All of Us (ARC) Read online

  order, which is not always the case.

  Portman’s taller than me by a good three inches. I follow

  in her wake as she conducts her inspection. Feeling the way

  I feel when I watch our body perform and I’m not in charge.

  “These are lovely,” she says, indicating a half dozen

  flower arrangements. The flowers are artificial, the arrangements courtesy of Serena, our resident artiste. They’re quite restrained, single blossoms mostly, surrounded by narrow

  leaves and a sprig of berries or a trailing vine. From some-

  where deep inside, I hear Serena stir. She’ll want to know

  why I didn’t mention her name.

  Portman’s thorough. Not content with a clean living

  room and kitchen, she examines the refrigerator, the kitchen 15

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  cabinets and the oven before checking under the sink. I can

  almost hear her mind working: Bleach, check; laundry deter-gent, check; floor cleaner, check.

  Meticulous or not, Portman’s done inside of ten min-

  utes. We’ve basically got a two-room apartment with a turn-

  around kitchen and a bathroom so small the toilet touches

  the side of the tub. Our sparse furnishings and most of the

  prints on the walls were either rescued from the trash on

  garbage pickup day.

  It goes without saying that nothing in our apartment

  matches anything else. The four wooden chairs around

  the dining table, for just one example, are not only differ-

  ent shapes but also different colors. Still, I know Portman’s not fazed by our poverty. Impoverished households are as

  familiar to her as waking up in the morning. She’s a poverty connoisseur.

  “Looks good,” she announces. “So, I guess that’s it. I don’t see anything that merits our attention.”

  I should leave it there, but I can’t. “Excuse me, but I’m

  trying to understand what exactly we did to warrant all this attention.”

  “I’ve been wondering myself. The court ordered Protec-

  tive Services to make this inspection and file a report. We

  weren’t provided with a reason and have no choice except to

  comply. That said, if the rest of the inquiry goes as well as this inspection, our report will be positive.”

  “The rest of the inquiry?”

  “Well, we still have to talk to your neighbors.”

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  CHAPTER THREE

  SERENA

  So stunning, to be alive, to be outdoors, a simple

  pedestrian, no more and no less than any pedestrian on

  any street in New York, an absolute equal marching down

  a city street on a spring day with a warm southerly breeze

  carrying the primitive scent of the harbor. No trees here, no flowers or green, surging grass, no bunny rabbits, frolicking fawns, instead practical, always-in-a-hurry city folk, instead old men and women inching their way along, instead

  destitute and desperate panhandlers talking to themselves,

  eyes locked into their own madness. Four adolescent boys

  evaluate my sexual potential, their energy washing over my

  body, adding to the scream of an advancing ambulance. Eyes

  down, skirt falling to her ankles, a woman in a black hijab

  pushes a crying child in a stroller. A small, white dog squats at the curb, owner hovering above, poop bag at the ready.

  The universe flows down Fulton Street, everything

  connected, every tendril in place, until there are no pieces, only one chord, each note sung, even the trash in the street, the buzzing sign above the entrance to Crunch gym, the

  hiss of released air as a bus pulls away from the curb, a true 17

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  plainsong, proof everlasting of our creators at play. I take joy in the knowledge, the certainty, the evidence as plainly displayed as the exhibits at a murder trial: rope, restraints, knife, handsaw, the collective gaze of shaken jurors as they dutifully examine photos taken after the body was finally

  discovered.

  Fulton Street evolves as I head south, penetrating the gen-

  trified neighborhoods closer to Brooklyn Heights and the

  bridge. Faces and bodies flow effortlessly past, words bounce against my ears: Arabic, Spanish, Russian. A Hasidic couple

  passes, arguing in Yiddish, the words tangle with Martha’s

  entreaties, her pragmatism another note, only adding to the

  perpetual harmony.

  “Halberstam, Halberstam, Halberstam, appointment,

  appointment, appointment . . .”

  A cold, wet mop, never knowing even the ecstasy of Eleni,

  the physical release, the surrender to whatever consciousness-altering substance happens to be available and to the ulti-

  mate threat arising from casual sex with strangers. I pause

  to inspect a fruit vendor’s long table, the yellows and greens and oranges, a soft, soft peach, fuzz bristling, all caught in the revealing light of a perfect sun, a pure gold disc in a pure blue sky.

  I buy an apple from a turbaned vendor with a triangular

  black beard and eat it as I turn on to Boerum Place, now

  called Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard, the street renamed for

  tourists who add their own essentials to the collective scent. I feel them around me, that we share a common goal, the still-shielded bridge rising just beyond a long curve, a yearning

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  for the heights. Victoria and Martha want to eat me, me

  and Eleni, to swallow us down, to digest us, to empty us

  from their bowels, to flush us away. That in so doing they

  abandon their futures, consigning themselves to an empty

  survival, no joy, no love, no ecstasy, troubles them not at all.

