Blindspot

By Ilse Nusbaum

In this dark and gripping psychological tale, Ophelia, a woman whose identity was fractured into five separate personalities by her father’s satanic rituals, seeks love, justice and unification.

The road to hell is paved with gold, an illusion of the setting sun. The month is October. The year is 1946. The road is in Michigan, north of Detroit. The novel opens with the birth of the fourth alternate personality of a tormented child. Identity dissociation is the mind´s defense against relentless childhood abuse. Multiple Personality Disorder is the extreme result.

When the third alter, too frightened to cope, flees into temporary amnesia, the fourth girl emerges. The first sound she hears is a man´s voice. He calls her Faith but she isn´t Faith. Faith is the name of the first girl. She is Ophelia, the novel´s narrator. Her journey through life begins as the unwilling witness to murder. Her father is the murderer. She falls into a state of oblivion, a black hole of the mind.

The next time Ophelia opens her eyes she is inside a house filled with art and music and an aura of evil. The idyllic setting, the shores of a small lake north of Detroit, conceals a sinister reality. On these shores and in nearby woods, gods and demons compete for human souls. Good and evil, free will and fate, fidelity and fanaticism, sacred oaths and prophecies determine the outcome.

Ophelia´s mother is an artist. Her father, Max Mahler, is a brilliant, handsome, charismatic physician. He is also the prophet of a satanic cult, its god the master of the moon. He spins a web of myths and lies and fantasies to lure disciples. His daughter is the victim of sadistic rituals performed to appease the demon´s lust. Fragmentation is her mind´s defense. The alters survive by sharing the suffering. In this complex novel, nothing is what it first seems to be.

Ophelia´s first days in a hell of her father´s creation are a jumble of confused activity. Sometimes she observes a red-haired girl who looks like her, an alter. Sometimes she takes her place. The five alters have separate memories, talents and identities.

The descriptions of the bizarre rituals are disturbing, graphic and explicit. They leave no doubt that the girl whose identity splinters is smart and brave. Fragmentation is not an act of cowardice.

Ophelia soon becomes the dominant personality. At nineteen, she plots her escape with courage and cunning. She leaves, taking her infant daughter with her. Max lets her go. He knows she’ll return on a predetermined date.

The story picks up 25 years later. Ophelia is a mother, a teacher of philosophy, and an artist who has found love, but she hasn’t truly escaped. Her father has located her. Lured by the offer of her mother´s art, she returns, her pagan faith intact.

She is the princess in the tower who has to save herself in order to save others. When her father and half-brother snatch her young granddaughter, she stands in their way. Her courage when she faces two armed men grants the unity she both craves and fears, her god’s gift to her. Her father’s vengeful god takes what belongs to him in death and conflagration.

Despite dark psychological undertones and pervasive religious satire,the novel is in essence a romance. The hero is noble. The heroine is beautiful, smart, and brave. Blindspot reads like a myth, a disturbing fantasy. The specific cult is fictional, but horrific acts in the name of religion are not.

Memory is the key to identity. When identity is fractured, a question arises. Is the woman who survives parental molestation a reliable narrator, or does her road to hell begin with a single act of intolerable violence and end in a nightmare that unfolds in her mind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462836840

Ilse Nusbaum

Martha was born in the last years of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. She was a young woman when Hitler marched into Vienna. Her daughter, Ilse, grew up in Detroit. A Harvard graduate with a master’s degree from the University of Michigan, she has published medical books, articles, poetry, and a novel. Falling Uphill has been cited on the Vienna University of Economics WU) website and in an Austrian history book about expelled Jewish families. Ilse's work with WU resulted in a memorial site and monument erected on the University's new campus as well as a monograph about expelled scholars

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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Open your eyes, Faith. I’m speaking.

The voice was soft but demanded obedience. Rigid with fear, I opened my eyes and glanced at the man seated next to me, the driver of the automobile. He seemed immense, a giant dressed in black overcoat, black trousers, scarf and gloves. His face was fair and clean-shaven. His features were even, his hair a golden blond, straight, cut short. I hoped this handsome man was kind, that my fear was unwarranted, but when he stared at me even just for a moment, his cold blue eyes froze me to the core. As soon as I dared I glanced away.

Through the front window I watched the road unwind from country to city, from woods and small houses to traffic and tall buildings. Listening to the man’s soft, menacing monotone, I learned who I was, a child of ten, and at his mercy. His incomprehensible words turned me to ice.

Disobedience will not be tolerated. Do you understand what I’m saying, Faith?

I nodded, then dumbly shook my head. I understood only that Faith was the name I must answer to.

He continued the monologue in his slightly accented voice. Almost under his breath he murmured, You’ll soon find out.

He pulled into a parking space in front of a tall building and told me to get out. I’ll have a word with this analyst who thinks she can cure my daughter.

I was his daughter. He owned me.

He pointed at a window near the top of the building. It took me a moment to realize he was waiting for a response to an unspoken command. This is where I’m going. Don’t budge. I nodded. Yes.

A brisk wind swept leaves and papers along the sidewalk. I glimpsed a newspaper crumpled at the curb. Detroit News. Bus strike. October sixteenth. Nineteen forty-six. Huddled against the lobby door waiting for the man to fetch me, I buttoned an olive-green wool coat, nicely made. A sudden jostling spun me around. The scruffy man who’d pushed me scratched the gray stubble on his chin with dirty fingernails.

What’s your name, girl? he asked.

I knew instantly—I’m Ophelia, that’s me. I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.

