The Girls He Adored

Epilogue

Just over a year later, enjoying a complimentary continental breakfast in a hotel room, Irene Cogan was startled, while channelflipping, to see Dolores Moon being interviewed on Good Morning Portland.

There was nothing surprising about seeing Dolores on television-she'd been on Dateline a few weeks after being rescued, and her book tour had kicked off with a long segment on the Today Show. But it was quite a coincidence that they were in the same town on the same day. Irene called the station and left her name and number. Five minutes later her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Irene Cogan, what the hell are you doing in Portland?”

“Hello, Dolores. Up until five minutes ago, I was watching you hawk your book.”

“How'd I do?”

“I'd buy it-and I know how it comes out. Do you want to have dinner tonight?”

“I'd love to, but I'm leaving for Seattle in about an hour. NoSan Francisco. Seattle was yesterday.” Dolores laughed. It was good to hear her laugh. “And when the book tour's over, I have an audition for the role of Eponine in a western tour of Les Mis. Apparently being kidnapped was a terrific career move.”

“I'm so happy for you. How're you sleeping these days?”

Long pause. “With the lights on, and a snootful of Valium. You know how it is.”

“It'll get better.”

“I know.” Quick change of subject-Dolores didn't like to dwell. “So how's your book coming?”

“Actually, that's what I'm doing in Portland. I need one last interview with him, to give the book some closure. And me.”

“He's here?” Dolores didn't bother hiding her alarm.

“Miss Miller left him a substantial inheritance. He was transferred to a private hospital-pretty hotsy-totsy, from what I understand-after being found unfit to stand trial.”

“If I'd known, I'd never have let them include Portland on the tour. Just knowing I was in the same state with him was stressful enough.”

“There's nothing to worry about. He's on a locked ward, maximum security.”

“As far as I'm concerned, dead is maximum security. Anything short of that is just screwing around.”

“I understand-believe me, I understand. I'm a little conflicted about seeing him myself. A lot conflicted-which is partly why I have to do it.”

“Better you than me. Listen, Irene, I have to go. I definitely don't want to miss that plane out of town now.”

“Okay, honey. It's good to hear you sounding so well. Call me some time when you get a chance. And good luck with Les Mis. I mean break a leg.”

“You too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Irene replaced the receiver in the cradle. The idea of a plane out of town sounded pretty good to her. But she'd had to go to a lot of trouble to arrange the interview with Maxwell-permission from his lawyers, who were also his guardians, as well as his doctor, and the administrators at Reed-Chase. If she chickened out now, then changed her mind again, she knew she might not be able to swing it a second time.

After a quick pep talk in the mirror-she was a frost blond again-Irene packed her overnight bag. On the back of the door was one of those “Have you forgotten anything?” signs. She couldn't help turning around obediently to look, and discovered that she'd left her wallet on the foot of the bed. She didn't even remember taking it out of her purse-apparently her subconscious really didn't want to do this interview.

Ever since she'd heard that little voice in her head on the riverbank, the one that had prompted her to ask Kinch his name, Irene had been paying a lot more attention to her subconscious. But she refused to be pushed around by it. One more pep talk-you have to know, she told herself; you'll feel better if you know — then she retrieved her wallet and was out the door before she could change her mind again. Or vice versa.

Reed-Chase Institute was a beige two-story structure set back from a pleasant, tree-lined street. Dr. Alan Corder, a good-looking, athletic fellow with a spring in his step, and all his hair, met Irene in the lobby. He was Irene's age, but flatteringly deferential. He told her he'd read everything she'd published on DID, including her recent article on Maxwell in JAP-the Journal of Abnormal Psychology — and asked her if she would do him the honor of having lunch with him to discuss the case.

Oh, slather it on, thought Irene-but she accepted. Corder led her down a long corridor, through a locked door, up an elevator, and through another door that opened when he punched a code into a keypad. The locked ward was situated in the back of the building by design, Corder explained. This way, the grilled windows weren't visible from the street.

“Keeps the NIMBYs off our back.”

“I understand,” said Irene. A NIMBY was someone who didn't mind society building high-security prisons or asylums-just Not In My Back Yard.

Corder signed Irene into the security unit, had her fill out a liability waiver, then led her down a wide hallway painted a pleasant shade of salmon.

“Has there been any change in his status since I spoke to you last week?” she asked.

“None whatsoever. He's a model patient. If it weren't for his history, and the court order, he'd have earned his way off the locked ward by now.”