  I hurry along, moving with a river of humans, the bridge a

  vacuum drawing us into its center, the force irresistible, up the promenade, between a spider’s web of intersecting cables, to the great arches where I press my hands against a massive block of rough-hewn stone. Two bridges cross the East River

  to the north, ahead the great towers present a solid front to would-be invaders, Lady Liberty stands, a solitary figure on a lonely pedestal in the harbor to the south, resolute.

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  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARTHA

  I’m running like a fool. Like the pitiful mental case we

  are. Tourists stare at me and speeding cyclists pass close

  enough to brush my arm. I pay no attention, there being

  only room in my brain for two thoughts. First, I’m going

  to be late for the fourth appointment with our shithead of

  a therapist. Victoria kept the first three, hoping the good

  doctor would let us off the hook with a cursory inspection.

  Not happening. He expects to meet all of us at some point.

  Especially Eleni, our main offender.

  So, there’s that bullshit to handle. But there’s also a burning rage because my free-spirit sister has done it again. In the past, Serena regularly hijacked our body as we headed off to work. She liked to take us on spiritual journeys certain to get us fired. The girl believes herself to be an artist and a poet and a pilgrim. In fact, she’s a fucking moron.

  I dodge pedestrians all the way to the foot of the bridge,

  then run alongside city hall to the Brooklyn Bridge subway

  station. I get
lucky for once and a 6 Train pulls into the station as I pass through the turnstile. There are no seats, but I 20

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  don’t care. I stand in the center of the car, one hand clutching a pole that runs floor to ceiling. I’m wearing a white peasant blouse and a brown, wraparound skirt speckled with

  gold rabbits. This is Serena’s favorite summertime outfit, but it doesn’t work for a self-proclaimed drudge. Nor does the

  loosened hair that cascades to my shoulders, or the almost-

  black lipstick, or the peacock-blue eye shadow.

  In fact, I look like an idiot, a complete asshole, a total

  phony. Like Serena with her beads and her artificial flow-

  ers pretending she’s an artist. If we’re ever to have control of our lives, Victoria and I, we need to kick Serena to the curb.

  Eleni, too. We need to dump the both of them.

  But that’s not going to happen anytime soon. And it

  won’t happen fast, either. The others went only after a long crusade. We froze them out, abandoned them, the parting

  not without pain, yet ultimately satisfying. Like pulling an infected tooth.

  We’d been taking us for granted before unity was even

  a goal. Then we met Dr. Charlotte Harmon, the first thera-

  pist to fully understand our dilemma. We’d created us out

  of necessity she insisted. Which was fine. Carolyn had to

  escape and creating identities with no memory of the night-

  mare she’d endured was a brilliant solution. Her response

  was that of a sane child dealing with an insane environment.

  But circumstances change over time and us was not a strat-

  egy suitable to our present or future, no matter how well

  adapted it might have been to our past. We needed a plan B.

  Dr. Harmon reached us (most of us, anyway) precisely

  because she didn’t think we were crazy.

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  * * *

  I stand in the corridor outside Halberstam’s office for several minutes before I turn the knob. I need to ease off the gas and I tell myself that we’ve been here. I mean subject to a man

  with power. Be mostly honest. Don’t lose your temper.

  Victoria’s with me this morning as I turn the doorknob

  and I sense an almost-hidden presence behind her. Kirk, our

  little boy-girl. Like Eleni, like Serena, Kirk’s a must-go.

  Halberstam’s waiting room is as drab as Victoria’s descrip-

  tion of his inner office, more beige on beige. That includes a middle-aged receptionist named Tanya who wears a beige

  jacket over a beige skirt. I take a seat and glance at a magazine, People, but don’t pick it up. I’m not expecting a long delay, being as I’m fifteen minutes late.

  Tanya presses a button on the intercom, then leans for-

  ward and whispers something into the machine. Finally, she

  turns to me, her expression grave. “You may go in now,” she

  intones.

  Victoria described Halberstam’s gaze as intense, but I find

  it evaluating. The kind of look a cheetah might bestow on a

  herd of gazelles before choosing a victim. But he’s not looking at me when I enter the room. He’s turned to one side,

  offering his angular profile while he scans a document.

  I take a seat in the chair assigned to us and lean back,

  the sensation as unpleasant as it is submissive. Halberstam

  appears not to notice, but his disinterest seems to me theatrical. I don’t react because we’re accustomed to the scrutiny of therapists and know their techniques must be endured.

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  The only therapists who’ve done us any good have been

  female. Take it to the bank. And while I have no sex life of my own, I know that if I ever go down that road, it will be

  with a woman.

