Authors: Melissa Delport
“Just because,” I answer, pressing my body against his.
“Tomorrow,” he promises, tickling my back. “Tomorrow we're going to get you a ring.”
The following day Adam heads back to his apartment to take delivery of the new coffee table and I head downtown to do a bit of retail therapy. Adam has his heart set on a lavish engagement party and my wardrobe is sorely lacking at the moment. I spend an hour at the Long Beach Mall and another two hours driving from Boutique to Boutique. Finally, feeling frustrated and throwing caution to the wind, I drive the thirty minutes into LA and head for Rodeo Drive. I so seldom buy myself
clothes, I figure I can afford to spoil myself just this once. My happiness is infectious and I find myself smiling at complete strangers, most of whom smile back, disarmingly. An hour later I am in desperate need of a coffee and I go in search of a Starbucks. I walk past a cosy bistro and glance in the window. About five steps later, I freeze, and slowly backtrack. I blink a few times, trying to make sense of what I am seeing.
Adam is sitting in a booth with a young blonde woman who is smiling up at him, her vivid red fingernails curled around a steaming cup of something. From my vantage point I have a clear view as she lifts her stocking-clad foot and rubs it slowly and intimately up and down Adam’s leg. I stare, dumbfounded, at them and eventually Adam glances up and
meets my gaze, his blue eyes cold and unconcerned. He looks vaguely irritated at my intrusion on his privacy and stares back at me, challengingly. Shocked and hurt, I turn and flee down the street. I drench my pillow that afternoon, sobs wracking my body until it physically hurts. My throat is agony from choking back the tears and I am shaking uncontrollably, unable to calm myself. The pain is unbearable; it is worse than Kevin, so much worse, because at least Kevin didn’t have a choice. He didn’t choose to leave me; he didn’t choose to die.
Eventually I make my way to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and I hear a key turn in the lock. The door opens and, to my complete and utter disbelief, Adam walks in, happily waving a white piece of paper.
“Your table has arrived,” he grins, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the coat rack near the front door. I gape at him in astonishment.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss, and he visibly recoils. I never curse; it is not in my nature to be angry.
Ever.
“What?” He looks so genuinely bewildered that I wonder if perhaps he has lost his mind.
“I saw you, Adam,” I bite out, clenching my teeth so hard that my jaw aches.
“Saw me where?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
I automatically take a step back and he is rooted to the spot, gazing at me in horror.
“Paige!” he sounds panicked. “What the hell is going on?”
“I saw you, Adam!” I yell, not giving a damn about the neighbours. “I saw you today at the Bistro. With another woman!” I spit out, getting more and more angry as his confusion seems to grow. “Blonde? Red nails? Aw, come on!” I yell, throwing my hands in the air as he looks blankly on.
“What are you talking about, Paige?” He takes a few steps forward, ignoring my outstretched arms, warning him not to come any closer. As soon as he is within reach he looks me in the eyes.
“Paige, please. Calm down,” he implores, his blue eyes looking genuinely bewildered. “I don’t know what you saw, but you have to believe me that it wasn’t me.”
I snort in disgust at his blatant lie and he flinches.
“Why would I do that?” he reasons. “Why would I ask you to marry me if I was going to rush off and meet someone else?” I can’t see the logic in this either and he uses my uncertainty to further his cause. “I love
you
, Paige. You know that. I
know
that you know that. I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t me!” I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. He seems so sincere. And why would he come here?
If he knew he had been caught out surely he would have come after me at the bistro, tried to excuse
himself then? He would never have come home so brazenly if he had been caught doing something so terrible. I pinch the bridge of my nose; I have a headache. Almost subconsciously, as a force of habit, Adam pours me a glass of water and hands it to me, along with two headache pills.
I slump down at the kitchen table and, after a moment’s hesitation, he joins me.
“He looked exactly like you,” I utter, too exhausted to even have this conversation.
