“But unofficially?” Porter asks.
“Anna changed my mind about a year and a half after I started working with her. One of my clients died that winter. Bruno was an elderly man, homeless much of the time. He had issues with kleptomania and substance abuse. I guess the chair you’re sitting in was the last place he felt safe.”
Porter glances down at the chair and his eyes widen. I stifle a laugh.
“Anna knew things about my client that I simply couldn’t explain away. Including where he’d hidden the very nice ballpoint pen my daughter had given me the previous Christmas. I was pretty sure he’d taken the pen from my desk, and I’d been working with him, trying to get him to trust me enough to admit it. Then they found his body in Layhill Park, not too far from the homeless shelter that took him in from time to time. Later that week, I’m talking to Bruno again—through Anna—and he tells me that he stashed his treasures, as he called them, in a plastic bag that he hid in the bushes near the bleachers at the baseball field in the park. And that’s where I found my pen, along with a bunch of other stuff he’d collected, including an earring I’d lost two years earlier. Guess he found it in the carpet and decided to keep it.”
“He could have told her that in your waiting room, Dr. Kelsey. Maybe she read your file. Or maybe she followed him.”
“Anna was six at the time, Mr. Porter. Their appointments were on different days, and she was accompanied to and from her appointments by a social worker back then. Believe me, I tried to think of a rational explanation. But there wasn’t one, so I finally had to accept that Anna wasn’t just telling me what she believed to be true, as I’d thought. She was telling the actual truth. And while many of my colleagues would still disavow any claims of psychic abilities, I consider myself a realist. We have mapped the human genome, but we still understand very little about the human brain. There are some sections for which no scientist, no psychologist, can pinpoint an exact purpose. The fact that I cannot tell you why Anna has this ability and others do not, the fact that I cannot quantify it, doesn’t make it any less real.”
Porter is quiet for several moments. “So you don’t think she really has this dissociative identity thing. But you go on treating her a few times a week anyway? Is that ethical?”
Kelsey leans forward and her eyes narrow, a faint red flush creeping up her cheeks as she stands up. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s angry. I’ve seen her annoyed in the past, pissed off about some bit of bureaucratic insanity, but never angry.
“If you think I’m in this for money,” Kelsey says between clenched teeth, “take a good look around you, Mr. Porter. Yes, I kept Anna as a patient despite the fact there’s no category for her actual condition in the diagnostic manual. How would you like to walk around each day with one or more visitors in your head? Dead people you don’t know, didn’t invite, and have to struggle to evict? Dead people who leave behind their memories, whose deaths you dream about in vivid detail for weeks after they finally leave? Anna needs at least as much help dealing with the effects of her condition as anyone I have dealt with in thirty-six years of practice, so I have absolutely no qualms about the ethics of keeping her as a patient.”
Your grandpa might want to watch his mouth, Molly. Kelsey may be little, but she’s fierce. I think she could take him.
Molly sniffs derisively, no comment.
“I’m still not convinced what you’re saying is true,” Porter begins, “but if it is, are you the person best equipped to help her? This talent you say she has sounds like something that should be studied, verified . . .”
“If I was primarily concerned about my own self-interest, I certainly would have written Anna’s case up in a psychiatric journal. But do you really think she could have remained anonymous? That there wouldn’t have been a constant battery of tests and trials to convince skeptics like yourself? Anna would have been turned into a sideshow. She had no one to protect her interests. Personally, I didn’t think throwing a six-year-old child to the wolves was ethical.” She puts a decided emphasis on that last word as she sits back down, her eyes still locked on Porter’s.
He breaks the stare by glancing to the right, pausing for a few seconds when his gaze reaches the mirror. His shoulders tighten and his mouth twitches slightly on one side. It feels almost as though he can see me. I sit forward, ready to bolt into the reception area, but then he looks back toward the desk.
