Relax, she told herself. Relax, relax.
She was hyperventilating. Her eyes burned. Dizziness unsteadied her, making her legs feel like Jell-O.
This is stupid, she thought. I just have to—
But she couldn't move. Couldn't risk another step. Didn't dare go back.
"Move it or lose it, lady," a cabdriver shouted, a trace of an oriental accent clinging to the L's. He blasted his horn.
Karen squeezed her briefcase tighter. God, now she was sweating. She couldn't force her feet to move. People brushed against her, jostled her as they flooded the crosswalk. The taxi's horn maintained its unrelenting blare. Others joined it. A cacophonous symphony for horns sandpapered her nerves.
The cabby backed up, screeching rubber in reverse. Then he floored it, executing a wide arc around her, almost wiping out a young woman pushing twin toddlers in a tandem stroller.
Paralyzed.
With eyes tightly closed, Karen bit her lower lip and tried to force calming images into her mind: a warm fragrant breeze; green sunlit grasses swaying, swaying.
"Here, let me help." It was a man's voice, deep and confident.
A hand touched her upper arm. She felt a gentle tug urging her toward the traffic.
"It's okay," the man whispered.
Her feet balked at first, but she allowed herself to be led. As though she were blind, the stranger assisted her all the way across the street.
Safe now on the opposite sidewalk, she summoned the courage to look up at her rescuer. The man's smile was disarming, wide and sincere. His black curly hair and meticulously trimmed beard were graying a bit where they merged at the temples. His brown cotton suit appeared tailor-made.
"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice was gentle, caring.
Karen felt herself blushing. "Yes . . . sure . . . I'm . . . Oh gosh, I feel so foolish,"
"No need on my account. I'm just happy I was there to lend a hand." His unfaltering good nature went a long way toward putting her at ease.
"Me, too." She giggled and hated herself for it. "I"—clearing her throat—"I should remember my manners and thank you . . . ."
"Not at all. No need." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You're from out of town, aren't you?"
"Ah, yes . . . I mean, is it that obvious?"
He tossed his head to the side, his eyes twinkling. "Just a wild guess."
"I'm from Vermont. Burlington, Vermont."
"Vermont? Where's that? Up by the Arctic Circle?"
She could tell he was kidding, and she was grateful he didn't make any cracks about some naive farm girl's first time in the big city. But she had no snappy comeback. Instead, she felt compelled to explain. "Sometimes I freeze up. I don't know why I do it. If something startles me, I . . . I just freeze up."
"That's what you get for living in the Arctic Circle." He was still grinning.
Still, she couldn't stop the rush of words. "It's a neurological condition. Something like epilepsy. Something like a panic disorder. They don't know exactly what—"
His smile softened. "It's okay. Really."
Karen grinned, too.
Then the man seemed unsure of himself for a moment, as if he didn't know what to say next. "Listen," he said, "how about letting me buy you a cup of coffee? You can thaw out while you catch your breath."
Again he took her arm and stepped in the direction of a Pewter Pot Restaurant. She felt herself holding back. "I'd love a cup of coffee, really. It'd be just the thing right now. But I'm late for an appointment." She looked at her watch as if that would prove it to him.
"In town on business, eh? I bet you're with the government?"
Karen laughed, she couldn't help it. "The government? Why on earth would you say that?"
"Another wild guess. Government Center is just down that way; the State House's up there. And you're dressed so . . . professionally, with your gray suit and briefcase and all. I just thought . . . Aw, it was just a guess."
She detected his embarrassment, identified with it. Somehow it made her feel more at ease. "I've got to admit, you got all the clues exactly right, you just came to the wrong conclusion. Actually, I'm a . . ."—she faltered here, not wanting to say it—"I'm a doctor."
Was he impressed? Men usually were when she named her profession. It slowed them down, pushed them away. But she didn't want to push this man away; she did it by reflex.
But he was raising his eyebrows in mock-astonishment.
"Oh, are you now? Why, so am I!"
They both laughed and shook hands. "I'm Jeff Chandler, Ph.D.," he said with exaggerated importance.
"And, I'm Karen Bradley."
"Listen, Karen, let me retract that coffee offer. How about if I walk you to wherever you're going while I try to talk you into having dinner with me tonight. What say?"
