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HAUNTED HUMANS
By Nina Kiriki Hoffman
* * * *
ONE
Dorothy jean demain, presently known as Dorothy Jean Hand, sometimes called Dot by people who didn’t know her and almost always D.J. by those who did, gripped the phone handset between her ear and shoulder. Her right hand held a pen poised over a carbonless message pad; her left hand sorted the Mental Healing Center’s mail. The four office hours following Friday’s lunch break stretched ahead, aggravated by dealing with the operator who had picked up when D.J. rang the answering service.
“Sandy, have you checked account 551 for me yet?” D.J. said as patiently as she could, breaking in on two minutes of inane chatter.
She listened to Sandy splutter through a message for Dr. Arlene Bollings, D.J.’s boss, managing to extract relevant information with great difficulty. She was just about to demand the phone number of the person leaving the message when Sandy broke in with, “Uh, but— hey, Dot, there’s a message here for you, too.”
“Let’s finish with the first one, please.” D.J. could hear her voice tightening. She wanted to grab Sandy and shake the information out of her like salt. But she was in secretary mode right now, level, efficient, no matter what the circumstances. She hunched her shoulders, then took a calming breath.
“But the one for you is creepy.” Sandy’s voice was high, her words slow. D.J. wondered what she looked like; all she could tell was that Sandy chewed gum loudly and snappingly, and occasionally smoked; the small sucked intakes of breath were a giveaway.
“I still need the phone number on this one, Sandy.” Sandy had purged vital information from the files without communicating it before. D.J. had learned the hard way to persist with her.
After three tries, Sandy managed to tell her the phone number. D.J. wrote, sighed, and said, “Is that it for this message?”
“Yeah, I guess. There’s one from that psycho nutcase Dr. Kabukin’s seeing—”
D.J. resisted an urge to ask just which psycho nutcase. Dr. Kabukin handled therapy cases, while Dr. Bollings did divorce, custody, and criminal evaluations for the courts. D.J. generally liked Dr. Kabukin’s patients better. Most of them were interested in changing. Most of Dr. Bollings’ patients were interested in fooling the doctor.
“— a couple real boring messages for the other doctors, and then this one for you. It’s pretty weird, Dot.”
“Why don’t you read it to me? And get it over with? D.J. poised her pen at the top of the next message blank, wondering if Sandy would communicate any of the information in order.
“To, uh, Dorothy Jean, from Chase. Do you suppose that’s a first or a last name?”
To stop her hand from shaking, D.J. pressed the pen down on the message form so hard it punched through several sheets. “Go on.”
“There’s, like, no number. It just says, ‘You know what I need and I’m coming to get it.’ Don’t you think that’s weird?”
D.J. said nothing.
“Well, I do. Kind of creepy. Did you get that? ‘You know what I need and I’m coming to get it.’ Dot, you still there? Darn, I bet she hung up. Why do people always hang up on me?”
Deciding to take this as a suggestion, D.J. quietly lowered the phone’s handset until it clicked into the cradle. Chase? It couldn’t be Chase. She stared over the four-foot-high divider that separated her desk and computer hutch from the office waiting room, her gaze finally settling on the crystal vase of Double Delight roses Dr. Kabukin had brought in that morning and set among the magazines and self-help books on the glass-topped table between the two blue-and-white striped couches. Look how pink and white the roses are, D.J. thought, just like a baby, perhaps, or the hopes of a young girl on her wedding night.
From the white walls, colorful abstract pictures glowed in the sun slanting through the picture window. Leftover Oregon raindrops glistened on the lawn out front. Everything in D.J.’s view looked cool and clean and calm. Untouched tranquility, like her life before Chase.
She shuddered and lifted the phone again. For a moment she closed her eyes tight, concentrating on crashing all the thoughts she didn’t want to entertain. She pressed autodial for the answering service, and smiled down at the message pad when Poppy picked up.
“Account 551, please,” D.J. said, and took the rest of the messages without a hitch.
Morgan Hesch sat on one of the puffy striped couches in the Mental Healing Center waiting room and stared at the bits of dirt he’d tracked on the white speckled rug. Why did they have a lawn out front if they wanted to keep the rug clean? Well, yeah, there was a brick walk that wound across the lawn, but what if you were coming from the other direction? And the lawn was green and healthy, but there were those flower beds. Somebody must rake the edges all the time to make the dirt look so — so clean. Like nothing had ever stepped on it since the dawn of time. Morgan hated that kind of clean. If blackboards were bare in his college classes when he got there, he always chalked something on them before he sat down. If the dirt were blank he just had to put a footprint in it. If things were wide open, any force, good or evil, could enter and control them.
