The Last House on Needless Street(64)

I almost laugh out loud. Lauren could never live harmoniously with anyone. ‘That wouldn’t work,’ I say. ‘On the show the two people don’t know that they’re one person.’

‘Her imagination could be made to work for her,’ he says. ‘She doesn’t have to be at its mercy. She should construct a place inside herself. A real structure. A lot of children use castles, or mansions. But it can be anything. A room, a barn. Big, with enough room for everyone. Then she can invite the different parts to congregate there safely. They can get to know one another.’

‘They really don’t like each other,’ I say.

‘I can recommend some reading,’ he says. ‘That could help you understand this approach better.’

‘What’s the other school of thought?’

‘Integration. The alters are subsumed into the primary personality. Effectively, they disappear.’

‘Like dying.’ Like murder.

He looks at me carefully over his glasses. ‘In a way,’ he says. ‘It’s a long therapeutic process, which can take years. Some practitioners think it is the best solution. I don’t know. To merge fully evolved personalities into one another might be difficult – inadvisable. Some practitioners consider these personalities, these alters, to be people in their own right. They have lives, thoughts. For want of a better word, they have souls. It would be like trying to merge you and me.’

‘But it can be done,’ I say.

‘Ted,’ he says. ‘If you know – someone – with this condition, they are going to need help with this. A lot of help. I could guide her …’

His left hand rests in his lap. His right hand lies palm down on the small table at his side, an inch or so from his mobile phone. I pick up a pen from the table and play with it, watching his right hand, the one near the phone, very carefully. I wait for him to make the next mental leap. I wait for him to reach for the phone. I hope he doesn’t. Strangely, I have grown fond of him.

‘Such a rich puzzle,’ he says dreamily, and I can tell that he’s not really talking to me any more. ‘It’s a question I ask in my book. Of what does the self consist? You know, there is a philosophical argument that DID could hold the secret to existence. It theorises that each living thing and object, each stone and blade of grass, has a soul, and all these souls together form a single consciousness. Every single thing is a living, component part of a breathing, sentient universe … In that sense we are all alternate personalities – of God, essentially. Isn’t that an idea?’

‘Neat,’ I say. ‘Could you give me the names of those books, please?’ I am as polite as possible. ‘About the integration thing.’

‘Oh – sure.’ He tears a page out of his notebook and scribbles.

‘Please think about it, Ted,’ he says, eyes on the page. ‘I think it could be really helpful if I could talk to her.’ His eyes are full of safe abstractions. He is lit up with the thrill of it. I keep the pen hidden in my fist, held like a dagger.

If only he knew. I think of the dark nights with Lauren, the clinging moistness of her hands, her sharp teeth and nails, which leave neat scores in my flesh. I think of Mommy.

I come back from that place. There is a sound like mice running in the walls. The pen nib is buried deep in my palm. The sound is not mouse feet but blood, trickling in patterns onto the pale rug. The bug man stares. His face is empty and white. As I watch, it begins to fill with horror. My own face is not making the correct shapes for pain and it’s too late, now, to pretend that I feel it. The bug man has seen something of who truly I am at last. I pull the pen gently from where it is embedded in my palm. It comes out with a gentle sucking sound, like a lollipop between firm lips. I staunch the wound with Kleenex from his desk.

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the piece of paper from his fingers. He tries not to, but he shrinks away from me. I know it well: that withdrawal, as if the flesh of his hand is trying to creep away from mine. It is how my mother touched me.

I stumble out of the office, slamming the door behind me and fall into the plastic waiting room, with its reek of synthetic blossom. That did not go well. But at least I have a name for it, now. I stop long enough to write it down. Dissociative identity disorder. I hear the office door opening behind me and I run again, stumbling against empty plastic blue chairs. Why is there never anyone else waiting here? It doesn’t matter now, I won’t be coming back.





Olivia





I am beginning to wonder if Ted has thrown the knife in the trash. Or maybe he carries it with him, wherever he goes on those long nights, when he comes home smelling of earth and old bone.

We considered other approaches. But it must be the knife, because it is sharp and fast. Lauren’s body is not strong. There is nothing to eat in the house, poisonous or otherwise. Ted has learned his lesson.

I don’t want to tell Lauren this, but I think Ted is up to something. He brought home some new books, today. The titles make my whiskers ache. But I think they are about us. I try and mask these thoughts, keep them from her. She can’t hear if I sink them deep enough. Once again I thank the lord for keeping me here. Lauren needs me.

‘Maybe I can make a knife,’ Lauren says, doubtful. ‘Like they do on TV, in jail. I wish there was some food. It might help me think.’