Chasing Sophea: A Novel Read online

  No matter what people said or how they stared when she and her mama stepped into the light of day, Aunt Baby never saw her mother withhold healing from anyone. There had never been an ailment, a condition, or a situation that Oceola couldn’t conquer. There were times, though, that she chose not to intervene because she explained that a person’s destiny was not to be tampered with. Somehow she always knew who was supposed to be returned to health and who was supposed to return to the oneness and begin again.

  Aunt Baby lightly stroked the sleeping figure next to her. She couldn’t recall an herb, a plant, or a chant to heal what ailed Dahlia. She would have to travel inward, down deep toward her sacred space, and call on her ancestors for guidance. If she faltered, she was prepared to do something that she’d never had to do in all her years. She’d take Dahlia bound and gagged to one of those fancy head doctors herself if it came down to it. This sickness ravishing Dahlia’s spirit would not be the end of her or Dahlia. She breathed deeply and centered herself in the moment. Losing this child, after everything she had gone through, was not an option. In the end, Baby Marseli Culpepper was Oceola Moon’s daughter, a healer of the Choctaw nation, and that had to count for something.

  There were no words spoken, explanations offered, or glances of silent regret. Dante and Mercy became lost in their betrayal without hesitation. The house could have burned to the ground and its nonbreathing occupants could have screamed out loud, and it still wouldn’t have stopped Dante Culpepper from finally making love to his brother’s wife. He found that he couldn’t remove her clothes fast enough to quench his thirst for her. He could not imagine what she was thinking now as her hands began to roam his body. He only hoped that she wanted this moment as badly as he wanted her. He accepted, as did everyone, that she had always been in love with Lucius. But now was his time, and he intended to make every moment worth remembering. He planned never to be forgotten and never to be regarded as a mistake in a vulnerable moment.

  For him, this coming together was the realization of a forbidden fantasy, one that he’d kept locked away in his dreams, hidden between family dinners and casual conversation. She was the reason he remained at the funeral home, and she was the reason he often had to leave it. No matter how hard he struggled to erase her from his mind, she haunted him and he ached for her still. As he lay close to her unclothed, he so desperately wanted to reveal himself, confess that he’d loved her from the moment she graced the back porch and offered herself on a silver platter to his brother.

  He silenced the persistent voice in his head that tempted him with the righteous course and concentrated on the woman quivering naked beneath him. Finally he reached for her, and she opened for him all that she had previously been unable to give. He explored every inch of her brownness and paid special attention to areas that he felt had been particularly neglected. There were sighs and moans and an intense urgency to feel her throbbing around him. He pressed her hands down with his palms and entered her with more than two decades’ worth of repressed passion.

  Mercy felt him inside of her moving rhythmically to the melody in her head. She couldn’t really identify the song, but Dante heard it just the same, seeping out of her pores, imploring him for more. More of what he was offering and more of that when he was done. She could not believe herself. Who was this woman making love to her husband’s brother? She was a stranger, but at the same time, Mercy was more herself, more alive than she had ever been. She could have walked away, saved them both, but this space in time was intoxicating, and she soon became drunk with pleasure and possibilities. She rocked with him as if she had a thousand times before and, in so doing, realized precisely what her body was for. She welcomed the intense heat that was spreading rapidly throughout her body and wrapped her legs around the only man who’d ever made her scream out loud.

  They stayed folded into each other until reality started to creep upstairs and steal down the hall into the room where everyone else was afraid to go. They heard footsteps and assumed the outside world was coming for them with Lucius in tow. Strangely unafraid of discovery, they embraced and remained undisturbed. Mercy swallowed and prepared to speak; there were things that needed to be said. The window of bliss was closed, and her husband was only a few feet away.

  “Shhh,” Dante whispered. “Me first. I know that we probably should have exercised better judgment. I know that when we leave this room, you’ll still be my sister-in-law. I know that I am in love with you, and watching you with him in this house destroys a piece of me every day. And before you ask, I can’t pretend like I don’t know what the inside of you feels like—”

  “Dante,” Mercy interrupted.

  “Mercy,” he continued, “this was a mistake for obvious reasons, but mainly because now I can’t … I won’t let you go.”

  “Dante, I never guessed that you felt this way.”

  “I know,” Dante responded, and rose to look out the window. “I’m here, Mercy, and I’ve always been here waiting, devoting too much time to a pipe dream. And anyway, you’ve always seen what you wanted to see.”

  “That’s not fair. I was young and naïve when I married him. I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what I was doing. I realize that now.” Mercy partially covered her nakedness. “God, Dante, I’ve made so many mistakes—some of which I don’t expect to be forgiven by Lucius, by you, or by God.”

  “Why do you say that? What could you possibly have done to make you believe such a thing?”

