The Girl Without a Name (11 page)

I
was right. The next few days are a Candy-Daneesha parade.

Today, Daneesha is up.

“I seriously don't know what you're talking about,” she says, staring at me like I've gone crazy. Cognitive behavioral therapy is going about as well as I thought it would.

“Split personality,” I explain. “That's one name for it. The other one is dissociative identity disorder.”

She scratches her leg, now covered with a sheen of light brown hair, a fact she has complained about already. (“My legs are looking nasty, girl. You got to get me a razor or something. I promise I'm not gonna go all suicidal or shit.”) Candy has yet to notice.

“So let me get this right. You trying to tell me I have more than one personality. Sometimes I act all crazy and shit, like someone else. Not Daneesha.”

“Sort of,” I say.

“Some bitch named Candy,” she adds.

“Again, kind of,” I say, not entirely comfortable with her characterization of the situation.

“You know what I think?”

“What?” I scoot my chair in closer for our breakthrough moment.

“I think all you people crazy. And I mean
crazy
crazy. Out-your-dang-skulls crazy.”

“I can see how you might think that Daneesha, but—”

“But what? I ain't no split personality. I'm telling you some fat white guys chased me. Probably fell and smacked my head is all. So I don't remember everything, but that doesn't mean I'm crazy,” she says, her voice rising. “Why ain't you found those white dudes yet?”

“Detective Adams is on it. I promise.”

She scoffs. “He ain't on it very hard, is he? You know, if I was some
white
girl with a name like Candy, and some brothers were trying to rape her, them niggers be in the chair already, and that's the truth.”

“I don't disagree with you.”

“Maybe, you find those assholes, and I start remembering some shit better. You ever think about that?”

I pause a minute. “Did Detective Adams ever ask you your last name?”

“Jones. My last name Jones. Don't you people have all this in your charts and shit? Y'all don't seem to know very much about your patients,” she grumbles.

To say the least.

“Whatever. Y'all can keep asking me these stupid questions. Just be sure you get me the hell outta here and quick.”

“We're trying.”

“Girl, you got to step that shit up. Foster me up if you need to. I ain't planning on spending my entire young life in this place, you know.”

I allow a smile. “We want to get you out of here, Daneesha. But we want to get you back with your family, too, with Heaven.”

“Good luck with that one,” she snorts. “Heaven in jail or dead by now, no doubt.” She stands up to check out the window, then, finding herself barefoot, sits right back on the bed. She swats the bottoms of her feet with disgust. “Where the hell my socks at?” Candy hates socks, would rather walk around without, though she's been warned against it.

“Um, in your drawer maybe?”

“Man, that floor is nasty.” She yanks the drawer open and finds the socks neatly balled up. Candy is forever tidying up clothes that Daneesha leaves lying around. Daneesha throws on her socks, then springs up to look out the window again, at the cars zooming around the parking lot. The sky is a dazzling blue after weeks of gray rain. The trees are nearly ready for winter, half their leaves shed, with muted yellows, reds, and browns left over. God's fireworks show is wrapping up.

Daneesha turns away from the window and looks at me, like she just noticed something. “You sure are tall. You play basketball or something?”

“Nope. Common misperception. Volleyball neither.”

“An unathletic tall chick,” she muses.

“Sort of. I like running.” (Or used to anyway, before I got lazy and spent every last minute studying for my RITE.) “You remember any more about the guys that chased you?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Not really. White guys, kinda old. Like forty. They all dressed up in ties and shirts, like they just came from work or something. Fat motherfuckers, too. Couldn't catch me 'cause they too fat.” She laughs. This is the first time I've heard Daneesha laugh. It's different from Candy's musical laugh. There's an edge to it, raucous, not cautious like Candy's.

“Hey, one other thing,” I say. “You know that scar you have?”

She reaches right down to her left ankle, though I didn't say where it was.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I just wondered how you got it.”

She looks puzzled a second. “I don't know. Probably cut it on something.”

“Was it a cigarette?” I ask.

She throws me a look. “No, it ain't no cigarette. I ain't fucking crazy like that Brandon dude.”

I spend the rest of the visit unskillfully avoiding the topic of her discharge date, and once out of the room, I call Detective Adams.

“Did she tell you her last name?” I ask him.

“Why, is Daneesha back?”

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“Because Candy is clueless. And no, she didn't tell me her last name. Are you going to grace me with that information?”

“Jones.”

He groans. “Perfect. I guess it would be asking too much to have a name that isn't shared by a million other people.”

“Who knows if it's even true, but it's something, huh?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “It's something. I'll run it through, let you know if I come up with anything.”

I decide to check Facebook before I venture in to see my newest patient: Donny Thomas. He's a seventeen-year-old psychopath who tortured his neighbor's dog. I'm kind of putting it off. There's nothing blazingly exciting on Facebook. My third cousin once removed (I think) just had a baby and got about a million likes. Which is reasonable, honestly. I mean nine months and then all that labor. Right at that moment, a very bad idea pops into my head.

I could post her picture on Facebook.

The idea flashes all sorts of alarm bells I've been taught to watch out for as an ADHD veteran. “BEWARE! NOT A GOOD PLAN! COULD SPELL TROUBLE!”

So, of course, I take three seconds to consider it, ignore my wailing superego, and create a Facebook post. I upload her picture with the title
Who Is This Girl?
Then I fill in the profile with “Missing Teenager. May go by Daneesha or Candy Jones.” I take a deep breath and then, before I can think about it anymore, post it, sharing it with all the waiting Facebook public out there.

Pushing open the door, I lay eyes on my newest patient. He is standing with his shirt off, sporting an impressive six-pack. He could double as a male model if he weren't a psychopath, though I suppose the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.

