The Vigilante (10 page)

CHAPTER 11

Martha entered the psychiatrist’s office for her next visit, nervously picking at her sleeve. She took the comfortable seat the doctor indicated. “Hi, doc.” She tried to sound relaxed, but her tight grip on the arms of her chair and whitened knuckles belied the attempt.

Dr. Carton faced her, his jaw firm. “Martha, we’ve reached the point in your case where we need to take the next step. My colleague, Dr. Schoenfeld, is an expert in certain areas we need to continue in your treatment. May I include him in our sessions?”

Martha felt a chill creeping across her. “In what areas, Doctor?”

“In this case, I am referring to the use of hypnosis.”

Her own research had told her hypnosis was frequently used. These doctors had the means to help her. Knowing she must, she nodded. As the small, unassuming Dr. Schoenfeld entered the room, she liked and trusted him instinctively, yet worried he’d be another person who knew her too intimately.

Satisfied, Dr. Carton indicated Schoenfeld to a seat and began. He’d sensed her rising fear had to do with going back to her childhood, but knew he had to force her along in order to continue his treatment. “Now then, we discussed going back to an earlier time. When did the first time lapse occur, can you tell me that?”

“I have been thinking about that, Doctor. When I was in the second grade, I remember wondering where the whole first year went. I have no memory of that first grade year, or most of it, anyway. They said I made good grades and passed, but I don’t remember that, either.”

Fighting his rising excitement, he began again. “When you did begin to remember?” He cleared his throat. “What was different, when you remembered again?” Noticing how she gripped her chair, her knuckles white, her jaw tightly clenched, he pushed her farther along the road of remembrance.

“One thing I remember was feeling glad our hired man had gone. My father said he joined the Army or something. We had a new man, but he was real nice. I don’t remember being afraid of him at all, but I never let him get me alone, either.” Martha smiled. “His name was Leonard. He worked very hard and my dad really liked him. He never could stand a lazy worker.” She sighed. It was a relief to say normal things about a man. Speaking of Sykes had made her feel very uncomfortable.

“I wonder. Were you able to recall anything that happened before the other hired man, Pete, wasn’t it, had left the farm?”

The doctor watched Martha’s reaction carefully. Noting her increasing nervousness, her pallor, her clenched fists twisting her clothing, he now believed childhood trauma to be at the root of Martha’s memory lapses. In fact, he was sure of it.

“I don’t remember. I—I—have to leave now!” Martha rose from her chair. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I can’t do any more today.”

“You’ve done very well, Martha, but we have more work to do. Make another appointment in two days. We’ll have another go at this.” He wrote a few notes and called the front desk to set up the appointment. “We’ll see you then,” he said as he ushered her out.

Back at his desk, he turned to his associate. “Well, Herman?”

Schoenfeld’s flushed face betrayed his excitement as well as the way he nervously fingered his blue patterned tie. “I’m absolutely certain you’ve a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder on your hands. She’s coming around rather rapidly I believe, perhaps too fast. I’m not sure.”

Carton tented his hands and shook his head. “These things are so rare. I hope I’m up to the challenge this woman presents and can handle this case to her benefit if D.I.D. is truly what she suffers from.”

“I’ll sit in on a few more sessions if you like. You may want to use hypnosis at some future juncture. It frequently helps them come to terms with the causative trauma. In any case, it certainly lets
you
know what those traumas were.” Dr. Schoenfeld gave a soft, uncertain chuckle. “You are one lucky man to be given a chance like this.”

“I’ve considered that, too, Herman. We
will
try hypnosis, but she’s not ready, not for a while yet. Give it a few more sessions. I’ll let you know when I think she’s ready.” He studied his colleague. “That’s a specialty of yours isn’t it? I could certainly use some help with this situation if you’re willing.”

“I’d be happy to help in any way I could. You know that, Mike.”

’“
Great, sitting in on a couple of sessions with us, acquainting herself with another doctor will facilitate our level of understanding of her problems. It may seem rather drastic to her way of thinking. She is a nurse by profession, but nevertheless, an exceptionally frightened woman in need of intense therapy.”

