The Girls He Adored

37

In order to help the system protect itself, Max, with Ish's help, had years earlier put in place what might be termed an emergency response reflex. If any alter but Max was ever asked his or her name, a switch would be executed instantaneously; only Max would be allowed to respond to such a question.

Unfortunately, Max had never anticipated a contingency in which the question was asked while another alter was driving a car at high speed along a fairly crowded highway. Though the driver's eyes were off the road for only a few seconds, the van veered sharply to the left again-apparently old Bill didn't believe in spending a lot of money on alignments. Then Max, seizing control, overcompensated, jerking the wheel to the right; the van lurched so sharply that it rocked briefly on two wheels.

Irene screamed and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the van was back in the center lane, horns were blaring, and her captor had drawn the snub-nosed revolver from his waist for the first time since he'd pulled it on the old man.

“Irene, Irene, Irene, what have I ever done to make you treat me with such disrespect?”

The voice was a husky whisper, the accent Italian or Spanish. A second wave of fear, colder, deeper, and somehow even more threatening than the pure physical terror of the near wreck, all but swamped Irene's reason. Was this the homicidal alter she had dreaded meeting? With her adrenaline pumping and a brassy taste in the back of her throat, Irene struggled for control over her runaway emotions. She knew her survival depended on her mind, on her training. He's mentally ill, she told herself, and you're a psychiatrist. Use it, for God's sake: work it.

And when she had mastered her terror, or at least subdued it temporarily, the answer came to her-this wasn't an alter at all, but another of his impressions. “The Godfather, right?” she asked shakily.

Max nodded, and slipped the gun back into the waistband of the jeans. “I'd better explain before we end up running off the fucking road. Irene, when I first showed up on the scene, Ulysses Christopher Maxwell Jr. was an unholy mess. Chaos-absolute chaos. Alters popping up randomly at all the wrong moments, rarely communicating with each other. You said Lyssy told you about the first time he was molested. Hell, he doesn't even know about the first time-the abuse had been going on for years by then. And frankly, what happened that night was a walk in the park compared to the earlier abuse-by the time he was five, he'd split off half a dozen alters to deal with it.

“And Ulysses, the so-called host, was a joke-Useless, I call him. Completely powerless-he didn't even know he was part of a multiple. This system was heading straight for the funny farm, Irene- if it even survived long enough.

“Enter Max. I restored order, established communications, laid down a few simple rules of conduct, one of which is that I'm the only alter allowed to answer questions about our identity. So from now on, no more asking for names, no more peeping around until we're in a more or less formal therapeutic setting.”

Therapeutic setting, thought Irene. So she'd been right when she told Barbara that what he wanted was help. But her relief at having been right on that score was tempered by a troubling thought: he'd told her his name. Which meant he had no intention of ever letting her go.

She could feel that cold wave of terror threatening to swamp her again. Of course he had no intention of letting her go-she told herself that on some level she'd known that all along. But it still didn't equal a death sentence. Escape, rescue-those were very real possibilities. As long as she managed to remain alive. By using her mind. Her training. Work it, she reminded herself. Listen.

“Now, once we start our therapy, I have no objection to your speaking to whomever you please,” Max was saying. “As long as you don't try to take advantage of the situation, that is. Keep in mind-I'll be there, I'll be listening, I'll know everything any of them tells you, and hear everything you tell any of them.”

Not any, thought Irene, remembering Max's confusion after the hypnotherapy session. Not Lyssy.

“And if you try to persuade any of them to do anything against the system's best interest, I will terminate the therapy with extreme prejudice. Are you familiar with that term?”

“Not exactly.”

“I got it out of Apocalypse Now. It's a euphemism. A termination with extreme prejudice is invariably fatal.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” said Irene. “But may I speak frankly?”

“Always.”

“If in your opinion you have the system operating so smoothly, why are you seeking therapy?”

He looked over at her sharply, then turned back to the road unspooling ahead of them. Traffic had begun to clear. They were cruising at fifty miles an hour, the van's maximum speed. That was why he'd stayed on 101 instead of cutting over to the interstate: doing fifty on Route 5 could get you pulled over for obstructing traffic.

“You're not being sarcastic by any chance, are you Irene?”

“No-I think it's a legitimate question.”

“Then I'll give you a legitimate answer. It's no goddamn picnic being a multiple. You're always one slip away from humiliation. Hard to hold down a job. And as for a relationship, forget it- who'd want a relationship with a whole theatrical troupe? You'd never know whom you're making love to.”

Irene decided not to point out that the DID literature was rife with examples of multiples' spouses (usually male spouses of female multiples) who actively subverted therapy because being married to a multiple was like having your own imaginary harem.

“I'm still a little confused,” she told him instead. “You said you've restored order to the system. Why not just stay in control yourself?”

“I wish to hell I could. But it doesn't work like that. The only way I can stay in control is by letting the others all have their turns. If I don't, they're apt to force their way out. Sometimes they do anyway-that's how you met Useless the other day.”

Irene thought back to what the hapless host alter had said-that Max wouldn't allow any therapy. Now she was beginning to understand. “So what you're telling me is that you want to go into therapy not to achieve integration, but to maintain more effective control over the other alters. I don't know how much progress we can make under those ground rules.”

“A little fine-tuning, for a more efficiently functioning system? That's just textbook fusion, Irene-a textbook therapeutic resolution. I think it's doable, and I think it's worth a shot. How about you?”

Irene knew better than to ask him what her alternatives were. Suppressing a shudder, she turned her thoughts to the work ahead of her. Fusion was difficult enough to achieve in the best of circumstances-and time-consuming: three years at a minimum. But who could say for sure? This multiple was different from any of the others she'd treated-perhaps with a powerful alter like Max in charge, instead of the usual ineffective host, the possibility of an early resolution might not be all that far-fetched.

In any event, it would surely beat termination with extreme prejudice. So: start therapy, keep Max happy, keep your eyes open for any crack or weakness in the system that might be exploitable-and most important, stay alive.

“I suppose I'm game if you are,” she told him. Then she turned to her left, reached across the space separating them, and gently pushed that unruly comma of hair, blond now, back from his forehead, and tucked it under his watchcap for him.