Where’s your folks? he persisted.

I edged away from him, into the busy boulevard. A car screeched to a stop. The driver shouted obscenities. I ran to the curb, back to the spot where I’d been ordered to stay. Glancing up, I began to scream even before I heard the awful thud. A woman’s body plummeted to the sidewalk almost at my feet. The wall of silence burst, exploded.

No, no, no, no. I screamed and kept screaming until the man, my father, walked nonchalantly out of the building as if nothing had happened. He tugged me away from the assembling crowd and hauled me into the car.

So you’ve found your voice, Faith. It seems your doctor has cured you.

I’d been delivered to this man. My mind went blank. Not asleep, but somehow vanished, like pictures on film pulled out of a camera in bright light. I was there but not there. I woke up still inside the car, still crying. He drove a short distance without a word and parked. He stepped outside. I knew I had to wait for him to lock the gates of the high chain-link fence before I scooted out. Behind the fence a lake reflected the leaden sky.

He unlocked the front door of a brick bungalow. So this was where I lived. He ordered me inside. I heard music. A woman was playing the piano. She looked up and smiled. A shred of hope filled me until the man grabbed my wrist and steered me to a ladder in the kitchen. I climbed up, through a trapdoor, into an attic bedroom. I lay on the cot and fell asleep, still crying.

In the morning I was awake but not awake. A red-haired girl hurried out of bed and pulled on a white robe. I followed her down the ladder through the kitchen to the bathroom. The face in the mirror was pale, her complexion like the father’s, clear, fair, without a mark, freckle or blemish.

My mind flickered like a light bulb about to burn out, one minute on, the next minute off. The girl went through her morning routine. Washed her face, brushed her teeth, stuffed her nightgown into a hamper. Took a quick shower. Dried off and slipped into her robe. Scrubbed the tub and the floor. Retraced her steps to her bedroom. Put on a blue dress. Combed her hair. In a minute she was scrambling eggs in the kitchen. In another blink of the eye she was setting the dining-room table for six.

One by one others entered the room. The woman, the pianist, came first. She wore a silky white blouse, a dove-colored skirt, sheer stockings with fine seams down the backs, and leather pumps the same shade of gray as the skirt. Her golden hair was rolled into a bun. She sat down at the far end, the foot of the table, closest to the kitchen. A younger woman settled into a chair at one side. She was dressed in white, a uniform. Her platinum hair was fastened away from her face in a pageboy. A stout man with light-brown hair sat across from the young woman, and a boy, a towhead of about eight, plunked into a chair next to him.

The man who brought me here came last. His yellow hair was damp and he smelled like soap. He snapped a neatly folded newspaper onto the sideboard when he entered the room. He pulled out a chair at the head of the table. Though it was a cool fall day, he wore a short-sleeved, well-pressed and starched white shirt that revealed muscular arms.

The beautiful pianist told the girl to bring the platter. Her response, Yes, Mama, helped sort things out. The girl brought the breakfast tray to the table and sat down next to the young woman. I understood, though I wasn’t sure how, that this would be my place at the table and that I had to put the puzzle of who these people were together quickly. I had to think of the man who called me his daughter as my father and the pianist as my mother. So I did. I assumed the boy was my brother, but who these others were puzzled me.

My father drank orange juice and helped himself to bacon and scrambled eggs before the others picked up their cutlery. The girl sipped milk and munched on buttered toast. I looked from one to the other, into six pairs of eyes with varied shades of blue. This was my family. Suddenly my father, asked, What did you see yesterday, Faithie?

Nothing, Papa, she replied. So this was Faith.

But you’ve found your voice.

She looked at him as if her life was such a puzzle that anything was possible. Yes, thank you, Papa.

What will you say if anyone asks?

I don’t know, Papa. What must I say? Her eyes grew large with alarm.

How does it happen that you can speak all of a sudden?

I don’t know, Papa. I’m sorry. She burst into tears.

Was this the proper way to speak to him? I shivered with dread.

Finish your breakfast, Faith.

Yes, Papa. Thank you. She played with the rest of her toast until he turned his attention to the boy.

Eat, Werner. You have to go to school. You may tell Faithie’s teachers and classmates that a doctor has cured her. She’ll soon be back in school.

Yes, Uncle Max. Thank you.

The response surprised me. The boy was his nephew. The others must be his parents, and we all lived together. He grabbed a jacket from the back of the chair and bolted out of the house. Everyone else finished breakfast, leaving the girl behind. She carried the dishes to the sink and filled a dishpan with hot, soapy water. I let her do her chores before I spoke. Are you Faith?

What?

I’m Ophelia. Are you Faith?

I’m me. I’m Allie.

But she answered to the other name. Faith. Well, so had I. My mind reeled, trying to figure it out. Finally I asked, How many are we, Allie?

What?

Don’t you know? Her ignorance baffled me.

No. Where did you come from?

He drove me here yesterday. Don’t you know what happened?

No. Sometimes I don’t remember. She locked her lips.

Her fear frightened me anew. Allie, he scares me.

Yes, Ophelia. He’s very scary.

CHAPTER 1

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The strident buzz of the doorbell with its dot-dot-dot-dash signal couldn’t be

ignored. Millie Ostrick, my elderly neighbor, watched over me and I watched over her. I peered through the peephole. I saw her and opened the door. She wasn’t alone. The bearer of a rectangular cake lit with a forest of candles, four rows of eleven, led a parade. Millie took charge of the door and the dozen friends who strode through it. The cake was marched to the table. Paper plates and plastic utensils, bottles of soda pop and a half-gallon of ice cream emerged from grocery bags. Coats were hustled to the closet, the overflow consigned to the couch.

