Pieces of Me, page 8
Just relax, my head whispers. You’re safe. He’s safe.
I can tell Connor’s enjoying himself as much as I am. I mean, it gets to a point where it’s pretty obvious with a guy. He doesn’t push it, though. I guess he’s decided just to enjoy it too. After all, this is technically our first date.
What if I wake up tomorrow and don’t remember this? I know we joked about it, but …
I’m not going to think about it.
I break the kiss and bury my face in his neck, breathing in his smell. It’s one of the strongest senses that humans have. If nothing else, I’ll remember this.
Connor hugs me, presses his cheek to mine. We sit like this for what feels like forever, holding each other. We don’t talk. I don’t even really think. I just enjoy. There’s only the crashing of the surf and the cold salt air and us, safe and warm inside this cocoon he made.
Finally, he lifts his head. “I have to get going,” he says. “My parents are taking me out for breakfast in the morning.”
I don’t want to leave the warm hollow between his jaw and shoulder, but I make myself. “Do you still want to go to MoMA this week?”
“Yeah.” He brushes my hair back from my face with a smile. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For treating me like I’m normal. I was pretty mad at Mark earlier. I still am, but this … getting to hang out with you, was really great.”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me again. My heart throws itself against my ribs as though it’s the first time our lips have touched. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t like the feeling.
“Can you find your way back?” I ask when we finally break apart and stand up from the log. One of my legs is asleep and my butt hurts and I don’t care. I’d Frankenstein-walk for a month if it meant I could kiss Connor whenever, and as much as, I wanted.
“I’m good.” He steps away.
“Your blanket,” I say. He’s left me draped in it.
“I’ll get it from you later,” he says. “My way of making sure you have to see me again.”
I stand there, grinning like an idiot, wrapped up in fleece that smells like him. “Text me when you get home.”
He tells me he will and kisses me once more before walking away. I watch until the darkness swallows him. Then, wrapped in my cozy blanket, I jog back to the house, slipping in through the sliding back door.
Mom’s not in the living room anymore, so I head straight for the stairs to go up to my room. I freeze when I hear Mark’s voice.
“She didn’t answer?” he asks, softly.
“No,” Izzy replies. There’s sadness in her voice. “I guess she’s asleep.”
“Or hates us,” my brother offers.
“You don’t have to sound so fucking pleased about it,” she shoots back. I smile as I hide in the shadows. Izzy might be crushing on my brother, but she’s still my friend.
Mark sighs. “I’m not happy—trust me. Dylan’s my twin, remember? For the first few years of her life I was her best friend and she was mine. You think I like treating her like I don’t trust her? Because I really don’t, Iz. I fucking hate it. I hate not being able to make everything right for her. I hate that she has all these problems that I can’t fix. And I really hate—” He takes a breath and has to lower his voice. “I hate when my worry for her turns into resentment.”
It’s hard to breathe, listening to him.
“We can’t control her. We shouldn’t even try.” Izzy comes further down the stairs and I tuck myself as deep into my little dark corner as I can.
“And what? Let her go out and get hurt?”
“I know, I know, but if you keep trying to boss her around, she’s going to resent you too.”
I can’t see him from where I’m hiding, but I don’t need to. I can imagine him running a hand over his face like he does when he’s tired and stressed out. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to her. That’s what I’m going to do. Hopefully she’ll listen.”
I will. She knows I will.
“Yeah. Come on, I’d better take you home.”
I wait until they’ve left before I leave my hiding spot. I shouldn’t have listened in. I’m lucky I didn’t hear them talking shit about me instead of saying how bad they feel.
Mom’s light is on when I go upstairs, shining through the crack under her door. I knock and stick my head in.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell her.
She’s under the covers already, her blond hair in a loose topknot. She’s wearing an old pair of pajamas she’s worn ever since Dad moved out, and is reading a novel, her glasses perched on her nose. She smiles at me. “Okay. Did you have a nice walk on the beach?”
I grin. “I did. Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, sweet girl.”
In my room I get ready for bed—put on pajamas and brush my teeth and all that. I climb into bed with Connor’s blanket, pulling it up around my chin so I can inhale his scent.
I’m shopping on my phone for art supplies when Connor texts me that he’s home. Feeling sure of myself, I snap a selfie with the blanket and send it to him. I’m starting to second-guess myself when he sends me a photo of himself in bed, his eyes heavy and his hair a tousled mess.
Connor: I’VE NEVER BEEN SO FUCKING JEALOUS OF A PIECE OF FABRIC.
Me: Lol. I’ve named him Mr. Darcy.
Connor: THE BASTARD
I grin and pull the blanket tighter.
Connor: Good night, D.
Me: Good night, C.
I put my phone on silent and turn off the screen before turning off the lamp on my bedside table. Then, with Mr. Darcy pulled up to my nose, I roll onto my side, tuck up my knees, and close my eyes. In my head, I play kissing Connor on the beach over and over, reliving every moment until my entire body hums with tension.
