Dreamcast 2, p.23
Dreamcast 2, page 23
“Are you the Keeper of the Secrets?” Amanda demanded, exasperated.
The figure nodded, looking fearfully around. Almost immediately he reared up and the face turned officious. “You’re trespassing on restricted territory. Back off!”
“Who are you?”
“The Enforcer,” he said with great self-assurance, confident of his authority.
“Bring back the Keeper!”
“You’re not permitted!” came back instantly.
“The Superior Court allowed it,” Amanda lied.
“They did?” the voice wavered.
“They did.” She cemented the lie.
The Keeper reemerged. And the fear was back.
“There’s death, murder.” The two short words induced an instant chill.
“Tell me the details!”
“I’m not allowed to know the details. Somebody else has that, at least part of it.”
“Give me a reference.”
“Time’s up,” Harry popped in. True, it was again five to the hour, someone else’s turn.
“Never mind the time, get the Keeper back!”
The Keeper reappeared. “I know only that memory subsegment 42-8 has a part of the answer.”
“Gatekeeper, get me subsegment 42-8.”
“You have no right to it. You lied.”
“Who told you that?”
“Does it matter? It won’t change the fact that you lied. That’s a breach of trust.”
“Should I invoke the Enforcer?” I knew she was bluffing, guessing at a closed hand.
After a while he said, “You have to consult the Archivist.”
“Summon him!”
Something, someone older showed up, someone preoccupied, not used to being dragged out.
“Get me track 42-8.” Instantly the Enforcer popped up, but I was ready for him. I suppressed his spot, and enabled the Archivist.
“Track 42-8 is about Uncle Chester. Lived in Des Moines. Died in ‘89 of a liver condition. He was brother to Tom Davis’ father. Got married to Giselle in ‘64. Worked 22 years for a furniture factory.” The voice stopped reciting, and waited expectantly.
“What else?” Amanda demanded.
“Nothing else in track 42-8. The next cross reference is 177-2.”
“It’ll have to wait until your next session,” Amanda decided reluctantly, looking at the clock. We were already 20 minutes into the next person’s time. Tom Davis left, exhausted. So were we, but Amanda had the next client to placate and I had a busy program lined up with the kids. We went to the Talbot Gardens, to study exotic plants from all over the world collected into different biospheres to duplicate the native environments. The kids had a great time, filling out the tour book, locating and cataloging all the listed plants. They did a lot better than me: my mind was still full with multiple personalities. We had fish and chips, and later cotton candy. Miles grew a sticky sugar beard around his mouth.
That evening after the kids were in bed, Amanda and I talked about Mr. Davis.
“I think we’re finally making some real progress. It has something to do with the uncle, I’m sure. We have the thread and we’ll reel it in the next appointment.”
“What do you think the cause could be?” I asked.
“Hard to say. Almost anything. A child could blow something way out of proportion, but I’m betting it’s something major.”
I was still struggling with the details.
“Don’t you find it peculiar the way he indexes a reference? Track 42-8 just sounds odd,” burst out of me.
“He’s a bookkeeper. Maybe it’s like an account number, with some internal meaning. A dissociated personality can keep an amazing variety of detail in mind.”
“Why’s he unraveling then?” To that she had no answer.
That’s where we left it. She turned one way, I the other, and she was soon asleep, while I still struggled with my thoughts. We had been married over 15 years and by now indulged in sex only once a week. And tonight had not been one of the scheduled nights. Maybe after we had figured out this case we could once again increase our intimacy.
Chapter 15
Maclure’s difficulties were not going away. In fact things were getting worse. Pressured by a call to action from The Clarion in an election year, the DA was making noises about going from an internal review to a criminal investigation of misconduct. Maclure was not the most sophisticated guy, and he found himself in a political vise, pressed from both above and below. I called him but beyond lending moral support there wasn’t much I could do for him.
