Wait for me, p.12
Wait for Me, page 12
I scoff. “You made me move to the dorms because of that flu I had. Because you thought I was reckless and would infect Dad.”
Fran frowns. “You didn’t have a flu. You had an episode. As Becky.” A variety of emotions cross her features, but her voice isn’t accusatory. “You came to this town, searching for a memory you were sure was real. It took us forever to find you. Thank God I realized we could track you on your phone.”
There are confused tears in my eyes. “But I didn’t come to Avon Shores this summer.” Except then I look at Jake. He just said I did. “Why don’t I remember?”
“I just told you.” Fran’s voice is tender now, which knocks me even more off-kilter. “You never remember what you do when you’re acting as Becky.”
“I’m not acting as Becky,” I insist. “I have no idea where you’re getting that from—how you even know about her. Becky is—”
“An alternate personality,” Fran interrupts. “A young woman you’ve created when you feel overwhelmed, or scared, or guilty. A girl who’s carefree and romantic, always in search of her long-lost love, Will.”
“Excuse me?” I shriek. I can’t breathe. “No. Becky was a person. Not a . . . a figment.” I glance at Jake. “She lived before I did. I’m her, but I’m also not her! I thought you understood.”
Jake’s lips part. He looks cornered . . . and definitely not like he understands.
Fran is wrong. They’re all wrong. Becky lived, and now she’s gone, but she lives on in me. How else do I know everything about Avon Shores? How did I know where to walk, people’s names, all of it?
Except then it hits me. Do I know about Avon Shores because I came to Avon Shores this summer? A trip I do . . . and don’t . . . remember?
I blink hard. I stare at my still-bleeding palm. I start to shake.
“It’s called dissociative personality disorder,” Fran says quietly. “People develop it, sometimes, after they’ve experienced trauma—they disassociate themselves, form another person inside them called an alter to escape into. Your doctor suggested you developed your Becky alter after the accident, but it’s actually not true. You were Becky long before that.”
“I don’t have a doctor!” Except when I close my eyes, a flash comes. A balding man in a sterile office. The sun streaming in, hot against the side of my face. My head pounding with exhaustion.
“Becky only seems to resurface when you’re going through difficult stuff,” Fran goes on. “For a while, she didn’t show up at all—it’s unclear why she’s started to poke through again. Your therapy worked for a long, long time. Marcus and I were talking about it on the drive here—it’s probably your course load, a job, living in the city, all of it.”
“The promise of an internship,” Marcus says. “Dating me. It’s too much.”
“My life isn’t too much,” I say weakly. “I can handle it. I’m fine.” I point to my books stacked on the side table. “I-I was studying. Getting ready. I’m good.”
Fran looks heartbroken. “But you’re hearing voices again, aren’t you? And you’re having visions?” I look away. “And you’ve reached out to the same person from before. You’re having the same memories.” Then she frowns at Jake. “You should go now. Please.”
“Oh.” Jake shifts awkwardly. “Um . . . I mean, I’d rather—”
“Please,” Fran says abruptly. “This is a family matter.”
I can feel Jake looking my way, but I’m too humiliated to meet his gaze. Finally, he disappears into the bedroom. A moment later, he returns, now wearing his T-shirt, coat, and shoes.
His head is down as he walks to the door. As he passes Marcus, I notice how much taller Jake is. Still, Marcus puffs out his chest. He seems more substantial, somehow.
“Little bit predatory, dude,” Marcus says under his breath.
Jake stops and looks back at me. “Casey, I didn’t think I was being . . .” he starts, but then slaps his hands to his sides. “I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t put it together. Really.”
My eyes blur with tears. There are so many things I want to ask him, but I don’t have the words. The memories of meeting Jake swim in the same brackish waters as the memories I thought were Becky’s. I still can’t figure out if they’re the same memories or different ones. I go back to the vision of seeing Will across the room of that crowded party—but now it’s Jake’s face. Jake’s eyes. Jake’s hair.