“He wasn’t me,” he iterates, his hand covering mine on the table.
I look up at him, his curly black hair and his white V-neck T-shirt which emphasises his tanned skin. His blue eyes are pleading. He is sincere, I realise. He has no idea what I am talking about. How can this be possible? I rise from my chair.
“I need to get some sleep,” I mutter, heading toward the bedroom. “Are you coming?” I ask, looking back at him and he sighs in relief and follows me. I lie down on the bed and he lies beside me, curling his body around mine and stroking my hair until I fall into a dreamless sleep.
Two weeks go by and the party planning is in full swing. My mother has worked herself up into a frenzy, so determined is she to upstage Kimberley, Frank’s first wife, who managed to get both Sammy and Lola’s weddings in the society pages. My mother seeks retribution. The party, now only a week away, is escalating into epic proportions, and to my utter dismay, Adam is in on it. He keeps phoning her to check that the cake is three-tiered, that the napkins are ordered, that the string-quartet are well rehearsed. Yesterday I caught them both behind the pool-house smoking. I gave them a ten minute lecture, both looking suitably sheepish and then I laughed my head off. Mom is determined that we enjoy the last of the good summer weather, which is laughable, as the party is only a week before the change of season and there is a chill in the air, already.
On the Thursday before the party I drop by Adam’s apartment to fetch his suit. He had asked me to take it to the dry-cleaners for him ages ago and I had forgotten all about it. Now, with the engagement party only a few days away I realise I am almost out of time. Luckily I called Mr Cullen down at Dry-It and he promised he would prioritise the suit and have it ready for Saturday, for a small fee, of course.
I am thinking fondly of how Adam would probably freak out if he knew that I had overlooked such an important detail and how he would probably have a fit if he knew that I still didn’t have shoes to go with my dress. I am so deep in thought that I walk right into his room and open his cupboard before I even register that anyone else is in the room.
Everything seems to move in slow motion. Hearing a noise, I turn and catch them at it. Her skin is so white against Adam’s that it almost looks like they are an interracial couple. She is straddling him, her red high heels still on. Her boobs are bigger than mine and she has on far too much fake jewellery. I drop my bag, open my mouth and scream. It is the same blonde girl, of that I am certain. I meet Adam’s glare and am shocked by his face, so contorted with rage that I barely recognise him. He opens his mouth and starts yelling, calling me names that I never knew he was capable of speaking. Adam doesn’t curse. This Adam, however, swears at me so badly that my cheeks flame and bile rises in my throat.
Eventually I can take no more and I turn and run from the house. I don’t stop running for over a month, moving from friends to various family members’ houses and avoiding all Adam’s calls, until one day they just stop coming. After a week of absolutely no contact I finally feel brave enough to venture home. Adam is gone although most of his clothes are still there. I call a locksmith immediately and have all the locks changed, which turns out to be completely unnecessary because he doesn’t come bac
k
.
Autumn
About a month after my return home I receive a visit from Carl Sheldon. I am just pouring myself a glass of wine and sautéing mushrooms in a pan when my doorbell rings. I’m curious, yet a part of me still dreads that Adam might one day try and make contact, but, on peering through the key hole, I discover a middle-aged, bespectacled man with a receding hairline on my doorstep. He has a kind face, so I open the door.
“Can I help you?”
“Paige Marie
Petrova?” he asks immediately.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully.
“Please may I come in?” he asks, his tone serious.
“May I ask what this is in connection with?” I reply.
“I believe you know Mr Adam Parker?” The words are barely out of his mouth and I start to shut the door on him.
“No, wait!” The sense of urgency in his voice halts me, however unwittingly.
“I’m sorry, Mister?”
“Sheldon,” he replies, “Dr Carl Sheldon.”
“Well, Doctor Sheldon, I’m sorry but I’m just not prepared to discuss Mr Parker – Adam – with you.”
