An Arm and a Leg (7 page)

Coincidences did happen. That’s why someone made up the word. But even as she argued with herself, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stirred.

Chapter Eight

Dr. Angela Demaris was Frankie’s fourth therapist since her divorce. She’d dropped her first therapist after he sat staring at her breasts and dubbed her recurring nightmares unresolved sexual fantasies. She dropped the second when his habit of picking invisible lint off his trousers suggested her story bored him to near catatonia. And she dropped the third therapist when, after seeing her only once, he diagnosed her with a mental disorder and wanted to start her on powerful, potentially lethal medication.

She’d found Angela’s office by closing her eyes and randomly placing her index finger on a listing in the yellow pages. Having passed Frankie’s tests for empathy, intelligence, sense of humor, and compassion, Angela seemed to be the best choice yet.

During the first few sessions, Frankie would be expected to metaphorically spill her guts onto Angela’s geometrically patterned rug to bring the therapist up to speed on her issues. Since the health insurance her church job provided would cover only a few sessions, the knowledge that time was limited prompted her to talk as fast as she could. Once the insurance ran out, she’d be on her own, and there was no way she could personally afford the over three hundred dollars per hour Dr. Demaris charged.

“When did you begin to hear voices?” Angela’s voice was deep, somewhat husky. She leaned forward in her chair and her kind eyes studied Frankie’s face.

“I first started hearing them shortly after my divorce three years ago.”

“And how have you coped with your divorce?”

You keep doing that come-here-go-away thing. What’s that about? Either you want me in your life or you don’t. At least I have buddies, guys I can hang with. But you? You don’t have one single close friend.
Stephen’s last words rang in Frankie’s head. The words he’d flung over his shoulder as he walked out the front door of their apartment.

She responded to Angela’s question with a shrug. “Okay, I guess. It took several months for me to realize my marriage was actually over. I always thought Stephen and I would get back together, that we were just going through a rough patch.” She snorted. “Boy, was I ever wrong.”

“Oh?”

“For the first few weeks we stayed in touch. But the phone calls grew further and further apart. Then about six months ago I caught sight of him with another woman in a health food store. They were pushing a stroller and looked happy as clams.” She took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips as the scene rushed back with the intensity of a Wagnerian opera.

She’d ducked back out the door, but not quickly enough to keep the sight from searing its image into her brain. Like the phantom shadow burned into a laptop screen when a static image is left too long, the picture of that happy little family popped into her head when she lest expected it—the fond smiles, Stephen’s protective arm around the woman’s waist, and the cooing, gurgling human that was his tiny, pink-faced replica. The snapshot mocked her, accused her.

“Tell me about your marriage. Was it happy?”

“Happy is not a word I’d use to describe it.”

“Unhappy?”

“Not at first. Stephen was a Bad Boy…That seems to be the kind of guy I’m attracted to.” Frankie shrugged, cast her eyes upward, and searched her memory. “Let’s see, there was Paul Scranberry in grade school who later drove a limo for a drug lord, David Crandosh in middle school who was later indicted for white collar fraud, and Allen Tukes in high school who was an anarchist. Not sure what became of him.”

“How did Stephen fit your definition of Bad Boy?”

“Pretty much how you’d guess. He loved to party and drink, spent more time with his drinking buddies than he did with me. More than once he smelled like perfume when he came to pick me up for a date. But he was so possessive of me, so jealous. I thought he must love me madly. I grew up in a sheltered environment, never knew anything about the kind of life he lived. It seemed so full of adventure and excitement, so…” Frankie waved her hand in the air. “So anything-but-boring. Of course I couldn’t wait to marry him.”

“And you chose to keep your maiden name?”

“Yes. I perform four to six pipe organ concerts a year; it’s my professional name.”

“Ah.” Angela nodded. “Whose idea was it to break up?”

“Stephen’s, would you believe?” Frankie snorted again.

“How did you feel about that?”

“I was crushed. I mean, isn’t it usually the woman who wants out?” Frankie shook her head and looked at the floor. “He told me I was afraid to jump in with both feet, that I always held something back. He said he knew I never really loved him.”