The memory keeps going. I rolled up to him, interrupting a conversation he was having with other people. “It’s me,” I said, taking him by surprise.
“Hi, me.” Jake smiled flirtatiously. Achingly flirtatiously. “Does me have a name? Or are you just me?”
“It’s Becky.”
Now, I go limp. Did I really introduce myself as Becky? Is that all this is?
I stare around the Honeymoon Suite. My books are scattered across the coffee table. The air smells of watermelon hand soap. How clear-eyed I’ve been since Jake and I kissed hours before. Jake felt like my person. I was edging toward embracing that. And, okay, it sucks that Marcus . . . discovered us, but he was bound to figure it out at some point.
What if I’d been moving toward this same conclusion last time, too? What if, I don’t know, I just have a sense Jake and I are meant to be, and that’s why I keep coming here? Even if Becky doesn’t really exist, it doesn’t mean I haven’t found my person.
“What’s so wrong with having someone else’s voice inside me?” I dare to ask Fran. “Especially if she’s leading me to happiness?”
Marcus sighs. He sounds hurt. I don’t mean to hurt him. But I have to be honest.
“Casey,” Fran says softly. “Remaining as Becky too long . . . it’s led to some terrible consequences.” She swallows. “She takes a dark turn. She makes you reckless. Once, it was even grabbing the wheel of a car.”
I scoff. “I don’t know how to drive!”
“You weren’t the driver.”
I stare at her. She looks wrecked. Then I burst out laughing. “What are you talking about?”
She glances over her shoulder then. “Actually, there’s someone who might be able to explain.” She whispers something to Marcus. It almost sounds like get him.
Marcus nods and disappears out of the suite. I stare at Fran. “Where’s he going?”
Fran doesn’t answer.
Soon, there are slow footsteps on the landing. When a gray, stooped man steps through the door—tightly clutching Marcus’s arm—I almost don’t recognize him as my father.
My mouth drops open. “Are you well enough to be here?”
“I’m okay,” Dad says, though his voice is ragged and thin, far fainter than it used to be. His eyes are sunken. His skin has double the wrinkles. He’s wearing pajamas and walks with stiff legs, and he looks like he’s ninety years old.
When he gazes at me, his smile is sad. “Marcus has told me a little of what’s been going on.”
“Is this true?” I whisper. “Everything they’re saying—is it true?”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Yes, honey. Becky’s been with you a lot of your life. Your mother and I thought she was an imaginary friend. She wasn’t harmful, until . . .”
He trails off, looking pained. “Until what?” I ask.
My father shakes his head and glances at Fran. She shrugs.
He takes a breath. “There was an eyewitness at the scene of the car accident. The one with you and your mother. And someone says they saw you . . . lean forward, to the front seat. Grab the steering wheel from her. Turn it . . . toward the bridge.”
I stiffen, slowly understanding. “I wouldn’t do that,” I whisper.
He raise his palms. “Then, when I came to you in the hospital, you were talking as Becky. She wasn’t just next to you anymore; she was you. And you kept saying . . . she kept saying . . . that she had to do it. She had to turn the wheel.”
My heart bangs. I try to swallow, but bile rises in my throat. “No. I don’t remember any of this. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He stares at the floor. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“You didn’t want me to know that you think I caused my mother’s death?” I clutch the sides of my head. Is this possible? “There’s no way I would have done that! And who was this eyewitness? How do we not know they’re lying?”
My father looks at me sadly. “Why would someone lie?”
Tears stream down my face. “But I loved her. And . . . and what?” I swallow down a sob. “You’re saying Becky killed her? You’re saying, what, Becky is . . . evil?” I glance at Marcus, who’s still standing there, staring at all of us with pity. I hate that he’s witnessing this.
“Something was clearly wrong,” Fran says quietly.
I whip around to her. “You weren’t there.”
