Blood Memory (27 page)

The oily film that the river left on my skin has a sulfurous stink, and I want it off me. I turn the shower taps, and the water heats up fast. Stripping off the T-shirt again, I climb into the tub and stand under the steaming spray.

Except during my drive to the island—when I was pretty much in shock—I haven’t had time to think about what Grandpapa told me this afternoon. Not critically, anyway. What I told Michael is true: when I stop taking my meds, my logical faculties go to hell. So does my short-term memory. But when Grandpapa told me he killed Daddy, it was as though the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle fell into place, completing a picture that had eluded me for most of my life. Only that story resonates emotionally with my past as I know it. According to Michael, accepting that my father abused me means accepting that he didn’t love me. I suppose that’s true, since abusing a child means using it purely for your own ends. But couldn’t Daddy have loved me independently of that? Couldn’t he have loved me, but simply been unable to resist the impulse to touch me? Or is that just wishful thinking?

For some reason, this thought makes me think of Michael. The guy drove out to the boondocks in the middle of the night to rescue me and asked for nothing in return. He even cooked supper for me. Then he gave me a room to sleep in. Using my past experiences with men as a guide, Michael should pull aside the shower curtain about now and climb in with me, saying he just couldn’t resist. But he won’t do that. I’m sure of it.

My ears pick out a strange harmonic from the water spraying from the nozzle. When it stops and begins again, I recognize the tones of my cell phone. Rinsing the soap off my face, I grab the phone, lean away from the spray, and look at the screen.
Det. Sean Regan.
I don’t really want to answer, but I do want to know if Sean is sleeping at home with his wife or not. I press
SEND
and say, “Don’t say anything until you tell me where you are.”

“This isn’t who you think it is,” says a precise voice with a trace of humor in it.

My heart is pounding. “Dr. Malik?”

“None other. Are you alone, Catherine? I need to speak to you.”

A current of fear shoots through my veins, not for me but for Sean. “How did you get Sean’s cell phone?”

“I don’t have his phone. I reprogrammed the phone I’m using to mimic Detective Regan’s digital ID information. John Kaiser and the FBI won’t pay so much attention to this call if the ESN belongs to your boyfriend.”

How the hell does he know all that?
“Go ahead, then.”

“I’m calling you because I need to leave something with you.”

I turn off the shower and wrap a towel around my chest. “What is it?”

“I’d rather not tell you on the phone. I just need to leave it with someone I can trust.”

“You trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Instinct.”

“You shouldn’t. I’m working with the FBI.”

“Are you?” A hint of sarcasm. “I don’t think so. It has to be you, Catherine. There’s no one else.”

“What about a friend?”

“I don’t have friends. I have patients.”

I feel exactly the same way.
“I can relate to that. Patients and ex-lovers. That’s about it.”

Malik laughs softly. “I have only patients.”

I have the distinct feeling that the psychiatrist is telling me his patients are his lovers. “If you’re trying to give me your patient records, I can’t accept them. The FBI named those in a search warrant. They’d prosecute me if I withheld them.”

“It’s not my records.” Malik’s indrawn breath stops suddenly. “It’s a film.”

“A film?”

“A film and the raw materials relating to it. Mini-DV tapes, DVD disks, audiotapes, like that. It’s all in two boxes.”

“What kind of film?”

“I’m making a documentary about sexual abuse and repressed memory.”

This revelation comes as such a surprise that I’m not sure how to respond. Yet it makes perfect sense. Recalling Malik in his all-black getup, it’s easy to see him as some sort of revolutionary film-maker.

“Nothing like it has ever been seen before,” he says with gravity. “It’s the most emotionally devastating thing ever committed to film. If it reaches the screen, it will shake this country to its foundations.”

“What does it show? Actual sexual abuse?”

“In a way. It shows women reliving abuse in a group setting. Some of them obviously regress to a childhood state. Their experiences are shattering.”

“I assume the women are patients of yours. Did they give their permission for you to record them?”