Why was I surprised? Everyone here had punctuated my nine-to-five day with birthday greetings and a casual question about what I’d be doing tonight. I planned to curl up with a good book and big bowl of popcorn. Sounds like fun, everyone said.

A clamor of voices urged me to blow out the candles. I huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf, but I couldn’t blow out flames that withstood the wind. Gales of laughter accompanied the predictable leap-year quip. Happy birthday, Faith. How does it feel to be eleven?

I intended to jest, but the words inside my head popped out. I never want to be eleven again.

The ringing phone interrupted the unwelcome trip to the past. I checked my watch. Eight o’clock in Michigan was early for my California daughter’s call. I hoped it signaled a return to spontaneity. Since her marriage to Tom Nelson everything was scheduled. At nine-thirty on Thursdays I could pick up the phone and know it was Amy. Conversations weren’t always fun, but she was my only child and I was her only parent. I was sure she’d call today. I picked up on the third ring with, Hi, Amy.

An unfamiliar male voice asked, Faith Stone?

Disappointed, I replied perfunctorily. Yes. That’s me.

It’s George Jenner.

After almost thirty years? I blinked about a thousand times. Had I heard right? Out came a breathless, Who?

Do you remember me? George Jenner.

Yes, of course.

He must’ve heard the background din and clatter. He asked, Is this a bad time?

Yes. No. Don’t hang up. Can you hold on? I left the phone off the hook and went into the kitchen to pick up the extension. Heart pounding, I repeated his name. George Jenner?

He spoke quickly, but his explanation made no sense. His wife was very sick. My father was treating her. My father? I cut him off. Give me your number. I have people here. I’ll call you back in about an hour. Okay?

He apologized because I had to hang up on him. He sounded as confused as I felt. His reference to my father alarmed me. His reference to his sick wife baffled me. Mystified, I slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. Yes, I remembered him well. I had few good childhood memories except of George Jenner. Would he remember me?

Laughter in the dining room jolted me into the present. A party was going on. By the time I rejoined the company the phone left off the hook was chirping, demanding to be hung up. I obeyed. The recalcitrant candles had been extinguished. Millie relit the stubs. With a dramatic flourish I wielded a teaspoon to snuff them out. Millie conducted the cake cutting and serving like a dramatic production. This eighty-year-old woman enjoyed the spotlight.

After we stuffed ourselves, I unwrapped gag gifts sporting a mock Oriental theme: an abacus attached to an electronic calculator; a pair of chopsticks attached to a box of instant rice. The last was a bottle of Moet & Chandon. I vetoed the plastic and retrieved crystal flutes from the recesses of the china cabinet. I popped the cork and we toasted each other.

Finally came the call from my daughter. This time I didn’t retreat to the kitchen. My friends knew who she was. After a birthday greeting and a description of her new dance studio, she settled into chitchat. The weather was always a safe topic. She asked, What’s it like out there?

Two degrees above zero, wind chill forty below. For the next few minutes we discussed the weather. That issue exhausted, I asked, How’s Tom?

He’s working in the field.

He was a seismologist. This sounded interesting. What field?

Parkfield. Mom, I’ve told you before.

On that note the conversation ended. She told someone, but that someone hadn’t shared the information. We said goodbye and hung up. It was after ten before everyone left. I dialed the number scrawled on the calendar. George answered on the first ring and began to talk mechanically, as if reading from a script. He was calling on behalf of his wife. My father gave her my phone number. How did he know it? I didn’t ask. This wouldn’t be the first time he hunted me down. After a few minutes of incomprehensible amplification, George invited me to dinner at their house.

Mara and I hope you’ll come, your husband and you.

Peter died twenty-five years ago. Since Amy was born. My daughter, Amy.

The small speech seemed to leave him flummoxed momentarily, but polite as I remembered him to be, he soon recovered. Please feel free to bring a friend.

I considered the amended invitation briefly. It was bad enough I’d meet his wife on her home ground while I had to readjust memories of him. I didn’t need a chaperone. Am I allowed to come alone?

I heard a click, click, click of shifting gears in his hesitant reply. Of course.

What a strange woman you are, Ophelia, I chided myself. I shouldn’t go, but I had to face him one last time. I scratched down the date, a week from Sunday, the time, and the address in West Bloomfield. Fancy neighborhood. Cab fare from Southfield would be expensive.

Will you have a problem finding us? he asked, giving explicit directions. Right turn, left turn.

No problem, I interrupted. I don’t drive anyway. I’ll take a taxi.

Don’t do that. I’ll pick you up.

Okay. Let him pick me up. My house was clean and Southfield was no slum. I gave directions. A block south of Nine Mile Road, bordering the Evergreen Nature Preserve. Easy to find.

Before I went to bed I shared these plans in our common journal. George Jenner, yes, that George Jenner will pick us up March ninth to visit his sick wife. The next day one entry followed mine, in Portia’s neat script. Why? I wrote back, to find out why Papa gave them our number. That was only half the truth.

March ninth was a snowy Sunday. I changed clothes three times before settling on a blue wool pantsuit, modest, trim, feminine. I selected a long-sleeved white silk blouse and clasped a gold watch over the cuff, concealing my wrist. I brushed my hair. Pinned it into a twist. Pulled it behind a headband. Finally I let it hang loose in soft curls that fell naturally without coaxing. Pale red, it was still my crowning glory. I applied a touch of lipstick, rouge, mascara and inspected myself in the mirror.

