The Girls He Adored

35

From the Point Sur Lighthouse to Highway 156 at Castroville, the self-proclaimed Artichoke Capital of the World, from 156 to 101 at Prunedale, then north on 101 past Gilroy, the self-proclaimed Garlic Capital, Irene managed to maintain a facade of relative calm. She rode shotgun, chain-smoking Camels, feeding peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the driver, and lighting his cigarettes for him. But the closer they drew to San Jose, the more agitated she grew, until she found herself trembling involuntarily like a victim of hypothermia.

Max couldn't help but notice. His custom, when an abductee needed to be calmed, was to dispatch Ish to handle the situation. He waited until he had a relatively clear road ahead of him and to both sides to make the switch. Momentarily driverless, the van veered to the left before Ish grabbed the wheel and corrected the line.

“What's the problem, Irene?” he asked quietly.

Irene, her trembling head buried in her hands, missed the switch entirely; nor was she in any condition to pick up on the subtle differences in voice and manner between the two alters. On the mistaken assumption that she was still dealing with Max, she decided to volunteer some personal information in the hope that it might help him see her as a person, not an object or a victim.

“We're getting near my hometown,” she said, gaining control over her voice with some difficulty.

“San Jose?”

“Born and raised.”

“Any family still live here?”

“My older brother. My younger brother lives up in Campbell. They're both firemen, like our dad.”

“Parents still living?”

“My mom died five years ago. My dad remarried. He lives up in Sebastopol with his second wife-she's a year younger than I am.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“I was very happy for him-I just wish he lived closer.”

“You miss your mother?”

“Very much.”

“Close family?”

“I suppose. We fought a lot, my brothers and I, but I always knew they'd be there for me. They're big bruisers, both of them- nobody messed with me in high school, I can tell you that.”

“Sounds idyllic,” said Ish wistfully.

For the first time, it occurred to Irene that she could be in the presence of one of the multiple's other alters. Less guarded than Max, perhaps this personality would be more forthcoming as well. “Tell me about your family. Any siblings?”

The response, worthy of a trained psychologist-“We're not here to talk about my family, Irene”-was Irene's first indication that she might be dealing with an internal self helper. She decided to take a chance-ISHs were rarely if ever violent-and see if she couldn't establish some sort of rapport with him. It seemed to her, as her head began to clear, that regaining the therapist's role might provide her with her best chance of surviving. In any event, it seemed preferable to being a victim in waiting.

Irene glanced out the window. They were driving through the heart of Silicon Valley-she could remember when this area was all prune orchards. Now it was all money.

“Am I still talking with Max?” she asked, in as conversational a tone as she could muster.

“No,” said Ish, responding almost automatically, as a professional courtesy.

Encouraged, Irene tried one more question. “So what's your name?”

It was very nearly the last question she ever asked.