Dreamcast 2, p.22
Dreamcast 2, page 22
The hour slipped away in this rapid fire back and forth without getting us anywhere. After Mr. Davis left, we both collapsed on the couch, exhausted. The next hour was lunch, so we had time to take a breath.
“We’re making progress,” Amanda stated.
“How?” All I could see were obstacles.
“We’re besieging him. Hammering at the door of his fortification, forcing the defenses. Look how we flushed out the Gatekeeper and James... that’s the Wounded Child. What did you feel?”
“Each personality has a definite brain wave pattern, associated with a specific location,” I added. “With a little more practice I’ll recognize where they all are. One thing’s for certain, at any one time only one person is in residence for the allotted time he’s in control.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Thinking, she took a few steps this way, turned and headed off in the other direction. I smiled to myself; she was mimicking my habit of walking through a problem. “Well then, let’s take inventory of who we’ve got. There’s Tom, the straw man who interfaces with the outside world. Dick, whose job it is to run interference, to deflect questions and misdirect probing forays. Then Harry, the CEO, who plans and coordinates. I think the Wounded Child is another smoke screen to confuse things. The Gatekeeper is the traffic cop of the crew, but he doesn’t decide, just directs. But someone must be in control, the one who gives permission. Did you feel him?”
“Between each personality turnover I sense a flicker of others. More than just the five we know of, but it’ll take me time to sort it out.”
After that I went home, leaving Amanda to finish off her day, hopefully with less demanding cases. It took a lot of energy and concentration to stay on top of things. I experienced for myself why she sometimes came home exhausted.
I was on summer break so I didn’t have much to do. I took the kids swimming at the Community Pool. Miles was becoming a good swimmer and could beat me easily in freestyle but I still held my own in breaststroke. At thirteen, Cindy was more interested in posing herself in her one-piece, attracting the attention of the good-looking life guards. I guessed I’d better get used to it.
At home, Theresa fed us a snack and after, I slipped into the study to call Maclure.
“Travis, good of you to call.” There was an awkward pause and I sensed he was sampling my motivation: did I call because of the bad press? Of course, but I also wanted to show support for him.
He complained about the unfairness of the system that left people exposed to such attacks and forced to undergo uncalled-for investigations just because someone made a complaint. I stayed quiet, responding only to acknowledge a break in the torrent.
Following that exchange, I called Ms. Hastings at the gallery, who asked for more of what she called my “social period” that seemed to be selling better than the rest. She complained of the slowdown in public purchasing given the economic climate. “People are still coming through the door to window shop, but they aren’t buying like they use to. And we haven’t had a corporate purchase in a long while. Another year like this and I’ll have to close up.” I listened my way through another tirade.
Hanging up, I went downstairs to my studio to see what I could give her. The back room was nearly full of paintings, the frames stacked upright in their partitions that lined the back wall. I sorted through the lot, selecting a few of my “social period,” wherein I had used groups of people, letting their posture and expression tell the story. They’d been doing well in churches and libraries, and a few made it into schools. Of course the prices were more modest than a couple of years ago. I finally selected four and wrapped them up to be delivered by UPS tomorrow.
Amanda came home and begged off an evening with friends. We spent the time instead in the living room discussing the case of Mr. Davis. Tom Davis, Richard Davis, Harry Davis...
Chapter 14
We had to take off work for the next two days, as the temperatures zoomed into the high 90’s and the air conditioner broke down under the constant demand, turning the office unbearably hot and humid. Tammy scrambled to reschedule the patients. So, we had an unexpected two day rest that led us to invite both sets of parents for dinner. Over the years they had met and interacted, but not one-on-one. Of course they moved in different social circles and the only thing they had in common was the grandchildren and us. But that was enough. They doted on Cindy and Miles, praising their development. In the course of the evening my dad and my father-in-law discovered that they were both fond of baseball and spent an agreeable hour negotiating for their ideal all-star team, trading statistics, balancing the roster. The ladies learned that they were active in the same charity and that set them discussing the internal politics of the organization. Amanda’s parents were of course staunch Republicans and mine confirmed Democrats. Amanda and I impressed upon them that politics was out, taboo for the evening, and that, more than anything else, got us through it. They left feeling pleased with themselves. Of course there was a great deal of goodwill to be had; still we congratulated ourselves on the success of the evening.
The following day, having missed out on his previous appointment, Mr. Davis seemed more cooperative; in fact he was eager. I kept back, out of direct view, and unintentionally or on purpose, he forgot about me. He and Amanda wrangled back and forth, Amanda trying to bring out the different personalities. Mr. Davis resisted, but yielded gradually.
“I really want to talk to the others,” she told Harry.
“You’ve met them all. There’s no one else,” he insisted. But that wasn’t true; I counted ten distinct patterns, flashing in and out from different parts of the brain, energizing different network processes. I signaled Amanda, who suggested a brief break to ease the tension. In the front office by the water cooler, I whispered to her that Harry probably didn’t know about the others. When we returned to the inner sanctum, she tested the possibility and asked for the Gatekeeper.