"Well, I'll take it under advisement." She couldn't hold her pretend-frown. "I could go for some seafood."
"I know just the place."
Karen found herself alone in Dr. Gudhausen's waiting room.
Sure, she'd expected it to be a bit more plush than her tiny office at Lakeview Health Center in Burlington, but this was positively regal! Bright watercolors adorned white plaster walls, cut flowers exploded from hand-painted vases, green-leafed plants dangled from ceramic hooks in the fourteen-foot ceiling. In the room's darkest corner, tiny tropical fish darted and spun in a glowing aquarium.
Karen found she was clutching the handle of her briefcase in a white-knuckled wrestler's grip. She was always uncomfortable in the presence of conspicuous wealth, a throwback to her childhood, when her nearly impoverished parents had worked so hard to maintain a paying farm in Vermont's dying agricultural economy.
Fighting the reaction, she tried to concentrate on the unobtrusive classical music playing faintly in the background. What was it? Sure. Easy. Beethoven's Seventh. The beginning of the . . . second movement! Perhaps a bit melancholy for a psychiatrist's office.
When Karen heard high heels tapping on the hardwood floor, the enormity of her errand flashed into her mind like a spotlight switched on in a dark room. She had to force herself not to turn around to leave. She could head back to the hotel, phone Dr. Gudhausen. Tell him she'd suddenly become ill, that she'd—
No! Stop it! Hadn't she embarrassed herself enough for one day? Meeting Jeff Chandler should have been a pleasure, but instead she'd stood there like a dumb farm girl, babbling and blushing.
A tall, trim woman in a dark, coldly sophisticated suit entered the room, walking toward the mahogany receptionist's desk. When she looked at Karen, a warm smile brightened her entire aspect. Stepping forward, the woman offered her hand: "Dr. Bradley, how good to see you. I'm Gloria Cook; we spoke on the phone. Dr. Gudhausen is expecting you."
The women shook hands.
"Maybe 'expecting you' is too much of a euphemism; I should say he's eager to see you." She raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. "He'll be with you in a minute. He's on the phone just now."
"Oh, okay, thanks."
"May I get you some coffee? Decaf? Or we have tea or mineral water . . ."
"Oh, no thanks, I'm fine." Fine? No way! She was perspiring like a lumberjack. "I'll just sit down. I want to organize my notes."
"Surely. Make yourself comfortable. I'll let Dr. G know you're here." Gloria left the room.
Alone again, Karen walked to the large spotless window that offered a fantastic view of Quincy Markets and Boston Harbor. Then she scanned the titles on a teak floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The complete works of Freud, leather-bound and embossed. Bass and Davis's The Courage to Heal, The Handbook of Psychological Assessment—pretty standard fare, she thought.
She perused the shelf above. Books on gardening, a cookbook, Brooks and Evans's Thoughts That Kill, a couple of novels.
Strange, Karen thought. Are these just for show?
Then she noticed a curious title: Mania, Magic and Religion by William J. Sullivan. She picked up the book, flipped through it, examined the author's ph
oto on the dust jacket. She was surprised to see that the man was wearing a collar. He was a Catholic priest!
A Catholic priest . . . ?
When she saw that the book was inscribed to Dr. Gudhausen, she realized she was trembling. Oh my goodness, she thought, what am I getting myself into?
Jeffrey Chandler pressed the seven-digit number sequence on the telephone. He waited till he heard a single ring, then punched in his access code. The line remained dead. No messages. He disconnected, then hit the redial button. This time he let it ring four times. His own voice answered, "Hi, this is Jeff. Please leave a message of any duration right after the double beep."
Beep-beep.
"Casey? Hi, babe. I'm just calling to let you know I won't be home for dinner. Sorry, hon. Don't wait on me, okay? You go ahead and eat. I'll grab something down here. I've got . . . well. I've got some things to take care of . . . work-related stuff, you know? I'll try not to be late. Love you. Bye."
"Dr. Bradley, how very good to meet you! I must confess I've been wondering about the mysterious woman behind so . . . enticing a letter."