  Halberstam finally straightens in his very upright chair.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  There’s nothing to be gained by lying and I don’t try.

  “The body,” I explain, “was hijacked as I began to dress for the appointment. By the time I regained control . . .” I shrug, the message plain enough.

  “And who did the hijacking?”

  “Serena, our free spirit.”

  “And when this hijacking occurred, you were helpless to

  prevent it? You couldn’t refuse?”

  Halberstam’s just verbalized the essence of our problem.

  Which the jerk surely knew before he posed the question. I

  supply him with an answer prepared in advance. Tit for tat.

  “If Carolyn Grand had a central authority who could

  order her identities, you would never have known she

  existed. That’s because she’d be sane.” I pause for a moment, then jump through the required hoop. “We’ve never done

  the choosing, Doctor, not from the day we were born.”

  “Fine, in fact undeniable.” Halberstam leans back and

  crosses his legs. “Tell me. How do you know that Serena

  hijacked the body? Why not Victoria?”

  I hate the role I’m in, unavoidable or not. I don’t see why

  I should have to explain anything to this moron. I don’t see why I should have to endure the semi-sneer that passes for a smile. Submission has never been my strong point.

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  Something inside me, perhaps one of the others, demands

  that I lie. Tell him you know it was Serena because the

  clothes you’re wearing could only belong to her. The truth

  will not set you free.

  I ignore the advice. “I know, Doctor, because I was there.

  Along for the ride.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “This time.”

  “And other times?”

  “Any number, any combination. It’s always been that way.”

  I reflect for just a second. Then I repeat myself. “Always.”

  “So, you’ve never questioned this arrangement?”

  I take a second to adjust my thoughts, then say, “Look,

  Doctor. Early on I questioned every arrangement. Especially

  the most basic, who and what I am. But what’s the point? I

  can’t will myself into or out of existence, so I take what I can get. Like the rest of us.”

  Halberstam replies a bit too fast. “Well said. Lack of con-

  trol is the essence of your problem, a point also made by

  Victoria.” He folds his hands and lays them on the desk as

  he fixes me with one of those penetrating stares. “May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

  “You’re speaking to Martha.”

  “And how would you describe your . . . your role,

  Martha?”

  “Old-fashioned housewife. I cook, clean, shop, pay the

  bills. I keep our little household up and running.”

  “Victoria plays no part?”

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  “She does face-to-face. When we have to be seen.” Like

  my sister, I have no problem switching from “we” to “I”

  and back again. “Apart from taking out the garbage and

  collecting the mail, I try to keep my head down.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “I have a short fuse. I don’t really like people.”

  “Would you call yourself a m
isanthrope?”

  “I might if I knew what it meant.” My tone is sharp enough

  to be confused with sarcasm, one of those errors I vowed not to make. I watch Halberstam nod. I’m about to be punished.

  “Do you remember what happened to you when you

  were a child?”

  “No, I have no direct memory of my childhood. Carolyn

  Grand was twenty-five when I first became aware.”

  “But you do know what happened, even if you can’t

  remember?”

  “Yes, Doctor, I do know. And I’m reminded every time I

  step out of the shower and count the scars on my body.”

  “The physical abuse.” His tone is eager and he’s leaning

  forward. “Victoria was very forthcoming about the physical

  abuse, but the other part, the sexual abuse . . . like you, she claimed to be totally unfamiliar with that phase of Carolyn

  Grand’s life.”

  “Like I already said, Victoria and I were born on the same

  day, a week after Carolyn’s twenty-seventh birthday.”

  Halberstam waves me off. His features are relaxed now,

  relaxed and confident. “Your father made movies, Martha,

  made them and sold them, movies that still circulate among

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  pedophiles. You’ve seen these movies, so your childhood

  cannot be as remote as you make it out to be.”

  Fifteen years ago, one of our therapists, Dequan Cho, decided that it was time that we confronted our past. We’d been running away for years, he explained, and look where we ended

  up. Our desperate attempt to escape a past that couldn’t be

  escaped had left us at the mercy of psychological forces we’d never vanquish. Not unless we confronted that past, unless

  we acknowledged the damage done to us. How? By review-

  ing some of the movies made by our father.

  Cho had a combative personality. Fight, fight, fight. He’d

  grown up a privileged child in Riverdale and didn’t have a

  clue about the effect of that footage on poor Tina. Tina had been the star of those movies. Coerced into them by her

  father, Hank Grand, a malignant narcissist who loved to

  hurt the people closest to him. And nobody was closer than

  his daughter.

  Unfortunately, Cho’s suggestion wasn’t a suggestion. We

  were guests of the state, restricted to a locked ward at Creedmoor Psychiatric Center after a now-banished identity took