way to the foot of the bridge, then run alongside city hall to the Brooklyn Bridge subway station. I get lucky for once and a 6 Train pulls into the station as I pass through the turnstile. There are no seats, but I don’t care. I stand in the center of the car, one hand clutching a pole that runs floor to ceiling. I’m wearing a white peasant blouse and a brown, wraparound skirt speckled with gold rabbits. This is Serena’s favorite summertime outfit, but it doesn’t work for a self-proclaimed drudge. Nor does the loosened hair that cascades to my shoulders, or the almostblack lipstick, or the peacock-blue eye shadow.
In fact, I look like an idiot, a complete asshole, a total phony. Like Serena with her beads and her artificial flowers pretending she’s an artist. If we’re ever to have control of our lives, Victoria and I, we need to kick Serena to the curb. Eleni, too. We need to dump the both of them.
But that’s not going to happen anytime soon. And it won’t happen fast, either. The others went only after a long crusade. We froze them out, abandoned them, the parting not without pain, yet ultimately satisfying. Like pulling an infected tooth.
We’d been taking us for granted before unity was even a goal. Then we met Dr. Charlotte Harmon, the first therapist to fully understand our dilemma. We’d created us out of necessity she insisted. Which was fine. Carolyn had to escape and creating identities with no memory of the nightmare she’d endured was a brilliant solution. Her response was that of a sane child dealing with an insane environment. But circumstances change over time and us was not a strategy suitable to our present or future, no matter how well adapted it might have been to our past. We needed a plan B.
Dr. Harmon reached us (most of us, anyway) precisely because she didn’t think we were crazy.
I stand in the corridor outside Halberstam’s office for several minutes before I turn the knob. I need to ease off the gas and I tell myself that we’ve been here. I mean subject to a man with power. Be mostly honest. Don’t lose your temper.
Victoria’s with me this morning as I turn the doorknob and I sense an almost-hidden presence behind her. Kirk, our little boy-girl. Like Eleni, like Serena, Kirk’s a must-go.
Halberstam’s waiting room is as drab as Victoria’s description of his inner office, more beige on beige. That includes a middle-aged receptionist named Tanya who wears a beige jacket over a beige skirt. I take a seat and glance at a magazine, People, but don’t pick it up. I’m not expecting a long delay, being as I’m fifteen minutes late.
Tanya presses a button on the intercom, then leans forward and whispers something into the machine. Finally, she turns to me, her expression grave. “You may go in now,” she intones.
Victoria described Halberstam’s gaze as intense, but I find it evaluating. The kind of look a cheetah might bestow on a herd of gazelles before choosing a victim. But he’s not looking at me when I enter the room. He’s turned to one side, offering his angular profile while he scans a document.
I take a seat in the chair assigned to us and lean back, the sensation as unpleasant as it is submissive. Halberstam appears not to notice, but his disinterest seems to me theatrical. I don’t react because we’re accustomed to the scrutiny of therapists and know their techniques must be endured.
The only therapists who’ve done us any good have been female. Take it to the bank. And while I have no sex life of my own, I know that if I ever go down that road, it will be with a woman.
Halberstam finally straightens in his very upright chair. “You’re late,” he says.
There’s nothing to be gained by lying and I don’t try. “The body,” I explain, “was hijacked as I began to dress for the appointment. By the time I regained control …” I shrug, the message plain enough.
“And who did the hijacking?”
“Serena, our free spirit.”
“And when this hijacking occurred, you were helpless to prevent it? You couldn’t refuse?”
Halberstam’s just verbalized the essence of our problem. Which the jerk surely knew before he posed the question. I supply him with an answer prepared in advance. Tit for tat.
“If Carolyn Grand had a central authority who could order her identities, you would never have known she existed. That’s because she’d be sane.” I pause for a moment, then jump through the required hoop. “We’ve never done the choosing, Doctor, not from the day we were born.”
“Fine, in fact undeniable.” Halberstam leans back and crosses his legs. “Tell me. How do you know that Serena hijacked the body? Why not Victoria?”
I hate the role I’m in, unavoidable or not. I don’t see why I should have to explain anything to this moron. I don’t see why I should have to endure the semi-sneer that passes for a smile. Submission has never been my strong point.
Something inside me, perhaps one of the others, demands that I lie. Tell him you know it was Serena because the clothes you’re wearing could only belong to her. The truth will not set you free.
I ignore the advice. “I know, Doctor, because I was there. Along for the ride.”
“Just the two of you?”
“This time.”
“And other times?”
“Any number, any combination. It’s always been that way.”
I reflect for just a second. Then I repeat myself. “Always.”
“So, you’ve never questioned this arrangement?”
I take a second to adjust my thoughts, then say, “Look, Doctor. Early on I questioned every arrangement. Especially the most basic, who and what I am. But what’s the point? I can’t will myself into or out of existence, so I take what I can get. Like the rest of us.”
Halberstam replies a bit too fast. “Well said. Lack of control is the essence of your problem, a point also made by Victoria.” He folds his hands and lays them on the desk as he fixes me with one of those penetrating stares. “May I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“You’re speaking to Martha.”
“And how would you describe your … your role, Martha?”
“Old-fashioned housewife. I cook, clean, shop, pay the bills. I keep our little household up and running.”
“Victoria plays no part?”
“She does face-to-face. When we have to be seen.” Like my sister, I have no problem switching from “we” to “I” and back again. “Apart from taking out the garbage and collecting the mail, I try to keep my head down.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“I have a short fuse. I don’t really like people.”
“Would you call yourself a misanthrope?”
“I might if I knew what it meant.” My tone is sharp enough to be confused with sarcasm, one of those errors I vowed not to make. I watch Halberstam nod. I’m about to be punished.
“Do