“I want to talk to the one in charge.”
“There is no one in charge,” the Gatekeeper temporized, but after being pressed he allowed that there were three personalities who made the final decisions.
“The Supreme Court?” Amanda asked flabbergasted.
“The Superior Court,” he said. “The Judge, the Advocate and the Worrier.” It turned out that the Advocate presented the case; the Worrier considered the consequences; and the Judge had the deciding swing vote. But they never came out or communicated directly with the outside. One had to submit requests through an Intercessor. Amanda asked to talk with the Keeper of the Memories but was told that the Keeper didn’t speak, only flashed pictures to whoever was permitted the information.
“Well then how can I communicate with him?” Amanda asked. I was carefully monitoring brain activity as these negotiations were going on.
“Through the Interpreter.”
“Well then, connect me with him.”
The Interpreter showed up. He had a dry voice, pedantic and fussy: every nuance of the word had to be sampled and tested.
“I want to speak to the Keeper of the Memories.”
“Can’t do.” the Interpreter said flatly. “You first have to talk with Confidential who handles data security.
“Pass me on then.”
“Not so simple,” the Interpreter persisted, his voice tired of having to explain all this. “First need authorization.”
“From whom?”
“Rightly speaking I don’t know. Probably the HR lady.”
“The HR lady?”
“Yes her,” the Interpreter persisted stubbornly.
The rest of the session was spent this way, chasing around in a bureaucratic nightmare. No one had the authority to give out a complete set of information or even had the oversight of proper protocol. Everything functioned by inhibition: it was safer not to give anything away. Amanda was passed from one function to the next, more than once stumbling over the same personality as the tracks crisscrossed one another. It was frustrating and fascinating. I counted over 16 personalities.
“No wonder he needs help,” Amanda concluded afterward. “The splinters can barely function as a corporate being. It takes too long to make decisions or implement anything.”
“Part of it is camouflage. Whenever you get close, they spin off a new personality to obstruct you. Those have little substance to them.” I tried to put into words the neural event that went with the process: the flash, as the outgoing and the incoming personalities “passed” each other.
“Then I must be getting close or at least on the right track.”
“What’re we looking for?”
“I think we have to see what the Keeper of the Memories is holding back. There has to be some critical event that caused all these fault lines in the personality.”
“But what kind of event?”
“I don’t know. Something major. We have to find that aspect.” She was striding around, her forehead creased. “I think I’m looking for one person the rest don’t know.” She stopped, her fingers to her lips. “Yes, the Keeper of the Secret.”
“What kind of secret?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps early abuse. Physical or sexual, generating guilt and shame. Betrayal causing hurt and anguish. Rejection, causing dislocation. Anything in fact. Take your pick.”
I thought a while, trying to digest all this. To gain some perspective I put it into artistic terms: how would I depict all this? If I mix too many colors I end up with an unpleasant brown. “I don’t know. I think he’ll just create more personality fragments to block you.”
“Doesn’t matter. Eventually it’ll grow too large to maintain and the whole thing will collapse. I’ll push it to the breaking point to get at the naked truth beneath.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“There are risks. There are safety features to guard the Secret. Perhaps a curtain of anger or rage. We haven’t met them yet. You’ll see lot of the Wounded Child to distract us into pity or sympathy. Or someone else. But when we hit the big boys, we’ll be getting close.”
“The big boys?” How could she keep it all straight? With all my ESP I found the thing mindboggling. I was reminded of Maylee, the girl with no personality; now I had way too many to process.
“Yes. As I said, Anger and Rage. And there’s got to be an Enforcer built into the system to keep everyone in line.” That’s when I gave up. If she was right, we’d eventually peel away the layers of deception. Concentrate on what goes in and what comes out, let the ESP take care of the black box in the middle.
*****
For the next two sessions we chased our tails. We encountered more personalities, but each grew thinner, less substantial. Whereas the ones first introduced had many facets, these later ones tended to blend into one another and more than once, Amanda trapped the Gatekeeper in a contradiction as he mixed up the personalities and proper protocol.
Dealing directly with Tom was difficult because he was always getting out of the way, pushing a different personality to the fore.
“He’s able to survive the day-to-day living because normally the situation doesn’t press into him,” Amanda said. “He can do simple, concrete things and get the Corporation through the day. But give him something more meaningful and he implodes. He isn’t equipped to take on more complex assignments but has to call in a specialist. He’s really no interest to us, but sometimes he’s the only one able to speak. I wish I could talk to the Wounded Child who knows the answer or suspects it. But he’s mute. Even the Interpreter has no direct access to him. An intervening Mother Figure is too protective to be of any use to us.” Amanda tapped her notes impatiently. We were so drawn into the problem that it monopolized all our conversations. We lived it, ate it and slept on it daily.
“Isn’t it strange that the personalities are modeled after computer subroutines? They swap in, perform a given task, and then swap out. Tom must be a computer geek,” I reasoned.
“A bookkeeper, balancing the ledger,” Amanda mused. A bookkeeper? Sure, by profession. Was he cooking the books? Adding it all up, the parts far exceeded the whole.