Seeing Dr. Gudhausen again after more than a year, Karen was reminded of how poorly his name matched his appearance. Gudhausen: the name suggested some laid-back, balding Freudian with horn-rimmed glasses and a pencil-sharp goatee. Instead, Stanley Gudhausen looked like anything but a psychiatrist: a dock worker, maybe, a bartender? Perhaps a retired catcher from a baseball team? Mostly, Karen decided, he looked just like the stereotypical Irish cop. His thick silver hair needed combing; his beefy, florid-cheeked face crowded sharp blue eyes into wrinkly little crevasses where they twinkled mischievously. One shirttail had escaped his belt, emphasizing what may well have been an ample beer belly. He had a tooth-pocked Bic pen behind his ear, and looked as if he should be wearing a police revolver in his belt.
"Y-yes, Dr. Gudhausen, thank you for seeing me."
"For seeing you! Why, the pleasure's all mine. Let me congratulate you on an effectively cryptic letter. My curiosity has been aroused ever since I got it."
"Oh, I can write a mean letter. It's the interpersonal stuff that slows me down."
"Nervous about seeing me? Come on now. You're not in school anymore, Doctor. You and I are colleagues, professionals, kith and kin and all that, for heaven's sake. Please, relax, Dr. Bradley, come in and sit down."
As he led her into what must have been his consulting room, Karen was surprised when she didn't see a desk. Instead, two comfortable-looking leather chairs faced a brick fireplace, two more stood on either side of an antique table. Nearby, beneath a framed mirror, there was a six-foot couch. Cheerful artwork was everywhere.
"Let's sit by the fire," said Dr. Gudhausen, with a wink and a wave of the hand. "Oh! And may I get you something to drink? Some tea? Or better, some white wine? I can even offer you a beer."
"Oh, no. No thank you. Nothing." Karen sat down, looking at the dark fireplace. Gudhausen crossed the room and pressed a hidden button on the corner of the mantel. Logs appeared. Sparks jumped up among them. By the time he took his seat next to her, the fireplace was burning merrily.
Karen discovered she was smiling. "I've never seen anything like that."
"It's an illusion, my dear. A hologram. No need of a fire this time of year. But it's relaxing. The fire has a calming effect, don't you agree."
"I'll let you know."
"What's all this? Nervous around an old man with a boy's taste for gadgets? Honestly, Dr. Bradley."
"Please call me Karen." Smiling, she took a deep, calming breath—in, one-two-three; out, one-two-three——it was a relaxation technique she had suggested to many of her patients. She hoped it would work for her.
Karen squared her shoulders. Here goes nothing, she thought. This was the moment of truth. Hoping not to make a fool of herself, she began, "Dr. Gudhausen, last year I attended your lecture on Multiple Personality Disorder at the conference in Toronto. Back then . . . at that time . . . well, I was just starting out, I hadn't had any hands-on experience with that particular disorder, and . . . and . . ."
"And now you have," he finished the sentence for her.
She looked him in the eyes. "Yes, now I have."
He leaned back, lifted a foot off the carpet, took his knee in his hands. "I remember my first time," he said. "There was nothing—I should say not much of anything—in the literature back then. The disorder was still hovering somewhere between witchcraft and scientific respectability. No one knew how to diagnose it. Many thought the whole thing was a sham, didn't believe it existed. And many still don't, I might add, parenthetically. In fact, back then we didn't call it MPD. Different therapists had different names for it. I recall how . . . startled . . . I was. I'd never seen anything quite like it. It was—what would be a good word?—eerie?"
Karen nodded. "Eerie is a perfect word."
"But you've come all the way from Burlington, Vermont, to tell me about your patient, haven't you? You didn't come to endure one of my interminable history lessons."
"Oh, but I did. At the conference you showed us a videotape of"—Karen looked at her notes—"a Mr. Herbert Gold."
"Yes, of course, Herb Gold. He's an automobile mechanic from Andover, just a few miles north of here. A good man, solid, a salt-of-the-earth type. Before he discontinued therapy we had identified at least six separate and distinct personalities."
"I remember. Some male, some female. One was just a little kid, as I recall."
"Right, little Betsy Bottom, she called herself."
"One of the things I remember, Dr. Gudhausen, is that you had tested several—maybe all—of the personalities. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you say that the IQ tests you administered showed one personality to be a dull-normal, and another to test around 160? That's genius!"
"Yes, exactly. That particular pattern, though not unusual among multiples, continues to fascinate me. Whatever the test score, high or low, they all come from the same brain."
