you wanted to know more.
Dr. Grant had a textbook open on her desk. In large, bold type, the section was headed with the words DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID). “I strongly suspect that your mind is carrying several alternate personalities—multiple personalities you developed to help you cope with the trauma of being kidnapped. We call them ‘alters’ for short.”
“That’s crazy!” you said. “You’re telling me I’m insane? Schizo? Delusional?”
“No, no. Not at all. The word is ‘dissociated’—pulled apart.” She hurried to reassure you. “Alters experience things that are too hurtful or frightening for you. They form a protective barrier between you and what’s happening. That way you don’t have to remember. They’re the brain’s ultimate survival mechanism.”
She was so right. We gave ourselves a pat on the shoulders.
But you laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why do you think I have multiple personalities?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s the long time period of lost memory.” Dr. Grant leaned over to collect the fallen petals from the floor. “For another, I’ve just spent half an hour talking to one of them. She calls herself Girl Scout. She’s worried about you.”
Part II
REUNION
WHEN THEY LEFT DR. GRANT’S OFFICE, MOM GRIPPED A photocopy of the textbook article and a page of web references. Angie trailed her unhappily back to the car. She didn’t believe any of it. There must be more rational ways to explain her lost time, her blank memory. And jeez, they were just talking about camping. Of course Angie would have mentioned she was a Girl Scout. The doctor just got confused, is all—must have misunderstood something she said. Angie would straighten it out next time. She had been starting to like Dr. Grant, to tell the truth, and she didn’t want to argue with her.
“Do you think … ,” Mom began awkwardly as she started the engine.
“Come on, Mom. Isn’t that a bit out there? I thought we already decided that I have temporary amnesia from post-traumatic stress. That, I can believe. This multiple-personalities thing? Not.”
“Yes, well, Dr. Grant did say it wasn’t exactly typical, right?”
“Sure. The book she showed me said blah-dee-blah a pattern of abuse and blah-dee-blah in infancy or early childhood. I mean, I don’t have that. I had a perfectly normal childhood, right? I mean, you and Dad didn’t tie me up or stuff me in a closet and torture me, right?” She laughed.
Mom tried to match her light tone and failed. Her voice squeaked. “Of course we didn’t. What a ridiculous notion. No one could love a child more than we loved—love you.”
She corrected herself quickly, but the slip was another stab in the heart. Measuring Mom’s waistline, Angie wondered how long she had to get her feet back on the ground, to fix her life before the baby came and messed everything up again. She didn’t ask.
Angie put her guitar away, fingertips throbbing. Aside from mirrors, nothing else reminded her so much of the obvious time gap. Chords didn’t fit under her hands the same way—her longer fingers kept overshooting. And then, in spite of all the unexplained calluses on her palms, she’d lost the useful ones four years of guitar lessons had built up.
Mom’s call to supper echoed up the stairs. Angie hurried down, but her feet stuck fast on the landing at the sound of raised voices. Dad’s voice—no, his words—glued her in place.
“Just not the same,” he was saying. “Look in her eyes. Something’s missing. She’s angry, then she’s, I don’t know … brain-dead. Flat. For God’s sake, I haven’t seen her cry even once.”
What did he expect? That she would sob all over him? He’d never been that kind of teddy-bear dad, and now he was so uncomfortable and distant. She’d seen more of his back than his front.
Mom’s hushed reaction was too soft to hear, but Dad’s response sounded loud as a megaphone. “I don’t know. Just damaged. There’s no spark, no bounce in her.”
This time a few of Mom’s words came through. “… time to readjust … more if she remembers. And you know what Dr. Grant thinks… .”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” Angie had never heard Dad yell like that, or use that kind of language with Mom.
She thumped deliberately all the way down. Bounced hard so they had to notice. The voices stopped. She glared between her parents, who now had this strained silence to explain.
Mom whacked a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Angie’s plate. “We were starting to discuss school again,” she said with deceptive calm. The spoon clanged on the edge of the pot.
An obvious evasion. Plus, what was left to say? They’d already had a discussion about private school, a fresh start in a new place. Sadly, out of the question. Dad crushed that hope with the excuse that with Mom working, it was too far to drive. The crease between his eyes told Angie that the truth was, after the search for her, there wasn’t enough money. Sacred Heart was out for the same reason, plus they weren’t Catholic. That left La Cañada High School, the place where everyone knew her as the girl who disappeared. Sure, the grades seven and eight teachers and classrooms were separate from nine through twelve, but it was still a small world. Same campus. Too small.
The only remaining question was what grade. Thank God Dr. Grant backed up Angie. With everything else going on, she said, and now this possible weird diagnosis, she ought to go back to school at the level where she felt most comfortable. Also, as soon as possible before she missed any more.
“I’ve already decided.” Angie striped the pile of potatoes with her fork. “I’m going to start in ninth.”
“But—” Mom began.
Angie cut her off. “Look, my old friends will be around, but they’re juniors. I can’t take classes with them. You can’t expect me to, even with tutors.” Since she had been a year ahead in math, ready for Algebra I, that would put her in the regular stream for ninth. She’d always been an A student in language arts, so she wasn’t afraid of skipping one year. But that was where she drew the line. Skipping more than one grade was too stressful to think about.
“I still think you’d want to be with your friends,” Mom said, a slight whine in her tone.
Dad chewed his baked pork chop and kept his opinion to himself.
Mom couldn’t let it go. “I really think being with kids your own age will help … will help you feel like yourself again. Your words.”
“Two
