by D. J. Palmer
Blackwood clambered to his feet, hovering over Penny with his head lowered, while the beefier CO tried to melt into a wall.
“Put that damn thing away,” the man said. “Protocol allows batons only when you are in physical danger. Are you telling me that this unarmed girl posed a serious threat to you?” He pointed an accusatory finger at Blackwood, and away the baton went, back into its auto-lock holder with an audible snap.
The man with the silver hair and trim beard helped Penny to her feet. His focus went straight to the bright red mark now marring her forehead. He examined the injured area closely.
“Mom…”
Penny’s strangled voice tore through Grace.
“Get her to the ER straightaway,” the man ordered the guards through gritted teeth. Grace knew Penny wouldn’t be leaving the premises. Like all prisons, Edgewater had its own emergency room.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he continued. “And if I hear one word,” he held up a single finger for emphasis, “that you two manhandled this patient in any way, you’ll both be looking for a new job come morning. Now go.”
In a flash, Penny was ushered outside. Grace knew she wouldn’t be allowed to accompany Penny, so she focused instead on the thin man in the tweed blazer who had prevented her daughter from what could have been a grievous injury. Behind his tortoiseshell glasses were brown eyes the color of caramel, which now projected kindness and compassion. His face was open and friendly, but etched with enough lifelines to suggest that today wasn’t the first time he’d come to another’s rescue.
Grace extended her hand and officially made the acquaintance of Dr. Mitch McHugh.
CHAPTER 8
THIRTY MINUTES HAD GONE by since Dr. McHugh had escorted Grace to his cramped office, then left her alone to check on Penny in the ER.
Have they given her x-rays? Grace wondered. Checked for head trauma? Or did they just dope her up with Haldol like Palumbo would have done?
The walls where McHugh worked were the same drab yellow found in the patients’ quarters, which made the space feel rather cell-like. It was a fitting aesthetic, Grace thought, because she was certain this doctor’s new job here was a sentence for something he’d done elsewhere in life. She’d seen it on his face, caught it lurking behind his eyes—a look that hinted at secrets and unfortunate outcomes, a maze of decisions that had somehow conspired to bring him to this godforsaken place.
When Dr. McHugh finally returned, Grace got to her feet quickly, bracing herself for bad news.
“How is she?”
McHugh sent a look of pure and unfiltered empathy, as if a gaze could reach out and wrap her in a hug. She didn’t detect a single whiff of arrogance about him, and allowed herself to think he might actually be an ally in this fight.
“She’s going to be fine,” he said, sounding a warm and encouraging note. “Dr. Bouvier is looking after her, and he’s an excellent physician from what I can tell. She’s resting in the ER right now. I’ll go check on her soon, though I may require an escort. Not entirely sure I can find the place on my own.” Grace had never roamed the halls here or visited the underground tunnels that connected the various buildings in the Edgewater complex, but she imagined they could be as confusing as a rabbit warren.
Grace said, “Is she drugged?” She hated to use the words “chemically restrained,” but that’s really what she meant.
“No, it’s not advisable in cases of head injury,” he said. “There could be a mild concussion. I’ve talked to her though, and she seems fine, emotionally, that is.”
“Well, how could that be?” Grace’s eyebrows shot up. “She must be sick with fright.”
“We’ve kept the most damaging information from her,” explained Dr. McHugh.
“Is it … is it still Penny?” Grace’s voice was hopeful.
“When I asked her name, that’s the one she gave me.”
Grace let go a sigh. Her girl, her heart, was still here.
“We told Penny she’s in a special mental care hospital, one related to her condition, and that seemed to suit her fine. She’s accustomed to being treated and evaluated.”
“Oh, thank goodness. What a nightmare. If Penny knew what really happened … if she had any idea … it’s … it’s never been Penny, you see. She’s never been here before. It’s always been Eve.” Grace couldn’t get her thoughts straight, but she sensed Dr. McHugh was following her just fine.
“Eve is the more … difficult of the alters, am I right?”