“And did you love him?”

“I must have. I mean…I think so. I’ve missed him, missed having someone.” Frankie’s face screwed up into a tight wad of flesh. She probably looked like one of those hand-carved, dried-apple-heads she’d seen during a trip through the Ozarks. Dried up. That was going to be her future—a dried up old woman. She sniffed. “But relationships always bring problems, don’t they? All relationships. You let yourself love someone, and they move away. Or stop loving you. Or they die.” She shook her head, a couple of tight little jerks. “I decided a long time ago that it’s better not to get sucked in too deep. Life’s easier without having to wait for the freight train you know is just waiting to run you over. It’s like…I mean, why just stand there waiting for the bullet that’ll tear out your heart? Seems like a no-brainer to me.”

Angela sighed. “So you avoid the pain of loss by keeping everyone at arm’s length. How has that worked for you so far?”

Frankie blew a puff of air through her stiff lips. “I’m getting by.”

Angela’s face softened, as did her voice. “You’ve gone through a divorce, you’ve lost the uncle who raised you, and you’ve seen your brother killed before your eyes. In spite of your efforts, in a fairly short time you’ve sustained a great deal of what you’re trying so hard to avoid. No one could suffer that much loss and remain unscathed.”

“Oh, I’m definitely feeling pretty scathed.” Frankie snorted. She forced her lips upward at the corners, but the rest of her face felt like a slab of concrete.

“Humor can be a great coping mechanism. But if you continue to work with me, you’ll have to face your losses head on. No holds barred and no exceptions. Are you up for that?”

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

Angela nodded. “Glad to hear you say that. And I’ll do my best to help.” She smiled again. “Have you been in any relationships since your divorce?”

“Not really.” Frankie picked at her thumbnail. “Unless having tea with my elderly neighbor every couple of weeks counts.”

“You have a great sense of humor. But just so you know, whenever you deflect a question by tossing out a meaningless response, I’m going to call you on it.” Angela smiled to soften her words. “Let me be more specific: have you been involved romantically with anyone since your divorce?”

“I haven’t…no one else has… No.”

“So what do you hope to get out of our sessions?”

Frankie shifted her eyes toward the room’s single window and focused on the deep burgundy leaves of a Japanese maple and the blue, cloudless sky beyond it. “I just want to have a normal life. I can’t remember ever feeling normal.”

“Having what you think of as a normal life and feeling normal are two different prongs of the same fork. Describe your version of a normal life.”

Frankie turned her eyes back toward the therapist. She lifted her hands in front of her, palms outward, as if trying to stop a charging bull. “I guess the first thing I want is for the voice to stop.” She grew thoughtful. “And I’m tired of always having a knot in my stomach.”

“People carry their emotions in different parts of their bodies. Some develop stiff necks and shoulders, and some carry their fear and anxiety in their stomachs. But therapy is a little like lining up dominoes. You push one over, and the rest will follow.”

“Okay, what’s the first domino?”

“Let’s begin with the voice. Do you recognize it?”

Frankie shook her head. “When I’m stressed I hear my uncle telling me what to do. But this child’s voice is different. Sometimes it seems familiar, sometimes not.”

“And when do you hear the child’s voice? What are you doing when it’s most likely to speak to you?”

“It sometimes comes in a dream, but it can happen anywhere. It’s even popped up while I’m in the middle of choir practice.”

“And what kinds of things does it say?”

“She usually cries and begs for help. Sometimes it’s like she’s talking to someone else, and I just overhear it.”

“She?”

“Yes.” Frankie took a deep breath in through her nose and slowly let it out through her lips. “I don’t know why… It just seems like it’s a little girl’s voice.”

“And what does she want you to help with?”

“She never actually says. She just cries and pleads.” Frankie sucked in another gulp of air.

“Can you tell me what’s going on with your breathing right now?”

“I sometimes hyperventilate. Have done since I was a kid.”

“Do you need to take a break?”

Frankie shook her head. “I think I need to keep going.”

“Okay.” Angela’s smile was gentle. “Does this child ever ask you to hurt yourself or someone else?”