After hanging up, I threw the paper in the garbage, disgusted. I had little use for The Clarion, remembering my own persecution by them. I much preferred The Bugle from the capital.
I checked my watch and found it time to go for another round with Mr. Davis. I arrived three minutes before he did. Tammy engaged me in conversation, trying hard to pin me down to do a portrait of her niece. I liked her, but remembering Lesee, I steadfastly refused.
Mr. Davis appeared his usual self, timid, unable to look around openly, sitting constricted in the waiting room chair. He didn’t acknowledge me in any way and kept his eyes away from me. His mind showed the usual reduced activity, only the automatic systems engaged.
Amanda came out of her office and invited us inside. Assertively she started reeling in the thread we found the last session. It seemed that the precedent had given us some clout, because we weren’t bothered by the Enforcer. Thus, by following the trail of cross references we were able to add to our knowledge. When Tom was 7, his mother was sick and dad was working on a dam construction overseas, Tom had to spend almost three years with Uncle Chester and Auntie Giselle May. Tom attended school, church, and in summer, baseball games, his Uncle’s passion. Life didn’t seem much different from what he’d been used to before. He went hiking in the hills, camping, swimming in the Swift Current River, on picnics. He rode his bike everywhere, to shopping, to the roller skating rink, to the movies. For a time he was even a bike-mounted delivery boy for a local drugstore, transporting medication to elderly customers. In his free time he hung around the A&W with a few friends, or read comic books at the general store until he was told to buy or move on. We pieced together a normal kid’s life with nothing out of the ordinary. That is until the last four months of his stay, when he suddenly wanted to go home. But there all references ended. The Archivist could direct us to nothing further.
“What happened in 1982?” Amanda asked Tom directly.
“In 1982?” He looked confused, unsure of being responsible for an answer. Amanda repeated her question. “Well, that year I went home. Mother was still sick and her sister was taking care of her, but we made do. It was hard to adjust to the new school, even though I had some friends from earlier years to make it easier. I failed math and history and had to go to summer school.”
“No, not then. What happened back in Des Moines, Iowa?”
“Nothing. Uncle Chester was pretty hard on me, made me cut the grass, take care of the garden, and I had to do my own laundry.”
“What about Auntie Giselle?”
“What about her? She wasn’t around anymore. She ran away.”
“Ran away where?”
“She ran off with some salesman, my uncle told me. Every Saturday Uncle Chester would drink and swear at her. She was no good, a two-timing bitch. But she was OK to me. I never saw her again.”
“Did something bad happen in school?”
“Sure, all the time. Once I was sent to the office for breaking a window, more times for skipping school. Someone accused me of stealing their lunch money but it wasn’t true and they couldn’t prove it.” Tom seemed quite content to talk and as more details emerged, he grew more confident. I saw that Amanda noticed too. From the light orange glow in the temporal lobe, I knew he was telling the truth. But in the end it all came to nothing—nothing that could cause such fracturing. Amanda was visibly frustrated by this new dead end.
I’d been carefully recording the sites of all the accompanying neural activity. Now, at a pause, I felt around the cluster associated with the original cross references and started energizing random spots in adjacent neurons. At first contact, he jerked.
The Enforcer was there immediately. “What’re you doing? Who gave you permission? Get out!” I knew where he lived and I inhibited him. Tom started trembling.
“Come on Tom, let us help you. Something happened at Uncle Chester’s, what was it?”
“Nothing happened. I told you and tell you again. Nothing!”
“Had it something to do with Auntie Giselle?”
“No, it had nothing to do with her. Absolutely nothing.”
“How are you so sure?” Amanda bore down on him. Tom was sweating. With trembling hands he reached for a cigarette, forgetting that smoking was not allowed in our building. He tried to light up but his hands were shaking so hard that he gave up and jammed both his hands into his pockets. A sullen expression crossed his face. “I don’t know why you don’t believe me.”
“I’d like to. But it seems to me you’re hiding something... something to do with your Aunt.”