“Of course, of course, we mustn’t overlook the medical-professional aspect.” Unable to disguise his excitement, Schoenfeld stood to take his leave. “Thanks again for sharing this most interesting case, I appreciate it.”

Carton held great respect for his fellow partner in psychiatry. Of anyone he knew, Herman was the best of the best. That he was exceptionally well-versed in hypnotherapy only added to his ability regarding this woman’s therapy.

Carton eagerly awaited her next appointment, his mind deeply into Martha’s case. As a doctor, he knew the excitement of treating a condition rarely seen and worried anew if he’d be equal to the challenge of helping this patient.

D.I.D. certainly wasn’t his strong suit since he’d never had a patient with it prior to Martha Lavery. He planned long hours of study into this particular mental aberration, wanting to be fully prepared.

***

Martha woke slowly. Rising from her bed, she noticed the heavy smell of stale smoke clinging to her hair. “Not again! What is this?” She ran to her bathroom mirror and scanned her face and body. Faint traces of heavy make-up clung to her skin. Her hair looked dull and reeked of stale smoke. “Oh my God, what have I done now? Where have I been? What on God’s green earth is happening to me?”

She raced to the shower and lingered there for a long, thorough cleansing. Her hair felt dry and her body burned from the severe scrubbing. “Dare I tell this to the doctor?” She knew she should. He needed all the details she could provide.

Pulling clothes from the closet, she noticed the shiny black, high-heeled leather boots lying in the back. Aghast, she stared at the length of them—they were long enough to reach nearly to her buttocks. “I never bought these! I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing slutty things like that!” Uttering a sick laugh, she shook her head. “Wonder where my fishnets have gone?” But she’d also bought a purse at some unknown time and not remembered that either. “Thank God, I’m seeing a psychiatrist. If I wasn’t, I’d be hunting for one now. And I’m taking Will to
Biggie’s Burgers
again this afternoon. Hope I can hold myself together for that.”

***

This time at
Biggie’s
, Will quickly entered the play area, joining the others in normal little-boyhood. Happy to see it, Martha watched the boy climbing, sliding, and running while he yelled, screamed, and interacted with other children his age and size. But when a boy, larger and loud-voiced, begin pushing Will about on the sliding tube, he quickly ran to her side, tears shining in his eyes. “That big boy’s bein’ mean to me, Grammy.”

Worried that Will would now be easily cowed by aggression, she wondered if this might be another outcome of the assault he’d suffered at the hands of Fred Callahan. Anger boiled within her at seeing the end result of adult aggression against a child.
Would the boy take up for himself as he aged, or would he be cowed in the presence of larger males? What would this do to his ability to
interact with females?
Her frustration mounted anew as she pondered these new considerations.

Driving home, Will sat silently in his safety seat and Martha felt the familiar sense of sickening defeat all over again. Reporting the details to Jeannie only added to the hurt. The pain and agony over Will’s assault continued and Martha fought the unusual amount of internal furor that had taken up permanent residence within her.
Where did I get this anger
?
It’s so not like me.

In response to Martha’s worried report, Jeannie shook with renewed angst. “I’ll ask his therapist what to expect down the line for Will. How many ways will this assault affect his life?”

The futility of helping Will haunted Martha. At every turn she saw how the victimization of her grandchild affected his mind, his behavior, and the devastating effects on his family.
Is this personal destruction permanent
?
She feared it truly was. Could anyone, even in a lifetime, ever forget being sexually molested?

Martha left her daughter’s home, facing another defeat. Her wild, unreasoning fury lingered as she drove through the sunny streets and mocked her. She did not see the clean streets, new flowers, or the freshening green of the new spring season as she drove by. She nearly hated the sight of innocent people walking by, laughing and talking, holding the hand of a little child—those souls whose lives had not been altered by an evil assault on an innocent one in their family. It left her feeling sick at the unfairness in life. She wanted answers, and there were none to be found.

***

Dr. Carton welcomed Martha into his office. “How do you feel today?”