“No. But it breaks my heart that she’s so scared.”

“You’re wringing your hands. Can you tell me about that?”

“I guess I’m dreading what you’re going to say.”

“What do you fear I’m going to say?”

“I don’t know. I…I guess I’m afraid you’ll tell me I’m losing my mind. My last therapist told me I was borderline schizophrenic.”

“Oh? And how did you feel about that?”

“At first I was pissed. It might be denial, but I don’t agree. I mean, do mentally ill people recognize they have a problem?”

“It’s been my experience that they often do.”

“But schizophrenia? I mean, wouldn’t I be doing things like wearing aluminum pyramid hats, or living on the streets?”

“Not necessarily. That diagnosis covers a pretty broad spectrum of issues. Although, sadly, some people suffering from that disorder do wind up on the street due to lack of resources, I have schizophrenic clients who do quite well once we get the right medication going.” The therapist cocked her head. “But let’s get back to the voice. Tell me what you feel when you hear it.”

Frankie clasped her suddenly-clammy hands together under her chin and forced her breathing to slow down. “Terror. Sometimes it’s so strong I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Angela leaned forward in her chair, her face intent on Frankie’s. “How long does the terror last?”

“Until I tell her to stop and go away.”

“Does that work?”

“At first it did, but lately not so much.”

“And that feels like…” Angela left the question open for Frankie’s response.

“It feels like she knows she’s running out of time.”

“Before what?”

“I don’t know.” Frankie opened her mouth wide and pulled in a lungful of air. “But whatever it is, I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

Chapter Nine

In a chamber atop a morgue attached to an Albuquerque hospital two rubber-apron clad cutters sat on stools at their stainless steel work station tables. It was the cutters’ job to harvest ligaments, tendons, and other tissue from the continuing stream of human remains donated to the hospital’s Willed Body program. Once excised, the flesh would be packaged and transported to a nearby facility for cleaning.

Various body parts lay on the table in front of one cutter. Two arms and a leg rested side by side along one edge of the table, mutely awaiting their turn under the knife. The cutter’s blade skillfully flashed over a partially skinned head from which the eyeballs had already been harvested.

On the other table lay a complete human cadaver, as yet untouched. The second cutter retrieved a long-bladed butcher knife from a pile of instruments of various sizes and shapes with which he expertly removed the corpse’s arm at the shoulder joint. He whistled a tuneless melody as he moved around the table to do the same with the other arm.

At some point, one of the cutters would retrieve the leftover bones to which bits of flesh still adhered. He would wire a metal tag etched with specimen data to each bone and put it into a plastic bin for transport down the hall to the Colony.

In the Colony area, the cutter would place the bones on a gray paper tray then cover the whole thing with moist paper towels. He would then introduce the bones to a colony of dermestid beetles. In less than a week, the flesh-eating insects would have completely cleaned the soft tissue from the bones, which would then be treated and sold to medical schools, research facilities, and medical practitioners for use in replacement surgeries.

The whistling cutter, Hector Cordero, glanced at his watch. Time for his lunch. His mouth watered at the thought of the handheld burrito his wife packed for him: pinto beans,
carne adovada
,
queso
, and red chile, all wrapped in a homemade tortilla made of
masa
.

Hector sighed. At least he would try to enjoy his lunch. It was growing more and more difficult for him to enjoy anything these days. Ever since that
cabrón
Bellamy and his enforcer came to Hector’s modest home, his life had grown steadily less comfortable.

The empty-eyed Bellamy was smooth, even courteous as he made his demands. But the other one, the one Hector referred to as
El Dedo
because of his disfigured little finger—that one had the unmistakable look of one to whom violence came easily.

Before giving in to Bellamy’s demands, Hector had spent hours searching for a way out of his deal with the devil. He’d considered quitting his job at the hospital and finding other work. But his wages were better than any he’d had since coming to this country. And the health care benefits covered his little daughter Anna’s steep hospital and medical bills.

Born and raised in the streets of Juarez, Hector had known some very bad men. But the way El Dedo had stared at his nine-year-old baby Anna made the hair on Hector’s neck stir and his insides turn to stone.