I can’t remember the last time I touched myself. Can’t remember the last time I wanted to, but something inside me sighs when my fingers slide between my thighs. I can smell Connor on the blanket, and as I move my fingers, I pretend they’re his. It’s almost embarrassing how little time passes before I shudder and moan into my pillow.
Wow.
I’m not overly sexual. I’m not a virgin—not at all—but most of my sexual experimenting has been done inside the confines of relationships, or at least hookups with people I knew—blackouts not included. Still, I haven’t often enjoyed the whole process. Sometimes I did, but more often than not I was kind of “meh” about the whole thing. I guess that’s why my reaction to Nisha caught me off guard. But my reaction to Connor?
If the last two minutes were any indication, I am not meh about Connor. Maybe that’s sad, that I’m almost nineteen and I’m only now getting excited about sex. Regardless, out of the entire fuck-show that has been my life lately, it’s something to be happy about, so I’ll take it.
It doesn’t take me long to fall asleep after that. My body is like warm rubber, loose and relaxed. I feel myself drifting on a warm breeze, not thinking about anything in particular, not worrying. I’m just me, and I’m completely okay with it. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.
I knew you’d like him, whispers a familiar voice. I hear the smile in her words.
I do, I silently reply. I really do.
She wraps her arms around me in a warm, comforting hug. Love and acceptance radiate out of her. I can’t quite see her face, but I catch a glimpse of her blue hair. I snuggle into her embrace and deeper into the Connor-scented folds of Mr. Darcy with a contented sigh.
I want you to always feel like this, she whispers. I love you, Dede.
I smile. I’m not sure who she is, but I love her too.
SEVEN
I have no expectations of my MRI on Monday. It’s not like they can give me any answers right away. I have to wait until Dr. Bugotti and I guess some other people look at it. That’s going to take at least a week.
I really hope I get some answers then. But for now, I wait, and get the test done. I have to leave class early that afternoon to get there, and I’m surprised to find Izzy waiting outside for me.
“Hi,” she says when she sees me, looking me directly in the eyes.
“Hi,” I respond. I’m not sure how this is going to go. As far as I know we haven’t spoken since Saturday. I don’t think I’ve had any blackouts since then, but it’s not like I’d know.
“So, I know you’re like, mad at me, but I know your MRI is today and your mom already said I could come along.”
I shrug. “Okay. And yeah, I was. You and Mark ganged up on me.”
“He didn’t handle it right. He should have talked to you instead of forcing you into it.” She sighs. “He’s just worried about you, D. We both are.”
“Yeah.” I glance away, blinking back the burning in my eyes. “But your worry feels a lot like distrust. I’m sorry you’re worried, but that doesn’t give either of you the right to treat me like some stupid kid. I feel shitty enough without that.”
“I’m sorry.” She moves to stand in front of me, so I’m forced to look her in the eyes again. “Really. The last thing I want is to hurt you. You’re my best friend. I just want you to be okay. For what it’s worth, you were right about Connor. He’s really great.”
“Yeah. He is.” I’m not so upset anymore. I sniff. “I need you—of all people—to be on my side, Iz. Even if that means sometimes Mark doesn’t like it.”
She smiles. “I’m always on your side, idiot. Even when you don’t like it.”
I choke on a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
“So, we’re good?”
Nodding, I fight tears again. “We’re good.”
We take the train to meet Mom, who then drives us to the hospital. The wait is longer than the actual procedure. Nothing exciting about it—I wait, then I’m put into a tube and wait a little longer, before they bring me out and I get dressed and go home. All very anticlimactic given how much I’ve stressed about the whole freaking procedure.
Izzy comes back to the house with us. Mark’s car is in the driveway when we pull in.
“You can hang out with Mark while I work on my painting,” I tell Izzy when we get to my room. “I don’t mind.”
She flops onto her stomach on my bed. “That’s okay. I’ll stay with you.”
I look up from adjusting my easel. “Did you two have a fight?”
“No. I just want to hang out with you. Girl time.”
“Iz, you don’t have to choose between us.” Mark and I still haven’t spoken about the night of our “double date” and I don’t know if we ever will. He’s moved on to pretending it never happened and I’ve decided to wait until the right moment to remind him that it did. Regardless, he’s my brother and I love him, even if he’s an asshole. There’s no need for Izzy to be in the middle of that.
“I know. Hey, this sketch of Connor is freaking amazing.”
I preen under her praise. “Thanks. I spent a long time on that.”
“Has he seen it?”
“So he can think I’m a crazy stalker? Uh, no.”
She laughs. “There’s a lot of great stuff in here. How do you manage to switch styles like that?”
“Like what?”
She gets off the bed and brings the sketchbook over to where I stand in front of my easel. She shows me the sketch of Connor and another of a girl with a grunge-goth kind of look. Besides one having been done in graphite and the other in colored pencils, they look like they were drawn by two different people. Connor’s sketch is lifelike, but the other has a more comic-book feel.
“Maybe someone else drew in my book,” I say. I don’t remember drawing the girl.
“Did someone else draw this one?” she asks, skipping ahead a few pages to a stylized portrait of another girl done in what looks to be alcohol markers. Again, it’s different from the other two, and not the sort of different that comes just from switching mediums.
