Mr. Nobody(92)
I feel a shiver of dread fizz through me at what he’s describing, tinged at its edges with excitement. Because the symptoms he’s outlining are a psychiatrist’s dream. Somehow, I’ve accidentally wandered into treating the most fascinating and dangerous patient of my career. Perhaps this is what I wanted? If I was a Jungian analyst, that’d certainly be my takeaway from all this. If I wasn’t so completely crippled by fear, I’d pull out my phone and record this.
His symptoms: recurrent fugue, full dissociation from violent behavior, coupled with remorse, shame, fear. It sounds like dissociative personality disorder. Dissociative personality disorder used to be called multiple personality disorder, or MPD. They renamed it in the nineties because there was this common misconception, even in the medical community, that MPD meant a patient had more than one personality. It doesn’t mean that, it means that the patient has less than one personality. It is a fragmenting or a splintering of identity. Shards of an independent self.
“When did this start, Matthew?” I ask carefully. “Do you remember how it started?” I encourage him.
“When I was young. A kid. As far back as that. I don’t remember my family, if that’s where you’re going with this. I don’t know how it started. My best guess is, I must have lost my family after one of the early resets. You can’t go home if you don’t remember where home is. So, I lost them. Or perhaps they lost me.” He smiles sadly, and without thinking, I find myself smiling back in sympathy. Because whoever this man is, he has Matthew’s face, he has Matthew’s smile.
“Either way,” he continues, “I don’t remember who they were.” He shakes his head. “It’s strange. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told another person these things.”
He’s trying to elicit another personal response from me. He’s testing the boundaries of our relationship. I weigh my options carefully before responding. “And how does that make you feel, Matthew?”
He grins at my evasion, aware of my dilemma. Of our dilemma. The doctor-patient contract is a simple one but so easy to unbalance. He gives a nod of acknowledgment before answering my question. “It makes me feel good, Emma. So, thank you for listening.”
Our boundaries successfully reinforced, I shift position in my chair and reorient the conversation. “Do you remember who you were before you woke up on the beach, Matthew?”
“I have flashes of him. I have flashes of being lots of different people, living lots of different lives. I don’t know exactly who I was before I was Stephen.”
“You weren’t actually Stephen, though, were you? You took Stephen’s identity.”
He sobers at my correction. “Yes.”
“And you are certain you killed him? You remember that? There isn’t the possibility you just stole his identity?” I say the words as neutrally as I can. I need to be his ally.
He hesitates; the thought seems to be a new one for him. “I can’t remember the physical act of killing him, no, but I must have because here I am, being Stephen. And that’s how I’ve always done it in the past.”
“How you’ve always done it? How many others have there been, Matthew?”
He studies me, his handsome face open and artless. “Quite a few, Emma,” he says simply. “I remember some of them in detail and yet it’s like remembering a dream or a nightmare. What I’m doing seems to make sense at the time but it doesn’t in the remembering. Do you see? At the time, it seems like the only choice. Like a necessity. Do you understand? To get away or because I needed an identity. If I just stole an identity without killing the person, then I would just be waiting for the day the real person claimed it back. It happened in the early days. I needed an identity to live, to rent a car, to book a flight, to get a job, to live a life. I needed a face, a name. And I didn’t have one.”
My thoughts go to my phone buried deep in my pocket, so close but so incredibly far. I think of Rhoda sending Chris to a beach I’m no longer on and I want to cry. Matthew has been trying to get me on my own for so long, he’s thought of everything. And now I have no way out.
“How did you know my name when we met, Matthew? Why am I here?” I ask, the words coming out almost involuntarily. I notice the slight tremble in my voice.
He hears it too and finally seems to realize that I am terrified to my bones, terrified of the things he has said, terrified of this situation.
“Oh God, Emma. I’m so sorry. Please don’t be scared. You must know that I would never hurt you. I promise you. You can’t understand how—” He stops and looks down; I notice his hands are trembling too. “You can’t possibly understand what you mean to me. You are all I have. All of this is for you. Everything I’ve done is to find you. To get close to you.” His brown eyes, warm once more, dart over my face, searching for understanding.
All of this is for me? What does that mean, why did he need to find me? I don’t know him. Do I? Or have I just forgotten? I think about who there has been in my life who might try as hard as Matthew to find me. An old patient? Someone from my childhood? I know this can’t have anything to do with my father, but I suddenly hear myself blurt out the question before I can stop myself. The question that’s been on my mind ever since we met.