Believe Me

by JP Delaney

  “What was your safe word, Claire?”

  “It was Cay…Cam…” I shake my head in frustration. “I can’t remember.” I start to cry again.

  “Anton,” Dr. Banner says gently. “Would you escort Claire to the bus? It’s time we got her back to Greenridge.”

  53

  Dr. Banner wants me to do group therapy. It seems a bit pointless—how can talking to a collection of mentally unstable druggies undo any of what happened?—but eventually I agree to give it a try, as much to curry favor with him as anything else.

  There are eight of us in the group, which gathers in the canteen at a quiet time between meals. One of the psychiatric nurses, Orla, acts as moderator.

  “First today, let’s welcome Claire,” she says in a low, calm voice. “Hi, Claire, and congratulations on taking this important step.” There’s a smattering of lethargic applause.

  “Okay,” Orla says, turning to the young man next to her. “Ethan, why don’t you tell us what’s been on your mind this week?”

  Ethan starts rambling, something about how he feels guilty about stealing money from his sister to pay for drugs. I’m barely listening. I’ve just realized what this session reminds me of.

  People gathered around the teacher in a circle, taking it in turns to perform their piece.

  And applause.

  Following Ethan’s lead, the theme of the session becomes Terrible Things We Have Done. One woman stabbed her husband, thinking he was the devil. Someone else tried to throw herself out of a window in front of her children.

  At last it’s my turn. “Claire,” Orla says, turning to me. “Is there anything you’re reflecting on that’s troubling you?”

  “Well,” I say, “there was this period when I didn’t have any money for rent and the police had stopped me from working. So I went to hotels in Manhattan and pretended to be a prostitute.”

  “Okay,” Orla says after a moment. “Thank you for sharing that. Now, Anna—”

  “Whoa,” a man named Michael, on my right, says. “Wait up. How did that work? You just told some random guy you were a hooker?”

  They’re all staring at me.

  So I tell them.

  INT. ROOSEVELT HOTEL BAR, NEW YORK—NIGHT

  REBECCA

  What’s the most you’ve ever paid for a woman, Alan?

  ALAN

  Four hundred dollars.

  REBECCA

  Double it.

  ALAN

  Are you serious?

  REBECCA

  No, I’m not. I’m having fun—and that’s why I’m worth eight hundred dollars. But if you’ve changed your mind…

  ALAN

  No, wait. Eight hundred’s…fine.

  REBECCA

  I’ll need half in advance.

  ALAN

  (pulling out his wallet)

  You have this all worked out, don’t you, Rebecca?

  REBECCA

  Of course. We’ll go up separately—you first. Don’t make eye contact with the concierge.

  “I wasn’t really planning on having sex with them,” I conclude. “But I was used to doing that kind of stuff anyway, from when I was working as a professional decoy for a law firm. The only difference was that, instead of the wife paying me, the husband now paid me direct. And he got to keep half his cash, and his marriage too. It was pretty much a win–win situation.”

  The group is transfixed. I’d done Married Alan’s voice as a New England monotone—he was from N’Hampshah, where the huntin’ was wicked good—while Hooker Rebecca had a trace of the smoky, husky South, where something nice was sumth’n nass.

  There’s a long silence. Orla seems to shake herself.

  “Moving on,” she says. “Anna, do you have anything to share?”

  54

  “I think the group therapy has established you’re not yet recovered,” Dr. Banner says. “As I suspected it might.”

  Too late I realize I’ve walked into another trap. “How long are you going to keep me here?”

  “Until you’re no longer a danger to others or yourself, Claire.”

  “When will that be?”

  “You’re making progress. But while the meds can dampen down the immediate symptoms, they may not be tackling the underlying issues.”

  “So how will you know when I’m well enough to leave? What do you look for?”

  “You mean, what are the behaviors that would tell me you’re better?”

  I nod.

  “If I tell you, I have no doubt you’ll mimic them perfectly,” he says with a thin smile. “So let me put it this way, Claire: I’ll know you’re on the road to recovery when you’re no longer trying to pretend you are.”

  55

  We aren’t allowed on the Internet, but there’s an ancient computer in the administrator’s office that’s connected to the Web. I’ve seen the orderlies checking Facebook when there are no doctors around.

  Patients can request to do small chores, to keep themselves busy. I volunteer to sort the recycling, which gives me access to the office. I hang around, shuffling paper, long enough to watch an orderly type in his password. Then, late at night, I sneak back in and log on.

  I do a search for “Histrionic Personality Disorder.” A list of links comes up, mostly psychology sites.

  Histrionic Personality Disorder is one of the Cluster B psychiatric disorders, I learn. Its characteristics include constant seeking of approval, impulsivity, a persistent need to seduce others, risky sexual behavior, volatility, manipulativeness, thrill seeking, fear of abandonment, reading significance into relationships that isn’t really there, and a tendency to distort, dismiss, or misinterpret reality. Eighty percent of those diagnosed with HPD are women. They are disproportionally likely to attempt suicide or self-harm.