“Yes. They’re part of a very special group. An experimental group. Women only. I formed it after years of watching conventional therapy approaches fail. I chose patients who were at the stage where the eruption of delayed memories was beginning to destroy their lives, and where multigenerational abuse seemed likely. They were highly motivated. I’ve spent seven months working with them, and we’ve done some groundbreaking things.”

“Is that the extent of it? Women in group therapy?”

Malik makes a sound I can’t interpret. “You shouldn’t denigrate what you’ve never experienced, Catherine. Never fear, though. I’ve recorded certain other activities as well. I can’t discuss those now. Let’s just say they’re highly controversial in nature.
Explosive
might be a better word.”

Certain other activities?
“Are you talking about the murders?”

“I can’t discuss the specifics of the film with you now.”

My heart rate is steadily accelerating. “Do you plan to show this film anywhere?”

“Yes, but right now I’m more concerned with keeping it safe.”

“From whom?”

“A lot of people would like this film to disappear. My film and all my records. These people are terrified of the truths I know.”

“If you’re that worried, why not turn yourself in to the FBI?”

“The FBI wants to jail me for murder.”

“If you’re innocent, what does that matter?”

“There are degrees of innocence.”

“I think you’re talking about degrees of guilt, Doctor.”

“That’s a philosophical question we don’t have time for. I’ll turn myself in when the time is right. For now, I need your help. Will you keep my film safe for me?”

“Look, I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to. The FBI is probably following me. They may even be listening to this call.”

“By tomorrow maybe. We’re safe for now. Do you have a pen?”

I glance around the bedroom, but there’s nothing to write with. My purse is in my Audi, across the river from DeSalle Island. “No, but I have a good memory.”

“Memorize this phone number. Five zero four, eight zero two, nine nine four one. Do you have it?”

I repeat the number aloud and commit it to memory.

“If you need to speak to me after this,” Malik says, “leave a message at that number.”

“I want to speak to you now, and not about your film.”

“Hurry.”

“Why did you tell me not to trust my family?”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

Malik sighs as if unsure whether he can spare the time to talk to me. “Families like yours are made up of three types of people. Offenders, deniers, and victims. Every family member plays one of these roles. When a victim begins digging into her past and making assertions of abuse, the other family members become paranoid. Their interest is maintaining the status quo. You threaten that. The emotions that swirl around sexual abuse frequently spill over into family violence.”

“That’s shrink-speak, Doctor. I’ve heard enough of it to know. You have specific information about my family. About my father. Why are you keeping it from me?”

“I’m not your therapist, Catherine.”

“I want you to be. I’ll meet you somewhere for a session.”

“You don’t need to speak to me alone. You need a group. And my days as a practicing psychiatrist are clearly over.”

“Why do I need a group?”

“Because your problem is sexual abuse. One of the main elements of the abusive relationship is secrecy. A one-on-one relationship with a therapist can mirror the primary abusive relationship. In group therapy, that cycle of secrecy is broken.”

“Look,
you
chose
me,
okay? You started this secret relationship. I’m ready to talk to you now, and without the FBI listening in this time.”

“You want a session? Keep my film for me. You’d be doing yourself a favor, too.”

I’m tempted. I want to see what Malik really did behind the closed doors of his office. But the FBI could be listening to this call. “I’d like to see it, but I can’t promise I’ll keep it for you.”

“Then we have no reason to meet.”

“Why the hell would you meet me anyway? I could bring the FBI with me. Why would you risk that?”

“There’s no risk. I do know things about your father, Catherine. I know why he was murdered. And if you bring the FBI with you, I’ll never tell.”

For once, I’m a step ahead of Malik. “I already know why my father was killed.”

“You don’t. You don’t know anything.”

My heart flutters like the wings of a panicked bird. “Why are you playing games with me? I just want the truth.”