  Mercy looked away and staved off another breakdown. She wished she could tell him what she had done, but the truth of it had never passed her lips. And in the end, he would hate her like everyone else. The lie that had been coiled around her bones attached itself to her soul long ago. The thought of prying it loose took her breath away and caused her face to commit an act of betrayal. Twitching uncontrollably, she waited for Dante to question her further, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. Something else had his attention, something outside.

  “Dante,” she said. “Dante, what’s the matter?” Mercy stood and joined him.

  “Someone’s here.”

  “Someone’s always here.”

  “No,” Dante replied, pointing out the window at the stranger walking with Percival Tweed.

  “Who is that?” Mercy asked, somewhat disinterested, unaware that the unraveling had begun. Her deception at that moment was being pushed out of her stomach and up toward her esophagus. Soon it would ferment in the back of her throat and sneak its way along her tongue. Twitching was just the beginning. Dante hurriedly reached for his clothes.

  “Probably just somebody nosing around the property. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Get your clothes on,” Dante said firmly. “We have to leave here.”

  Dante continued to stare curiously out the window. He didn’t recognize the man with Percival Tweed, and that concerned him. The grave digger wasn’t known for wasting words on strangers. And yet there they were strolling in the direction of Percival’s house like it was the most normal thing in the world. But Dante knew better. Normal was a town in Illinois. It certainly didn’t exist here, and never had for as long as he could remember. His heart began to beat faster while everything else around him stood still.

  The room they were in rested on the third level of the house. It boasted a round window and crème-colored walls. The view of the grounds was exceptional, but no one ever braved the spiral staircase to appreciate the sight. People always said that they saw ghosts in the little round window staring longingly out at the outside world. It had been his experience that most folks averted their eyes from the window when they passed, but that wasn’t the case here. Dante wasn’t afraid of any ghosts, and apparently neither was the albino. For a few crucial seconds, Percival stopped walking and faced the circular window while Dante watched. Mercy reached for his face, and he stiffened.

  “Don’t tell me you see a ghost,” she quipped lightly.

  Dante narrowed his eyes. Words e
scaped him, and he was unable to express his growing trepidation to Mercy. She saw an old man standing in the middle of the grass gazing at the heavens. He saw chaos standing still and knew in that instant that nothing would ever be the same again.

  Percival Tweed tipped his hat at the figure in the little round window and shook his head. Aunt Baby wasn’t going to take too kindly to this turn of events, not too kindly at all.

  Trevor Kelly had been up for hours vacillating between attending to the intricacies of the Dahlia Chang case himself or consulting a colleague. He decided on the latter, as he had to be sure of his conclusion. He needed to be certain that he hadn’t missed the mark altogether. By God, he recognized the symptoms and respected his intuition, but he had no tangible evidence that the patient had ever experienced any severe trauma at all. Through his own knowledge and subsequent research, he knew that the vast majority of DID patients have documented histories of repetitive, overwhelming, and often life-threatening trauma at a developmental stage of childhood and that the main types of abuse that are precipitants of DID are sexual, involving incest, rape, or some kind of molestation, and/or physical, involving beatings, burnings, and wretched incidents of that sort. Shit, if only he had more information. If only he could get through to Dahlia. She had suffered from something that had damaged her during her childhood. Of that he was certain.

  Trevor Kelly had always followed his hunches, and at sixtyone years old, he wasn’t about to make an about-face now. For Dahlia’s sake, he had to dismiss his fear of being mocked by his peers and remember that he had a sizable set of balls after all. He reached for his jacket and grabbed his tape recorder. There was only one person he could talk to, one place he could go with this discovery. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed. “Let me speak to Dr. Lionel Durbin,” he said with a steady voice. “This is an emergency.”

  “Are you certain, Trevor? You know, I’ve never put much credence in these kinds of cases.”

  “I’m sure, Lionel. I’ve been practicing for many many years, my friend. I know what I’m saying, and more important, I know what I feel. The patient shows all the signs of DID. She’s unable to remember entire portions of her childhood. She has excruciating headaches and often suffers from blackouts. Plus the alter that I encountered called me an idiot, and my patient would normally never speak in that manner.”

  “Very observant lady, I would say.”

  “Be serious. This is no time for jokes.”

  “All right, keep your knickers on. What about manic depression or neurosis? Surely there are other options to consider here.”

  “Something traumatic occurred in her childhood, Lionel, which caused her to dissociate, if you will, detach herself from reality and take on an alter. And what’s most bizarre about this case is that the subject herself isn’t aware of her condition. I’m still trying to determine just how long she’s had DID or MPD. I assume the creation of the alter correlates with the traumatic experience. You and I both know that all thoughts and memories of the abuse in cases like these are psychologically separated from the child. I’m consulting with you, Lionel, because I have to be careful here. I know you’ll tell me if I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Do you have your notes? Tapes of your sessions?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you stand by this diagnosis with no reluctance?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Jesus, Lionel, the girl will split again if you don’t have a look already.”

  “You know, old friend, if your patient in fact has this illness, she has a long, painful road to recovery ahead of her.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of how difficult it will be for her and her family.”