George, remember me. Please remember me.

I was his wife’s guest. Of course he wouldn’t remember me.

When the car pulled into the driveway I jumped. When he climbed the porch steps I admonished myself not to act like an adolescent. He rang the bell. I opened the door and froze. He’d matured, of course. Hair already silver at forty-four, but still—

I blurted out, Hello. I’m ready. Just have to grab my coat.

I couldn’t move, careful not to stare.

He stared.

You don’t remember me, do you?

Yes, he said. Ophelia.

I wouldn’t cry. I hoped you’d be bald, fat, ugly, with rotten yellow teeth.

I’m a dentist.

Oh my. So I hoped you’d be fat, bald, ugly with beautiful white dentures. He came back into my world a married man. My father had sent him here to torment me. I realized George was still standing on the porch. Where are my manners? I’m sorry. You don’t know what I’m jabbering about. Please come in.

Faith, he began. He stepped into the foyer. No farther. I stayed there too. We left the door ajar.

No. Don’t call me Faith. You know who I am.

Ophelia, we’re so glad you said you’d come. He rushed into the speech. May I tell you about Mara? She’s dreadfully sick and very lonely. Your father’s been treating her. He told her about you.

Except for my name it sounded rehearsed. Maybe he was as nervous as I was about this strange reunion. I asked, What could he possibly say about me that would interest her?

He told her you teach philosophy at the community college and sell real estate part time. Your daughter lives in Los Angeles.

Not quite right but too close. Teaching’s part time. I work full time in condo management. How does he know?

George looked baffled. From your daughter.

My daughter writes to him? She never told me. I couldn’t go on.

Ophelia, please. I’m upsetting you. I never meant to do that. I’ll go. I’ll make your excuses.

Excuses? What was he talking about? I hoped he’d remember me, a separate person, apart from Portia and Allie and Faith. He did, but only long enough to turn my relationship with my daughter upside-down. And I still had this duty visit with a sick wife to get through somehow. I said, I can’t make excuses now.

Why not? All her friends do. His voice was bitter.

What? Her friends do what?

Mara has a terrible, terrible disease. Ophelia, may I come inside?

The door was partly open, but I hadn’t felt the cold March wind. Come in. Of course.

I closed the door. We moved into the living room and stopped. He stood stock-still, like a rattled schoolboy having trouble with a recitation. I stood stock-still, prepared to listen. He was my father’s emissary. I waited for him to speak.

I should’ve known better than to intrude, he said. I remember your father, but I couldn’t say no to my wife when she read about him. That he treats patients everyone else says are hopeless. I’d like to explain about Mara, why I thought it was all right to call.

I apologized for my rude behavior. Please sit down. Take off your coat. I’m glad you’re here. How else would I find out that my daughter and my father are so chummy?

He didn’t take off his coat. He sat down stiffly, looking as if I’d sent his world topsy-turvy, too.

Don’t mind me. My father is this miracle-working doctor. He stays in touch with his prodigal child through her daughter. He talks about me to your wife. I’m surprised you remember me.

I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me.

Why wouldn’t I remember you?

Something Max told my mother long ago.

He calls him Max, so familiarly. What lies has he been told? I’ll bite. What did he say?

Ophelia— he started, then abruptly stopped and shook his head.

I didn’t let it go. What did he tell you?

Nothing. I don’t go inside that house. I wait for Mara and roam around town.

You know what he’s like. Why do you take Mara there? What terrible sickness does she have?

That’s what I want to tell you. It’s a dominant genetic disease that doesn’t show up until fairly late in life. It’s hopeless, but she grasps at straws. She reads about unusual treatments and wants to try them before it’s too late. Her friends think it’s already too late.

So they make excuses. But why?

It’s the nature of the disease. And she doesn’t want them to see her.

Why not? This whole thing was making no sense to me.

She talks about duty visits. So when Max told her his daughter volunteers at senior centers and would surely make time for her if asked, she jumped at the idea. I thought it would be an imposition to call you. I told her how busy you must be, but she said Max—

I interrupted. Why do you call him Max?

He looked shell-shocked. No doubt he hadn’t expected his old pal Ophelia to berate or interrogate him. What should I call him?

I don’t know. It sounds as if you’re friends.

I thought about my father every day of my life but hoped that he’d forgotten me. Now I knew he’d kept track through my daughter, and the only person from the past I believed was a friend was friendly enough with him to call him by his first name. George remained silent for what seemed a long time before he said, I’m sorry we imposed on you. I should’ve thought farther ahead.

He stood up. In a minute this perfect husband, perfect gentleman who didn’t remember me at all, would walk out the door. I intercepted him. Don’t leave. You aren’t imposing. Words pop out before I can stop them. If something outrageous leaps out at you, just think, there goes old Ophelia with bullfrogs hopping out of her mouth. Let me get my coat. I’d love to meet your wife.

He looked more than uncomfortable. Poor George. The bullfrogs had led him astray. Ophelia, I love my wife.

Of course you do. I’m sure of that.

I was like a cloistered nun bound by a sacred oath. Mara had nothing to fear and I had nothing to gain from what my father intended. His motives were complex and convoluted. Whatever they were, setting up a romantic encounter played no part in them.

Let’s go visit Mara, I said. Let me wash my face. I’m sure everything’s smeared. And when you introduce me, remember to call me Faith.

