Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  Dano definitely had my interest. “So what does a case of dissociative identity disorder look like?” I asked as she mixed some instant mocha lattes for us. We settled back in our chairs as she briefed me on her client’s background. “DID is a severe form of dissociation that produces a lack of connection in a person's thoughts, memories, feelings, actions... even their sense of identity. Think of two or more complete, distinctive individuals sharing the same body. They may not be the same age or even the same sex, and only one person can emerge at a time. The presenting personality controls the person’s behavior. The “different people,” Dano made air quotes with her fingers, “have varying degrees of knowledge about the other one’s existence.”

  “It sounds like science fiction or something out of a bad movie, like Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” I said, taking a weak stab at humor.

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? But of this, I am certain,” said Dano, as she thoughtfully licked the last traces of the sweet beverage from her lips. ”After three months of clinical observation and evaluation, I can say that my client has no chemical dependencies, and I have ruled out delusions, psychosis, and paranoid schizophrenia.”

  “Just how many personalities does she have?”

  “Watch and see.”

  Taylor Jarreau was a large woman, but her slumped shoulders, downcast eyes, and the stealthy way she slipped into the room would make her presence diminutive in any social setting. Her caramel-colored skin and honey-colored hair only added to her mystique.

  “Hello, Taylor. Nice to see you again,” said Dano, to which Taylor nodded an acknowledgment but did not raise her head. “Taylor, my friend Sunny is with us today from the district attorney’s office. Can you say hello to Sunny?”

  Taylor had hunkered down into a hardback chair, her upper body slowly curling into her lower half as she rolled forward, her brown eyes darting about like startled quail from beneath her long thick lashes. “Hello” she mumbled in a soft, childlike voice while giving a tentative wave of her fingertips.

  “Is it okay with you if Sunny stays with us through our session?”

  “I like your name. It’s pretty,” said Taylor.

  “I like your name too, and your hair. It’s beautiful,” I replied with a smile.

  Taylor’s chin tucked into her chest. “You can stay,” she said as she crossed her arms to hug herself.

  “Taylor, I would like your permission to speak with Pat today. Would that be okay with you? Sunny would very much like to meet Pat.” Dano raised a watch this eyebrow in my direction as Taylor appraised me with caution.

  I gave Taylor an encouraging smile and nod as she continued to rock herself, back and forth. Taylor paused and cocked her head as if listening to a voice that only she could hear. “Uh-huh,” she acquiesced.

  Taylor unfolded like a time-lapse camera that had captured the unfurling of a blossoming bud. Or perhaps more accurately, like a frame-by-frame slow-mo of the scene in the classic horror movie The Exorcist, when twelve-year-old Regan’s head spun around backward. Slowly, with feet reaching for the floor and arms unwrapping from her torso, Taylor grasped the arms of the chair and pulled herself upright. Her chin came up, and her eyes popped wide open with a look as sharp as an ax. The transfiguration was mesmerizing, paralyzing. But even more astonishing, was the deep, throaty, authoritative voice that boomed forth with startling clarity.

  CHAPTER 4

  Where is a camera when I need one?

  Smiling with an air of confidence, Taylor leaned toward me and extended her hand in friendly greeting. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Pat. Pleased to meet you.” The scene was mind-numbing, and I reacted by shaking her hand on autopilot. Her grip was firm, her handshake solid. It was hard to conceive—yet impossible to deny—that a different person now inhabited Taylor’s body.

  Dano began the session, and soon Pat was zigzagging through her life like a bloodhound tracking her most powerful memories, starting at around age five and spanning over thirty years.

  “My mother, Deirdre, is a high priestess,” said Pat with her chin up and chest out. “She is very powerful and influential.” Pat stared at me as though gauging my reaction. “She was a judge in Southern California.”

  She got no reaction from me. Maintaining a poker face was part of my job description.

  Dano carefully guided and questioned Pat. “Where was your mother a judge in Southern California?”

