Shattered Memories Page 4

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to share any sympathy with Haylee, but I did understand.

  “She’s not here yet. I will have her brought. Don’t expect to see a monster,” she added. “She’s just as frightened about this visit as you are.”

  I couldn’t imagine it, but I kept myself from smirking with skepticism. Remain as impassive as you can, I told myself. You’re being scrutinized almost as much as your sister.

  “Okay,” Dr. Alexander said when I didn’t say anything, and she opened the door.

  The room was as simple as she had described, with its metal table and chairs. However, the chairs had black cushions. There was nothing on the table. The floor was covered with the same large tiles that were in the hallway and her office. There was recessed lighting from above and a telephone on the wall that I imagined was for emergencies. I went to the chair on the other side of the table and sat. The one-way mirror window was to my left. I glanced at it and saw myself sitting there.

  This morning when I woke up and got dressed, I had taken a long time to choose what to wear and how to do my makeup. Recently, my father had taken me shopping, and I had bought a new dress, which I was wearing today. When I was looking at the new fashions for the season, I couldn’t help but think the way Haylee would. She was always pushing me to get something sexier. Since Mother wouldn’t buy either of us anything the other didn’t like or want, even when we were teenagers, I usually agreed with Haylee’s choices. Otherwise, she’d be so unhappy and I would feel so terrible that neither of us could be satisfied with what was purchased for us. It was better to go along with Haylee’s selections.

  When I had taken this dress off the rack, my father was standing behind me. He stepped forward as I held it up, and he shook his head.

  “What?”

  “There’s not much to it,” he said, and I laughed. Those words would have clinched the choice for Haylee.

  He felt the material and shrugged. “I could fold it up and put it in a business envelope.”

  “I’ll try it on,” I told him, and went into the dressing room.

  The dress was a kaleidoscope print, in poly-blend stretch knit with a cap-sleeved bodice. It had a deep V neckline. Thanks to Haylee, I had just the right bra for it. The multicolor print was in shades of pink, teal, blue, and yellow. It fit me like a second skin. The banded waist topped a bodycon skirt that I thought was flattering, if not revealing, the way it traced every muscle in my hips and buttocks. The hem of the skirt was a good six inches above my knees. It was truly a Haylee dress.

  When I stepped out of the dressing room, my father’s eyes flew wide open. He shook his head, a slight but fearful smile on his face. “I’m sure you need some sort of license to wear that,” he said.

  I turned to see myself from every angle as I considered myself in the mirror. I surely felt like Haylee would feel, I thought. The dress was exciting on me, and I was happy I had gained back all the weight I had lost in Anthony Cabot’s dungeon basement apartment. There was no question; the dress possessed me. I could hear Haylee beside me whispering, Say you want this. Say it because I want it.

  “I like it, Daddy.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “What do I know about clothes for teenage girls today?”

  Afterward, he bought me a pair of black suede platform heels to go with it. I knew just the earrings and bracelet I’d wear with it, too.

  When I looked at the dress this morning, I envisioned Haylee seeing me in it. The very sight of me looking so healthy and sexy would be a vengeful blow to her ego. She was probably expecting to see a meek, terribly wounded person who could be nothing but ultra-conservative with her fashions now. Sexually abused girls would be terrified of lustful looks. But I wasn’t, and that would surely drive home how bad a situation she was in because of her own actions.

  I couldn’t imagine they would let Haylee have makeup, so I put mine on a little heavier than usual. My hair had grown about two inches since my rescue, which was not enough, of course. My father had bought me three wigs by now, all in my natural hair color but in three different styles and cuts. The one I chose today was the shortest. I wondered if Haylee would realize it was a wig, and if she did, would she dare ask why I was wearing one? I’d tell her, I vowed. I’d tell her every detail about that.

  “You’re wearing that to the institution?” my father had asked when I descended the stairway in the morning.