“Casey,” my father warns. “I’ve told Fran about it many times. She’s helped with you, through the years. We thought, we hoped, this might fade away. Like I said, we hadn’t heard from Becky for a long time. But it’s clear you’re not healed, still.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I still can’t believe it. Images from that last day with my mom flash into my mind. Her playing that aria over the car stereo. The reflection of her in the rearview mirror as she smiled. I can’t fathom lurching forward and wrenching the wheel.
But there’s so much I don’t remember from then—the moment of the crash, the days after it, all of my time in the hospital. Could I have become Becky, somehow? Like maybe her life twisted up in mine? Could someone have seen me through the window doing the unthinkable? But why?
How well do I really know myself? Could I do something like that?
Fran breathes in raggedly. “Let us get you help. Please.”
I shake my head, not wanting to believe any of this. The panic is rising. My heart is beating hard in my chest. But then, my arms fall to my sides. I can feel the struggle seeping out of me. You don’t know yourself. Maybe you’re a danger.
“Okay,” I say. Because I don’t know what else to say. And I let them take my hands and lead me out of the suite. Away from the beach. Away from my life.
“Checkmate,” I say, moving my pawn one square up the board.
My opponent, Charlie, groans. “Tell me again. You really never played chess until you came here?”
“Never interested me.”
“You could’ve been the captain of your school’s team.”
Charlie rubs his temples, his chestnut hair falling over his forehead. Despite being pale, despite the circles under his eyes, and despite the fact that he’s usually wearing the same Columbia hoodie and plaid pajama pants, Charlie is attractive and really smart. He’s been a good friend to me since I’ve come to Chadwick Pond.
“Another game?” Charlie asks.
I shake my head. “I think I need to get my thoughts together before my session.”
“Gotcha,” Charlie says.
His gaze wanders around the room, searching for someone else he can play with. Charlie’s the first person who will tell you that chess is one of the few things that calms him down. He has an agitated mind, and though he’s trying to work through it, he knows his limitations.
I guess we all do here.
It’s a new disguise I’m wearing: the disguise of the patient of Chadwick Pond, a residency program for teens and young adults struggling with mental illnesses or behavioral issues. Or maybe it’s not a disguise at all. It’s what I’m realizing—all those disguises I wore before, all those different versions of myself, alters maybe, coping mechanisms.
And this Casey, it’s just me. Stripped down. Vulnerable.
A little sad. Actually, a lot sad.
I’m not sad that I’m getting help. I mean, okay, at first I was angry. Really angry. I didn’t want to give up my life. I had exams—and I’d studied so hard. I had my job at Pet Planet. I had Pippa—though, admittedly, I was furious with her.
But then, poof, none of that mattered. I was excused from school. A moving company was hired to pack up my things from my dorm. Excuses were made to my boss at the pet store. The world just . . . stopped.
For the first week, I was still sure everyone was lying. It just didn’t seem possible. Not that I had a mental illness—I staunchly believe that mental illness is no different than childhood leukemia, or diabetes, or a brain tumor. It’s something we can’t control. Even if my mother hadn’t been in that car accident, I likely still might be this way, as my father says Becky has been around since I was very young. I’m not a bad person for retreating into safe corners in my mind and even making things up to comfort myself.
But I couldn’t believe that my mental illness is this. Becky. She seemed so . . . separate from me. Nor did I want to think that Becky made me do irrational things, even dangerous things. Take trips I don’t remember. Wrench a steering wheel, sending my mom’s car into incoming traffic.
Killing my mother.
It destroyed me. I didn’t want to believe my mind had tricked me so viciously. It astonishes me that my brain just wiped out the moments where I’d stepped into Becky’s shoes, where my personality shifted into her personality, where we bled into each other. And I questioned why. Why is this happening to me, of all people? Why do I have to be struggling? And why would Becky want to hurt the person I loved the most in the world?
My therapist, John, decided to try hypnosis sessions to see if he could draw Becky out. Session after session, though, nothing happened. I was put into a relaxed state, I said some stuff, and then I came back to full consciousness with John smiling a thin, disappointed smile.
