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Authors: Lilian Nattel
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Promise. Promise
. These tears on her face did not belong to her. She was keeping the mind clear. But she could not stop herself from shrinking away when Dan moved closer, trying to take her hand, to stroke her hair.
“This is what I mean,” he appealed to the therapist. “It’s like I’m the enemy.”
“But you are not angry with your wife,” Brigitte said.
“No, of course not.”
“However, your anger is frightening because terrible things used to happen to her when people were angry. This is what we call a trigger.”
“But I’d never hurt Sharon,” Dan said, forgetting that it was not Sharon who wept in terror.
“I believe that. The purpose of this session is simply to provide you with information.” Brigitte’s voice was calm, soothing. Water trickled over the stones in the serenity fountain. She turned to Callisto. “How are you doing?”
With an effort Callisto blinked away the tears, regained her voice. “I’m all right,” she said. The price for staying forward would be paid later. In exhaustion. Pain in the body. Shaking. But only in private.
“I want to help,” Dan said, looking at Callisto as if he would wish to know her. And for a moment, for a foolish moment, his wife believed him—they, the ones close to the front who were listening, thought it might be all right.
“All of them together are a team, a system. That is who your wife is,” Brigitte said.
“Sharon.” He uncrossed his legs, leaning on one elbow.
“Sharon is one of them. You could say she’s the default.”
“The real one?” he asked. As expected.
And who was Callisto? Not real. Not good. Deserving of no life. Did her name appear on a birth certificate, a driver’s license, a credit card? Nowhere but the sky. On earth nameless. Bearing what must be borne. The fountain bubbled, the dehumidifier sucked in air. Nothing crashed or broke apart as Callisto breathed. This was her job today. The therapist had said that when this question came, they were simply to breathe. It would take time for Dan to understand.
“They’re all real. Your sense of self is just that, a sense, a feeling that you express as ‘I.’ There is no little man in your head pulling strings. Even scientists can’t explain consciousness. People who are multiple have a different feeling, neither more nor less real than yours. Their feeling is ‘we,’ a family of selves.”
“I see,” Dan said, crossing his legs again, the foot going up and down, keeping time to the beat of his private thoughts. His pants leg lifted slightly, showing an argyle sock, green and black. “So how do I get Sharon back? What. What did I say?”
He couldn’t possibly hear the uproar that these wordshad caused inside. Callisto was sitting as before, back straight, hands in her lap. But multitudes were in her eyes, glaring through them at Dan, then turning away from him, retreating, moving further inside.
Away away away
. Unwanted. Despised.
If Sharon was who he wished, then Sharon he would have. “No. Wait,” Brigitte had said, watching them. But Callisto was done. She went inside and with the others pushed Sharon out. It was the work of a moment, eyes lowered to hide the change. And then Sharon cleared her throat, hands waving as she spoke, blinking nervously, but it signified nothing to Callisto, deep inside.
And here she was again. Callisto had come to look at the stars, she’d come because it was her job to take over when the others were overwrought. Whether she liked it or not was irrelevant. Yet people made pictures out of stars and this man was now looking at her anxiously. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt; it was always jeans at home and a suit for work. In his closet everything had a place.
“Everything go all right tonight?” He checked his wife’s face—not Sharon’s, he knew that. But he wasn’t sure if he should guess which one she was. If he guessed wrong, would she hate him? More than sex, he wanted his wife, all of her, not to hate
. These tears on her face did not belong to her. She was keeping the mind clear. But she could not stop herself from shrinking away when Dan moved closer, trying to take her hand, to stroke her hair.
“This is what I mean,” he appealed to the therapist. “It’s like I’m the enemy.”
“But you are not angry with your wife,” Brigitte said.
“No, of course not.”
“However, your anger is frightening because terrible things used to happen to her when people were angry. This is what we call a trigger.”
“But I’d never hurt Sharon,” Dan said, forgetting that it was not Sharon who wept in terror.
“I believe that. The purpose of this session is simply to provide you with information.” Brigitte’s voice was calm, soothing. Water trickled over the stones in the serenity fountain. She turned to Callisto. “How are you doing?”
With an effort Callisto blinked away the tears, regained her voice. “I’m all right,” she said. The price for staying forward would be paid later. In exhaustion. Pain in the body. Shaking. But only in private.
“I want to help,” Dan said, looking at Callisto as if he would wish to know her. And for a moment, for a foolish moment, his wife believed him—they, the ones close to the front who were listening, thought it might be all right.
“All of them together are a team, a system. That is who your wife is,” Brigitte said.
“Sharon.” He uncrossed his legs, leaning on one elbow.
“Sharon is one of them. You could say she’s the default.”
“The real one?” he asked. As expected.
And who was Callisto? Not real. Not good. Deserving of no life. Did her name appear on a birth certificate, a driver’s license, a credit card? Nowhere but the sky. On earth nameless. Bearing what must be borne. The fountain bubbled, the dehumidifier sucked in air. Nothing crashed or broke apart as Callisto breathed. This was her job today. The therapist had said that when this question came, they were simply to breathe. It would take time for Dan to understand.
“They’re all real. Your sense of self is just that, a sense, a feeling that you express as ‘I.’ There is no little man in your head pulling strings. Even scientists can’t explain consciousness. People who are multiple have a different feeling, neither more nor less real than yours. Their feeling is ‘we,’ a family of selves.”
“I see,” Dan said, crossing his legs again, the foot going up and down, keeping time to the beat of his private thoughts. His pants leg lifted slightly, showing an argyle sock, green and black. “So how do I get Sharon back? What. What did I say?”
He couldn’t possibly hear the uproar that these wordshad caused inside. Callisto was sitting as before, back straight, hands in her lap. But multitudes were in her eyes, glaring through them at Dan, then turning away from him, retreating, moving further inside.
Away away away
. Unwanted. Despised.
If Sharon was who he wished, then Sharon he would have. “No. Wait,” Brigitte had said, watching them. But Callisto was done. She went inside and with the others pushed Sharon out. It was the work of a moment, eyes lowered to hide the change. And then Sharon cleared her throat, hands waving as she spoke, blinking nervously, but it signified nothing to Callisto, deep inside.
And here she was again. Callisto had come to look at the stars, she’d come because it was her job to take over when the others were overwrought. Whether she liked it or not was irrelevant. Yet people made pictures out of stars and this man was now looking at her anxiously. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt; it was always jeans at home and a suit for work. In his closet everything had a place.
“Everything go all right tonight?” He checked his wife’s face—not Sharon’s, he knew that. But he wasn’t sure if he should guess which one she was. If he guessed wrong, would she hate him? More than sex, he wanted his wife, all of her, not to hate
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