It was not the time to explore that. “Laurie, I want to help you. Sarah told me that your parents believed that you were better off not to have psychological counseling after your abduction. That probably is part of the reason you’re resisting talking to me now. Why don’t you just close your eyes and rest and try to learn to feel comfortable with me? In other sessions we may be able to work together.”
“You’re so sure there will be other sessions?”
“I hope so. Will there be?”
“Only to please Sarah. I’ll be coming home weekends, so they’ll have to be on Saturdays.”
“That can be arranged. You’re coming home every weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Is that because you want to be with Sarah?”
The question seemed to excite her. The matter-of-fact attitude disappeared. Laurie crossed her legs, lifted her chin, reached her hand back and opened the clip that held her hair in a ponytail.
Carpenter watched as the shining blond mass fell around her face. A secretive smile played on her lips. “His wife comes home weekends,” she said. “There’s no use hanging around the college then.”
15
LAURIE OPENED the door of her car. “Starting to feel like fall,” she said.
The first leaves were falling from the trees. Last night the heat had gone on automatically. “Yes, it does,” Sarah said. “Now look, if it’s too much for you . . .”
“It won’t be. You put all the creeps in prison, and I’ll make up all the classes I missed and keep my cum laude. I still may even have a shot at magna. You left me in the dust with your summa. See you Friday night.” She started to give Sarah a quick hug, then clung to her. “Sarah, don’t you ever let me switch cars with you.”
Sarah smoothed Laurie’s hair. “Hey, I thought we’d agreed that Mom and Dad would get real upset about that kind of thinking. After you see Dr. Carpenter on Saturday, let’s go for a round of golf.”
Laurie attempted a smile. “Winner buys dinner.”
“That’s because you know you’ll beat me.”
* * *
Sarah waved vigorously until the car was no longer in sight, then turned back to the house. It was so quiet, so empty. The prevailing wisdom was to make no dramatic changes after a family death, but her instinct told her that she should start hunting immediately for another place, perhaps a condo, and put the house on the market. Maybe she’d phone Dr. Carpenter and ask him about that.
She was already dressed for work. She picked up her briefcase and shoulder bag, which were on the table in the foyer. The delicate eighteenth-century table, inlaid with marble, and the mirror above it were antiques that had belonged to her grandmother. Where would they and all the other lovely pieces, all the first-edition volumes of classics that lined John Kenyon’s library fit in a two-bedroom condo? Sarah pushed the thought away.
Instinctively she glanced in the mirror and was shocked at what she saw. Her complexion was dead white. There were deep circles under her eyes. Her face had always been thin, but now her cheeks were hollowed out. Her lips were ashen. She remembered her mother saying that last morning, “Sarah, why not wear a little makeup? Shadow would bring out your eyes . . .”
She dropped her shoulder bag and briefcase back on the table and went upstairs. From the vanity in her bathroom she took her seldom-used cosmetic case. The image of her mother in her shell-pink dressing gown, so naturally pretty, so endearingly maternal, telling her to put on eyeshadow brought at last the scalding tears she had forced back for Laurie’s sake.
* * *
It was so good to get to her airless office with its chipped-paint walls, stacks of files, ringing telephone. Her coworkers in the prosecutor’s office had come to the funeral home en masse. Her closest friends had been at the funeral, had phoned and stopped at the house these past few weeks.
Today they all seemed to understand that she wanted to get back to a semblance of normality. “Good to have you back.” A quick hug. Then the welcome “Sarah, let me know when you have a minute. . .”
Lunch was a cheese on rye and black coffee from the courthouse cafeteria. By three o’clock Sarah had the satisfying feeling that she’d made a dent in responding to the urgent messages from plaintiffs, witnesses and attorneys.
At four o’clock, unable to wait any longer, she called Laurie’s room at college. The phone was picked up immediately. “Hello.”
“Laurie, it’s me. How’s it going?”
“So-so. I went to three classes, then cut the last one. I just felt so tired.”
“No wonder. You haven’t had a decent night’s sleep. What are you doing tonight?”
“Going to bed. Got to clear out my brain.”
“Okay. I’m going to work late. Be home around eight. Why don’t I give you a call?”
“I’d like that.”
Sarah stayed at the office until seven-fifteen, stopped at a diner and bought a hamburger to go. At eight-thirty she phoned Laurie.
The ringing at the other end continued. Maybe she’s showering, maybe she’s had some kind of reaction. Sarah held the receiver as the staccato sound buzzed and buzzed in her ear. Finally an impatient voice answered. “Laurie Kenyon’s line.”
“Is Laurie there?”
“No, and please, if the phone isn’t answered in five or six rings, give me a break. I’m right across the hall and I’ve got a test to prepare for.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that Laurie was planning to go to bed early.”
“Well, she changed her plans. She went out a few minutes ago.”
“Did she seem to be all right? I’m her sister and I’m a bit concerned.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry about what happened to your mother and father. I think Laurie was okay. She was all dressed up, like for a date.”
Sarah called again at ten, at eleven, at twelve, at one. The last time, a sleepy Laurie answered. “I’m fine, Sarah. I went to bed right after dinner and have been asleep since then.”