  “I’m not going to look like a victim, Daddy,” I said. I saw the glint in his eyes. He knew what I was up to, and at that moment, he was happy about my choice and my reason for it.

  But it was a moment he would regret later.

  Maybe we all would.

  3

  I was holding my breath when the door began to open. I was anticipating that all-too-familiar smirk on her face the moment she saw me. Of course, I wanted to see her beaten down, defeated, even something that was so unfamiliar to her that she had trouble wearing it: a look of apology and regret. Instead, she was none of that. She was expressionless, almost indifferent, but I think what shocked me most was her hair.

  It was as short as the hair on the wig I was wearing, practically the exact same length. Even though it was impossible, of course, I even wondered if Mother had called to tell her to have her hair cut. I still had the childhood fantasy that she could envision us both whenever she wanted to and wanted to be sure we were alike.

  Haylee was dressed in a plain white short-sleeved blouse and a pair of dark blue jeans, with no socks and a pair of black slip-on sneakers. As I expected, she wore no makeup, not even lipstick. She was thinner than I had anticipated, and despite how long I had been in Anthony Cabot’s basement, in the hospital, and inside my house, she was paler than I was.

  She hesitated and stared at me. The attendant who had brought her remained outside but closed the door, so we were now alone in the room, except, of course, for Dr. Alexander behind the mirror. Haylee glanced around and then looked at me without an iota of surprise, like I had been visiting her daily.

  “Did you just get that dress?” she asked, as casually as she would if nothing at all had happened and we were still at home.

  “Recently, yes.”

  “Did Daddy buy two?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “Why would he?”

  She nodded, not even a small wrinkle at the corner of her lips. But I didn’t think she looked angry or even disappointed.

  “When did you cut your hair?” I asked, not hiding my suspicions.

  “Yesterday,” she said. At first, I thought she wasn’t going to sit. She gazed at herself in the mirror and brushed back what hair she had. “Does it look terrible? I only spent ten minutes on it.”

  “You mean you literally cut it yourself?”

  She spun around. “Attempted to. Someone else finished. They get hairstylists in training here to work on the poor jerks like me.” She started to circle the table. “Stand up. I want to see the dress.”

  I did.

  “Daddy bought you that without me whining for it or telling you to demand it?”

  “I’m wearing it, aren’t I?”

  “You don’t look bad at all,” she said, still trying to sound indifferent, but I thought I also heard disappointment. “Overall, you look very good. A little overly made up, maybe, but nice hairstyle. You would pass our famous Haylee inspection.”

  “I did look bad,” I said. “Very bad. I’m wearing a wig. My hair was butchered—but not by a stylist in training.”

  She shrugged and flopped into the chair across from me. “Whatever. It looks very nice, natural.”

  “Whatever? It took me weeks to gain some of the weight I lost. There were times he starved me and times I couldn’t eat.”

  She shrugged again. “I wouldn’t have noticed any weight loss if you hadn’t told me. I lost some weight, too.”

  Her indifference triggered frustration inside me, frustration that felt like a hand tightening into a fist. “You lost some weight?” I said. “How unfortun
ate. Do you remember how long I was locked away?”

  “Time is the stream I go fishing in,” she replied, following with a trickle of a laugh.

  “What?”

  “That essay on Thoreau we had to write—you had to write, I should say. I was so bored. I hated writing essays.”

  “Essays? That’s what you’re thinking about now?”

  “I can’t believe Daddy bought you that dress. I guess you’re his favorite now.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  She looked around and then directly at the mirror, but obviously not trying to see through it.

  “I just woke up one morning and thought I should cut it,” she said, patting her hair again. “I was beginning to look too drab.” She turned back and stared at me a moment before she smiled. “You were always his favorite anyway, Kaylee. You didn’t know it, but I did. You were everyone’s favorite, even Mother’s. I learned that pretty quickly when you were gone.”

  “Is that why you did it?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Why did I do it?”

  “I don’t have a million dollars, but I’d like to know.”