“I’m hiding nothing.”
“You can tell us. We’re here to help you.”
“Then help me.” There was panic in his eyes.
“OK then.” Amanda switched to a closer chair. He leaned away from her, but I moved up on the other side so that he was pinned between the two of us. “You don’t want me to have to guess, do you?” I interposed, breaking protocol.
“There’s nothing to guess at,” Tom maintained stubbornly. Amanda gave me a questioning look, seeking a clue to where I was going.
“Let me sketch out a likely scenario,” I said in a neutral tone, carefully watching his eyes and the twist of his mouth. He tried to look away but found Amanda on the other side. “I think Auntie didn’t run away.” We both saw his breathing accelerate, and the pulse on his neck throbbed. “No, she didn’t. And you know what happened.” My head was filled with the thundering of his heart. “You heard something, saw something—something you don’t want to remember.”
“I saw nothing of the sort—”
“I think uncle—”
“Uncle did nothing. I tell you, he did nothing. I swear. Why don’t you believe me?” He started crying, his frame shaking with sobs.
“He did something—”
“No he did NOT!”
“He must have had to force her to run away.” He remained silent. “Perhaps he wanted to kick her out of the house, because she was unfaithful to him. Perhaps he wanted to send her packing.” Tom was quieting quickly, his heartbeat and respiration easing.
“She did go away,” he affirmed in a settled voice, again in command of himself.
“Perhaps he wanted to PUNISH her.” I really bit into the word punish, twisting it. Tom jumped and again went critical. “He struck her,” I pressed. Tom shook his head from side to side. “Hard, very hard.” He was blubbering now; spittle dribbled from his mouth and his nose was full. “Again and again.” I bored in, determined not to let him weasel away. Amanda was motioning to me, trying to head me off, but I was locked onto my course. “And she fell to the floor...” Tom squeezed his eyes shut tight, but the tears gushed from them and rolled down his cheeks. “And... she didn’t move.” Tom howled as if mortally wounded, so loudly that both of us recoiled from him. He didn’t try to stop, but kept on keening, his body racked by sobs and the need to breathe. The tears flowed, running down his contorted face. Amanda and I exchanged horrified looks; we had expected something, but nothing this big or so terrible. In a fit of rage the uncle had killed his wife and scarred a 10 year old for life!
“Is everything OK?” Tammy stuck a scared face into the room but was hit with a fresh wail. Amanda held onto Tom and I was ready to jump to the other side. She made a motion with her head and the receptionist retreated hastily, shutting the door. I knew the soundproofing was good but Tom’s wails cut through the walls. Let the dentist down the hall wonder; we heard the high pitched whine of the drill often enough with all its unpleasant connotations. Tom was running out of air and by necessity his wailing lessened. We waited, letting him settle down. Six minutes passed without words.
“That’s tough knowledge for a ten year old to suppress,” Amanda said with gentle sympathy.
Tom hung his head, just shaking it from side to side, mumbling, “No, no, no...”
“You loved your uncle...” She waited, “And your aunt...” Like a pendulum Tom’s head lolled from left to right and back. “And you couldn’t understand why one would hurt the other...” The lips still murmured its litany of no’s. “You couldn’t accept that one could kill the other...” Tom started crying again but this time quietly, without a sound. The tremors passed through his frame, leaving his shoulders shaking. Amanda and I waited. A dull blue hue of sadness filled his head and, like tears, leaked from his eyes.
“It’s so hard for a young boy to see all that.” Amanda patted his hand. “To be a witness to such horror.” Her voice became a whisper. “And not be able to stop it.” The wailing started up again but not so loud, not so desperate. His face and his shirt front were wet. His hands fumbled about and Amanda handed him a tissue. Noisily he blew his nose. Amanda gave him a fresh one to clean his eyes. He rubbed but the tears kept flowing and he used up four sheets. I was frozen, unsure of what to feel. His pain, the horror of a kill, murder? Everything inside me was quiet, and I wanted to shout some sort of protest into that stillness. But what and why? 27 years too late.