Grace returned a succession of resigned nods. “Yes, she’s always been the angry one … filled with rage, really, so it makes sense she’d be the one to stick around in a place like this.” Grace gestured at McHugh’s office as though it were emblematic of all that was wrong with Edgewater.
“From what I saw today, Penny needed all the anger and rage she could muster to defend herself,” McHugh said. “I’m surprised she didn’t revert to Eve for protection.”
“Me too,” said Grace. “I don’t know what triggered the switch, but maybe there’s a reason Eve couldn’t return.”
“Could be,” said McHugh. “As I work with her, hopefully we’ll get an answer. I want you to know, I’m reporting that guard with the baton, Blackwood, for disciplinary action. Good gracious.” He shook his head in utter dismay. “First week on the job and I’m already making friends and influencing people. Apologies for the mess,” he said, gesturing to the towers of moving boxes, some piled three high, many with packing tape still in place. “Still settling in. Sit, please.”
“So, do you think Eve will come back?” Grace asked once they’d both seated themselves. She heard a tickle of apprehension enter her voice.
McHugh tugged at his beard as he lowered his gaze. He took his time answering, and it pleased Grace to see he was a thoughtful man.
“I can’t say for sure when or, if Eve will return,” he replied. He had spoken Eve’s name as though she were genuinely separate from Penny, and that small gesture meant absolutely everything.
“You believe her condition is real,” Grace said with great relief.
Dr. McHugh nodded, and Grace could swear the lines on his face grew deeper in that moment, as if some of the burden he’d taken from her had burrowed into him.
“I’m a believer in the condition, but I can’t say for sure that Penny has it. I know what’s in her medical file, but I’ll need to work with her to form my own opinion.”
“That won’t be easy if it’s Eve. She won’t talk to you. She doesn’t talk to any of her doctors. I think that’s why Palumbo labeled her with antisocial personality disorder. He didn’t like being bested by a teen.”
“He doesn’t like DID as a diagnosis, either,” McHugh replied. “I’m open to the idea though, Grace. Could be she’s got DID, a real and true case of it, or it could be borderline personality disorder, or…”
“Or Palumbo is right, that’s what you’re going to say, and my daughter is a psychopath.”
“Like I said, until I do my own work, I can’t form an opinion. Who gave her the DID diagnosis, if I may ask?”
“Dr. Caroline Cross, do you know her?”
Mitch shook his head.
“She wasn’t our first doctor, believe me, but she was the best. Passed away a few years ago … cancer. Heartbreaking loss. Such an amazing woman.”
“I’m sorry to hear.”
“Thank you. I’m not ashamed to say that Dr. Palumbo being gone isn’t a loss for any of us. I’d like nothing more than to purge that man from my memory.”
“Try not to be too hard on him,” Dr. McHugh suggested. “He was doing what he believed was right. Dissociative identity disorder is a polarizing diagnosis that’s split our profession into believers and nonbelievers. That’s a fact.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re one of the believers,” Grace told him.
“Statistically, it’s thought that one percent of the population has this disorder, which puts it on par with schizophrenia. A case like Penny’s h
as the potential to end some of the debate about the validity of DID within my profession, so I confess I’ve got a keen interest in your daughter’s care.”
“So do I,” said Grace. “What do you think about our chances in court?”
“Funny you should ask. Your lawyer called me yesterday,” McHugh said. “Wanted to introduce himself, a Navy man, former chief public defender, good guy to have on your side, I’d say. He was being diligent, knew I’d taken over for Palumbo. I think he was feeling me out to see if I’d be a good expert witness.”
“And?”
Dr. McHugh rubbed his trim beard again. “And I’m sure you’re well aware that the insanity defense is extremely difficult to prove.”
“Maybe you can help us with that,” Grace responded coolly. She had little room in her life for the negative. She gave herself plenty of that already. The guilt Grace hauled around, little links of it, were like the chains wrapped around Marley’s ghost.