Kelsey lets him sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment longer and then continues. “I know you expected me to say something very different this afternoon, Mr. Porter, but I’m not going to lie to you. Anna made the decision to approach you, and she didn’t make it lightly. Most of the spirits she picks up plead with her to get a message to their spouse, their children, somebody—it seems that only those who have some sort of regret or quest stick around. Anna was pretty certain how you’d react, but she felt she had a moral obligation to at least try, given what Molly told her about the circumstances of her death.”
“She’s going to have to give me something more to go on here, Doctor. You might be convinced, but I’m sure as hell not. If Molly’s in Anna’s head, why wouldn’t she let me talk to her?”
Kelsey shrugs one shoulder. “Anna’s a smart girl. It would have been beyond foolish to let Molly surface in a downtown café, without anyone she knows as a witness. Strong emotion is a very powerful motivator, and Molly’s been an exceptionally determined guest. This wouldn’t be the first time that Anna’s had to fight—and fight hard—to get her own mind back from a hijacker, so you can hardly blame her for wanting some control over the circumstances of your . . . conversation.”
Porter nods once and then looks pointedly at the mirror, a smug smile on his face. His eyes sweep past me and settle a few feet to the left of my chair. It’s a good guess—that’s where I’d have been if I hadn’t tilted my chair back against the wall. “Anna, you can turn off the speaker and join us in here now.”
Molly’s not happy with the names I’m thinking about her grandfather as I sit up and grab my backpack, but I ignore her. Even though I have nothing to be embarrassed about, that doesn’t stop the blush from rising to my cheeks as I walk back to the couch.
“I was a detective for over twenty years, ladies. I’ve seen more than one observation mirror in my time.” He swivels the chair in my direction and crosses his hands on his belly, leaning back.
Face it, Molly. Your grandfather is an insufferable jerk.
I kick my black flats under the end table and toss my backpack on top of them, then sit on the couch, legs tucked under me.
My eyes dart over to Kelsey, whose expression is sympathetic and a bit nervous. She has a pretty good idea how much it costs me to give up control. But there’s no sense putting it off. I suck in my breath and wait for the slide, the slipping, slightly sick sensation that marks my demotion from driver to passenger.
You have ten minutes, Molly. Make the most of it.
I can still see the office, still hear the slight whirr of the heating system. I feel the handle of my coffee cup against my palm as Molly puts it on the end table, sloshing a few drops of warm coffee on my skin. My legs unfold, at Molly’s command. I feel the carpet under my sock-clad feet, and the slight thump as my knees land in front of Porter’s chair. I feel the tears begin to run down my face and the polyester fabric of Porter’s pants when my cheek touches his knee, his body going rigid as he tries to pull away. I feel all of these things, but it’s as though I’m dipped in plastic and there’s a barrier between my mind and the sensations.
A voice very much like my own is coming from my mouth, but the words are a jumble at first, exploding like they’ve been pent up under pressure. A deep breath, and then her speech becomes more coherent. “Pa, it’s me. It’s Molly. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wanted to come back to you and Mimmy. I was scared, but Mama needed me with her. She was better when I was there. And she said Lucas would never hurt us—you know how she was about him. She loved him even after she fou
nd out what he was into. She thought he was good underneath, that she could change him. But she was so wrong about him, Pa.”
Porter opens his mouth, but no words come out. His face is ashen, his eyes glued to my hand, which is clutching the leg of his pants.
“And now it’s too late for Mama, too late for me, but maybe you can stop him.”
Porter just sits there for a few seconds. Then his eyes narrow and jerk back up to meet mine. “Where did Mimmy keep her wedding rings when she scrubbed pots?”
Great, I think. He wants to play twenty questions. But Molly’s answer is instantaneous. “In the bunny cup, the one by the sink, with all the paint chipped off.”
“What song did you play for her sixty-fifth birthday and why?”
Molly pauses, then says, a bit more tentatively. “‘The Little Old Lady from Pasadena.’ ’Cause she grew up near Pasadena. And ’cause you say she drives too fast.”
“How about the year before that?” he asks.