“He misses you,” he sounds detached, almost clinical and I stare at him, not understanding his intent.
I eventually decide to ignore him and glance obviously at my wristwatch.
“I’m sorry, Miss
Petrova,” he begins. “I’m afraid there is much that you don’t know about Adam. I would like to explain it to you. It might help you make sense of what transpired between the two of you.” I raise my eyebrow, slightly embarrassed that this man obviously has some intimate knowledge of my relationship with Adam.
“Come in,” I sigh, resigning myself to listen for five minutes, after which Dr Sheldon is out of here. I lead the way to the kitchen and open the cooler.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” I ask politely. “Tea, coffee, fruit juice, water?”
“Tea would be lovely,” he replies and I set about making him a cup.
“Right,” I set it down in front of him. “Get on with it, Doctor, the clock is ticking.”
“Ms
Petrova,” Dr Sheldon’s kind eyes meet my own, “Adam is a patient of mine. He has been for a few years now.”
“Patient?”
I interrupt. “What do you mean patient? Is Adam sick?” Despite my anger, the thought that Adam might be seriously ill makes me feel faint.
“Yes,” Dr Sheldon answers simply and my heart lurches in dismay. He leans back in his chair and presses his fingers together. “Adam suffers from a condition we call
D.I.D – Dissociative Identity Disorder.” At my blank look, he clarifies, “It was formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder.”
“What?” That doesn’t make any sense; he must be mistaken. Adam doesn’t have multiple personalities; I would have known.
“D.I.D is a dissociative disorder whereby the patient may adopt as many as 100 new identities all simultaneously coexisting inside one body and mind.”
“You mean to say that Adam is schizophrenic?” I ask, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation.
“No, no, certainly not,” Dr Sheldon shakes his head vehemently. “Schizophrenia is a psychotic disorder. Adam’s is a dissociative disorder. The two are completely different from one another.”
“This is crazy. No. I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible,” I shake my head. “I’ve been with Adam for months. I’ve had an intimate relationship with this man. Believe me, Doctor, there’s only one person in there.”
“Adam has been in my care for over a year, Miss Petrova,” he explains gently. “There have been improvements beyond our wildest dreams. Adam is capable of reintegrating his identities through long-term psychotherapy. We had hoped that he would have completed his treatment within the next year. Unfortunately, against my better judgement, I allowed Adam a ‘sabbatical’ if you will, for good behaviour. He left my clinic about six months ago for a West-Coast holiday and did not return. We all now know why.”
He inclines his head at me and I sit back floored. Me. Adam didn’t go back because he met me. I remember him telling Frank he would probably be moving to California but he didn’t actually make that ‘decision’ until after that first night together.
“But he had a job offer,” I’m trying to justify, to rationalise. “He moved here because he got a job in Long Beach.” His next words leave me gaping.
“Adam is very successfully self-employed; he could get a job anywhere – he’s the boss.” Carl Sheldon continues, “He has his own construction company back in Manhattan, with a full staff complement and very competent management.”
I fall silent, considering this. It explains why Adam is always so flexible. He said it was a freelance position.
“Freelance,” I murmur, feeling foolish. “I should have known.” I click my tongue, annoyed at how easily I had been fooled. “I never questioned.”
“But, why would you have?” he asks gently. I don’t answer and he seems to understand that I do not want to.
“I finally tracked him down here about a month ago,” Doctor Sheldon gets back to the point and I want to put my hands over my ears. I don’t want to hear this. “He told me about your relationship.” Is it my imagination or is there something like pity in the doctor’s eyes?
“What about the woman?” I ask, not caring that I sound like a sulky, 15-year-old. “I caught Adam in bed with a blonde woman the day I ended it.”
“No, Miss
Petrova,” he says, not unkindly. “You found Kyle in bed with a blonde woman.”
My mouth drops open and my eyes widen in shock as he continues.
