by Peter David
The drugs. A straight razor. His fury evanesces like fog under a blazing hot sun. No, no, no! Ellen, what are you doing ?
And then there’s Morgan’s voice: I wanted to see if she would bleed. I wanted to see if she would heal.
Only then does Pointer realize that the sound of water drumming in the shower has ceased. Dumbly, he looks over at the bathroom door. His mind shouts for him to go to his wife and shake her and hold her close, but he’s too shocked to move or utter a sound. Instead, he sits, an open straight razor in his right hand, a drizzle of blood spattering onto his trousers from the cut on his left thumb.
The bathroom door—it has a crystal knob—opens; scented steam billows out; and then there is Ellen, backlit and naked, emerging from the fragrant mist as if materializing from the depths of a half-forgotten dream.
She starts, and he sees shock then dismay in her eyes. Her gaze flicks to the razor, the vials. And, finally, the phaser.
“Oh, Kevin,” she says. “Did you come to kill me, too?”
Then: Mid-August, 2345
Robin was four months old. Morgan and the baby were staying at the beach house. Charles was away on assignment for Starfleet but would join them in a few days.
Morgan had noticed nothing unusual about Robin. The baby ate; she slept; she smiled on time. To all appearances, Robin was normal. But what if Morgan and Robin were the same, two peas in a pod, sharing the same secret? Morgan couldn’t remember when she became aware that she was one-of-a-kind. Rambling over the heaths, tending to the sheep, doing needlework—casting her mind back over the centuries, Morgan couldn’t recall if she ever skinned her knee, or cut her lip, or stuck her finger with the point of a needle. Likely, she did, only she mended so quickly, her secret was safe—even from her until she became more self-aware.
Morgan designed an experiment. She took Robin from her midday bath and placed her, still moist and warm, on a fluffy white towel spread upon a changing table. The window on the far wall was open, and a crisp sea breeze that smelled of salt fluttered a pair of gauzy yellow curtains. Watching the curtains snap and dance, Robin’s brown eyes sparkled, and her pudgy, pink fists wheeled with delight.
Robin’s nails needed trimming. Catching Robin’s left hand, Morgan snipped. She trimmed all of Robin’s nails, on both hands, into perfect crescent moons. And then, after just a single instant’s hesitation, Morgan nipped off the very tip—the tiniest sliver—of Robin’s right index finger.
There was a moment when everything was totally still, and Morgan felt horror ice her veins. What are you doing, are you crazy? Robin hadn’t felt the pain just yet and so was still cooing, her chubby little face wreathed in smiles. And then Robin’s eyes darkened first with astonishment, and then confused shock and pain, and Morgan’s blood roared like hot lava through her veins as the baby wailed.
“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay,” Morgan said, hanging on to Robin’s right hand as the baby flailed. Bright red blood welled up from the cut and then dribbled down the side of Robin’s finger like a tear. Morgan daubed it away. “Sssh, sssh, it’ll be fine, sweetie, just let Mommy see…”
Eventually, the blood slowed. Stopped. Robin’s cries subsided into watery hiccups, but Morgan didn’t let go. Instead, she stared at the cut, half-afraid nothing would happen, and hoping with all her might that something would. Because then I won’t be the only one.
After five minutes, the snipped finger was still fleshy and raw. After fifteen, when nothing had changed, Morgan went to get ointment and a pressure bandage. When she took Robin’s hand again, the baby watched her with wary eyes.
And a few days later, when Charles saw the bandage, Morgan told him that it was just an accident, and nothing more.
Tuesday: August 27, 2363
“And why did you do that?” asked Pointer. They were in his second-floor office in the red brick and cedar-shingled Whitehall Building on the grounds of the Institute of Living, a very old psychiatric hospital in existence since Dickens’s day. The building had no turbolifts, just stairs and doors with real knobs. (Pointer thought the lack of amenities a damn nuisance.) Pointer sat in his accustomed spot: a high-backed black leather swivel chair with matching ottoman, a gift from Ellen when he’d been appointed to the institute’s staff.