  I also learn that the word histrionic has its origins in the now-discredited term hysteria, which in turn comes from the Greek word for “uterus.” In the early twentieth century, hysteria was treated with vibrators, since it was noticed that sufferers—who were inevitably female—seemed less agitated after an orgasm. A generation before that, they were simply locked up.

  In other words, maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe I’m just the kind of woman who male doctors historically haven’t liked very much.

  I think back to what Kathryn Latham said, the first time I met her. Well, she’s insecure, impulsive, fragile, emotionally incontinent, can’t handle rejection, and although she tries extremely hard to hide it, she craves approval like a junkie craving a fix. What can I say, Frank? She’s an actress.

  And I remember how I’d felt when she said that. How proud. She’d known exactly how to play me.

  But rightly or wrongly, I’m here now, and I need to find a way out. I have to become a model citizen, one without any signs of HPD, the very picture of sanity. Looking at the list again, I realize that, basically, I just need to stop flirting with Andrew Banner and convince him I’m as straight and boring as he is. Then perhaps he’ll let me go.

  56

  “You’re making good progress,” Banner concedes at my next consultation.

  “Does that mean I’ll be discharged?”

  “I’d be reluctant to change the medications so soon, Claire. And this particular combination of drugs is one that requires close supervision. I’ll be recommending to your review hearing that you stay with us a little longer.”

  Disappointed though I am, my ears prick up. I hadn’t even known I was getting a review hearing.

  “Well, whatever you think’s best, Doc,” I say meekly.

  * * *

  —

  That night I go back on the computer and research the civil commitment process. It turns out that, after sixty days, the hospital has to get a court to renew its authorization to keep me he
re. According to the website I find, You must be notified when such an application is made, and you have the right to object and to be represented by the Mental Hygiene Legal Service or your own attorney.

  Just for a moment, I have a vision of representing myself, of standing up before the judge and making the big dramatic speech that will change everything. I’m dignified, polite, but burning with a determined icy fervor. Like Charlotte Rampling in The Verdict.

  ME

  We’re here today to defend, not a person, Your Honor, but a principle. The principle of natural justice.

  Then I push the thought away. If anything would prove my underlying condition hasn’t improved, it’s that.

  It’s a catch-22. If I seem any better, it must be because of the drugs, therefore I have to stay here. If I don’t seem better, I need more drugs, therefore I have to stay here. I want to scream at the unfairness of it all.

  Instead, I stare at the screen, desperately trying to think of some way around this. There must be someone who can vouch for me. Someone who can tell the judge about the intolerable pressure I was under. Who can swear to the fact that, while I might have the personality disorder Dr. Banner has diagnosed—because let’s face it, what actor doesn’t?—it wasn’t that which pushed me over the edge, but Kathryn Latham’s mind games.

  And then it comes to me.

  There is someone. He won’t be expecting to hear from me. But I have nothing to lose. And his email address is still lodged in my mind. Just like every other detail about him.

  Or is it just how I feel about him that’s making me believe he’d be a good person to contact?

  Screw it. Don’t think.

  Webmail is blocked here, but I can access the center’s own email server from the computer. I figure most people will open an email that looks like it’s from a psychiatric hospital. Just in case, I put URGENT PATRICK PLS READ THIS—NOT SPAM! in the subject line.

  Dear Patrick,

  Please, don’t delete this. Not until you’ve read it, anyway.

  I’m stuck in a psychiatric center somewhere north of New York. They won’t let me out—my doctor, a guy named Banner, is convinced I’m crazy, partly because I made the mistake of telling him about Dr. Latham and everything, and partly because I made some bad choices after I left your apartment that day.

  I can only imagine what they said about me to get you to join in with Kathryn’s scheme. (They made up some pretty terrible stuff about you too, by the way, but that’s another story.) Please believe that hardly any of it was true.

  So why am I writing to you, of all people? Because I’m still convinced that—despite all the lies and the pretending—you and I had a connection, a genuine connection. Dr. Banner would say I only think that because I’m a nutcase with a tendency to distort, dismiss, or misinterpret reality. But the fact is, I’m an actress. And I know there are some things no one can fake.

  There’s going to be a hearing soon to decide how long I have to be here. The doctor wants me to stay. If he succeeds, I don’t think I can stand it much longer. The only other people who could vouch for what really happened, Kathryn Latham and Detective Durban, have vanished. Patrick, if you could write something—anything—to say I’m not quite as insane as they think I am, it would really help. In fact, it might be my only chance.

  Your old adversary-slash-lover-slash-soulmate,

  Claire

  It takes me a long time to write—I haven’t done anything requiring this much mental effort since I came here. I put three kisses after my name, then take them off again. I feel exhausted. When I try to read the email back, the words wriggle and dance on the screen.

  Well, I think, either it’ll work or it won’t. I click “Send,” then instantly worry I’ll come over as needy and plaintive.