“Laurie, I rang so long the girl across the hall came over and picked up your phone. She told me you went out.”
“Sarah, she’s wrong. I swear to God I was right here.” Laurie sounded frightened. “Why would I lie?”
I don’t know, Sarah thought.
“Well, as long as you’re okay. Get back to sleep,” she said and replaced the receiver slowly.
16
DR. CARPENTER could sense the difference in Laurie’s posture as she leaned back in the roomy leather chair. He did not suggest that she lie on the couch. The last thing he wanted was to have her lose this tentative trust in him that he sensed she was developing. He asked her how the week at college had been.
“Okay, I guess. People were awfully nice to me. I have so much catching up to do that I’m burning the midnight oil.” She hesitated then stopped.
Carpenter waited then said mildly, “What is it, Laurie?”
“Last night when I got home, Sarah asked me if I’d heard from Gregg Bennett.”
“Gregg Bennett?”
“I used to go out with him. My mother and father and Sarah liked him a lot.”
“Do you like him?”
“I did, until . . .”
Again he waited.
Her eyes widened. “He wouldn’t let go of me.”
“You mean he was forcing himself on you?”
“No. He kissed me. And that was all right. I liked it. But then he pressed my arms with his hands.”
“And that frightened you.”
“I knew what was going to happen.”
“What was going to happen?”
She was looking off into the distance. “We don’t want to talk about that.”
For ten minutes she was silent, then said sadly, “I could tell that Sarah didn’t believe I hadn’t been out the other night. She was worried.”
Sarah had called him about that. “Maybe you were out,” Dr. Carpenter suggested. “It would be good for you to be with friends.”
r /> “No. I don’t care about dating now. I’m too busy.”
“Any dreams?”
“The knife dream.”
Two weeks ago she had become hysterical when she was asked about it. Today her voice was almost indifferent. “I have to get used to it. I’m going to keep having it until the knife catches up with me. It will, you know.”
“Laurie, in therapy we call acting out an emotionally disturbing memory abreaction. I’d like you to abreact for me now. Show me what you see in the dream. I think you dread going to sleep because you’re afraid you’ll have the dream. Nobody can do without sleep. You don’t have to talk. Just show me what is happening in the dream.”
Laurie got up slowly, then raised her hand. Her mouth twisted into a cunning thin-lipped smile. She started walking around the desk toward him, her steps deliberate. Her hand jerked up and down as she swung an imaginary blade. Just before she reached him she stopped. Her posture changed. She stood, riveted to the spot, staring. Her hand tried to wipe away something from her face and hair. She looked down and jumped back terrified.
She collapsed on the floor, her hands over her face, then crouched against the wall, shivering and making hurting sounds like a wounded animal.
Ten minutes passed. Laurie quieted, dropped her hands and got up slowly.
“That’s the knife dream,” she said.
“Are you in the dream, Laurie?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you, the one who has the knife or the one who is afraid?”
“Everybody. And in the end we all die together.”
“Laurie, I’d like to talk to a psychiatrist I know who’s had a great deal of experience with people who have suffered childhood trauma. Will you sign a release to let me discuss your case with him?”
“If you like. What difference can it make to me?”
17
AT SEVEN-THIRTY Monday morning, Dr. Justin Donnelly walked rapidly up Fifth Avenue from his Central Park South apartment to Lehman Hospital on Ninety-sixth Street. He constantly competed with himself to cover the two-mile distance a minute or two faster each day. But short of actually jogging, he could not better his twenty-minute record.
He was a big man who always looked as if he’d be at home in cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat, not an inaccurate image. Donnelly had been raised on a sheep station in Australia. His curly black hair had a permanently tousled look. His black mustache was luxuriant, and when he smiled, it accentuated his strong white teeth. His intense blue eyes were framed by dark lashes and brows that women envied. Early in his psychiatric training he had decided to specialize in multiple personality disorders. A persuasive ground-breaker, Donnelly fought to establish a clinic for MPD in New South Wales. It quickly became a model facility. His papers, published in prominent medical journals, soon brought him international recognition. At thirty-five he was invited to set up a multiple personality disorder center at Lehman.
After two years in Manhattan, Justin considered himself a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker. On his walks to and from the office he affectionately drank in the newly familiar sights: the horses and carriages arriving at the park, the glimpse of the zoo at Sixty-fifth Street, the doormen at the swank Fifth Avenue apartment buildings. Most of them greeted him by name. Now as he strode past, several remarked about the fine October weather.
It was going to be a busy day. Justin usually tried to keep the ten-to-eleven time slot free for staff consultations. This morning he’d made an exception. An urgent phone call Saturday from a New Jersey psychiatrist had piqued his interest. Dr. Peter Carpenter wanted to consult with him immediately about a patient who he suspected was an MPD and potentially suicidal. Justin had agreed to a ten o’clock meeting today.
He reached Ninety-sixth and Fifth in twenty-five minutes and consoled himself that the heavy pedestrian traffic had slowed his progress. The main entrance to the hospital was on Fifth Avenue. The MPD clinic was entered by a discreet private door on Ninety-sixth. Justin was almost invariably the first one there. His office was a small suite at the end of the corridor. The outer room, painted a soft ivory and simply furnished with his desk and swivel chair, two armchairs for visitors, bookcases and a row of files, was enlivened by colorful prints of sailboats in Sydney Harbor. The inner room was where he treated patients. It was equipped with a sophisticated video camera and tape recorder.