“I told you,” Morgan said. She stood at his office’s single window, looking at a view Pointer knew well: an ancient ginkgo, thirty meters high and twenty-five around. “I wanted to see if she would bleed. No, that’s not right. I wanted to see if she would heal.”
“You had doubts?” Pointer’s tone was neutral, but his mind cast over various diagnostic possibilities. Three months had passed, with nothing from Ellen. But Morgan came faithfully—Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6:00 P.M., after all the regular staff was gone. Pointer knew Morgan was married and had a nearly grown daughter, but he didn’t know the girl’s name (Morgan refused to tell him). He sensed that the marriage was in trouble and the husband away a good deal. Or maybe Morgan was; she’d hinted that she left the family for weeks at a time and mentioned abduction once or twice. But abduction was absurd: just one more manifestation of the woman’s instability.
And this talk about the daughter—Pointer gnawed on the inside of his cheek—damn worrisome. Morgan couldn’t see the girl as an individual, couldn’t call her by name but insisted upon a private nickname: Ches, after the Cheshire cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. What was it the cat said? Something about everyone being mad, and that Alice must also be mad or else she’d never have tripped into Wonderland to begin with.
My God, nicknaming a child after a cat in a madhouse. Poor kid’s lucky to be alive.
Pointer thought it a wonder Morgan hadn’t killed first her child, then herself: a murder-suicide. When a depressed mother was suicidal, she saw murdering her child as something done out of love, because she couldn’t conceive that the child wasn’t in as much pain as she was, or couldn’t bear the idea of leaving the child behind in a cruel, heartless universe.
But without evidence of a plan and intent, I can’t do a damn thing but sit here and listen and see if I can break through.
That was the trouble, wasn’t it? Breaking through? Pointer found it maddening, getting only bits and pieces of the complicated jigsaw puzzle that was Morgan’s psyche. He felt trapped and helpless and then reflected that, just maybe, that was how Morgan felt, too.
He waited for Morgan to answer his question, but she didn’t. She stood with her back to him, and that mane of hair spilling over her shoulders like a shroud of black velvet.
What the hell, I’ve got to risk it. Worst-case scenario is she doesn’t come back, and then I won’t be responsible anymore. “Morgan, have you ever tried to kill your daughter?”
Morgan stiffened as if Pointer had jabbed her in the small of the back. Her head swiveled, and she looked over her shoulder with those huge, black, unblinking eyes. “And if I have?”
“I’d like to hear about it,” said Pointer calmly, even as his heart battered his ribs.
“And after that?”
“Doesn’t that depend on what you say?”
“Questions answered with questions. A psychiatrist’s specialty.” Morgan’s lips parted in a soundless laugh. She turned her gaze back out the window and then, as if in afterthought, pressed the palms of both hands against the glass, like a child looking in at candy her parents won’t buy. “Once, before she was born. We were at the beach. This was in March. I was eight months pregnant. One night, I decided to go for a swim.”
“To drown yourself?”
“Yes. I’d been feeling…black. So I slipped out of bed, stripped, and went out, buck-naked. The tide was coming in and it was damn cold. No moon, so all I could see was the smudge of the beach—it’s very rocky there and I remember that because the waves stirred rocks around my ankles—and all this black water.”
“Had you left a note?”
“For Charles?” Morgan sounded faintly surprised. “No.”
“Why not?”
Morgan lifted one shoulder then let it fall. “I didn’t have anything to say, and he wouldn’t have understood, anyway. Hell, if he knew the truth, he’d be the first person to push me in. The waves were high, and the water was so cold my skin burned. The baby was sleeping. But then when the water reached my waist, all of a sudden, my belly moved. I felt the baby scrambling away from the cold. I remember standing there, dumbstruck, because it had never occurred to me that the baby might have an opinion about things.”
This, Pointer thought, was a good sign. “So you were reminded of your separateness.”
“I guess you could say that.” Morgan’s eyes were faraway looking at the memory. “I had liked being pregnant because I was never alone. But then there she was, and she wanted to live, so I decided to try things her way.”