  “San Bernardino. But she has disciples everywhere.”

  “And the priest? What can you tell me about the priest?” Dano asked.

  “My father? He’s the most important person.” Taylor Jarreau drew herself up, sitting tall. “He lives with my mother. They moved to Jenner after the big scare in Butte County. I grew up in Berry Creek. Now they live on the Russian River, in Jenner—where the river meets the ocean.”

  I knew her parents had to be rich to live in a town where home prices started in the million-dollar range.

  “Tell us more about Berry Creek, Pat. What happened there?”

  Pat gave a coy smirk. “I was their prize. They dressed me in white, and only the most honored and powerful people could have me.”

  “How did they have you?”

  She looked up suggestively through half-closed lids. “High Mass,” she said. “They would blindfold me and usually drive to town, but sometimes out in the woods. Sometimes I’d go down a ladder. Sometimes steps. But usually deep underground, into the tunnels, beneath Oroville. There were people. Lots of people. Wearing black robes and chanting in some weird language. Then they would lay me on an altar and remove the blindfold . . . and other things,” she added, suggestively tracing her finger along her breastbone, coming to rest halfway to her navel.

  Dano leaned forward over her desk and asked Pat, “Where was Taylor while this was happening?”

  Pat flinched and gave a dismissive shrug. “Taylor’s weak and stupid. She would never survive down there. She’s not like me,” she said with a curl at one corner of her mouth. “It’s just a game.”

  Pat went on to talk about the sexual depravity the honored guests would engage in and of sexual perversions between cult members. She seemed to enjoy giving explicit details of her parents as they performed ritual animal sacrifices.

  The pictures Pat painted sent chills racing up my spine and left me wavering between shivers and nausea. To hell with survivors, I thought, positive that I wanted nothing more to do with the occult or its victims.

  An hour later Dano said farewell to Pat, and with the delicate precision of a surgeon’s knife, she invited Taylor’s persona to return. Dano concluded the session by setting a new appointment with the now present, introverted, and insecure Taylor, and then bid her goodbye. Taylor rose to her feet and took the appointment card, hugging it to her breast as she padded silently to the door.

  Aghast, I turned to Dano. “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Not like this. Not where the abuse was so extreme and prolonged the other personalities splintered into new identities.”

  “Are these different personalities aware of one another?” I asked.

  “Yes and no,” said Dano, slouching in her chair.

  That made me smile. “You’d make an excellent defense attorney.”

  “No thank you,” Dano wrinkled her nose. “Sometimes the personalities have no knowledge of another one’s existence, and sometimes it’s limited. For example, it was safe to say that Taylor has never been to a gathering. Pat is a stronger personality, and so she goes in Taylor’s place. Taylor knows about Pat, but has no knowledge of Pat’s experiences in the tunnels or woods.”

  The office was warm, and yet I continued to shiver in spite of the thick cable sweater I wore over my blouse. I pulled my neck scarf higher and flicked one end over my shoulder to trap the warmth.

  Dano gave a deep sigh and looked at me thoughtfully. “Any thoughts on how to proceed legally?”

  “I’m sure it’s loaded with legal implications. There’s always a myria
d of problems associated with delayed reporting of any kind. You’re not going to want to hear this,” I winced, “but my partner, Travis and I once had to tell a woman who had been chained, naked, to a tree for an entire summer, that the evidence she gave was too old and the witnesses too cold to substantiate the facts. There was not enough evidence for prosecution.

  “You see, it isn’t whether a case happened in fact but whether the facts can be proven. The burden of proof for the prosecution is beyond a reasonable doubt. For the jury, delay and doubt are usually proportionate and . . . there is the matter of Taylor’s mental health history. That would likely increase uncertainty and decrease credibility.”