So the floor was no longer blank, either, not peppered with those chunks of earth that had fallen out of the waffle-stomper soles of his hiking boots. Morgan looked at the bits of squared dirt and slid his left hand in between the third and fourth buttons on his shirt, hiding it against his chest. One of his insiders, Shadow, always wanted to hide Morgan’s hands.
“Miss Deej?” Morgan said, his knees knocking against each other, not because he was cold, just to be doing something.
He could only see the top of her head over the wall that hid the desk from him and everybody else. She had messy frizzy brown hair that she parted in the middle. He watched the part lean back until he could see Deej’s eyes, green like the devil’s, over the divider as she looked at him.
“Yes, Morgan,” she said. One of her better voices. Not the first-time phone voice which said, I’m-here-to-help,-don’t bother-to-know-I’m-human. Definitely not the I-can’t-have-a-relationship-with-you-because-it-wouldn’t-be-prof essional voice. She’d given up on that one after he’d been seeing Dr. Dara Kabukin for two months. Not the don’t-bother-me-I’m-in-the-middle-of-something voice, and not the okay,-okay-yes-I-guess-I-can-look-up voice. More of a I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing-but-I’m-glad-for-a-distraction voice. Actually he didn’t think he’d ever heard her use this one before.
Morgan figured Deej must have insiders since she had lots of voices like he did. Also, she was one of the few people who could recognize his insiders just by the way they talked. Even Dr. Dara got confused sometimes, but Deej always knew who was talking if it was anybody she’d ever talked to before. Timmy liked to play tricks on Deej, but even he was happy when the tricks didn’t work. Morgan wondered if Deej had ever thought about being a doctor. Even though her hair was messy and she had the devil’s eyes, he might go see her if she was a doctor.
“I’m thirsty,” he said.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please. And paper? Pencil?” The voice that asked the last part belonged to the newest insider, who wasn’t used to using Morgan’s vocal cords and wasn’t supposed to talk until Morgan had gotten to know him, anyway. The new insider’s voice hadn’t sorted itself out yet; it sounded a lot like Morgan.
Deej stood up so he could see about a third of her, the top third. She was wearing a blue and white shirt, and some little bits of color on her lips, just the outside edges. Mostly if she had any color on her lips it was all over them.
Today was not like other days.
She held out some white paper and a pencil with a blunt tip. After he took the things from her, she headed into the other room, the one with the sink and the little baby fridge and the table where you took tests.
The new insider was clamoring to get its hands on the paper and pencil. Morgan’s appointment with Dr. Dara wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes. Morgan asked this anxious new insider if fifteen minutes would be enough, and the insider said he’d do what he could, if it was okay with Morgan. Sure, said Morgan. He sat back and let go of his hands. The insider used the left hand to draw a picture real fast of a man’s face. The man had dark thick eyebrows and shadowy eyes and his mouth was wide but it sure wasn’t smiling. What interested Morgan as he watched the picture form in front of him was that it looked like a photograph, with gray places under the nose and eyebrows, like parts of the face stuck right out of the paper and had shadows. He had never drawn anything like this before.
He finished. Deej brought him a cup with water in it, then looked at his picture without asking and dropped the water. The water splashed on Deej’s sandals. Some hit Morgan’s hiking boots, but most of it hit the rug.
“Miss Deej,” said Morgan.
“Ah, ah, ah, oh, I’m sorry, Morgan,” she said, breathing like a dog on a hot day. “I’ll get you another.”
“Miss Deej, you having a seizure?” he asked.
“Well, maybe, yes, maybe,” she said, and ran into the sink-fridge-test room.
Today was definitely not like other days. Morgan had never seen Deej upset before.
When she came back, she handed him the water without spilling any and said, “Morgan, who is that a picture of?”
“I don’t know. One of the insiders did it.”
“Which insider?”
“Now, Miss Deej,” said Clift, “you know it would be unprofessional of us to discuss our case with the secretary.”
“Oh, come on, Clift,” said Deej. “I’m not asking you for a diagnosis or even intimate personal details. I was just wondering which one of you did it.”
Clift thought that over, and said, “Well, the truth is, Miss Deej, we can’t tell you which insider. Somebody new is all we know.”
“Do you know who the man in the picture is?”