Malik’s voice drops lower. “You already know the truth, Catherine. It’s written indelibly in the convolutions of your brain. You just have to peel away everything that’s laid over it.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’re already doing it. Just follow the memories where they lead. The truth will set you free.”

“I can’t wait for that! Someone’s trying to kill me.”

Malik sighs deeply. “Why were you having panic attacks at the crime scenes in New Orleans?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Come on, Catherine. You know how therapy works. I’m prodding you to find your own answers.”

“You’re fucking with me is what you’re doing!”

“Who do you think tried to kill you today?”

“It might have been a black guy who knew my dad years ago. I don’t know. Do you know?”

“No. But
you do.
If only you think about it in the right way.”

“You said the New Orleans murders both are and aren’t connected to my personal life. What did you mean by that?”

“What do you think I meant?”

I close my eyes and try not to scream. I feel like I’m in a Kafka novel. Every question is answered by another question; everyone around me knows the obvious truth about my life, but I can’t see it. “What are you trying to tell me? Everyone keeps asking me if I was ever your patient. Have you given them that idea?”

“Do you think you might have been my patient at some point?”

“I’m hanging up this phone in five seconds.”

“No, you’re not. My experimental group is called Group X. Does that ring a bell anywhere?”

Group X?
“No. Should it?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Malik says, his voice suddenly impatient. “Not now. But I do want to talk to you—preferably on film. Will you appear on camera?”

“
What?
No.”

“Then—”

“I thought the FBI confiscated all your video equipment.”

“I still have a camera with me. Quite a good one. Look, you can’t understand it yet, but there’s a symmetry to all this. An underlying symmetry that you’ll ultimately appreciate. We need to find a safe place to meet, a place where we can speak privately. We should do it tomorrow. When we’re finished, you take possession of my film. At that point, I’ll turn myself over to the FBI.”

“Why don’t you just leave your film with your lawyer?”

“Because I despise lawyers. I intend to represent myself.”

Of course.

“I don’t wish to be ungracious,” Malik says, “but if you don’t come—or if you bring the FBI with you—you’ll never know the answer to the mystery of your own life. Now, I’ve been in one place for too long. Do you remember the phone number I gave you?”

I spit the number back at him like a curse.

“Good. Call it tomorrow and leave a different number where I can reach you. Not your cell. And don’t get too chummy with John Kaiser. He doesn’t really care about either of us.”

The phone goes dead in my hand.

I feel like I’m going to puke.

I already know why my father was killed….

You don’t. You don’t know anything….

Fear is worse than death. Death is but the end of life, and I know it well. What I know, I can fight. What can be named, I can endure. But what lies in shadow, I can neither fight nor endure. My whole life seems a shadow now, a performance invented to fill the void of my true past. For every childhood memory I possess, a thousand have been lost. I’ve always known that. Back beyond a certain point in time, there’s simply nothing. When other kids talked about this or that indelible moment from their time as toddlers, I reached backward and found only a blank wall. A child without a childhood—that’s how I felt. And I never knew why.

This afternoon I thought I’d learned the answer. As terrible as it was, at least it put firm ground beneath my feet. But now that ground has shifted, a seismic change wrought by only a few words from a psychiatrist’s mouth.
You don’t know anything….

I don’t want to think about the things Dr. Malik said.

I want the questions to stop.

I want a drink.

Failing that, I want a Valium. But I can’t take one. And thinking of the reason why—the baby in my tummy—suddenly brings up my steak and eggs with a vengeance. I fall to my knees over the toilet, retching and shivering as I’ve done after my worst binges. Hugging the commode, I feel the substance of my body fading, as though I’m becoming transparent. I’ve felt this way before. I want to get up and check the mirror to make sure I’m wrong, but I can’t bring myself to look. Instead, I turn on the hot water, climb under the scalding spray, and sit on the floor of the tub.