  “All right. I’ll review your findings, and then we’ll discuss how to proceed.”

  Dr. Trevor Kelly paced his mentor’s office and wondered what Dahlia was doing right now. Was she in fact Dahlia or the other, the one who had snapped at him in his office and flipped him the bird as she stalked out the door? What was her name? How often did she make an appearance? When exactly was she born? And were there others? Bloody hell, he hoped there weren’t others. He wondered if Dahlia’s husband had any idea that his wife had someone else walking around inside her brain. The alter was clearly becoming more and more aggressive, and that meant that Dahlia was in jeopardy. In the medical journals, he’d read about cases of the alter’s taking over the original personality completely. The mind was so powerful that it was capable of convincing a woman that she had to be someone else in order to survive. What, he wondered, in God’s name could have happened to cause the brain to be in such turmoil? Dr. Durbin interrupted his thoughts.

  “Trevor, I’d like to help you any way I can here. Perhaps I can observe a session with the two of you. Do you think your patient would agree to that?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to ask her first, you know that. Although at this point, I don’t know whom I’ll be talking to. I’ll gently suggest that the patient speak with her husband about her condition as well. Hopefully she’ll agree. She needs all the support she can get.”

  “I concur. Call her and schedule an emergency appointment as soon as possible. So do you think the husband has any idea? Poor clueless bastard. I see here that they have a child as well. I’m sure he didn’t count on marrying more than one woman when he said ‘I do.’ Jesus, how could he have bloody missed that?”

  “Bollocks, Lionel, if the patient does agree to discuss her condition with her husband and allows him to come to a session, how am I going to tell him that his wife has dissociative identity disorder?”

  “Very carefully, my friend. Very carefully.”

  Trevor glanced at his watch; he’d already canceled his dinner plans and promised his wife a hot-oil massage when he got home. She was waiting for him as usual, this time with a tangerine teddy and a shot of tequila.

  “Trevor, I must say that if this is a genuine case of DID, you have to begin treatment immediately.”

  “Lionel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “May I use your phone?”

  “No time like the present, eh?”

  Dahlia awoke and reached blindly for the Extra Strength Excedrin she kept glued to her nightstand. She grasped nothing, so she opened her eyes and scanned her surroundings. She didn’t know where she was, but the space felt vaguely familiar. Her sleep had been troubled and restless, but this time, she’d dreamed of Aunt Baby, and she was immediately grateful. For now, there were no mashed faces screaming at her and no sweating, just an overwhelming feeling of relief. She unclenched her fists and realized that she had been here before. She saw photos of Isabel and began to relax. She was home on her couch in her family room, although she couldn’t remember how she got there. The pain in her head taunted her mercilessly, and her left foot throbbed. What was wrong with her foot? Milky must have put her here, or maybe she’d passed out again. She was tired. God, she was always so tired. She called out softly and winced at the sound of her own voice.

  “Milky. Milky. Isabel. Anybody home?”

  She attempted to stand, but her legs refused her. It was entirely expected, as she was already in pieces, left to somehow put herself back together. In the end, she was what she always thought she’d be. Alone. Her husband had probably abandoned her for good and taken Isabel with him. Her fate had been sealed. She would rot away on a green chenille couch and would eventually smell of pee and Oreo cookies.

  Dahlia massaged her temple and managed to pull her legs toward her chest. Now what was she going to do? And how was she going to get her family back? So many questions were dancing around in her head when the intruder interrupted her thoughts. She closed her eyes and struggled to silence the voice now booming in her head. “Go away,” it said calmly. “They don’t love you anymore.” She screamed. She was terrified and held herself as tightly as she could lest the rest of her fall apart. “Somebody help me,” she cried. “Aunt Baby, where are you when I need you?”

  “Here,” a voice behind he
r answered softly. “I’m right here, baby doll.”

  Dahlia turned around and sobbed uncontrollably when she saw Aunt Baby standing over her. She stared in disbelief and clutched wildly at the woman in her dreams. She clung to her just like before, and for a moment, she was a child again lost in the storm while the tornado devoured everything around her.

  “I know, baby. That’s all right. Get it out, get it all out.” Aunt Baby stroked her hair and offered words of solace until calmness replaced hysteria. Dahlia took a deep breath and briefly considered that she might be dreaming again. She touched one of Baby’s long braids just to be sure that she wasn’t slipping any further than she already had.

  “What? How did you get here? When?” Dahlia asked hoarsely.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I’m not leaving anytime soon. I’m sorry, Dahlia. I’m sorry I haven’t done enough to help you, and I’m sorry for not coming sooner.”

  “Aunt Baby, what’s wrong with me? What is happening to me?”

  Aunt Baby rose and handed her grandniece a cup of her special tea laced with kava kava and chamomile to calm her nerves.

  “Drink up, now. We might not have much time.”

  “What are you talking about? You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

  “Do you trust me, Dahlia?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I would never lie to you. That’s not my way.”