You did this, Grace would say to herself in the mirror some mornings when she couldn’t put on eye liner because her eyes were still wet from crying. You wanted this. You had it in your head you wanted to mother a daughter and you made it happen … for better, or for worse, you are the one responsible for this stress, for everyone’s unhappiness.
McHugh rose and made his way over to a black metal file cabinet pushed against a wall. The top of the three drawers was mostly empty of files, making it easy to locate the one he was after. He returned to his desk, and from underneath pulled out a large plastic container filled with colored paper and a variety of arts and crafts supplies. He removed the plastic lid and fished out safety scissors and several boxes of crayons before locating a pencil.
“I specialize in child psychiatry, and I do a lot more psychotherapy than most, so I brought this with me from my last job,” he said, clearly feeling a need to explain items Grace would have stocked in her classroom back in her teaching days before the pizzeria became her work life.
“I might have said something if you had started taking notes in laser lemon or mango tango,” replied Grace with something of a smile.
McHugh returned a smile of his own, opened the folder, and jotted something down, in pencil, on a lined piece of paper within.
“How old was Penny when you adopted her?” he asked.
“Five,” Grace said, happy to step away from the legal morass that always stressed her out. “But we had fostered her before the paperwork went through.”
The eraser end of McHugh’s pencil vanished in his mouth, his attention focused on something in the case file.
“You found her, is that correct?” He glanced up with an endearing eagerness.
“Yes,” Grace said. “In a park.”
CHAPTER 9
IT WAS LATE OCTOBER, thirteen years ago, and the sun was setting earlier and earlier. Grace led her then-six-year-old son, Jack, through the park near their home in Swampscott. They had just left the Montessori school where Grace taught preschool, and where Jack and Ryan also attended. Ryan had stayed home from school that day with a little cold, otherwise he’d have been with her when their lives forever changed.
She remembered being in a hurry, knowing if she didn’t arrive home soon, she’d be doing her training run not only in the rain, but in the dark as well. On her thirty-fourth birthday, Grace had given herself a year to prepare for her first marathon, and the race was fast approaching. Her long legs may have helped with the miles, but she’d found they could be a lethal weapon in a crowded yoga studio.
She’d given some thought to cutting her straight brown hair shorter for the race, but kept it long because it allowed for the perfect ponytail, and the rhythm of it swishing against her back helped set her run pace. Whenever she taught, she kept her hair clipped back with a barrette that exposed ears too large for her head. At one time they were her most embarrassing feature, but she’d long outgrown her self-consciousness from the days of ‘Dumbo,’ a taunt she’d endured back in grade school.
She had expressive brown eyes that sparkled with wonderment and joy at every mundane story she heard from her charges, and a small nose that fit her head a bit better than those ears. Although she was thin, she was also soft, easy to hug and hold, a warm and inviting presence in the classroom. She welcomed the children every day with a tender smile, exposing the dimples Arthur later confessed had made him fall in love at first sight.
Arthur was at home getting dinner ready with Ryan, who was feeling better as the afternoon wore on. While they owned and operated a pizzeria in town, Arthur made sure pizza was a once-a-week treat, and that night they were having hamburgers.
Grace had promised Jack a stop at the playground, but it would be a quick one, as the forecasted rain started to fall just as the duo arrived. As the rain became heavier, she thought of calling Arthur to come pick them up, but Jack was enjoying the mud puddles too much, and Grace couldn’t get enough of his laugh. So what the heck, they’d be wet. They’d live.
If she had taken a different route home, hadn’t promised Jack she would let him play, she never would have heard the sound. It was a plaintive, lonesome wail, high-pitched but mournful, definitely that of a child. The sound caused her to hurry around a sharp bend. There, standing alone and rain-soaked next to the slide Jack wanted to use, was a little girl. Knowing children as she did, Grace put the child at age four, no older.
It wasn’t a shock at first. Grace assumed, having been to parks before, that she’d turn her head this way or that and see Mom or Dad, perhaps hidden beneath an umbrella, their focus on their phone. She might have politely educated them on paying proper attention, no more. But when Grace scanned the area, there was no one in sight. The park was completely deserted.