“Do you?” asked Mishka in her little baby girl voice. She thought it was a game. She was three and thought most things were games.
“Do you?” Deej repeated.
“I asked you first,” said Mishka.
“I asked you second, and two is bigger than one.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Mishka said, but at the same time the left hand was writing something on the piece of paper. Morgan looked down. “Chase Kennedy,” the words said.
Deej put her hands over her mouth. Her eyes got wide.
“Somebody you know?” Saul asked, with an ugly edge to his tone. Saul was mean to everybody. Morgan didn’t like it when Saul took the voice because he made people not like Morgan.
“Somebody you know?” Deej said, right back. She’d met Saul before and she still liked Morgan. One of the few.
“No,” said Saul.
“How could you draw a picture of somebody you don’t know? Did you see his picture in a magazine or something?”
“There are some things mankind was not meant to know,” said the Shadow in his creepy echoey voice.
“How about woman kind?” asked Deej, but just then the phone rang and she disappeared back behind her desk. Her voice turned into the polite-to-company voice she always used on the phone as she said, “Good afternoon, Mental Healing Center, may I help you?”
Dr. Dara came out of the door to the back hallway, smiling and leading a young fat woman toward the door to outside. “All right, Elena, same time next week?” she said, her voice faintly accented. Only two of the insiders had accents that Morgan could hear, and they were Valerie, the Southern one, and Saul, who was from New Jersey. The rest of his insiders sounded pretty much like people on TV. Dr. Dara was from somewhere else. England? England, even though she had narrow black eyes and totally black hair like people from Japan.
The fat woman stared at the floor, mumbled something, glanced up quickly at Dr. Dara and then away again. Morgan remembered being like that when he first started seeing the doctor, not being able to look anybody in the eye, not being able to talk clearly, not wanting anybody to look at him. When the insiders had first come, they made him do things and he was in trouble all the time because of them and he couldn’t get them to cooperate. Even though it was his body, they didn’t listen to him. Not till Clift came, and started getting everybody to work as a team. Morgan studied the patient. She wore a big ugly navy-blue dress, and a belt that cut into her middle, and her hair was heavy and tangled, her face greasy, with little sores on it.
Mishka felt sorry for her and said, “Bye bye. Bye bye.”
The fat woman looked at him like she was scared, which probably wasn’t what Mishka meant to happen. Mishka wasn’t very good at figuring out how people would feel about what she did. The others tried to talk her out of taking control without asking, but she had these impulses all the time and you couldn’t watch out for them twenty-six hours a day. Morgan shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. Then he gave speech number six, one Dr. Dara had drilled him on for several weeks: “Didn’t mean anything by it. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks,” said the fat woman, trying to smile and frowning instead.
“Take care, Elena,” Dr. Dara said, escorting her out the door. She sighed as she shut the door behind the woman, then turned. Every hair was in place — Clift sometimes called Dr. Dara “Helmet-head” — and her lipstick was bright and even. She smiled. “Morgan,” she said.
“She’s a new one, right?”
“Absolutely new. You were very good, Morgan. Come on back to the office. What have you drawn today? Who did it?”
“It’s a picture for Miss Deej,” Morgan said. “A guy named Campbell did it.”
Deej stared at him.
“He just told me, Deej. I didn’t know before, honest. Gary Campbell.”
“Gary?” said Deej, her voice high and little like Mishka’s. Definitely Morgan and Deej had something in common. Morgan wondered what she would say if he asked her for a date. He had the impression that people in the office weren’t supposed to date patients.
The new insider, Gary, was trying to get a word out. Morgan thought that was pretty pushy for somebody who’d just come to him, so he and Clift squashed the guy down. “Wait your turn, Gary,” Morgan said, but he handed the picture to Deej.
“Thanks,” she said, still in that little high voice.
“I like you, Miss Deej,” Morgan said, figuring that would be something she’d remember he had said until he finished talking to Dr. Dara, and then he might ask Deej about the date idea.
“Come on, Morgan,” said Dr. Dara.
As Morgan followed Dr. Dara back into her office, Clift came out. “Let’s not discuss integration today, Doctor, all right? You know we’re not a true multiple, and I think integration would be bad for Morgan. If anything, he needs to build himself up at the expense of the rest of us. He’s still too wide open. Imagine us picking up another one. I can’t seem to convince him to close the door. You get him started thinking he can work us in here with him and he’ll start accepting any damn Tom, Dick, or Mary that comes along and knocks.”