"Dr. Gudhausen, I still have the photos of Mr. Gold that you handed out. It's—I hope this doesn't sound unprofessional—but it's just plain weird the way his face, the actual features of his face, seems to change so very much."
"Weird? Yes it is." He chuckled, sat back in his chair, and smiled at her. "I used to call that phenomenon 'personation,' meaning to temporarily take on another person's physical characteristics, habits, symptoms of illness, whatever. It's a term, I'm embarrassed to admit, I borrowed from turn-of-the-century spiritualists. A decision I soon regretted. It should be my job to demystify this vastly misunderstood illness. I should be the last one to drive it further in the direction of demon possession, returns from the dead, and all the other claptrap and high-weirdness."
Karen passed the photocopied page to Dr. Gudhausen. It showed five full-face photographs of Herbert Gold, each very different from the one beside it. They were labeled Homely Herbert, Betsy Bottom, Sasha, Thornton, and—
"This is the one that interests me, Dr. Gudhausen." She pointed at a scowling face that looked darker and far more ugly than the rest.
"Ah yes, that's Mr. Splitfoot. He was always a bit of a mystery. Very bright. Very cagey. Totally sociopathic, as far as I could tell. When he was 'onstage'— that was the term used by all Gold's personalities. The displayed personality was 'onstage,' the rest were 'backstage.' I recall how difficult it was to get Mr. Splitfoot onstage. He liked to hide in the wings, I suppose you could say. But when he was out he was evasive, insulting, and downright mean, just as you saw him on the videotape."
"Yes. I remember. He was horrible, abusive. A hard one to forget."
"I suspect Mr. Splitfoot was Herbert Gold's raw libido, his carnal self, the sociopathic side that Gold himself couldn't tolerate, wouldn't even admit to." Gudhausen stared at the photograph and chuckled. "An ugly brute, isn't he?"
"Yes, ugly," Karen said absently. She looked—perhaps for the hundredth time—at the photograph of smiling, gap-toothed, crew-cut Herbert Gold. His good-natured face r
eminded her of Uncle Benny, who used to drive a milk truck and who would come to the farm almost every Sunday for dinner.
Below Gold's grinning portrait, she saw the same face, twisted into the sneering countenance known as Mr. Splitfoot. It was the "Hyde" part of Gold's "Dr. Jekyll." Here the normally cherubic eyes were narrowed so much they appeared as black horizontal slits beneath his furrowed forehead. The muscle tension of Mr. Splitfoot's jaw stretched Gold's fleshy cheeks far too tightly over his cheekbones. The jutting jaw made his chin oddly shaped, almost pointed. The mouth stretched too widely, exposing long teeth and a grossly protruding tongue.
At this point Karen knew she had tiptoed to the end of the diving board and was about to take the plunge. She cleared her throat. Here goes, she thought, determined not to apologize for anything she was about to say, no matter how far out it might sound. "Dr. Gudhausen, if I may, I'd like to talk about my patient now."
"Of course, Doctor. Yes. Please, take your time."
He assumed a practiced listening posture, professional attending behavior that on Gudhausen looked perfectly natural, totally sincere.
Karen reached into her briefcase and removed a videotape. "Do you have a player, Doctor?"
"It just so happens . . ." said Dr. Gudhausen, pushing against the arms of the chair to assist himself to his feet. He took the cassette from Karen and pressed another button on the mantel of the fireplace. A landscape painting rose in its frame like a theater curtain, exposing the television screen beneath it. Gudhausen pushed the tape into a hinged slot below the screen. He handed Karen a remote control.
"Hit PLAY when you're ready," he said and he took a seat beside her.
Karen pressed the button; a picture filled the TV screen. It showed a young girl slouched in a recliner. She wore jeans and a plaid blouse. With eyes closed and body relaxed, she appeared to be sleeping. Karen was aware of the washed-out quality of this third-generation video image. Too little light, subject poorly centered, background dark, almost invisible.
"This is my office," she explained, perhaps unnecessarily. Karen gave a little start when she heard her own voice coming from the hidden speaker. "This is a portion of a recorded interview with Lucine Washburn, known as Lucy. She is twelve years of age, the daughter of Ed and Winona Washburn of St. Albans, Vermont. She has a younger brother, Randy.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 3