This was what Pointer had been waiting for: an opportunity to reinforce the idea that the daughter had an identity and a life separate from her mother. “Morgan, let’s go back to that moment when you hurt your baby daughter. You said you wanted to see if she would heal. Morgan, she’s not a monster. Everyone bleeds, and everyone heals.”
“Some heal faster than others.”
“That’s your depression talking. You’re wounded, Morgan. You’ve been in mental hell for years, and your depression’s tricked you into believing that things will never change.”
“But that’s just it. I don’t change, Doctor. Ever.”
“That’s because change is painful. But change doesn’t have to be radical. You could make a very small change that might help a great deal.”
“What, medicine?” Morgan made the idea sound ridiculous. “Believe me, I know all about medicine.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t all I had in mind. See, Morgan, I think what’s happening is that your daughter’s gotten to the point in her life where she’s ready to strike out on her own. Only that means she leaves you behind, and you believe that will hurt so much, you’ll never heal. It’s very important for you to maintain the fantasy of being inseparable, so you never have to be alone again. And I think that the reason you’ve tried to kill yourself again, now, is because your daughter’s growing up. The hardest thing for a mother to understand is that it’s her job to become obsolete. Mothers have to be left, and that means they have to be there to be left. If you kill yourself, Morgan, your daughter will be trapped by a moment in time, wondering why love wasn’t enough.”
“Love.” Morgan hit the window with her forehead, once, twice. Not hard enough to shatter but enough so Pointer heard the dull, muted thud of Morgan’s skull against glass. “Love isn’t enough.”
No, no, no. Pointer’s skin crawled with anxiety. He got to his feet. “Morgan, please. Stop.”
“You don’t understand,” Morgan said, her voice clogged with emotion. Thud. “You’re such an antique, looking back to memories for meaning. But memories fade, Doctor, just like my Ches and her sweet smile, and I’m Alice, only I can’t get out of the mirror.” Thud.
“Morgan, I understand how painful this is for you.”
“No, you don’t. No one understands,” and now Pointer knew that she was crying. “Not you, not Charles.”
“You said that before,” said Pointer, trying to keep calm even though his insides twisted and churned. “You said that if he knew the truth about you, he’d think you were a monster. Morgan, just because you think your depression is a terrible thing doesn’t mean that negates love…”
“God, stop talking to me about love!” And then Morgan brought her head down, hard. There was a sharp crack, and Pointer saw a cobweb of splintered glass bloom upon the windowpane. The window didn’t shatter, and after an instant of stunned disbelief, Pointer bounded across the room and grabbed Morgan by the arm. But she was strong, and with a wild cry, she whipped her arm free. Pointer staggered back on his heels. Morgan fled and stood in a far corner, her face toward the wall.
Pointer didn’t try to touch her again, all too aware that the building was empty and he was on his own. He dragged in a calming breath and blew out. “Morgan, are you hurt? Let me…”
“Just a minute,” Morgan said. She kept her back to him, her black hair tented over her shoulders, her hands cupped over her face.
Pointer’s eyes drifted to the window. Morgan had hit hard enough to leave a concave indentation, like a meteor strike. My God, if she hasn’t split her forehead open, she’ll have a hell of a bruise. “Morgan. Please, let me help you.”
Morgan’s hands dropped, and she turned, a slow motion pirouette. Her cheeks were stained with tears, but no blood.
Then Pointer squinted, and his brow crinkled. No bruise either, but…she hit hard enough to crack the glass…
“You can’t help,” Morgan said. “I don’t even know if I can help myself anymore.”
Pointer blinked back to attention. “Morgan, if you won’t let me help, then let your husband try. Let him know what’s happening.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s your husband, and you owe him that much,” said Pointer, and he couldn’t help it, but his thoughts flew to Ellen, whom he’d loved with all his might. His throat balled with emotion, and when he continued, he knew he was speaking for himself as much as for Morgan: “His love is all he has to give, and that has to be enough for the black times because, in the end, love is all we have.”