  Dano mulled it over. “It occurs to me that Mental Health could use some training from your department on the topic of ritual abuse. It’s long overdue. You’d be surprised at how many clients we get claiming to be cult victims. It’s been a taboo topic since the witch hunts of 1970’s infamous ‘Satanic Panic.’ We don’t talk much about it at work, but the problem hasn’t gone away. We still have client-victims.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by “Satanic Panic,” except that the very term made me feel panicky. However, I was curious enough to overcome my revulsion and cautiously ask, “By the way, about how many allegations of ritual abuse do you get in a year?”

  Dano tipped her chair back and looked up, calculating. “Twelve . . . maybe fifteen.”

  I stared, eyes wide, mouth open. “Per counselor?”

  “No.” She nodded. “Between the six of us.”

  Still, I wanted to run. Thanks, but no thanks. Rising, I gave Dano my card and thanked her for her time. I looked forward to seeing her again but decided that future visits would be restricted to general education, like Mental Health Diagnostics 101. I wanted nothing more to do with multiple personalities or bizarre cults.

  My life was crazy enough.

  I have a psychopathic ex serving time in prison, a repentant husband serving time in seminary, and an intern I resent who about to give birth to a baby that I hate, fathered by someone I love.

  Sigh . . .

  I sent Chance a text message from my office, apologizing and promising to call him when I got home and signed it with Xs and Os. Then my mind turned to M&Ms. My stomach rumbled like the sound of food dropping inside of a vending machine. Somewhat embarrassed at the thought of being seen porking out on junk food for the second time in one day, I headed for the relative seclusion of the downstairs break room contemplating the question of the age: Do calories count if no one sees you eat them?

  My fingertips had just wrapped around the doorknob to the break room when I froze at the sound of a heated argument. Familiar voices triggered a buffet of emotions that swept away all thoughts of anything sweet.

  “I won’t. I won’t! And you can’t make me!”

  Paige, for sure.

  “It’s my right!”

  Travis. Oh, my.

  “Screw your paternity test! This is my baby! I know the law, and you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” Paige’s voice had the ear-splitting quality of feedback screeching through a microphone.

  “You are one heartless bitch. You take the word selfish to a whole new level. Everyone wants to know. Your parents want to know. Chance and I need to know. Probably even your old boyfriend Mark would like to know.” Travis sounded like a revved-up engine. Then he popped the clutch. “Is that why you won’t take a paternity test? Still playing head games, or is this just another power trip?”

  “Mark could care less. Besides, he’s . . . fixed.”

  “Fixed? Good God, Paige—you think men are dogs?”

  “Vasectomy,” Paige corrected herself. “And don’t think my parents—with all their money—can force me to take the test either. You don’t need to drag them into our problems.”

  My heart was pounding hard enough to sound like a band marching through my head. They were bound to hear it unless I passed out and fell through the door first.

  Travis lowered his voice. “I need to move on. If it’s my child, I want to honor it. If not, I need to know. I’ll get lawyers and a court order if necessary.”

  “You just try it, Travis,” Paige snarled, “and I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Travis’s words were sharp and clipped. Furious.

  Travis was not a man to lose his temper. Letting go of the doorknob, I drew breath.

  “I’ll get an abortion!” Paige hissed.

  Easing away from the door, I fled to the safety of my office.

  I reached up to touch the smooth particle board cross lying warm against my neck. Particleboard is a manufactured wood product composed of shattered fragments that had been reformed into a product many times stronger than the original slab. Chance had made it for me to symbolize that our broken marriage could not only be repaired but made stronger. I wanted that to be true. I did. With all my heart.

  “Everything okay?” Chance asked. Dinner was in the oven, and it was time for our daily phone hug. “I know you can take care of yourself, but I still worry about you.”

  I have had to eat those words—I can take care of myself—every day for the past three and a half months. I really could take care of myself. Mostly. But I still regretted throwing the fact in my husband’s face. When Chance was here, I didn’t want his protection. Now that he was gone, I felt exceedingly vulnerable.