My skin blisters red as the water rises above my hips, then to the edge of the tub. I shut off the tap and lie back, submerging my head. Here Malik’s words cannot hurt me. They’ll vanish like words spoken in a vacuum, like a scream in outer space. It’s not his words that matter anyway, but what was beneath them. A hidden key, waiting only for me to find it. Just as John Kaiser did, Malik asked if I thought I’d ever been his patient. That’s not a question you ask a normal person. That’s a question you ask someone with Alzheimer’s disease. Or amnesia. Or…

Something’s wrong. I’m bathing in zero gravity. The water won’t lie in the tub…it breaks into millions of droplets and floats into the air. Clammy liquid bursts from my pores like overflowing panic. Under the scalding water it feels like sleet on my skin.
Do you think you might have been my patient at some point?
That’s a question you ask a patient with dissociative identity disorder.
What we used to call multiple personality disorder…. Sometimes the dissociation during sexual abuse is so profound and repeated that the mind splits into separate parts in order to wall itself off from the pain….

“No,” I say aloud, digging my fingernails into my palms. “Not possible.”

I’m certain I never saw Nathan Malik as a patient. But then
I
is a problematic pronoun in a sentence spoken by someone with multiple personality disorder. “I” may not have seen Malik, but “someone else” within my brain may well have.

The disorientation I feel now is much like that I’ve felt after waking from an alcoholic blackout, or coming out of a hypomanic state. I know I’ve been somewhere—a party, an apartment, a house—but I’m not sure what I did there. How far things went. And yet despite this similarity, I’ve never felt so disconnected from myself that a whole separate
life
seemed possible.

“Take it easy,” I say in a shaky voice. “What did Malik say before that?”

We were talking about group therapy…He said,
You shouldn’t denigrate what you’ve never experienced.
Why would he say that if I had ever been part of his Group X? A sense of relief washes through me, then evaporates. Could I have seen Malik one-on-one in a dissociated state, then forgotten or repressed it? I have no memory of that, but neither do I have any memory of my childhood sexual abuse. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Could Malik know so much about me because I told him
myself
?

I lurch up out of the tub and splash cool water on my face from the bathroom sink. As I peer at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror, a shudder goes through me, heralding a terrifying thought. At one point during the phone call, I had the feeling Malik was telling me his patients were his lovers. Or ex-lovers. Could he have consummated his old lust for me during a session of which I have no memory? I still recall the shock I felt when Malik’s photo first scrolled out of my grandfather’s fax machine. That was the first time I’d seen his face in ten years, I was sure of it. But what is the value of my certainty? Once you open the door to the idea that you don’t remember parts of your past, anything is possible. And for someone who’s dealt with blackouts and manic episodes, it’s not a great leap to make.

Stop thinking,
says a voice in my head—the voice of self-preservation.
Too much truth too fast can kill you.
…

Grabbing a large towel from the hanger on the door, I wrap it around me, then climb into bed and pull the comforter up to my neck. The light is still on, and I’m not about to turn it off. I set my phone to
VIBRATE
, close my eyes, and pray for sleep.

On any other night I’d need a drink or a Valium to shut off the thoughts racing through my head, but tonight exhaustion does the job for me. As consciousness blurs, Dr. Malik’s face flashes before me, his eyes cold and penetrating. Then Michael Wells’s face replaces it. Michael’s eyes are warm, kind, and open. Something about him reminds me of my father, but I can’t place what. It’s not his eyes, or his build. It’s just a
way
. A reluctance to judge, perhaps. Whatever it is, it draws me to him.

Why didn’t I tell Michael I was pregnant? It was the only thing I held back. Was it because, deep down,
I’m
the one hoping for this relationship to progress? Am I afraid that when he learns I’m pregnant, he’ll vanish like those men drawn by my body and my intensity would?

Stop!
shouts the voice in my head.
Stop stop stop!