“Jeez, Pa! I think it was ‘Copacabana.’ And I played it ’cause she likes it, but if you want to know why she likes it, you’ll have to ask Mimmy.”
Porter starts to speak again and then closes his mouth. “You—your grandma . . .” He stops, swallows, then starts again. “You don’t know about Mimmy, then?”
I feel a streak of pure joy run through Molly.
He knows it’s me, he knows, he said “your grandma.”
Then my heart stops. Molly is neglecting to breathe for some reason. I struggle to shove her aside, to suck in the air on my own, but she ignores me. A long moment later, she asks in a tiny voice, “Know what, Pa?”
He moves his hand as though he’s going to touch my hair, before catching himself and putting the hand back in his lap. “She’s gone, Molly. She died about a year after you and Laura. It was awful tough on her, losing the two of you like that. I thought maybe she’d snap out of it. We bought that camper, traveled around a bit, but she—her heart just gave out. Told me she was ready to be with you and your mama. Though I guess maybe that didn’t work out quite the way she thought . . .”
“You’re all alone now, Pa. You and Mimmy were going to travel, and—”
“I’m okay, baby. Ella stops in every day or two, and Phyllis and the kids come down now and then. An’ I went back to work—not much point in retirement and just sittin’ around all day. But yeah, I miss her a lot.”
Molly pulls my arms tight around my body and sits there, rocking back and forth, making a soft keening sound, almost like a teakettle coming to boil. Tears stream down my face, and in that second, I know Molly is right. Porter is a believer now. He’s seeing Molly, not me. Seeing her grief, her anguish. There’s a look I can’t quite place in his brown eyes. Pain, bewilderment, helplessness—and something else. He loved her so much. His expression scares me a bit with its intensity, but I’m also envious. And yes, the irony of being jealous of a girl who was brutally murdered has not escaped me. It’s just that I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me that way.
Molly is still rocking, digging my nails into my upper arms. It hurts.
Molly! Time’s up.
But she’s not responding. I try to push back to the front, but Molly’s pain is so strong that I can’t break through.
It’s my body, damn it! Give it back!
Kelsey has been watching quietly from behind the desk. I don’t know if she can see fear in my eyes or maybe she can just sense my panic, but she moves quickly and kneels next to me, her arm around my shoulders. “Anna? Anna? Molly, I need to speak to Anna now, okay? Molly? I’m so sorry about your grandmother, but I need to be sure that Anna—”
“No,” Molly says, wrenching away from Kelsey, her tone flat but adamant. “I’m not done.”
“We can finish this another time. You need a chance to process what your grandfather has told you, and I think Anna is a bit overwhelmed.”
“I said no! Anna can wait.” Molly still has control, but at least Kelsey’s words have snapped her out of the emotional pit she was falling into.
“Perhaps,” Kelsey says. “But I’m pretty sure that if you make her wait this will be the last time you speak to your grandfather. You’ve told him that this Lucas was the one who killed you. Surely that’s enough for him to get started.”
“I have to finish, Dr. Kelsey. Anna’s okay.”
Kelsey looks hesitant, but she backs away, sitting on the sofa rather than going back to her desk. I’ve never seen Kelsey sit on the sofa. She looks odd there, out of place.
Then Molly turns back to Porter. “Pa, Lucas didn’t kill me. Not directly. I’m pretty sure he killed Mama, though. I heard it. I was in the closet, Pa. Someone shot her.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Porter’s shoulders to slump any lower, but they do. “So she’s really gone, too. Lucas said you and your mama left town without telling him. We never found her body, though, and when—” He stops and shakes his head. “When your body showed up in Delaware, it seemed to support his story. There wasn’t anything to tie him to your death, but I never believed him. But . . . if Lucas didn’t kill you, then who did?”
“You need to listen, okay, Pa? Lucas is bringing women—girls, really—into the country. Mostly Eastern European. He has some contacts, apparently pretty important ones, who help him get around port security. The girls think they’re here to train for nanny jobs or other work, but they’re selling them for—well, what they always sell girls for. When he found out what I overheard about his . . . business, I think Lucas sold me to someone. Lucas called him Craig, but I don’t know if it’s a first name or last. And I’m positive Lucas understood what happens to the girls he hands over to Craig. I saw him kill another girl who was there with me.”