CHAPTER 2

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The car ride was awkward. After that start, what remained except to get the

evening over with? I figured this was just what my father planned. For me to see this handsome man with his beautiful wife in their West Bloomfield mansion filled with original Renaissance works of art. A reminder of what he must believe I threw away but still wanted. I clenched my teeth, determined not to run, not to vanish. I could read. I knew the name of my sickness—fugue, a personality disorder, a flight into the mind of another.

George must’ve heard me grind my teeth. Ophelia?

Yes, he remembered at least that much. My name.

Thank you for keeping me focused. I’ll behave. I promise. I decided to get myself on safer ground. George, how’s your mother? I’ve tried for years to find her.

She died a long time ago.

Oh! I’m so sorry. I loved her.

She loved you, too.

George, what did my father… I tried out the name. Maybe I could distance myself. What did Max tell her that would make her think I wouldn’t want to remember you? So much for safer ground. I could think of a million things he might have said, a lot of them even true, but what would she believe?

He evidently thought of a million things too. Finally he answered. Brain surgery. For epilepsy.

I didn’t have epilepsy.

I know. She knew too. Ophelia, I’m sorry. We’re pulling you back.

No, George Jenner. I’m never going back to Elm Lake.

I moped the rest of the way to his house, and it was as I’d imagined, one of those large redbrick colonials so popular in certain subdivisions. The caregiver, introduced as Elena Medina, helped Mara to the door. She looked emaciated, twisted, palsied. A strange unintentional choreography governed her movements. Yes, she had a terrible, terrible disease. I felt ashamed.

We went straight to the dining room. Mara required assistance, even with eating, but conversation wasn’t impossible. Elena carried platters to the table and we sat down. First thing, they bowed their heads and said grace. Elena crossed herself at the end. We ate, and after a bit of chitchat Mara asked about my family. Max says you have a married daughter.

Yes. Amy’s husband is a seismologist and she teaches dance to kids. Ballet, jazz, and tap. They just bought a house in Beverly Hills.

Do you have a photo of her with you?

I thought you’d never ask. Let me get my wallet. I pushed my chair back from the table prepared to get my purse, but Elena signaled me to sit. She brought it. I pulled the wallet out of the capacious handbag and laid the photos on the table like playing cards.

Elena said, Very pretty daughter, Mrs. Faith.

An exotic beauty. Her father must be proud.

Startled, I glanced from George to Mara. But…

What?

She seemed agitated. With her disease she might worry about memory loss. I blamed my forgetfulness. Her father died when Amy was a baby, so long ago I didn’t think to mention it.

I couldn’t decipher the body language, but she seemed relieved. She said, I’m sure your parents helped.

I wouldn’t disillusion her. She turned out fine.

Mara asked, And now she lives in Beverly Hills?

I shrugged. No big deal. Convenient location, good public schools.

You have grandchildren.

Not yet.

Why not?

Gosh, Mara, it’s none of my business. They mentioned the schools. They mentioned the park. I assume they plan to have children.

We wanted children. We didn’t dare.

They told me about the genetics of her illness. A single dominant gene produced the devastation. The odds of inheriting it were fifty-fifty and impossible to predict, often lying in wait until well into childbearing age. It destroyed the body and mind, not always quickly. Her mother had traveled down a long road to a slow, agonizing death.

After that lesson, it was hard to keep up a conversation. I thought, but didn’t say, that I’d have done the opposite when the odds were still fifty-fifty. I’d have thought that maybe I’d stay healthy. Then my kids would be healthy too. But even if I were sick, the kids’ odds would still be fifty-fifty, and if worse came to worst, they’d have enjoyed at least some happy years.

The evening ended early, as of course I’d anticipated. When George drove me home I thanked him again and apologized. I’m sorry I was such a witch when you picked me up.

Just bullfrogs, Ophelia. I’ll remember that. Then, more seriously, he added, I forgot to tell Mara your husband died.

I’m sure it didn’t seem important. Why would it be?

He looked thoughtful, as if wondering how much to tell me. The illness makes her suspicious.

Not of me, I hope.

Of everyone. Don’t take it personally. I hope you’ll come again. Mara was happy tonight.

He didn’t say a word about himself. After seeing Mara, I wondered if he’d ever be happy again.

A casual comment. My husband keeps his office open late on Wednesdays.

A few words from Elena. Mrs. Mara is very lonely.

A brash offer. I’m off at five if you’d like me to come.

Suddenly it was on the calendar. Everyone dutifully marked it off. Wednesday Elena picked me up at the condo gatehouse at five. I sensed this was the start of a new regimen. I didn’t mind. Their house was warm, comfortably furnished, and for the most part tastefully decorated. They’d placed an antique desk in the foyer. Marquetry patterns ornamented the wood. A vase that looked like Lalique held long-stemmed red roses. A small Raffaelli etching completed a carefully constructed scene.

In the living room a Hardwick landscape hung behind the sectional without distraction. On the opposite wall a mix of prints and engravings created an unappealing clutter. The good stuff vanished into the background like in those children’s picture books that ask you to find a treasure hidden in a sea of counterfeits. I sat on the sofa and studied them. From this vantage point the display was not haphazard.

She watched me and attacked. You’re waiting for me to die. I see how you look at my art.

Her art? My jaw dropped. Except for a few etchings and the original Hardwick, these were copies and prints. I could buy them at the DIA on my credit card. I was glad I’d been forewarned. Paranoia was part of her illness. I stayed mum.

She said, You want to get at the money. That’s what your father plotted. But the money is mine, except what George earns.