“Donny Thomas,” he says, shaking my hand. I immediately think of Donny Osmond, the polar opposite of a psychopath.

“Do you mind putting your shirt back on?” I ask.

“Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

I don't bother to answer, keeping my face impassive. Donny shrugs, flexing muscles I can't even remember from Anatomy, and puts his white undershirt back on slowly, like a backward striptease.

“Okay, I wanted to ask you a few questions, if I could,” I say, sitting down.

“I'm all yours.” His smile is slippery.

“Right. Can you explain to me why you killed the dog?”

He rolls his eyes. “I already made this very clear in my statement to the police.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, and I move the chair back, leaving a few crucial feet between us. I'm not forgetting what happened with my last psychopath, and I've already been hit in the face once this week.

“The dog,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I was putting the thing out of its misery. The neighbors just didn't understand.”

“What didn't they understand?”

He stretches his arms up with a yawn. “I told the officer already. The dog was sick.”

“Sick? How do you know it was sick?”

He smiles again. “I know a lot of things. I've got a hundred fifty-five IQ.”

“Hmm.” I'm probably going to hear about his MENSA membership next. “But you still haven't told me how you knew the dog was sick.”

Donny leans back, flexing then retracting his biceps and gazing at them with pure absorption. “You know what? I'm done with this discussion.”

“I'm just trying to understand how—”

“Done. With. This. Discussion.”

I nod and walk out of the room backward so I can keep an eye on him, plotting how I can pawn this one off on Jason. In the hall, I open Facebook again and wait forever for the page to update. There's one comment already, and I click on it to see.

“You have seriously fucking lost it.”
From Scotty.

Arthur opens one eye, then closes it again with a nosey sigh, assured that I am just getting in the bathtub and not doing anything that involves food. After a long week, I am more than ready for my bath. Which took some preparation, mind you. I had to choose exactly the right bath oil (English lavender), the right candle (China Rain), and the right glass of white wine (Russian River Chardonnay). Actually, the wine didn't matter; any 14-percent alcohol would have worked. I am submerged at last, the hot water swirling around my body like a balm, when the text quacks. I peer over at the ledge where my phone is propped.

whatcha doin?
It's Mike.

in a bath

oh good, let's face-time

hahaha

you coming over later?

on call, so wasn't going to. Call u later
, I write.

sounds good

xo

xo
, he answers back.

I lay back farther in the tub. The candle flickers as the wick sizzles in the pool of wax. I stick my feet out at the top of the tub (the previous tenant must have been rather short), when my phone quacks again. I look over at the ledge.

some issues up here. Can u come in?
It's Dr. Berringer.

I groan. Loudly. Arthur pops up his head, confirms there is still no food in the offing, and lays it back down.
Sure
, I answer with a sigh. Taking a bath was just tempting the on-call gods anyway. Of course Probation Girl can come in.

any problem?

will discuss when u get here

ok. B there in about 10

I text Mike to let him know I got called in already and throw on a pair of scrubs. Ten minutes later, I am walking what feels like a hundred miles from the residents' parking lot. The air is foggy and cool with a milky-white sky that makes the night look eerily like day.

r u still here?

12 floor
, he answers.

Right, the twelfth floor, where there are no patients. This must be quite an emergency. I am growling to myself all the way up the stairs, then I shove the squeaky door open to the dim, ghostly, empty room. The curtains are open already this time to the grayed-out night, soft, fuzzy lights splayed out below.

“Hi.” He is sprawled out in the little chair. This time, there is no question as to whether he smells of alcohol. He is drunk. Drunk as a skunk. “Thanks for coming,” he says with just a hint of slur to his words, his New Orleans accent stronger than usual. The scratches on his face are just visible. “I couldn't think of who else to call.”

“It's not about a patient?”

“No, I'm sorry. It's not.”

I take the chair beside him. “So what's up?” I say, making no effort at any counseling niceties.

“My wife is leaving me,” he answers with similar bluntness.

“Oh.” I peel off my leather coat because, despite being a ghost town up here, it's still hot as hell. “Do you…um…want to talk about it?”

He turns to me and laughs. “Do I want to talk about it? I don't know. Considering I dragged you out here on a perfectly nice Friday night, I guess I probably do.” But he doesn't say anything for a moment. He just stares down at the rose-pink Formica tabletop. “She wants a divorce,” he says finally. “And to be honest, I don't blame her.”

“You want something from the bar?” I ask, standing up and heading toward the vending machine. “My treat this time.”

He twists his body toward me. “Okay, I guess I'll have my usual.” I come back with a root beer for him (though I'm sure he'd rather skip the root) and a Diet Pepsi for me. Too late for caffeine, but then I'm going to need it to drive home anyway. He takes a big sip and sighs again.

“Was this a surprise?” I ask.

He pauses. “Not really. It shouldn't have been a surprise in any case. She's put up with my shit for too long now.” He takes another sip.

“Any particular issue going on?”

He stares ahead. “Issues, plural. She misses New Orleans. She doesn't like Buffalo. I don't make as much money as her daddy used to.” He pauses, then recaps his drink and places it on the table. “Of course, it doesn't help that I'm a drunk.”

I twirl my bottle in my hands. “Yeah. I've noticed. It seems like that might be a problem.”

He takes another swig with a laugh. “Good observation, Dr. Goldman.” He exhales then. “Leaving Tulane, though. That was the last straw.”

I nod, staring out the window. A siren bleats in the distance.

“I had it under pretty good control until this damn thing with my wife. She's been spying on me. Thinks I'm having a goddamn affair.”

I nod again. In my limited experience, this usually means you
are
having an affair.

“I'm not,” he says, “since you asked.”