  “Why? Would it change anything?”

  “I don’t know. How can I know the answer without knowing why?”

  “Oh, you’re so . . . logical,” she said, and then, taking me by complete surprise, she burst out laughing. But it wasn’t simply laughing; it was a strange combination of laughing and crying, and it was loud, too, very loud, insanely loud.

  I didn’t think she was going to stop. Tears were streaking down her cheeks. She gasped and laughed, looked up and then at me, and laughed again.

  “You’re . . . so . . . logical. You always were. You’re so . . . Kaylee Blossom Fitzgerald,” she said. She stopped smiling. “Why? Why? Why? Why?”

  She started to chant. “Look at you, look at you. You look good. You lied. You pretended to be abducted. Where were you? Logical Kaylee? Where were you? Watching us all the time and laughing?”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You know very well where I was and why.”

  “Yes, why? Why? Why?” She sat there smiling.

  “Aren’t you even a little sorry?” I asked.

  “Sorry? Everyone feels sorrier for you, don’t they? You don’t need me, too. You have everyone’s full attention now, don’t you? Thank you. I’d like to hear a thank you.”

  “Thank you? Don’t you have any idea what happened to me? You think I went on a picnic?”

  “What happened to you, yes. Everyone wants to know what happened to you, right? Yes? Questions. We get questions, only you get the most. I get only Why? Why? Why? I hear it even in my sleep.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “There’s no answer. Don’t you understand? There’s no answer. There’s never been an answer.” She hugged herself and looked up at the ceiling.

  “You haven’t asked about Mother,” I said.

  She continued to stare at the ceiling for another moment and then lowered her head and leaned toward me. “Mother is in here,” she whispered. “I don’t have to ask about her. Mother is with me. I’ve got Mother now. You know why? Why? Why? Because she wants to know why, too.”

  She laughed.

  “Mother wants to know more than anyone else, so she’s here,” she said, and pressed her right hand over her heart. “She’s right here, and she won’t leave until she gets the answer. Anyway, you can’t have her back. You can’t have her without me. It’s not logical, Logical Kaylee.”

  “Mother’s not here,” I said. “I know exactly where she is. I’ve visited her. She’s not well. She’s suffered a lot, Haylee. I feel sorrier for her than I do for myself, and you should, too.”

  She stared at me hard, her eyelids narrowing. “She’s here,” she said. “Here.” She pressed her hand even harder against her heart.

  “No, she’s in a hospital. Stop pretending you don’t know what I mean. She had a nervous breakdown, Haylee. You knew that. You knew why Daddy had to come back home to live with you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Did you hear what I said? You’ve got to stop lying, Haylee, to everyone and to yourself. You’re hurting only yourself now. Why did you do this to me? What did I do to you that you should have wanted to hurt me so much?”

  She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “You don’t look like me anymore, Kaylee. You’re prettier than I am now, but Mother can’t stand that, I’m sure.” She leaned forward to whisper. “Did you forget how she wants us to be? You’re killing her by being so much prettier than me. You’re the one giving her the nervous breakdown now.”

  Her lips began to tremble. “You’re killing her,” she said, and started to cry. Then she began to rock in her chair, hugging herself again. “It’s cold here, isn’t it? Why? I’m tired. Why? You look very good. Why?”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You’re just trying to avoid answering me.”

  She stopped rocking, but she sat there, her arms locked around herself, and stared at me.

  “I came to talk to you sensibly, Haylee. I almost died. I did everything I could to survive, but it was horrible, nights without sleep, chained, my very breathing controlled. You knew it would be horrible. You knew him, and you left me there.”

  What surprised me about the way she was staring at me was that she didn’t even blink. It was as if I were looking at a picture of her face.

  “Do you hear me?”

  She didn’t move; she didn’t stop staring.

  “Haylee,” I said sharply. “Cut it out. You know I can tell when you’re pretending. Stop it!”

  There was no reaction.