Something isn’t right. I haven’t asked many questions about the circumstances of Molly’s death, both because she didn’t seem to want to think about it in too much detail and because I’ll know all of the details eventually anyway, whether I want to or not. But I can tell that she’s hiding something. Of course, she’s talking to her grandfather, who’s already upset and apparently not in perfect health. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid putting him through further distress.
“He kept . . . souvenirs, Pa.” She reaches out my left hand and rests it against his leg, and for a second, my pinky disappears, replaced by a bloody nub, bright red against the khaki fabric of his pants. And then it’s just my hand again, but I feel the faint throb of remembered pain. “He had six, maybe seven, and that was nearly three years ago. So yeah, you need to get Lucas, but you have to find Craig, too.”
Porter’s shoulders are shaking as tears flow down his cheeks. One catches on the edge of his moustache and hangs there momentarily, until his lower lip trembles and the tear shakes loose, falling to the carpet. “I’m so sorry, Molly. So sorry. I’ll find them, baby, I will.”
“I know you will, Pa.” She rests my head against his knee again.
You’ll help him, won’t you, Anna? You said you’ll know everything that I know after I’m gone, so I can count on you, right?
The voice in my head is calmer now, less frantic.
What? No, Molly. I didn’t mean it earlier. I was frightened, but it’s okay. I understand. I’ll let you see him again, and you can tell him everything.
It always ends a bit differently. Some of them leave slowly, and I assimilate their memories gradually as they kind of fade away. Others simply vanish without even saying good-bye. When Emily MacAlister finished the last letter of that crossword puzzle, her quest was complete and her voice in my head just disappeared. Over the next few weeks, my subconscious unpacked the Emily memories and filed them away with the others. And each night, I’d dream about her last moments—vivid at first, then fading away. Each night, I’d taste the slightly too-sweet tea she’d been drinking and struggle to come up with a seven-letter word for a glandlike growth (second letter d, fourth letter n). The dreams about her death had been boring, working on that same puzzle over and over, but at le
ast they were peaceful. I have no illusions that Molly’s will be anything other than nightmares. I don’t want her to go yet. I don’t want those dreams.
It’s okay, Anna. I’m not sure I can really leave until I know this is over. But I don’t want to talk to Pa again—I mean, I do want to, but I can’t. I can’t talk to him about what happened to me. I can’t stand him looking like it’s his fault somehow. Talking to him is just too painful and it’s too . . .
She doesn’t complete the thought, so I do it for her.
Too tempting?
Yes. Pa believes us now, and it wouldn’t be good for him to get used to having me around again, even a pale, blue-eyed version. It wouldn’t be good for any of us. And I don’t like fighting against you like that.
She turns back to Porter and takes his hand, pressing it against my cheek. His eyes are squeezed shut, his head down. “Pa, you be careful, okay? Listen to your doctor and take your medicine.”
A brief pause and then, “No, Molly. You can’t go. You need to tell me everything, to be sure we catch—”
“Pa,” she interrupts. “I can’t. I need to start looking for Mama and Mimmy now, so you and Anna will have to take it from here. She will know everything I do. She’ll help you. Trust her, okay?”
He just stares for a long moment, tears brimming over his lower eyelids.
“I love you forever . . . ,” she says. The words are soft, rising a bit at the end, almost a question.
“And I love you forever more,” he replies, his voice breaking in the middle.
CHAPTER FOUR
Porter seems in a hurry to leave once I am back in control. I don’t blame him. I’m not angry the way I was before, but I still don’t fully trust him. The wary look has returned to his eyes, which tells me the lack of trust is probably mutual. I wonder if he’ll manage to convince himself that none of this really happened, that it was all some elaborate ruse, once he’s back on the freeway.