The rain had started to come down even harder, turning into thick, cold drops that completely camouflaged this poor child’s tears. Her cheeks were splotchy red, and her bottom lip, delicate as a rose petal, jutted out from the top one as it quivered. She looked light as a songbird, in a sweet yellow dress with thin straps holding it up on her delicate shoulders, but it was far too little fabric for the weather. She had no coat—no coat in the rain!—and she’d been soaked to the bone, her blond hair matted down against her little head, white sneakers splattered with mud. Her small body shivered from an uncontrollable cold, or fear, or a combination of the two, Grace couldn’t say. She knew only that every sob from this poor little waif broke her heart into countless pieces.
She didn’t go to the Montessori school, otherwise Grace would have recognized her immediately. Still, she was familiar with many of the children from town. For all of the times Grace had come to this park to watch her boys play on the slide or the swing, this girl was one she’d never seen before.
Grace experienced an initial moment of fear, a feeling of icy dread that coated her in the same way as the rain. Somewhere nearby, behind the bushes perhaps, or next to the roundabout, she’d look and see two feet sticking out that belonged to this child’s mother, a woman who had either suffered a medical event or maybe even an assault. Swampscott was a safe town, but it wasn’t crime-free.
Grace clutched little Jack’s hand tightly in her own as she approached the girl with hurried steps. Scanning the area for those feet, Grace had to wipe away the rain that stung her eyes, flattened her hair, but she saw nothing, no sign of any person, mother or father.
The poor girl, dirty and shivering, began crying even harder as Grace knelt on the ground to wrap the child in her jacket. Jack clung to Grace’s leg as though she were a life preserver, which in a way she was. She knew without asking that her son was scared, nervous, and unsure as well.
“What’s your name?” Grace asked the girl. “Where are your parents?”
The girl didn’t answer, but pointed to the road.
Oh, thank goodness, Grace thought. There were steps leading up to the level of the street, and surely at the top of those stairs, she’d find this child’s mother in a frantic search for her missing daughter. Grace ascended the concr
ete steps with Jack on one side of her and the little girl on the other, holding each child’s hand as they went up. Having given her coat to the girl, rain plastered Grace’s shirt and jeans to her body, making it uncomfortable to climb those stairs. When she finally reached the top step and had a look around, she did not see anyone searching for this lost child.
The sidewalk was empty and there were only a few cars on the road. None of them were going slow enough to suggest the driver might be looking for a missing child. As cars zoomed by, they sloshed through newly formed puddles, and the beat of car wipers matched the thud, thud, thud of Grace’s heart.
“Do you know where your mommy is? Or your daddy?” Grace asked the girl, who shook her head forlornly.
She tried all the techniques she’d learned through years as a parent and teacher, but the girl refused to speak, not even to give her name. Soon the police and an ambulance were on the scene. Arthur came with Ryan and brought Jack home, but Grace wouldn’t leave the girl’s side, insisting that she accompany her to the hospital.
She was like a ghost, an apparition that had appeared one day out of the void. Grace had never been a believer in destiny, even though her name came from the Latin gratia, (meaning God’s favor,”). but she couldn’t help thinking that there’d been a touch of the divine in the timing of it all. The little girl could speak, she did speak eventually, but refused to say her name or explain how it was that she ended up alone in the park. She could not, would not, tell anyone who had left her there, or where she’d come from.
Doctors were quick to diagnose post-traumatic stress disorder, but thankfully found no signs of physical or sexual abuse. As for Grace, she couldn’t forget the profound look of sorrow and fright in this child’s eyes, the likes of which she had never seen before. Grace spent hours in the hospital, and told the girl, whose name she did not know, not to be frightened, that she’d be back in the morning to check on her. When the girl started to cry, Grace had a reclining chair brought in, got some blankets and a pillow, and spent a fitful night’s sleep in the girl’s room in the children’s wing of the North Shore Medical Center.