“Oh, about the same, Doctor.” Martha felt extremely tense, but she couldn’t admit that to the doctor. After several visits, she knew the next step would be hypnosis. “I guess I’m scared, Doctor. I smelled of smoke again when I woke up this morning and I’m afraid about the hypnosis thing. I’ll find out things I never wanted to know. You know I will.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the disgusting boots.

“Yes, you likely will, but not to worry, we do hypnosis quite often and it’s a very helpful tool. It could certainly make all the difference in your case. My associate, Dr. Herman Schoenfeld is familiar with your case now, and is an expert in hypnotherapy. If you’ll agree, I’d like him to do that therapy.”

“Well—” Martha hesitated, fearful of what they would learn. “Are you sure all this is confidential?” she asked, her eyes on his, seeking an answer she could believe. Being a rather private person made this step all the more traumatic and she felt a heavy foreboding that something dreadful would be brought forth, something she deeply feared.

“Of course it is, Martha, we want solutions for your problems, and today, with hypnosis, perhaps we may begin to understand the basic cause of your time lapses. Dr. Schoenfeld has joined us several times now. I believe we have a good chance to help you, especially if you’ll agree to undergo hypnotherapy. Many times, it’s the only method open to us.”

“I know I must, and I’m frightened. I admit it.” Her tautly held body and white knuckled hands bore out her statement, but she fearfully nodded her head in consent.

Dr. Carton picked up his cell and dialed. “It’s all set, Herman. We’ll begin today if you’re ready.”

They waited expectantly until the man entered. Martha nodded to the small, unassuming Dr. Schoenfeld. His eyes, dark and warm, and his relaxed manner tended to instill trust in a wary patient. But then, what choice did she have if she wanted answers? Resignation filled her mind and, squaring her shoulders, she readied herself for the fearful unknown.

They began. Dr. Shoenfeld’s voice, measured and soft, calmed her. After a time, Martha easily slipped into a hypnotic state. The doctor gently and slowly began the regression to her childhood, aiming for the lost year. From prior discussions, both doctors felt certain the hired man had abused Martha during the year she’d been in first grade. After careful questioning, he reached the correct point in her regression and asked her, “What do you see, Martha? Is anyone there with you?” Both doctors noted the paling of her features and the tenseness of her mouth.

Martha, her voice, higher pitched and childlike, said, “I’m coming home from first grade. My daddy is out on the tractor, but the hired man is in the barn looking out at me.” Tears slipped down her cheeks and her body twisted.

“Is the hired man, Pete Sykes, there, with you, Martha?”

“Yes. He makes me come in the barn.” Her voice quavered. She shuddered violently. “Mommy’s in the house, but I can’t go to her. He said I have to stay with him.”

“What is happening to you now, Martha? You can tell me, it’s all right. You are safe here and will not be hurt if you tell us what is happening.” Schoenfeld kept his voice low and firm.

“No—no, I mustn’t tell. He said he will stick me with a pitch fork if I do. It’s real big with long, sharp, shiny things. It’s awful! He said he’ll hurt me real bad if I tell my mommy or daddy.”

Drs. Carton and Schoenfeld listened to the voice of a small child emanating from Martha’s mouth. Dr. Schoenfeld, his voice soothing and calm, said, “No, Martha, Pete Sykes can’t hurt you. I won’t let that happen. Is he touching you? Is he touching you in private places?”

“Yes—he’s poking into me down there!” She gestured at her pubic area. “It hurts me bad! Sometimes I bleed, but I can’t tell my mommy or daddy. They don’t believe me anymore. Oh please—don’t—don’t!”

From then on, the Drs. Carton and Schoenfeld listened to evil, depraved, things they’d never wanted to hear told in the frightened, pain-filled voice of a small child in agony. Sweat broke out on Dr. Carton’s brow as he heard the sickening details of this child’s suffering.

Finally, Dr. Carton shook his head, saying, “We’ve done enough, Herman. My God! Bring her back now.”

Dr. Schoenfeld called to Martha, told her it was time to come back now, and worked to help her relax as he completed the process. “At the count of three, you must wake up.” He began to count and at three, Martha’s eyes took on the look of present reality. She straightened in her chair.

“Well, Docs, did you help me?” she sneered softly.