Her wild guess was so far off the mark I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. My father would rather I went hungry and barefoot after leaving his house. He wanted me to know Amy visits him, and now I know.

Contrition was not on her agenda. She could be blunt. Tell me about him.

I shrugged. You tell me. I haven’t seen him for years.

How many?

Fourteen. Amy was eleven. Not since.

Max Mahler’s daughter, she said. I see the resemblance.

There’s no resemblance.

He’s an extraordinarily handsome man. It’s not an insult. A sudden shift. His treatment doesn’t help, does it?

I wasn’t sure whether the shift was in her mind or in mine. I said, You have another doctor. What does he say?

It’s quackery, but that means nothing.

No, he’s helped a lot of patients whose doctors said the Mahler treatment was quackery. I hope he’s helping you.

I’m not going back. He showed me photos of you last week.

I caught my breath. My father had hundreds of photographs of me, most of them obscene. What photos?

He said when you were pregnant with George’s child. He gave me a picture of the little boy.

I thought I knew what he showed her: a photo of a naked girl with marks on her bloated belly. I tried to stay calm. I was never pregnant with George’s child. I never had a little boy.

You wore a maternity smock. I assume you were pregnant.

Not as bad as it could have been. I was eighteen years old and pregnant with Amy. Married. George was long-gone. You met Max. Do you suppose he’d let any boy wiggle out of a responsibility like that? I hope you didn’t believe his lies.

I didn’t, or you wouldn’t be here. We have snapshots that Florence took, dated on the backs. George got them out.

Florence?

George’s mother. You and George were very close.

Mara, we were friends. No hugs, no kisses, no sex, no pregnancy, no little boy. Does that lie give you a clue about my father’s benevolent feelings toward me?

She closed her eyes, swayed, trapped in relentless motion. Max said he could’ve had George arrested.

If he could, he would, but he couldn’t. George did nothing wrong.

A few weeks later she stared as if I were a stranger who wandered into her house uninvited. Who are you?

Faith Stone, I replied, assuming her question sprang from dementia.

Why do you teach philosophy? I saw one of your landscapes in your father’s office. I noticed it right away, said it didn’t look like a print. He told me I had a good eye. It was an original drawing. A glade in the woods. A breathtaking scene.

I don’t remember the drawing, I said. The site was etched in my soul. The grove and its glade provided the setting for unspeakable suffering.

"Max said the place was on his property. You were the artist. It’s one of a series called Time at the Speed of Light. The next time I came he showed me all the four seasons."

I was taught that at the speed of light time stands still. There wouldn’t be seasons.

That’s what he said. In this glade there are no seasons and no night or day. Fog, rain and snow don’t dampen the radiance of the sun or the moon. He called them orbs in the sky. On nights when the moon is new, it glows from within. I thought he was being fanciful but he explained it with physics, that an electromagnetic field created the effect. He told me you captured its essence. You had so much promise. You buried your talents.

His power to hurt me ended a long time ago. No traces remained of the past except pictures on canvas and paper. His belittling words were easy to counter. My father can say whatever he pleases. I didn’t bury anything. Aesthetics is a branch of philosophy, as he very well knows.

It was a compliment, that you could make a living painting.

If I wanted to starve.

You got your degree in fine arts.

Someone’s been talking. Max knew too much but not everything. The paintings produced a nice supplemental income. The key word was supplemental. I said, That’s a horse of a different color. It didn’t work for making a living. Why put me down? Isn’t his son a schoolteacher?

I didn’t know he had a son.

Maybe he calls him his nephew.

No.

No son, no nephew. I wondered if Werner was still alive. Max had a nasty habit of murdering people.

Her constant motion disconcerted me. I had to pay careful attention and almost didn’t understand when she said, You’re Ophelia.

She had me reeling. In a short time this woman with the failing mind distinguished me from the others. I asked, How did you come up with the name?

I heard it.

From my father?

No. He mentioned a daughter. He called her Faith. I figured she’d be the right age to know George. I was curious. George doesn’t talk much about the past, his father or his sister. I never really knew his mother.

She was wonderful. When did she die?

Mara paused, toting up the years. Let’s see. He graduated class of fifty-five. We married, went to Louisville two years courtesy of Uncle Sam. I finished college there. Moved north because of my mother. It must’ve been 1960 Florence died. Twenty years ago come September. We moved in August. George was something of a mama’s boy.

I restrained myself from blurting out he was not! I asked, What gave you that impression?

Florence seemed like a simple woman, a hillbilly.

Simple and smart and strong. She couldn’t have been over forty-five. How did she die?

Accident. Hit and run.

My heart stopped a beat, tight with suspicion. Was someone caught?

No. They got away.

I was shaken. We both seemed to reach the end of the line. I checked my wristwatch. It would soon be time to go. Thursdays were busy, with an evening class to teach. I didn’t want to leave on that note.

Apparently neither did Mara. She asked, What was George like as a teen?

You know better than I do. He was a teen when you met. I can’t satisfy your curiosity. If you don’t want me to come, I won’t impose myself on you.

I’d like you to come, if you don’t mind, until I no longer know the difference.

Bang! That put everything into perspective. I’ll come forever if you want me to.

God forbid. I’ll tell George when I don’t want anyone to see me. He’ll let you know. You can talk to him, but not about me. He’s said your name before. Ophelia.

So what? We were friends. There was nothing romantic between us.

I believe you now that I know what you are.

What am I?

You’re a fragment. Not a real person. A splinter.

I stared at her, shocked. What did you say?

I said you’re a sliver. Like the others. The alters. Not a whole human being.