“What topic would you suggest, Clift?” asked Dr. Dara.
“We definitely, definitely, need more work on socialization. That speech worked — wasn’t that great? We’ve said that about six times in the correct context since last week, and Morgan’s finally starting to believe it works. I tell him things and tell him things and he just doesn’t pay attention, but when you tell him, he actually listens.”
“Well, yes, that is my function, Clift. Let me just check with Morgan, see if he’s got an agenda for this afternoon, all right?”
“Okay,” said Clift grumpily and subsided.
“Did you find the tape in the dictaphone?” Dr. Bollings asked D.J. as D.J. handed her a stack of message slips and opened and sorted mail.
“Oh,” D.J. said. With the picture Morgan had drawn in front of her, she had trouble concentrating on work at all. She turned the picture face down and forced all her thoughts about Chase away. She had a lot of practice ditching thoughts of Chase, but she knew she would have to think hard about him soon. This was just too weird. Something must have happened. She needed to find and read some recent newspapers, though she had been avoiding news in the three years since the trial. “It’s been such a madhouse I haven’t gone into your office since lunchtime. Is the tape long? I’ll stay till I finish typing it.”
“Just a few letters, but they should go out today.”
“I’ll get right on it.” She got the tape out of Dr. Bollings’ dictaphone, plugged it into her own, rewound it, started the computer, macro’d up the letter format, and began typing, putting her brain on auto.
Dear Dr. Kennedy:
I was pleased to receive your recent inquiry regarding office space. Regrettably, I must tell you that our last vacancy was filled a month ago. If I can be of any help to you in recommending other local office facilities, please do not hesitate to contact me.
Sincerely,
Arlene Bollings, Ph.D.
The tape went on: “Oh, D.J., would you look up that address? It’s on the envelope in the out basket.”
Damn, thought D.J., I was in such a hurry to get the tape I forgot to check the out basket. Just then Dr. Bollings came out of her office with a handful of papers and gave them to D.J.
“Thanks, Boss,” D.J. said and sighed.
“You’re in some kind of mood today, aren’t you?” asked Dr. Bollings. “What was your first clue?”
The doctor just smiled. “Lucky the schedule’s light today. Rest up over the weekend. I’ve got five reports to dictate, and I plan to spend a lot of Saturday over a hot mike, so you’ll have plenty to do on Monday.”
“Promises, promises,” said D.J. She sorted through the stack of papers, found the letter and envelope from Dr. Kennedy on the bottom of the pile.
D.J. put the letter on the copystand next to her keyboard and positioned the cursor a line below the date so she could type in the address. Dr. Chase Kennedy, Ph.D.
“Arlene!” D.J. cried.
* * * *
TWO
D.J.’S LANDLADY AFRA was watering the dwarf dahlias in the front planter at the Coat of Arms Apartments building when D.J. parked her six-year-old silver Tercel in the car port. D.J. groaned before she climbed out of the car and locked the door. Afra always wanted to talk, and D.J. was definitely not in the mood today.
“You got plans for the weekend, hon, or you going to spend it holed up with the TV again like the last six weeks? Have you thought about getting some sun? You’re so pasty!” Afra said as D.J. trudged up the concrete walk toward the front door.
“Have you heard about UV?” D.J. said, then really wondered. Afra was who knew how old; her face was leathery and worn like any skin tanned by years of sunlight.
“UV? Is that short for some new kind of perversion or drug? I have trouble keeping up with the kinds of mischief you youngsters get into anymore.”
“Uh, no, it’s ultra-violet rays from the sun. They cause cancer.”
“Doesn’t everything” Afra said.
Before she could get started on another topic, D.J. said, “I’ve got to get inside and make dinner. I’m tired.”
“‘Course you are, not enough fresh air, too much television, and improper nutrition.” Afra waved her hand in a shooing motion. D.J. escaped. She checked her mailbox, afraid. She’d signed up here as D.J. Hand, and had paid to keep her number unlisted. But if Chase could track her to her job, he could track her to her home.
The only thing in her mailbox was the fall catalog for Community Education. She carried it upstairs to her second floor apartment, feeling relieved when she had fastened the chain from the inside.
Then she turned around to face her studio apartment and saw the writing on the wall. Red spraypaint, right across her Van Gogh and Rembrandt art prints. “Only you can purify me. Only through your blood will I be saved.
She would never forget his handwriting.
She had seen it in the love notes he’d left with flowers when...
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