Jonathan Nasaw - When She Was Bad

Lily turned her head. Her eyes swam with tears, blurring and brightening the silvery glare filtering in through the oval windows. “The phone call from the policeman-that wasn’t something I dreamed, was it, Dr. Irene?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“How-how long has it been?” The plane straightened out again; Lily felt the pressure of the descent in her ears.

“Not quite three weeks.”

“Did I miss the funeral?”

Thud -the cabin trembled briefly as the landing gear let down. “The memorial service, yes, I’m afraid so. But your uncle Rollie said to tell you that he’s saving the ashes until you get home so the two of you can scatter them in the bay.”

Ashes, thought Lily. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. “Dr. Irene?”

“Yes?”

“When we get home, can I stay at your house for a while? I don’t think I could handle being alone in the hacienda.”

Thwwwwt -it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the cabin, replaced by a shivery silence. The white-striped black tarmac rushed by on either side of the plane. Then, as the wheels hit the tarmac at the shallowest of angles, rebounded into the air, and skipped along the runway for a few dozen yards like a stone skimming across a pond, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“We’re not going home, are we?” she called, over the whine of the braking engines.

“I’m-No, no we’re not.” I’m afraid not, Irene had started to say, before it occurred to her how frequently she’d used the word afraid in the last few minutes.

Now why is that? she asked herself, as the plane taxied toward the terminal. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that in about twenty minutes she’d be in the same building as Ulysses Maxwell, could it?

Well, yes, actually it could. But there was nothing to be afraid of, the psychiatrist reminded herself, unconsciously rubbing her forefinger over the burn scar on the back of her hand where the alter known as Max had held a cigarette lighter to her flesh. Because he can’t hurt you anymore, she told herself firmly. He can’t hurt you ever again.

Fighting panic during the last leg of the journey to the Reed-Chase Institute- Is this really happening? Oh God, is this really happening? — afterward Lily would remember the ride only in disconnected flashes. The anonymous-looking white van that met them at the Portland airport; Uncle Pen in his ridiculous hula shirt standing at the curb waving good-bye; the subaqueous light through the van’s dark-tinted windows; a girdered bridge over a shining river; a rolling, landscaped parkway; Dr. Irene reminding her to breathe, dear, don’t forget to breathe.

As soon as she left the van, her perception tunneled. She took in the suburban-looking sidewalk beneath her feet, the cement walkway bordered with bright petunias and ranunculuses, and the sliding glass doors with the RCI diamond, but as if in a nightmare, she would not, could not raise her eyes to the stern-fronted, two-story brick building, and would later recall it only as a brooding presence looming before her.

To ease the apprehension of patients and allay the misgivings of the family members responsible for committing them, the reception area at Reed-Chase was designed to look more like a hotel lobby than a hospital waiting room. Instead of linoleum, a plush gray wall-to-wall carpet; instead of the usual rows of hard-backed chairs, upholstered furniture in separate groupings, each with its own floor or table lamp; tall rubber plants in urns or tubs furthered the resemblance to an old-fashioned hotel lobby.

“Irene, so good to see you.” A plump, shirt-sleeved man bustled across the lobby and hugged Dr. Cogan warmly. “And you must be Lily,” he added, holding out a pudgy pink hand that was well-scrubbed even by Lily’s demanding standards. “Hi, I’m Dr. Corder.”

Lily shook hands reluctantly, then she and Dr. Cogan followed Corder through another set of sliding glass doors behind and to the right of the reception desk, and down a short corridor to a high-ceilinged office with walnut bookshelves and arched windows covered with dark valanced curtains.

Corder ushered the women into chairs drawn up in front of his imposing desk, then walked around behind the desk and sat down in a high-backed leather chair. “Welcome to the Institute. How was your flight?”

“Very comfortable,” replied Dr. Cogan. “From now on, I’m going to fly by ambulance.”

Corder chuckled. “How about you, Lily?”

“Well, for once I didn’t get airsick.” She wasn’t sure why that was funny, but both doctors chuckled. “Is that your family?” Nodding toward a triptych picture frame on the desk: blond woman on the left, blond teenage girl on the right, and in the center a snapshot of a younger, thinner Corder in a green smock, his surgical mask dangling from his neck as he cradled a newborn baby in his arms.

“My wife, Cheryl; my daughter, Alison; I, ah, don’t know who that cute devil in the middle is.”

Suddenly it was all too much for Lily-the picture of the helpless baby in its father’s arms had sent the old sadness stealing over her. Where other people had childhoods, happier or unhappier by degree, Lily had a great dark hole inside her from which her childhood had been violently torn. And as if that weren’t bad enough, now her grandparents were both dead and she was being institutionalized. Ashes, ashes, she thought. All…fall…

“Lily, no!” Dr. Cogan leapt from her chair as the girl buried her face in her hands; she grabbed Lily’s wrists and forced them apart. “Stay with us, honey, you need to stay with us.”

Corder had jumped to his feet. “Alter switch?”

Cogan nodded; Lily struggled halfheartedly to free her hands.

“No, let her,” said Corder softly.

But it was too late. Still herself, Lily glanced up, embarrassed, as the psychiatrists sat down again. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” said Corder. “Before we’re done, you and I, I’m going to want to meet all your alters. I have something very important to teach them.”

“What’s that?” Lily wanted to know; so did Irene Cogan.

“That they’re not welcome here-that their, ah, time is up.”

“I don’t think they’re going to like that,” said Lily, almost inaudibly.

“Makes no never mind what they like or don’t like,” said Corder folksily. “Around here we’re much more concerned with reinforcing the original personality-that’s you, young lady.”

“I know that,” said Lily; the doctors chuckled pleasantly, pointlessly again, as though she’d been cracking jokes left and right.

“The way we do that is by making you as happy and comfortable as possible. Gourmet cuisine or comfort food, as you prefer-I warn you, you may put on a few pounds; I certainly have.” He patted his belly. “Walks in the arboretum, swimming in the lap pool, movies in our own little theater-basically anything that will help you avoid stress, since stress is the number-one trigger for alter switches.”

“No kidding,” said Lily, to another round of forced chuckles.

“That’s the spirit,” said Corder. “Now, if you’re both ready, I’d like to show you around. And if you don’t mind, Irene, there’s someone I’d like Lily to meet. Someone who’s, ah, been through what she’s been through, and come out the other side.”

It took Irene another few seconds to realize what Corder had in mind; when it dawned on her, she felt a sudden chill, followed by a churning in her lower bowel, as if she’d just polished off a plateful of bad mussels.

No matter how badly Lyssy’s day was going, he always felt better in the arboretum. His senses started coming alive the moment he passed through the entrance arch, two red-lacquered vertical timbers supporting a slanting, overlapping red lintel beam, which together, according to Dr. Corder, formed an oriental character symbolizing tranquillity. Lyssy drank in the dappled light, the satisfying crunch of the blue-gray pea gravel underfoot, the dry biting scent of the evergreens, the harsh chatter of the jays.