I think she could have insulted me almost any other way, not this. Thank you, Mara. Goodbye.

Halfway down the street, I realized what I was doing. Running away, the thing I did best. Too often I lost time and had to orient myself. Was Allie on her way to the gallery? Was Portia on the way to the library? I couldn’t begin to guess where Faith might be headed. Now I was the one who ran. In West Bloomfield, twelve miles from home. In a neighborhood without sidewalks. In a downpour. No purse, no money, no umbrella. And no sense of direction. In a moment I was lost.

I ran in widening circles until I found myself on Maple Road. From there, assuming I was running in the right direction, I could get home eventually. Maple was Fifteen Mile Road. I’d have to run six miles south and maybe another six east. Not impossible, but stupid. I slunk back and slumped against the front door, drenched and freezing.

Mara was right. I was a splinter. A person without a shadow or a soul. George would come home sooner or later. Of course he did, and of course he was mad at me, not Mara. I retrieved my purse and my slicker. Elena shook her head disapprovingly. George ordered me into the car and drove me home. I ran a hot bath to thaw out. I’d just dried off, still feeling sorry for myself, when Elena called to tell me Mrs. Mara apologized. I supposed a fragment of a person was better than no one at all.

On April fifteenth I stuck my tax returns into the mailbox. Not that I had such a complicated financial life, but I spent Sundays at the senior center helping the old folks with their returns and procrastinated with my own. I used the tax season as my excuse to stay away from Mara, but on Wednesday the sixteenth Elena turned up at the guard gate at five.

You come with me? she asked tentatively.

I said no, but climbed into the van.

She’s very sick, Mrs. Faith.

So am I, Elena. Tell her not to push my buttons. I know. It’s all right.

Thank you, Mrs. Faith. You’re a good woman.

After a light supper of cold cuts Mara offered me a glass of Chardonnay and I accepted. Elena uncorked a fresh bottle and poured the wine. It was a new experience to be waited on. We were still at the table, and the last thing I expected was Mara’s question. Out it jumped. Have you been saved?

I shook my head to clear my mind. What do you mean?

Born again. You must know what it means.

I honestly don’t. But I knew what she meant and should’ve told the truth. I can’t be saved. It’s impossible. Drop the subject.

You must be baptized.

A certificate said she was right. I took the easy way out. It’s too complicated to explain, but I consider myself Jewish.

She stared at me, body in motion. You can’t be. Your father’s not.

The alcohol spoke. You’re right. He’s not even circumcised.

The words didn’t faze her. Your mother was Jewish.

Not really. My parents had their own beliefs.

They did devil worship on you.

The wine made me dizzy. I took another sip. I don’t understand. What’s devil worship?

When they cut you.

She scrutinized the back of my left hand as if it bore signs of the plague. I scrutinized it too. It was bare. I didn’t wear a ring, not even nail polish. I turned it over, stared at the palm, at the cuff of the cardigan. Nothing could be seen to provoke such a remark. Probably Max had clued her in.

You mean my wrist?

You did that to yourself I suppose, but there are other scars.

She’d leapfrogged from effect to cause and come up with devil worship. In another minute she’d ask to see the other scars. I knocked over the chair in my rush to stand up.

Elena ran to my side and steered me to the living-room couch. Mrs. Faith, please lie down. Mrs. Mara doesn’t know what she’s saying and you drank too much. I’ll bring a blanket.

I lay down and gazed at the painted landscape, the lake, the trees. I’d drunk too much, but it didn’t matter. In a few minutes Allie or one of the others would stand up and apologize for my rude behavior.

CHAPTER 3

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The next thing I knew I was at their front door, greeting George just come home

from reaming out dental roots, I on my way to the Dodge minivan. Hello and goodbye, our new relationship. I expected Elena to scold me, but apparently amends had been made, I wasn’t sure by whom. Mara hit a nerve and had no idea how much it hurt. Why should she care? I was healthy, maybe not whole, but close enough. For me the bad times were past. For her they were here. Mara’s fairy tale life had come asunder from a childhood up north near Lake Michigan to utter calamity.

I went through the week wondering whether it was wise to keep visiting her. I felt I wasn’t doing a thing to make her lot lighter and her probing into my past caused pain. But Elena turned up at the guard gate promptly at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, and I stepped into her van.

As usual, the meal began with grace. Mara controlled the conversation. What she read about dissociative disorders led to endless questions. Child abuse was big news these days and she seemed fixated on it as the cause of my ailment. She questioned my slashed wrist. I had the story down pat. I was depressed. My husband and my mother died, one after the other. I made a terrible mistake and almost killed myself.

Your father saved your life.

Oh yes indeed. He’d clued her in all right. He saved my life. Once I healed, he gave me money for a fresh start. I took my baby and left. A better solution, don’t you think?

For you. My sister and her husband made a pact. If she became ill they wouldn’t wait. They didn’t. I held my breath, horrified, realizing how the story had to end. They locked the garage, went into the car, and turned on the motor. Wasn’t that a better solution for them?

She waited. We’d trapped each other in an existential impasse. She outlasted me. I broke the silence. I don’t know, Mara. I was able to run away. Your sister wasn’t. It must’ve taken courage. I never judge.

The banal comment ended the evening for me.

When her physical limitations compelled the move from her spacious home with its impossible stairs to a smaller house, they looked first in Lathrup Village, but finally settled on a compact ranch in Oak Park.