  As I log off, another fear strikes me. Patrick won’t delete the email. Much more likely, he’ll send it straight back to the hospital. Dr. Banner, in turn, will use it at the hearing. It’ll look like further evidence I’m exactly what he says I am.

  Thinking about what I just wrote in that context, I go cold. I don’t think I can stand it much longer. That’s tantamount to saying I might harm myself. My comments about Banner—The doctor wants me to stay—could be construed as paranoid. And what I say about Patrick and our supposed connection is classic HPD: reading significance into relationships that isn’t really there.

  A wave of nausea crashes over me as I realize that, far from making things better, I probably just made them a whole lot worse.

  57

  Patrick doesn’t reply. It’s between semesters, so maybe he doesn’t monitor his university email address.

  It’s easier to believe that than to think he just looked at it and hit “Delete.”

  I go back on the computer and research how to fight commitment hearings. The answer is, you don’t, not unless you have money. The judge usually sides with the psychiatric hospital’s doctors. The only way to rebut their evidence is to hire a private psychiatrist to give a second opinion. But even if I could afford to do that, how would I do it from in here, with my brain clogged up with Dr. Banner’s drugs?

  On an impulse, I Google Banner’s name. The center’s own staff page comes up. From it I learn that Andrew Banner MD PhD has “a special interest in Cluster B personality disorders, including Borderline Personality Disorder, Histrionic Personality Disorder, and Narcissistic Personality Disorder, on which he has coauthored several papers.”

  The bastard, I think. That’s why he’s so keen to keep me here. He’s studying me.

  Or is that just more paranoia?

  I do another search for “Kathryn Latham forensic psychologist.” I’m not surprised when nothing appears. She must have been using a false name. For deniability, I guess. Yet another lie she told.

  I think for a moment, then type in the URL for Necropolis.com. Of the many things that still puzzle me about Kathryn’s operation, one is why she insisted I visit that website in particular. I can only assume she was watching my interactions with the other users somehow. But why? Was she hoping I’d get carried away and reveal some vital bit of information? Or is there some other significance to the site, something I missed?

  Necropolis. The city of the dead. An odd name for a BDSM website, when you think about it.

  I type in “Necropolis + Baudelaire.” A fragment of poetry appears.

  It’s a necropolis; a grave in which the dead—

  Those bodies I once loved—are tumbled willy-nilly…

  Of course. The poem Patrick and I read aloud together, the very first time we met. It seems a lifetime ago.

  Switching back to Necropolis, I enter my old login name, select “Forums,” and type:

  >>Anyone here interested in Baudelaire?

  The silence is deafening. Around me, conversations are going on about different types of whips, illustrated with photographs.

  “Claire?”

  One of the night staff, a nurse, is staring down at me, astonished. “What are you doing?”

  Hastily I try to minimize the window, but I’m too slow. She’s seen.

  “What is this?” she chides, taking the mouse from me and looking. “What you’re doing is against the rules, Claire. And it may be unhelpful for your condition. I’m going to have to inform Dr. Banner.”

  58

  I sit in the TV room reading, or trying to. The only other person here is Meathead, whose restraints have been removed for a couple of weeks now. He seems friendly enough, though, and I assume that if he’s free to roam about he’s no more dangerous than any of the other patients.

  Since being caught at the orderlies’ computer, my meds have been increased. I’ve given up trying to get myself out of this place. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.

  There’s a box of tattered books that I sort through for something my glued-up mind can cope wi
th. They’re Westerns and kung fu stories, mostly. And a couple of hospital romances, which in any other circumstance might have struck me as ironic.

  Meathead looks up. “Hey, Claire. Whatcha got?”

  I glance unenthusiastically at the novel I’ve pulled out. “Critical Care. You?”

  He examines the front of his comic and grunts. “Judge Dredd.”

  “Swap when we’re done?”

  Meathead looks contemptuous. “I don’t read no books that don’t have no pictures.”

  I sit down and stare at the first page. The words squirm like maggots. After a while I put it down and gaze at the television. Fifty-eight percent of viewers think the woman should give her straying husband one more chance.

  * * *

  —

  “Claire, you have a visitor.”

  I must have nodded off. I look up, bleary-eyed, at the sound of the orderly’s voice. Next to me, Meathead has abandoned Judge Dredd and is gazing dopily at the TV.

  In the doorway, staring down at me with a look of horror on his face, is Patrick.

  59

  We go to one of the visiting rooms. Patrick still seems shocked. I realize what I must look like to him. As well as the weight I’ve put on, my skin has erupted in pimples, a reaction to the drugs. My hair is greasy and lank.

  “Christ,” he says. “Christ, Claire, you look terrible.”

  “You really know how to charm a girl.” I thought I’d be overjoyed to see him, but now he’s here I’m not sure what I feel.

  As I pull out a chair, I stumble. On top of everything else, the meds have affected my balance.