  “Stop!” I screamed, and slapped the top of the table so hard that I hurt my palm.

  Still, she didn’t move, didn’t even wince.

  I looked at the mirror, and a few moments later, the door opened, and Dr. Alexander came in with two male attendants. She looked at me first.

  “Please return to my office,” she said.

  “What?” I looked at Haylee. She still hadn’t moved, nor had anything changed on her face. “Stop it, Haylee,” I said. “You have to talk to me.”

  “Please,” Dr. Alexander said, but sharply. “Return to my office.”

  I rose slowly. Haylee’s eyes didn’t follow me. She sat there looking forward, as if I were still in front of her. I started out, looking back at her. Dr. Alexander put her hand on Haylee’s shoulder, but she didn’t turn. I hesitated in the doorway, and then Dr. Alexander looked at me.

  “Return to my office,” she commanded. “Now!”

  I hurried out and down the hallway, almost as terrified as I had been in Anthony Cabot’s basement. My heart was racing, and I was gasping for breath.

  “Something happened,” I told my father as soon as I entered the office and he looked up. I was crying now, too.

  “What?” He leaped to his feet. “What’s wrong? What happened? What did she do to you?”

  “We started talking, and then she stopped and just stared at me. She didn’t even blink. It was horrible. She froze. It was a nightmare,” I said, and continued to cry.

  He quickly embraced me. “I knew this was a mistake. I knew it,” he said, holding me against him.

  “I couldn’t tell whether she was acting or not, Daddy. I couldn’t tell. She was so weird. She said so many crazy things. She told me Mother was here, with her.”

  He led me to the settee. “All right. Take it easy. I’ll see what I can find out,” he said. “Just stay right there. I’ll get you a glass of water, too.”

  I covered my face with my palms and sat there. A few minutes went by before he returned with a glass of water for me.

  “Did you see Dr. Alexander?” I asked, and drank.

  “No. An attendant told me to wait here,” he said. “He got me your water.”

  He sat beside me and held my hand. I could see the anger boiling in his face, but I didn’t know what to say to calm him. I was still too stunned. Almost ten
full minutes went by before Dr. Alexander came to her office. My father continued to mumble under his breath, blaming himself. We both turned to the doctor when she entered.

  “What happened?” my father demanded, even before she closed the door.

  She didn’t speak. She went behind her desk as if she wanted to keep it between us like a barrier and sat.

  “I want to know exactly what’s going on now,” my father insisted.

  “Please,” she said, nodding at the settee.

  He and I sat.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Your daughter has been suffering periodic catatonia,” she began.

  I stopped my sniffling but held on to my father’s hand.

  “Catatonia?” my father asked.

  “It’s generally described as an abnormality of movement and behavior arising from a disturbed mental state.”

  “What mental state?”

  “In her case, I’m pretty positive it’s schizophrenia, Mr. Fitzgerald. I think she’s been suffering with it for some time. Some time before she was brought here,” she added.

  My father sat back, his anger checked, but he was far from satisfied. “I didn’t see any of this catatonia when I visited the last time,” he said.

  “It was coming on. You weren’t here frequently enough to notice the developing symptoms.” It didn’t sound like a criticism but more like a simple fact. “Catatonia can take different forms. In Haylee’s case, it takes the form of rigidity. If it took the other form, catatonic excitement or excessive movement, she’d be taking violent action against herself. We should be grateful for little things,” she added, which I guessed was her attempt to lighten the mood.

  My father didn’t look like he appreciated it. “So exactly what just happened with Kaylee?” he asked.

  “Disappointingly, the confrontation was too much for Haylee. She went into a catatonic stupor. She was, and still is at this moment, mute and rigid.”

  “How long will she be like this?” he asked.

  “It’s hard to say. It could last a while, even though a prolonged period would be painful. If it goes on too long this time, I’ll put her on some medication that will help, but the principal cause of it is what we’ll be spending most of our time on now.”