His first patient was a forty-year-old woman from Ohio who had been in treatment for six years and was diagnosed as schizophrenic. It was only when an alert psychologist began to believe that the voices the woman kept hearing were those of alter personalities that she had come to him. She was making good progress.
Dr. Carpenter arrived promptly at ten. Courteously grateful to Justin for seeing him on such short notice, he immediately began to talk about Laurie.
Donnelly listened, took notes, interjected questions. Carpenter concluded, “I’m not an expert on MPD, but if ever there were signs of it, I’ve been seeing them. There’s been a marked change in her voice and manner during her last two visits. She definitely is unaware of at least one specific incident when she left her room and was out for hours. I’m sure she’s not lying when she claims to have been asleep at that time. She has a recurring nightmare of a knife slashing at her. Yet during abreaction at one point she was acting out holding the knife and doing the slashing. Then she switched to trying to avoid it. I’ve made a copy of her file.”
Donnelly read down the pages swiftly, stopping to circle or check when something jumped out at him. The case fascinated him. A beloved child kidnapped at the age of four and abandoned by the kidnappers at age six, with total memory loss of the intervening two years! A recurring nightmare! A sister’s perception that since her reunion with the family, Laurie had responded to stress with childlike anxiety. Tragic parental death for which Laurie blamed herself.
When he laid the file down, he said, “The records from the hospital in Pittsburgh where she was examined indicated probable sexual abuse over a long period of time and counseling was strongly recommended. I gather there was none.”
“There was total denial on the part of the parents,” Dr. Carpenter answered, “and therefore no therapy whatsoever.”
“Typical of the pretend-it-didn’t-happen thinking of fifteen years ago, plus the Kenyons were significantly older parents,” Donnelly observed. “It would be a good idea if we could persuade Laurie to come here for evaluation, and I’d say the sooner the better.”
“I have a feeling that will be very difficult. Sarah had to beg her to come to me.”
“If she resists, I’d like to see the sister. She should watch for signs of aberrant behavior and of course she must not take any talk of suicide lightly.”
The two psychiatrists walked to the door together. In the reception room a dark-haired teenaged girl was staring moodily out the window. Her arms were covered with bandages.
In a low voice, Donnelly said, “You have to take it seriously. The patients who have experienced trauma in their childhood are at high risk for self-harm.”
18
THAT EVENING when Sarah got home from work the mail was neatly stacked on the foyer table. After the funeral, Sophie, their longtime daily housekeeper, had proposed cutting down to two days a week. “You don’t need me more than that anymore, Sarah, and I’m not getting any younger.”
Monday was one of the days she came in. That was why the mail was sorted, the house smelled faintly of furniture polish, the draperies were drawn and the soft light of lamps and sconces gave a welcoming glow to the downstairs rooms.
This was the hardest part of the day for Sarah, coming into an empty house. Before the accident, if she was expected home, her mother and father would be waiting to have their predinner cocktail with her.
Sarah bit her lip and pushed aside the memory. The letter on top of the pile was from England. She ripped open the envelope, certain it was from Gregg Bennett. She read the letter quickly then again, slowly. Gregg had just learned about the accide
nt. His expression of sympathy was profoundly moving. He wrote about his affection for John and Marie Kenyon, about the wonderful visits to their home, how rough it must be for her and Laurie now.
The final paragraph was disturbing: “Sarah, I tried to phone Laurie, and she sounded so despondent when she answered. Then she screamed something like, ‘I won’t, I won’t,’ and hung up on me. I’m terribly worried about her. She’s so fragile. I know you’re taking good care of her, but be very careful. I’ll be back at Clinton in January and would like to see you. My love to you, and kiss that girl for me, please. Gregg.”
Her hands trembling, Sarah carried the mail into the library. Tomorrow she’d call Dr. Carpenter and read this to him. She knew he had given Laurie antidepressants, but was she taking them? The answering machine was blinking. Dr. Carpenter had called and left his home number.
When she reached him, she told him about Gregg’s letter then listened, shocked and frightened, to his careful explanation of why he had seen Dr. Justin Donnelly in New York and why it was imperative that Sarah see him as soon as possible. He gave her the number of Donnelly’s service. Her voice low and strained, she had to repeat her phone number twice to the operator.
Sophie had roasted a chicken, prepared a salad. Sarah’s throat closed as she picked at the food. She had just made coffee when Dr. Donnelly returned her call. His day was full, but he could see her at six tomorrow evening. She hung up, reread Gregg’s letter and, with a frantic sense of urgency, dialed Laurie. There was no answer. She tried every half hour until finally at eleven o’clock she heard the receiver being picked up. Laurie’s “Hello” was cheerful enough. They chatted for a few minutes, then Laurie said, “How’s this for a pain? After dinner I propped myself up on the bed to research this damn paper and fell asleep. Now I’ve got to burn the midnight oil.”