The new house was a long step down in prestige, location, and luxury, but much more convenient. They built a ramp from the porch to the sidewalk, making it possible for her to walk, with much assistance, in weighted shoes. Now that Mara could no longer be alone, I jogged there easily. I came to terms with her jibes, so minor in the scheme of things. She was curious about me, of course. I was the conduit to her husband’s past. And I was curious about her. I asked how she met George.

At a college mixer. He was a senior and I was a freshman. He mentioned his hometown. There’s an Elmwood Township up north, so I thought it was a wondrous coincidence.

I was amused. You go out of state to college and the man of your dreams turns out to be the boy from next door. Except Oakland County was as far from up north as Chicago.

She moved relentlessly and spoke with difficulty. We went out for coffee afterwards, and I had to tell him about myself. A name was just pinned on my mother’s sickness, like a tail on a donkey. First they thought she was a drunk. The truth was worse. You could always join AA. You can’t run away from your genes. I told him my odds of getting it. Fifty-fifty. I couldn’t marry. Gauche of me. We hardly talked about what kind of pizza we liked, and I mentioned marriage. He said the odds were even.

Seems callous. Were you offended?

Not the way he said it. He made me feel normal again.

So you talked about pepperoni and mushrooms.

First we talked about children. Can you imagine?

Easily.

Did you on a first date?

No. I talked about my strict parents. It didn’t turn Peter off.

My sister was getting married. Her doctor said she should get her tubes tied. That was okay with Hal.

Why wouldn’t it be okay with George?

How would I know? We just met.

Talk of hereditary diseases and tubal ligation didn’t turn George off. Obviously suicide pacts didn’t either, since they married and were both still alive. I asked, Did he tell you he grew up in a trailer park?

He told me the grounds were lakefront. There wasn’t much difference between rich and poor in that town except for the bankbooks.

Did you think he was hunting for a fat bankbook?

My father thought so, but it’s not his money. It’s from my mother’s parents, in a trust that didn’t come to me till I was twenty-five. Whatever’s not eaten up doesn’t go to George.

She paused. I waited. All my life I dreamed of a fairy-tale ending. I was the princess in the tower. I’d let down my braids for the prince to climb. I was the princess sealed in a castle. The prince would carve his way through the brambles. It was inevitable.

Now I sat face to face with the woman who married the prince, and listened as she pleaded, If I needed you, would you help me?

The question seemed innocuous. Any way I can.

My death won’t leave George rich.

He was never after your bankbook.

Are you after his?

No, Mara. When I grow old and broke, I’ll huddle in a corner of my daughter’s mansion.

If I ask, would you help me die in peace? I believed I’d misunderstood. She repeated the request.

I wanted to scream. I can’t do that. Why are you asking me? I whispered, Mara, I’m sure this is something you can ask your doctor.

You tried to kill yourself. You said you don’t judge others.

I don’t judge them, but I don’t kill them.

Do you think it’s a sin? asked the woman who believed in devils and angels and the immortality of the soul. I expected her to think she’d go straight to hell if she killed herself. Why would she care what I believed? Mere mention of our creed and the god we called the master would cause my eviction from her premises.

I don’t know anything about sin, Mara. I’m ignorant. I think it’s courageous of you to want to take control, but as for me, it’s not something I can help you with. I don’t kill people.

She called her caregiver. Elena, I want to lie down.

I let myself out. Expecting that I’d never see her again, I wished I’d told her, please don’t harm yourself. But this woman who had an answer for everything would probably let me know how much suffering lay ahead of her, hoping I’d relent. I couldn’t bear to think of it.

A few weeks later George called. Mara’s asking, where’s Faith? If I offended her, please apologize.

I wondered what to do. We weren’t helping one another, but she was sick, dying, and lonely. Altruism and benevolence played a very small role in my decision. I owed a debt to Florence Jenner for her kindness. I owed a debt to George Jenner, the only person who knew my name. They helped make my childhood bearable.

I visited Mara every Wednesday. I steered her, as well as I could, to herself and her earlier, happier life. She couldn’t seem to dredge up a happier time. She told me they tried to adopt and were turned down.

I’m sorry. Amy was the best gift of my life.

I felt myself wandering, losing time. The conversation had shifted.

She was saying, I didn’t know you were Faith.

That woke me up. I wasn’t Faith, though I answered to her name. I was a member of a group. We forged a life to disguise the disability. Our world demanded meticulous attention to clock and calendar. We each had a job that we shared. Mara asked who was the artist. Since my paintings sold, I could accept credit, but the true artist was Allie. Portia was the teacher. The condo job was mine. The last girl was named Star. She came for a short time. When Amy was born she vanished. And who was Faith? I knew her only through reflections in the mirror. She pitched in, mysterious but competent.

I didn’t know you were Faith, Mara repeated.

You’re right, I said. I’m not.

I excused myself. I helped Elena clear the table and carried plates to the kitchen. Elena had the radio set to the classical music station. When the announcer mentioned Mozart and The Magic Flute I told Elena I was tone deaf, didn’t enjoy music, tried to tune it out but actually disliked it.

Please change the station, I requested.

She switched stations. You had a sad life, Mrs. Faith.

No, Elena. I had a sad childhood but I have a good life and a beautiful daughter.

CHAPTER 4

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Amy telephoned like clockwork every week. During winter break at the college I

flew to L.A. and every August she and Tom flew to Michigan. They came first to my house, then set off for Ann Arbor where they spent the weekend with Tom’s brother, Steve. Now I knew they also visited Max. I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, but I couldn’t ignore it. I didn’t make up my mind until they arrived.

They called after they