Her dark eyes were liquid with tears, and Pointer thought that, for a moment, she would simply leave. But then Morgan drew in a shuddery breath.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll do it your way. God knows why. Maybe I’m still human enough to hope. But I’ll talk to Charles. Then, we’ll see. I don’t make any promises.”
Relief coursed through him. “You’ll see, Morgan. The people who love you won’t leave, and neither will I. Whatever happens, I’m here for you.”
“You can’t know that.” Morgan regarded him with large, sad eyes. “Doctor, you said mothers are there to be left. Well, this is the first time I’ve been a mother. But I’m always left.”
Much later when Morgan had gone (he couldn’t hold her; she wasn’t suicidal and she promised to come back with her husband, on Thursday), Pointer’s companel bleated.
Dammit, Morgan tried again, he thought, dread wrapping its fingers around his heart and squeezing. Psychiatrists keep the secrets, and patients keep secrets from their psychiatrists.
But the call wasn’t about Morgan and another suicide attempt. Pointer listened as the investigator said that he thought he’d have something definite on Ellen probably the Friday before Labor Day, maybe Thursday, and could he come by? Numb now with apprehension, Pointer gave him a time for right after Morgan’s session, on Thursday. Then he punched off and went to stare through a spider’s web of cracked glass at that ancient tree.
And that’s when it hit him. Still human enough, Morgan had said. What did that mean? And I’m always left.
He realized it now; he’d missed the emphasis. Not on always. On left: as in, last.
Now…
The hush in the cabin is so complete Morgan hears her blood thundering in her ears.
“Mom?” Robin’s voice wavers and then gets stronger, as if she’s fighting to stay conscious. “Are you going to tell me? And don’t,” she swallows again as if she doesn’t have enough spit to make her mouth move properly, “don’t lie…we’re not…on course for Saturn. We’re…you…you’ve plotted course for…for the sun.”
Morgan’s grasping the thermos of lemonade so tightly her fingers cramp. She forces them to relax and then places the thermos on the flight deck. Hypo, she thinks, her right hand inching toward her back pocket. It’s the only way.
“Mom?”
“Robin, what are you talking about?” Morgan gives a false, light laugh. “Ches, you’re so tired your eyes are playing tricks. Now, come on, get back in the copilot’s chair, and let me…”
Robin lifts her chin in defiance. She’s still slurring but she only stumbles a little. “Don’t…don’t talk to me like I’m…s
ome kid. The computer doesn’t lie, and I don’t know what’s going on, but,” Robin makes a move to turn around, “I’m going to plot a course back to Earth and…”
But Morgan is already moving, erasing the distance between them in three long strides, the hypo in her right hand. Robin senses her coming; she half-turns and raises her right arm to deflect the blow, but the drugs have tamped her reflexes, and she’s too slow. Still, she manages to knock the hypo away, and it clatters to the deck. Morgan grabs Robin’s right arm, but Robin’s left hand scrambles over the console.
“Mother,” Robin gasps, as Morgan, who is much stronger and not drugged, plants her elbow in her daughter’s chest and pins her to the chair. “Mother, stop!”
But Morgan doesn’t pay attention. Her fingers fly over the controls, and in another second, there’s an infinitesimal lurch as the engines jump to full impulse.
The shuttle hurtles toward the sun.
Thursday: August 29, 2363
Things had gotten worse. Pointer read Morgan’s face before she’d uttered a word, and knew.
“And then?” he asked.
“And then, nothing,” said Morgan. She’d come alone. She stood by the window, her usual spot. She hadn’t commented on the glass having been replaced, and neither she nor Pointer alluded to the incident in the previous session.
“You mean, he said absolutely nothing?”
“Not exactly. I told him when we got into bed that night. I thought that would be the best place, away from Ro…Ches. I talked. He listened, but I could tell from the look on his face. He thought I was crazy.”
Pointer frowned. He supposed that a husband might initially react that way, but his experience was that, after the initial shock, spouses were eager to help. He would’ve done the same for Ellen, if she’d given him half a chance. “What did you say?”