Except one day, all that changed.
John recorded all my sessions, and we both reviewed them when they were over. This time, he was excited for me to see what had happened. On the screen, I watched as John gave me some instructions and my head bobbed into my neck, deeply relaxed. John gave some more guided meditation prompts. He wanted me to go deep within myself, see who I really was. He said I should welcome all parts of myself . . . and that he’d welcome those parts, too.
Then he paused the video and pointed at the screen. “See how your features relax? There.”
I leaned in. Sure enough, my jaw had slackened. The Casey on the screen opened her eyes again, and her smile was no longer a grimace. Even when I spoke, my voice was a little more high-pitched. I was someone else.
“Hi,” the someone else said.
“Who am I talking to?” the John in the video asked.
The girl on the screen smiled. “Becky.” Her voice was floaty, calm.
I pressed my hand to my mouth.
“How are you doing, Becky?” John asked cheerfully.
Becky smiled brightly. “Good, I guess.” She looked around, annoyed. “But where’s Will?”
I bit down hard on my bottom lip until I drew blood.
“Who’s Will, Becky?” John asked in the video.
Becky smiled sweetly. “My true love. Seriously, where is he? He was here. We were together. I’d like to see him again.”
“Maybe we could talk about the accident instead?”
Becky’s eyes widened. “Why do you want to talk about that?”
“Because it’s important. Do you remember the accident with Casey’s mom. Near the canal? In the car? You know Casey, right? And her mom? You want to tell me why you did it?”
Becky became agitated. “No. That’s not the accident.”
“Yes, it is. Stay with me. The Gowanus Canal. Can you explain what was going through your mind? It’s okay. No one is mad. We just want to help. We want to understand.”
Becky shook her head. “I wasn’t in that car,” she kept saying. “You’ve got it wrong. That’s not my accident.” But she couldn’t explain. She retreated shortly after that. And then it was over.
John turned the video off and looked at me. “So. Who’s Will?”
I lowered my eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Apparently he’s not real, either.”
John held up a hand. “Even so. Will represents something. Something that you, as Becky, need very badly.” He shifted in his chair. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about any neglect you’d felt as a child? Trauma?”
“The only trauma I endured was my mother dying,” I said through gritted teeth. “Before that, my childhood was great.”
“Do you remember Will in your early iterations of Becky? When she was more of an imaginary friend, a character in your stories?”
I shrugged. “The Becky in my stories never had a friend named Will.”
“So when did Will come into the picture, then?”
“Just recently, I think.” I waved my hands. “A few months ago? When I was at the beach the first time, maybe? But it’s not like I remember that trip, so I can’t say for sure.”
John rubbed his beard. “Perhaps Will is your security blanket. He represents love. Stability.”
“Why would I fabricate this whole marriage plot between Becky and someone else, then?” I asked. “In the story I created in my head, Becky doesn’t even get engaged to Will. So I made up this whole scene before her wedding; she’s marrying someone else. So, what, I’m sabotaging my subconscious, too?”
“Who’s this other person she’s marrying?”
I slapped the couch cushions. “Someone else who doesn’t exist, I assume!”
“That person must represent something, too. Tell me more about this wedding story you’ve created.”
I walked him through the visions. “The last thing I see”—I catch myself—“imagine, is someone’s grabbing her from behind. Attacking Becky.”
“Ah. Maybe you’re attacking her.”
“No.” I sat up straighter. “I’m the one being attacked.”
John regarded me. “There are two of you, though. There’s you, Casey, and your alter, Becky. Remember, those who have dissociative personality disorder are never aware of their alter personalities—Becky is aware of you, but not the other way around. That explains why you have gaps in memory.”
I frowned. “But I am aware of who Becky is. As myself. I’ve seen her memories. They feel like hers, not mine.”
John smiled sadly. “Do you know anything about her, though? Or do you just think you do?”