I started painting the Wounded Child and achieved a Kafkaesque composition. Distorted, the figure hid in the far corner of the canvas. Barely visible in the background, a crowd of shapes loomed over him. How to build a bridge to reach him? Sympathy alone seemed inadequate. Pity, perhaps, but how to get close to that without the facts? And how to penetrate to the Great Secret that was the cause of it all? Just like an earthquake, all the fracture lines were visible with the emotional devastation etched into the Corporate, just like the tortured twists and grindings of the tectonic plates pushing against each other in constant conflict. The pressure was building up, a quake was imminent.
But we persisted, that is, Amanda did. I just monitored, sampling the inner environment and feeding it back to Amanda.
July passed and we were into the heat of August. New tremors appeared, and we were faced with Anger and Rage more often. They were one-dimensional, not fully formed personalities, more like automatic processes. They reacted predictably, to intimidate, to protect private territory but their emergence indicated that we were nearing something vital.
“Either you let me in, or we stop right here.” Amanda faced up to them. “Decide whether you trust me or not. This way, you waste my time and I waste your money. Remember you came to me. I can’t help or function if you don’t let me in.”
“You’re only doing this for the money, so don’t pretend to care.”
“True to a point. It’s my job and I’m good at it. I make no apologies for charging money for my services. But if we don’t work together there’s no use in pretending. Go home, divide some more. Burst yourself; spill your guts all over the living room floor. Become fully paralyzed. Catatonic.” I could feel the message wasn’t getting through. She took a deep breath, and I knew she was escalating, taking it to the next level. “Bury your shit like a cat in the kitty litter. It still stinks and someone has to take it out to dump it.” Whoa! She didn’t use language like that! Ever. She was using a sledge hammer here.
Anger spewed, “You’re only saying that to puff yourself up. The exalted psychologist. The vaunted therapist spouting symptoms and consequences. Go practice on your husband, on your kids, they probably think you’re great and all-knowing and have answers to everything, but you’re NOTHING. You’re blind, fumbling in the dark, pretending to know the way. Hell, you’re less than nothing. When they scrape off the book learning, there’s nothing. Just empty words. You don’t know anything—”
“Put up or shut up!” she yelled back with uncharacteristic anger. “Either open up or leave. It’s up to you. I won’t waste my time.”
“You can’t do that. I came to you for help and you can’t refuse me.” Harry’s voice suddenly broke in. Conciliatory. “You took an oath.”
“To do no harm. But all you allow me to do is underwrite your delusions. I won’t settle for the status quo. In the long run that’s more damaging, and I’ll not enable or endorse that. So make up your mind: cooperate or pack your bag and go.”
The Gatekeeper appeared. By now the most frequent personalities were very recognizable by their mannerisms and tone. “You have three wishes, choose wisely.”
“I want to speak to the Keeper of the Memories.”
“He doesn’t speak. Get the Interpreter to—”
“I want the Keeper himself. Now!” Amanda cut off another bureaucratic chase.
A shiver passed across his face and assumed a faraway look. His body bent as under some burden, perhaps weighed down with the mass of memories. Much of the cortex was energized and some deeper core structures.
“Are you the Keeper?” The figure nodded, indecisively, not used to direct communication.
“Look back on your childhood, something happened then. Something that led to all this. Do you remember it?”
The Keeper shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“But you’re in charge of the records, aren’t you?” The figure nodded. “Then you must know!” The head shook again, denying it. “Then who does?” Amanda pressed. The figure look confused. “The Child?” No. “No?”
“The Child would be protected from knowing,” I offered, having seen the spot light up where the negative answer was coming from: it told me he spoke the truth.
“Is there still someone else who’d know?” Yes. “Who?” I saw a connection light up, in the lower right quadrant.
“Perhaps the Keeper of the Secrets,” I interpreted, marking the spot carefully.
“Is it?” Amanda reflected the question back to the Keeper of the Memories. “Maybe,” came back the reply with a shrug.
“Gatekeeper!” Amanda called, commanding.
“At your service, Ma’am,” the Gatekeeper answered. “You now have two more wishes left.”
“Connect me with the Keeper of the Secrets.”
“Who?”
“He doesn’t know,” I interpreted. Genuine puzzlement flooded the frontal lobe. I recognized the fact that there were strict need-to-know limits set around the personalities. No one knew everything, it seemed: things were carefully parceled out into separate cells, reducing the risk of a major disclosure.
“Then get me someone who does,” Amanda commanded the Gatekeeper.
“OK, but that’s your last wish.”
“The second. You didn’t fulfill the second.
“Okey-dokey.”
A new posture emerged. “Are you the Keeper of the Secrets? No? Then disappear.”
In quick succession different forms appeared and disappeared when Amanda demanded confirmation of their identities. The last one, more haughty that the rest, said, “Turn right and look for the hippocampus; you’ll find him there.” Then he disappeared before he could be pumped for more information.
“Now what?” Amanda demanded in frustration.
I went there, focused on the hippocampus and energized the area. The form before us sagged as if something fell on it ... into him.