I have a trick to deal with destructive thoughts. I put myself in a different place altogether, a place of peace. For me, it’s the ocean. I’m free diving down a multicolored wall of coral, a steep wall that slopes down through Caribbean blue toward depths of India ink. There’s no sound but the beating of my heart. My body knifes through warmth until warmth becomes cold, and my perception balloons out beyond the cage of my skull, taking in all that I see, and rapture comes over me, the rapture of the deep. I’m diving that wall now, down through the last glimmering stratum of wakefulness into sleep. I wish it were only darkness that awaited me below. But it’s never just the dark. Dreams lie in wait, as they always have. The netherworld where I’m always a stranger, or a fugitive, or a soldier frozen in the midst of battle. Fear and confusion are my only companions there, and our journeys are always long ones.

When I was a teenager, I heard that dreams that seem to last hours actually happen in a span of six or seven seconds. I know now that this isn’t true. Most dreams last ten or fifteen minutes, then fade into others in the deep reaches of REM sleep. Some dreams we remember, others we don’t. Most of mine—though often more vivid than life—leave only fragmentary images behind, like tattered pages from a picture book.

Tonight will be different.

Tonight I’m back in the rusted orange truck. Back on the island. My grandfather is behind the wheel. We’re rolling up the long sloping hill of the old pasture. On the other side lies the pond where the cows drink. Their patties dot the grass like dried mud pies. My grandfather’s hair is black, not silver. The truck smells bad. Stale motor oil, chewing tobacco, mildew, other odors I can’t identify.

It’s going to rain. The sky is leaden, the air still. We roll steadily up the shallow slope, making for the crest. Terror has closed my throat, but Grandpapa’s face is calm. He doesn’t know what’s on the other side of the hill. I don’t either, but I know it’s bad. I’ve dreamed this dream so often that I know I’m dreaming. Each time we make it a little closer to the crest, but we never top the hill. We’re getting close now, though…I know I’ll wake up soon.

Only this time I don’t.

This time Grandpapa downshifts and steps on the gas pedal, and the old pickup trundles right over. The cows are waiting for us, staring with dumb indifference. Beyond them lies the pond, slate gray and smooth as glass.

I squeeze my hands so tightly into fists that my palms bleed.

There’s something in the pond.

A man.

He’s floating facedown in the water, his arms outspread like Jesus on the cross. He has long hair like Jesus, too. I want to scream, but Grandpapa doesn’t seem to see the man. Mute with fear, I point with my finger. Grandpapa squints and shakes his head. “Goddamn rain,” he says. They can’t work on the island when it rains.

As the truck rolls down toward the pond, Grandpapa points to our right. His prize bull has mounted a cow and is bouncing above her with violent jerks. As he stares at the rutting animals, I look back toward the pond.

The man isn’t floating anymore. He’s getting to his feet. My palms tingle with apprehension. The man isn’t
in
the pond, but
on
it. He’s standing on its glassy surface as though on an ice rink. But it’s almost a hundred degrees outside. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it over the sound of the truck.

The man standing on the surface of the pond is my father.

I recognize his jeans and his work shirt. And behind the long hair, his deep-set brown eyes. As I stare, he starts walking across the water, holding out his arms to me. He wants to show me something. Grandpapa is mesmerized by the bull humping the cow. I pull at his shirtsleeve, but he won’t look away. Daddy is walking on water like Jesus in the Bible, but Grandpapa won’t look!

“Daddy!”
I shout.

Luke Ferry nods at me but says nothing. As he nears the edge of the pond, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. I see dark hair on his chest. He undoes four buttons, then pulls his shirt open. I want to shut my eyes, but I can’t. On the right side of his chest is a hole where the bullet went in. There are other scars, too, the big sutured Y-incision of an autopsy. As I stare in horror, Daddy puts two fingers into the bullet hole and starts to rip it open. He wants me to watch, but I don’t want to see. I cover my eyes with my hands, then peer between my fingers. Something is pouring out of the wound like blood, only it’s not blood. It’s
gray.
That’s all I know, and all I want to know.

“Look, Kitty Cat,”
he commands. “
I want you to look.”

I can’t look.

When he calls my name again, I shut my eyes and scream.