Irene put her hand on Dr. Corder's arm, stopping him in his tracks in the middle of the corridor. “Never,” she said, staring up into his eyes for emphasis. “Never, never, never, never, never.”

“I understand how you feel.”

“This isn't about me.”

“Of course not. But try to withhold judgment until you've spoken with him. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. And don't worry-either myself or one of the orderlies will be observing you through the security window the whole time.”

The last door on the right at the end of the corridor was painted pastel blue, the color of Maybelline, with a one-way glass panel set at eye level. Irene would not let herself peek in. She was afraid if she saw him, she'd lose her nerve. Corder punched a code into the keypad; the deceptively heavy door swung open on silent hinges.

At first glance, it was an ordinary, pleasant-looking dormitory room. Desk, bureau, bed. Pale blue walls. But it didn't take long for a trained eye such as Irene's to spot the anomalies. The bathroom was an alcove-no door. The glass of the four-paned window overlooking the back garden and walking paths of the institute was a double-layer mesh sandwich, the sash for show only-it wasn't built to open. The top of the bureau was padded, the corners rounded; it had open, recessed shelves instead of drawers that closed. The desk corners were padded and rounded, too, and both desk and chair were bolted to the floor. No lamps-the lights were set behind opaque white panels in the ceiling.

Maxwell, in blue pajamas with white piping, was seated at the desk, crayoning, his back to the door. He turned. “Hello, Doctor Al,” he chirped brightly, in a pennywhistle voice.

“Good morning, Lyssy. Do you remember Dr. Cogan?”

“I guess.” But there was no recognition in the gold-flecked brown eyes, only a guarded expression: an age-appropriate response for a polite five-year-old with no idea who Irene was, but with enough intelligence to understand that they wouldn't ask you if you remembered somebody unless you'd already met them.

“Hello, Lyssy. What are you drawing there? May I take a look?”

“It's a picture of Missy.” He held up the manila-colored sheet. Irene crossed the room and took it from him. It was the stick figure of a woman wearing a stylized, triangular dress and long hair. Long black hair, Irene was relieved to see.

“Very pretty,” said Irene, handing the drawing back to him. “Who's Missy?”

“My friend.”

Occupational therapist, mouthed Corder. Then, to Maxwell: “Lyssy, Dr. Cogan would like to talk with you for a few minutes. Would that be all right with you?”

“I guess. Only…” He beckoned shyly for Corder to lean over, then whispered into his ear.

“Of course,” said Corder. “Dr. Cogan, could you wait outside for a moment?”

Irene backed out of the room, closed the door behind her, and watched through the one-way glass as Maxwell, his arm around his doctor for support, hopped over to the bed, his right pajama leg swinging loosely below the knee. Irene winced. Until that moment, she'd forgotten about the amputation. Feeling like a voyeur, she turned away. A few minutes later the door swung open, and Corder emerged. “He's all yours.”

Maxwell was waiting for her just inside the door. Irene hadn't expected to be in such close proximity so soon. She decided to take charge right away. “Hello again, Lyssy. Have a seat.”

“I have a seat,” he said mischievously, patting his pajamaed behind.

“Very funny. Bed or chair, take your pick.”

He limped over to the bed and sat down. Not a bad limp, just a hitch and an exaggerated swing of his hip.

“You're walking very well,” said Irene. She sat behind the desk, pushed his crayons and drawing pad to the side, removed her notebook and Dictaphone from her purse, and set them on the desk.

“First I had to use crutches, first. Then a cane. Now I don't even need that. They have legs you can run on, too. Someday I'm going to get one of those, if I'm good, and I could be in the Olympics for people with one leg. If I'm good and people stop being scared of me.”

“Oh? Are people scared of you?”

“Some people, I guess. In the old hospital they used to keep me tied up.”

“Do you know why that was?”

“I guess.”

“Why?”

“Ask Doctor Al-he knows.”

“I'd like to hear it from you. I need to know what you think.”

“Because once upon a time there was a bad man who got inside my body and pretended to be me and did bad things to people.”

“I see. And where is that bad man now?”

“The police man shot him and he went away.”

“Do you remember anything about him?”

“All I 'member, I was in this dark jail place and I was scared and he made me stay there and there was this dead bird on the floor. Is my voice on that?”

Irene pressed stop. “Yes. Would you like to hear it?” She hit the reverse button, then play.

“… this dead bird on the floor. Is my voice on that?”

“That's not me,” said Maxwell. “Is that me?”

“That's you. Everybody's own voice sounds different to them when they hear it over a tape recorder.”