We were all exhausted, trying to return from combat to neutral ground. But could we? I guess Amanda and I could but what about Tom? He sat there frozen, now deadly still, only an occasional sigh stirring him. We didn’t try to talk. What else was there to say anyway? Nothing, now that the lid had been ripped off the horrible secret, the wound reopened. Maybe there was a chance to heal once the festering stopped. Up to now we’d torn down the defenses to allow the corruption out; facing us was the task of building new defenses based on knowledge of the truth. But right now all of us needed peace and rest.
We were into the second hour of the session. Amanda had arranged it this way to give her time to push for a breakthrough, although now we didn’t have energy to continue. But we had no choice: he needed to take something home. Some sort of validation.
“As a ten year old there was nothing you could do. Nothing to stop him or to save her. It was an adult thing and you had no part in it. It wasn’t your fault. You hid from his anger, then from yourself. If you couldn’t remember, you wouldn’t be responsible for knowing. So you made yourself forget. You could still love your uncle and your aunt, as if the whole thing had never happened.” Tom seemed not to listen, but his temporal lobes were pulsing with each word. I nodded to Amanda, encouraging her. At the same time I sent calming thoughts and feelings into his brain, knowing that the emotional content would get through.
“And you did well. You forgot. And when you remembered just a little, you denied it. You got very good at it. The whole thing had to be a nightmare.
“The trouble is that you remembered in your sleep. The harder you repressed those memories, the more you dreamed about them. You blamed yourself for standing by and doing nothing. In time, you invented a person to blame so you wouldn’t feel guilty. Then another to carry the shame and be ostracized. You turned someone else into a pariah, all so you wouldn’t have to remember and if you did, it was someone else at fault.
“But each fragment you created needed another piece to support it. Thus the Keeper of the Secret, the Archivist, the Keeper of Memory and the Enforcer were spawned. You built walls around each, letting it see only a little of the whole.” Amanda was saying this in a calm, measured voice.
“No, it’s...” Tom voice croaked, “It’s too much.”
“Yes, it had become a burden. The facade cracked and had to be fixed. No one must suspect. But no one had authority. Not Harry the CEO, not the Superior Court. Everyday living became complicated, then nearly impossible. You were wise to come to me for help.”
So she talked the rest of the time: her voice smooth, consoling, like an IV rehydrating him, filling the denial with affirmation, empowering him.
When the second hour also came to an end, Amanda wrapped things up. Tom was reluctant to leave the safety of her office, afraid to be alone with himself. But as he said goodbye his voice was already more direct.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised him. After that I don’t know how she dragged herself through two more clients: one a middle aged woman who spewed against her husband the entire time, the other, a self-absorbed career woman who couldn’t understand the ins and outs of relationships. Amanda must have let the stream of complaints just blow over her on auto pilot. Often, all the client wanted was a sounding board. A good therapist took that and channeled it into a positive, self-affirming direction.
“You think Tom is going to be all right?” I asked her after dinner.
“I think so... if he accepts and works at it. We still have a long way to go. We have to tuck all the personalities back into a single self. And that takes time. Can you see the Judge giving up his power and melting back into the Corporation? Tom will have a lot to relearn.
“You did well today. We work well together,” she said, giving me an appraising look. “But you have to be very careful that you don’t lead the patient, putting words into his mouth, into his mind. Often fragile patients are too confused and very susceptible to suggestions and will seize upon them to explain things—then believe the ideas are their own. Psychology has been blamed for implanting false memories in such situations. We have to be careful not to fall into that trap.” I was a bit deflated by her caution; I thought I had done well. I just went where my ESP took me.
A little later during a commercial break in the news, she thanked me for my signals during the session, helping her steer through the difficult moments. “It would’ve been nearly impossible without your inside information. Certainly it wouldn’t have been so quick.”