“There are three separate
alters
or identities in addition to Adam. This is not as bad as you may think,” he hastens to add, seeing my look of horror, “considering the fact that there could be as many as 100. Also, Adam does not have any cross-gendered
alters
and they are all roughly the same age.” There is a pause, and then he suddenly changes the subject, “None of this is his fault. Adam is...well, obviously you know him well enough; I don’t need to tell you that Adam is an extraordinary young man, kind and generous to a fault.” Tears well up in my eyes and Doctor Sheldon regards me steadily.
“I see that what Adam has told me regarding the two of you and your feelings toward one another is not as exaggerated as I first believed,” he says softly, and then he takes a deep breath and sits up a little bit straighter. “You must understand, Miss
Petrova, Adam doesn’t want to be sick. He is the 'host' identity – the personality that attempts to hold the various fragments of identity together. Adam may at times become overwhelmed, but he has asked for treatment. He wants to get well and I believe he can get well.”
“Who's
Lizzy?” I ask, suddenly remembering. A few weeks before Adam and I parted ways he had had a nightmare. He was moaning and fitful and, when I shook him gently awake, he looked at me, terrified and asked, “Where’s Lizzy?” I had questioned him in the morning as to who Lizzy was and he said he had no idea.
Doctor Sheldon regards me curiously.
“Why do you ask?” I relay the story and he nods thoughtfully.
“
Lizzy is the childhood friend and love interest of Simon Harris – another of Adam’s
alters
. He is always asking for her. Simon must have broken through briefly but, as he went straight back to sleep, you didn’t realise it.”
“So,” I ask tentatively, still trying to get my head around what I have learned, “there
is Adam and Simon. And there is Kyle.” I shudder, thinking of the personality I had met briefly, the one who had yelled at me and cursed me so badly.
“Kyle has anger management issues,” Dr Sheldon seems to read my mind. “He has a short fuse and he is highly sexed.” I blush, remembering the active sex life that Adam and I had enjoyed. “Please do not be alarmed, it is highly doubtful that Kyle ever played a part in your physical relationship with Adam. You would have been aware of it immediately. Kyle would not pretend to be Adam. Adam would not pretend to be Kyle. These personalities are completely separate from each other; they each have their own behaviours and, indeed, even their own physical gestures.”
“Adam is ambidextrous.” I don’t know why I am bringing this up but it suddenly springs to mind.
“Yes,” Doctor Sheldon is nodding his head, impressed. “Adam is ambidextrous because Kyle and Jacob are right-handed and Simon is left-handed.” I blink, my brain not comprehending what I have just heard
“So, Adam is real?” I ask. “Adam is the person that he is, inside?” I don’t even know how to put my thoughts into words. The earth seems to have veered so far off its orbit that I feel like I have entered some alternate universe.
“They all exist, Miss
Petrova.”
“Paige, please.”
“Okay, Paige. And please, call me Carl. You must understand, Paige, that they are all real. All four identities are real. Adam is certainly the dominant. He is the host, the person who has sought out treatment. He is the one who wants to get better.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. A part of me, however crazy, is delighted.
Adam didn’t cheat on me
.
“The reason I’m telling you all this, Paige, is that Adam is back at the clinic.”
I nod; this is good news. “Do you think he will get better? Do you think that one day we could...” I trail off, unsure exactly what it is that I am asking and if I really want an answer.
“Possibly.”
Dr Sheldon is quite confident. “The only problem is that Adam refuses to re-enter the treatment program.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Why?” I ask, unable to comprehend why Adam would refuse treatment.
“Because of you.” Dr Sheldon, I can see, is trying very hard not to sound accusatory. “He is beside himself with worry over you. He returned to the clinic when it became clear that he could not make amends with you on his own and he asked me to please come and explain things to you. He needs to know that you understand that he did not cheat. You have also become important enough to him that his mental health has become a secondary concern,” the doctor frowns. “Quite simply put, he will not enter the program unless you are with him.”