“How come?”

“Because you're hearing it from the outside rather than the inside.” He had presented Irene with a convenient segue. “By the way, Lyssy, do you ever hear other voices inside your head?”

“You mean like the bad man?”

“Sure, like the bad man.”

He looked down at his lap. “N O means no. And if I do, I have to tell Doctor Al or one of the nurses or somebody right away, cross my heart and hope to die.” Then he looked up slyly-transparently slyly. “Right?”

“Absolutely,” replied Irene. “Would you like to play a little game with me?”

“Absolutely,” he repeated in his piping voice. He appeared to enjoy the sound of the word. “Ab-so-lutely.”

“Okay, here's how it goes. I'm going to ask you three questions, and you have to answer them truthfully. You understand what truthfully means?”

“I'm not a baby.”

“I know-I just have to make extra sure. But here's the game part-the whole time I'm asking the questions, and the whole time you're answering, you have to look straight at me. No looking away, no hiding your face or anything like that. Think you can do that?”

“Too easy,” he said scornfully.

“Then it shouldn't be any trouble. Okay, first question.” Irene pointed to her eyes. “Look right here.” Their eyes locked across the room. “How old are you?”

“Five. One two three four five.”

“Very good. Second question: what's your favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Choc'lit.”

“Excellent. Third question: what's your name?” This last was the only question that mattered, of course.

“Lyssy. L Y S S Y,” he declared proudly, his eyes locked on hers. “Do I win?”

“You sure do.” No upward flicker of the eyeballs, no flutter of the eyelids, no grounding behavior, no change in the voice, no sign of stress or struggle.

“What? What do I win?”

Irene turned off the Dictaphone, slipped it into her purse along with her notebook, then rummaged around and came up with a pack of sugarless Trident. “Chewing gum,” she said, feeling a touch manic. “First prize is a pack of Original Flavor, Sugarless Trident. More dentists recommend sugarless Trident for their patients.”

“Coo-ool,” said Lyssy. “Are we done now? Are we finished?”

“You know, I think we are,” said Irene, standing up. “I think we are at long last finished.” She slung her purse strap over her shoulder, crossed to the bed, handed Lyssy his prize.

He hurriedly tore the pack open, stripped the foil off two pieces, shoved them both into his mouth. “Will you come back to see me some time?” he asked her indistinctly.

“Perhaps some day, Lyssy,” she said, crossing to the door, which opened as if by magic. “I do live sort of far away.”

“Too bad,” he said. “You're nice.”

Irene turned in the doorway. “Why, thank you, Lyssy. You're nice too.” She took a backward step; the door closed.

“Well?” asked Dr. Corder, beaming.

“I'm impressed,” said Irene, stepping up to peer through the one-way glass. Maxwell was still sitting on the bed, motionless save for the steady movement of his jaw as he worked at his gum.

“But not entirely convinced?”

“ ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’ He's already fooled me once, Dr. Corder.”

“Please, Dr. Cogan, call me Al.”

“In that case, call me Irene.”

“It'd be my pleasure,” said Corder, offering her his arm. “Now how about that lunch?”

“Sounds great.” Irene took his arm, and together they strolled back down the salmon-colored corridor. Were they flirting? she wondered. She certainly hoped so.

Ulysses Maxwell sat motionless on the bed for another ten minutes. When he was sure they were gone, he spat his gum out onto the floor. Then his carriage changed dramatically. He lowered his shoulders and arched his neck, cocking his head slightly to the side.

“ ‘Why, thank you, Lyssy,’ ” he said aloud, forming the words carefully, almost primly, at the front of his mouth, and speaking with just a trace of a lisp-Irene's lisp. “ ‘You're nice, too.’ ”

He rose, crossed the room with only a ghost of the limp he'd put on for Irene, sat down at his desk, and with the black crayon swiftly sketched the outline of a nude woman on the top sheet of the pad. No stick figure this time: she was reclining in a modified odalisque, her hands behind her head, her small breasts tipped pertly. Then he put the black crayon back in the box and took out several other shades, peach, melon, red-orange, orange-red, apricot, and carnation, with which he sketched in first a few sparse pubic hairs, just above the triangular space between her slender thighs, then a luscious head of shoulder length, strawberry blond hair.

“Much better,” he said, admiring her for a moment, then tearing the picture into narrow strips, and the strips into tiny pieces before depositing it in his wastebasket. “That Princess Di shade was all wrong for your complexion. Miss Miller would never have approved.”