  The quiet magnified as I wandered through the empty living room while talking with my beloved husband. Maybe it is me that feels empty, and not the room. I hugged the phone to my ear and let my fingers affectionately trace Chance and Mercy’s display case, filled with medals and citations for valor in their work in search and rescue and the Army Special Ops. This box is like the man; the thought made me smile. Like Chance, the box was hard on the outside, lined with soft satin padding, and filled with a lifetime of commemorative acts of service and self-sacrifice.

  “Yeah. It’s all good,” I continued. “I’ve just been distracted with all the interviewing going on at work.” I laughed and joked as I told him about the various applicants.

  “Travis is going to be hard to replace.” Chance’s remark caught me off guard. Just hours ago I had dismissed the idea of telling him about the argument I had overheard between Travis and Paige. I hadn’t seen Travis since September at Logan’s sentencing—which started me thinking about Logan.

  It felt wrong that Logan was only two hours northeast of my home, housed at High Desert State Prison. He was too close—even if he was behind bars and rolls of barbed wire for the next thirty years. He should be in Cambodia, or maybe Siberia.

  I didn’t want to talk about Travis, and I sure didn’t want to dwell on Logan. Taking a deep breath, I chose my battle.

  “I saw Ashley last night. She came over after church.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “They? You mean—the four of them?”

  There was a long pause, and I could hear Chance release an even longer sigh.

  “I guess she told you, huh? About the babies.”

  Chance waited for a response that I wouldn’t give. I was glad he couldn’t see the hurt that I felt etched on my face: lips superglued together, twin furrows that plowed between my brows, and the sharp sting of mascara in the corners of my eyes.

  “Shane told me,” said Chance, sounding like a confession.

  “And I suppose he asked you not to tell me?” More hurt.

  “Not exactly. Shane asked me to let Ashley tell you when she was ready.”

  “And when was that supposed to happen? At the twins’ first birthday party—when I ask them, ‘Whose kids are those?’”

  Another sigh stretched across the miles and lingered.

  “If you give Ashley a chance, you’ll find out how much she loves you. Right or wrong, it’s her way of trying to spare you.”

  “Oh please, Chance! I’m sick of you and everyone else sparing me with lies.”

  A chill crept through the phone as I stood at a familiar crossroad. T
his conversation would either move us backward or forward, and back would take us nowhere.

  “I went to Mental Health today.”

  Silence. “I’m sorry. Did it help?”

  This was why I was reluctant to call. I was tired of walking a tightrope between the past and the present.

  “Not for me. It was work related.” And I proceeded to tell Chance about Nina and Taylor and the unnerving manifestation of multiple personalities I had witnessed at Mental Health.

  “I know this won’t sound professional or politically correct, but Taylor totally creeped me out. It was like a real-life horror show. I’ve never seen anything like it . . . and I don’t ever want to again.”

  “Maybe God is bringing you a special assignment: people that no one else will help.”

  “What if I don’t want God’s special assignment? Don’t I ever get a say in my own life?” I gripped the phone, pinching my words.

  “Then . . . He will find someone else who is willing.”

  And I get damned? I fumed. Jeez-iz! “Why do you have to spiritualize everything? Can’t I just be creeped out?”

  Sometimes I wished my husband loved me half as much as he loved the Lord. I hung up the phone more frustrated and confused than when I’d started.

  Before I went to bed that night, I sent Chance another text message. “I’m sorry I hung up on you. I love you, Chance.”

  He didn’t reply, and I didn’t blame him.

  Three days of work interviews passed in pretty much the same fashion, with applicants falling into one of three categories: Interesting, Maybe, and No Way in Hell.

  “Bonita. She’s the one,” I said with great conviction.

  Amanda’s shrewd eyes narrowed, pinning me like a butterfly to a mat. “Why her?” she asked, her voice tight and somewhat accusing. “I happen to favor Miss Jewell myself.” Amanda hurried on, flipping through Miss Jewell’s letters of recommendation. “She was an investigative intern with the Department of Justice.”