“I guess I’ve been experimenting with other styles,” I say, and go back to adding masking fluid to areas of my watercolor canvas.
Izzy closes the book. “D, I’ve been doing some research.”
Oh, shit. “On my symptoms?”
She nods. “These sketches kind of support it.”
“Okay, what is it?”
She holds the sketchbook to her chest like a shield. “Have you ever heard of dissociative identity disorder?”
“Like in Split?” Great movie. I love James McAvoy.
“According to what I’ve learned that’s not exactly a great example, but yeah.”
I arch a brow at her. “You think I have other people living inside me?” I don’t mean to sound so mocking, but I can’t take it back.
“Sketches that look like they’ve been drawn by different people, losing time, headaches, confusion, memory loss, feeling disconnected … they’re all symptoms.”
“You’ve been watching too much YouTube.”
Izzy grabs my arm as I turn away. “Dylan, I’m serious.”
Our gazes lock. “Iz, that’s crazy. I’d know if I was more than one person.”
“Not necessarily.”
I look into her eyes—really look. Shit, she is serious. WTF? That kind of thing only happens in the movies. No one really splits into different personalities. Do they?
“No,” I say.
“Would you just listen to some of the symptoms?” She pulls out her phone, swipes the screen, and begins to read: “Memory loss, ‘coming to’ in strange places, feelings of detachment from emotions or surroundings, the feeling that people and surroundings are distorted and unreal, confusion, depression or suicidal thoughts, the feeling that sometimes your body is not your own, headaches, substance abuse.” She looks up at me.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t make a sound. In my head I’m shouting, because oh my God, so many of those are familiar, but there’s a part of me that won’t let me say it.
A part of me. And then there’s the voices I hear in my head. Voices that aren’t mine.
My knees buckle, and I have to grab my easel to keep from falling. “Fuck,” I whisper.
“I’m not saying this is what you have, but it’s worth looking into, right? I mean, it’s better than a brain tumor.”
“Is it?” I ask. It’s pretty serious shit.
The silence in my head is frightening. It’s never quiet in my mind and now there’s nothing—like my brain’s holding its breath.
“Well, yeah,” Izzy says, completely oblivious to the emptiness of my mind. “Lots of people have DID and manage to lead pretty normal lives.”
“What causes it?”
Her gaze drops, and I know it’s not good.
“It’s usually caused by childhood trauma—before the age of seven or so.”
I laugh, or at least I make a laugh-like noise. “I didn’t have any childhood trauma.”
Izzy meets my gaze, and says softly, “That you remember.”
“I’d remember that.”
“Not if your mind decided you shouldn’t.”
This is getting ridiculous. “Drop it, Iz.”
“Tell me about the trip you guys took to Disney when you were seven.”
“What?” That was straight out of left field. “Why?”
“Mark mentioned it the other night. He said it was fun.”
“It was.”
“He said you got sick on the teacup ride after eating too much ice cream.”
Did I? If Mark said it, I must have. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
She sits down on the edge of my bed. “Dylan, it was Mark who got sick.”
“Then why did you say I did?”
“To see if you remembered it.”
“Just because I don’t remember whether or not I barfed on a ride doesn’t mean I have split personalities.”
“Tell me anything you remember from your childhood.”
A flash fills my head, sharp and quick. A large shadow looming over me. He says something, but I can’t make it out. It hurts. It hurts.
StopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopiTstopITstoPITSTOPITSTOPIT!
“Stop it. This is stupid.” I shake my head to clear it. “You’ve known me since we were kids. Wouldn’t you have noticed if I was other people?”
“Alters are really good at pretending to be the host.”
I don’t know what to say. She’s going to argue if I protest, and this whole discussion has me off-kilter. There’s something I want to tell her, but I can’t quite get the words out of my mouth. I can’t hold on to them long enough to form them into speech. I feel like if I take a step to the right, I’ll step right out of myself.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Zhao about it when I see her this week,” I blurt. Is it a promise I’ll keep? Probably not.
Izzy looks so relieved that I feel instantly guilty. “Good.”
“But if she says she doesn’t think that’s what’s going on with me, this conversation is done, okay?”
She nods.
Nice save, whispers a voice. A feeling of relief washes over me from all sides of my brain.
“I really have to work on this sketch,” I say. “You can hang out if you want, but I really don’t mind if you want to see Mark.”
Izzy smiles. “You want me to leave you alone so you can work.”
“Yes.” I grin. “Please.”
“All right. I’ll see if he wants to drive me home. I’ll meet you tomorrow for lunch?”
“Twelve thirty in the caf.”
“Awesome.” She gives me a hug, then gathers up her stuff and heads toward the door. She pauses at the threshold. “Love you, bitch.”
“Love you too, whore.” I don’t know when we started saying this to each other, but it’s been a thing for years. We haven’t done it in a while, and the familiar foolishness centers me.
When she’s gone, I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. I go to YouTube and type “dissociative identity disorder” in the search bar. A lot of videos come up. I click the first one that catches my eye—a British girl with brightly colored hair. The description says something about a “switch” on camera.
