions," Vicky interrupted.
"I'd like to ask a question, too. Why do you have to ask all these questions?"
After rejecting the logical conclusion toward which Dr. Wilbur had been trying to lead her, Vicky contradicted the earlier contention that the doctor and she were alone, for she said, "Now, Dr. Wilbur, Mary would like to meet you. She wants to participate in our analysis, and I think we should let her."
"Our analysis?" Dr. Wilbur echoed. "How can it be "our" if you girls are not the same person?"
Vicky chuckled. "I suppose," she said with what seemed like deliberate ambiguity, "you might call it group therapy."
"You agreed you were sisters." Vicky was quick. "Family therapy, then, if you insist. Thanks for the correction."
Then, as surely as if she had physically left the room, Vicky was gone. A voice that definitely was not Vicky's remarked politely, "I'm glad to meet you, Dr. Wilbur."
"You're Mary?" the doctor asked. "Mary Lucinda Saunders Dorsett," the voice replied.
It was not the voice of a woman of the world like Vicky, nor of an angry child like Peggy Lou. The accent was unmistakably midwestern, soft, low, and somber. The doctor had not heard that voice before and knew of Mary only through Vicky's recapitulation of the sixth grade.
The doctor motioned Mary to the couch and waited. Mary was silent. New patient reserve? the doctor mused. New patient?
"What do you like to do, Mary?" the doctor asked.
"I keep our home going," Mary replied, "but it's hard to do so much."
"What do you have to do?" the doctor asked. "Follow Sybil."
"What do you do when you follow Sybil?"
"Go where she goes."
"What else do you do?"
"Help Sybil."
"How do you help her?"
"Practical ways. Subtle ways."
"Such as?"
"Well, Dr. Wilbur, right now, it's a practical matter. You probably know that Sybil and Teddy Reeves--a friend from Whittier Hall--have just taken an apartment together on Morningside Drive. You know what a new apartment involves. At 8:45 yesterday morning I had to come out to receive the workmen who are putting in new windows. I had to come out again at 7:15 P.m. because I didn't want Sybil to put up the new drapes. I feel it's up to me to keep the home going. And with all the deliveries we're getting these days, we can't sleep in the morning. So I had to put up a sign, "Do Not Disturb," near the downstairs bell. Sybil and Teddy are doing over the apartment. The doing falls to me."
"What else do you do?"
"It's hard to do anything with that Morningside barn called a brownstone. How I wish we had more space. I'd like to have a flower garden, room for some animals. We just have Capri."
"You don't like New York?"
"Not really. But then I don't get around much. Sometimes I go to a museum or a library. That's about it. I rarely leave the apartment."
"What do you do when you're there?"
"Housework. Read. Listen to music. Do a little painting. Write poetry. Poetry eases the pain."
"What pain, Mary?"
"Oh, I've prayed about how we feel."
"What pain, Mary?"
"Haven't they told you? Vicky? Sybil? Peggy Lou?"
"Not directly. They've talked of the fear of getting close to people, of music, of hands, of being trapped, and, by denying mother, Vicky and Peggy Lou indicate that they fear her. Do you fear her?"
"I never felt Sybil's mother was mine." Mary's tone was confidential.
"What pain, Mary?"
"You'll know in time. That's why I told Vicky that I wanted to come today. I want to help with our analysis. But I feel guilty about coming. Maybe it's a sin to go to a psychiatrist."
"Now, Mary," the doctor said very slowly, very plainly, "you know that Sybil, Vicky, and Peggy Lou have been coming here for some nine months. Do you think that anything they've said or done here is sinful?"
"I don't know," Mary answered thoughtfully. "I really don't know."
"Then why have you come?"
"That day last month among the dogwoods and the flowering crab," Mary answered thoughtfully, "you weren't a psychiatrist. You wer
e a friend. We need friends."
"Sybil has friends. Aren't her friends also yours?"
"I suppose so," Mary replied, "but only in a way. Teddy Reeves knows me by name and can tell me apart from the others, but Laura Hotchkins thinks I'm Sybil. Most people do, you know. I'm sometimes very lonely."
"Then why don't you go out and make friends on your own, the way Vicky does?"
"Well, you know how it is," Mary explained. "For one thing I don't have the clothes for it. I just wear what I find in our closet, and what looks well on the others doesn't necessarily suit me." Mary paused, ducked her head, and added with a slight, tired smile, "But then I'm not as attractive as Vicky or as glamorous as Vanessa. I can't compete with them. I am what I am."
It was not until later that Dr. Wilbur discovered that Mary saw herself as a plump, maternal, little-old-lady type, not very stylish. Mary emerged as a homebody, a nest-maker, the eternal housewife interested in Kinder, Kuche, Kirche. And although the children didn't exist, although the cooking was difficult in, as Mary put it, "one of these city apartments with kitchens the size of a pencil box," it became increasingly clear to Dr. Wilbur that what really caused trouble for Mary was not the absence of Kinder, the difficulties of Kuche, but the problems revolving around Kirche. In time the doctor discovered that the initial "maybe it's a sin to go to a psychiatrist," etched in deep hues, reflected church-centered conflicts.
In dark hues, too, was Mary's account of grandmother Dorsett. "Grandma died," Mary told the doctor during the June 15, 1955, session. "There was no one to take her place. Sybil didn't mourn for Grandma. Sybil went away. Peggy Lou mourned quietly when she was by herself. All of us--except Vicky-- mourned for Grandma, but I was the one who mourned most. After Grandma died, I came out to mourn for her."
"Did you come out at the funeral?"
"No," Mary replied, "I wasn't there. Sybil was nine then. I came when we were ten and Peggy Lou was in charge of things."
"How did you get your name?"
"It's Grandma's name. I look like Grandma, and I took her name. Grandma Dorsett's son is my father, and I also look like him."
Sybil Page 16