The Scar
Trudy Criswell logged onto her HMO's website, clicked on the directory of physicians covered under her policy and scrolled down the list of their names and specialties.
I don't know if this is even necessary, she thought, hesitant to select one and make an appointment.
If it were a question of seeing a doctor for a routine examination, getting a vaccination or even having a surgical procedure to take care of a medical issue, she would not procrastinate. However, her problem was not a physical one. She was considering seeing a psychiatrist because she sincerely believed she was losing her mind.
"I can't do this now," she cried and closed the lid on her laptop without bothering to log out of her account.
Maybe she wasn't going crazy after all. Perhaps she needed medication or just a nice, long rest. Anyway, she didn't need to decide that very day. She could pull a Scarlett O'Hara and think about it tomorrow.
"I'll bake a cake instead," she decided. "Baking always makes me feel better."
After finding a recipe for lemon pound cake, Trudy opened her refrigerator door to take out the milk, butter, eggs and lemon juice. On the top shelf was an opened bottle of Diet Pepsi. A chill ran through her body that had nothing to do with the low temperature inside her Frigidaire.
"How did that get in here?"
Not only did she never drink diet soda, but she also drank Coca-Cola products, not Pepsi.
This was not the first time she was faced with such a mystery. Over the past six months, there were several purchases she did not recall making. Clothing she did not remember wearing was often found in the laundry. Emails she had no recollection of writing appeared in her SENT folder. These were but a few of the puzzling incidents that strained her memory and caused her to fear for her sanity.
I really ought to make an appointment with a psychiatrist, she thought, afraid of what the diagnosis might be. Could I be schizophrenic? What do they do for such a condition?
She assumed that therapy, medication or a combination of the two was the accepted form of treatment. Surely, people were no longer committed to a psychiatric hospital unless they were deemed criminally insane. To her knowledge, she was no danger to herself or others, but since there were obvious gaps in her memory, she could not be entirely sure.
Could I be getting early-onset Alzheimer's?
The mere thought of struggling with dementia terrified her. However, she knew that early diagnosis and treatment could temporarily stave off the worst symptoms and slow down the progression of the disease. Perhaps she ought to make an appointment with a neurologist, not a psychiatrist.
After spilling the Diet Pepsi down the drain and tossing the empty plastic bottle into her recycling bin, Trudy went back to her laptop. She chose a neurologist at a nearby medical park from the list on her HMO's website. She sighed and wrote down the phone number so that she could call the office the next day and make an appointment.
* * *
After administering the usual tests, Dr. Leon Sarnoff went over the results with his patient.
"Other than the occasional lapses in your memory that you've described, I can find no evidence of cognitive decline. Your ability to concentrate, solve problems, complete routine tasks and use language to communicate effectively seems to be unimpaired. You don't show any sign of confusion with location, the passage of time or visual or spatial issues. Furthermore, you have good social skills and show no changes in personality."
"So, I don't have Alzheimer's?" Trudy asked.
"In my professional opinion, no," the neurologist replied.
"Can you think of any other reason for my memory lapses?"
"There are several causes for memory loss, some more likely than others. Infections, brain injuries, tumors, certain medications, sleep apnea, depression, anxiety, thyroid problems, nutritional deficiencies and drug and alcohol abuse. I could find no evidence of a tumor or injury on the CT scan or MRI. As a result of your physical exam, we can rule out sleep apnea, infection, nutritional deficiency and thyroid problems. Have you taken any prescription, over-the-counter or recreational drugs?"
"Just an occasional Tylenol. And I rarely drink alcohol."
"Then I would suggest you consult a psychiatrist to see if you suffer from depression or anxiety. I can recommend someone if you'd like," Dr. Sarnoff offered.
"Thank you, but I have to see what doctors are covered by my HMO."
Leon Sarnoff nodded his head in understanding. Obviously, the patient would need to see someone in her insurance company's network.
When she got back to her apartment, Trudy heated leftover meatloaf in the microwave and prepared a tossed salad to eat with it. On the door of her refrigerator, she found a bottle of Marie's super blue cheese salad dressing next to her Ken's lite honey mustard. The now-familiar fear gripped her.
"I don't like blue cheese!" she cried.
She shuddered as she tossed grape tomatoes and croutons onto her spring mix. Thankfully, the shaking stopped by the time the microwave beeped and she took out the meatloaf.
"I'll call a psychiatrist first thing in the morning," she vowed as she squirted the honey mustard dressing onto her salad.
After finishing her dinner, she took a clean pair of pajamas out of her dresser drawer and headed for the bathroom. Once her clothes were off, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.
The scar. She had it since she was a baby. It was now more than a foot in length and dominated the right side of her torso. Her parents told her it was the result of an automobile accident, and she had no reason to question their explanation. When she was a teenager, she hated the sight of it. However, with time, she learned to accept it. At least, she could hide it beneath her clothes.
"It wasn't a car accident," an unfamiliar voice echoed in the small room.
Trudy's hand that had reached out to turn on the shower suddenly froze.
"Who said that?" she asked, knowing full well she was alone in the apartment.
There was no answer.
"Oh, great! First, I'm doing things I'm not aware of, and now I'm hearing voices! I really am losing my mind!"
* * *
Dr. Blake Loftus was not at all what Trudy Criswell imagined a psychiatrist to be like. Not only was he young and handsome but he was also friendly and had a great sense of humor.
"You remind me of someone," she said as she took a seat on his couch. "I know. John Hamm, the actor who starred in Mad Men."
"I get that a lot," he said with a dazzling smile.
During the first half of the appointment, the patient explained her disturbing memory loss episodes and expressed her fears about her mental state.
"Could I have a split personality?" she asked.
"Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID, is a fairly common coping mechanism for extreme stress. The most significant risk factor is physical, emotional or sexual abuse during childhood. Dissociating from reality and forming 'alters' is often a way of shielding the main personality from a painful mental or physical experience."
"Childhood trauma?"
"Yes. Are you aware of a traumatic experience in your early life?"
"I don't remember it, but I was injured in a car accident when I was a baby. It left a large scar on the right side of my body."
"How old were you when this happened?" the psychiatrist asked.
"I don't know. My parents never wanted to discuss it."
"Why don't we talk more about your childhood? Let's start by discussing your earliest memories."
Trudy frowned as she tried to concentrate on the past.
"I don't remember much," she admitted. "A day at the beach. A doll I got for Christmas. A new dress I wore to church on Easter."
"What about friends? Family members?"
The patient's eyes widened, and a smile came to her lips.
"Chelsea. I remember her."
"Was she a relative? A classmate? A friend in your neighborhood?"
"She was a friend but not a real one. She was my imaginary playmate," Trudy admitted sheepishly.
"There's nothing unusual about that," Dr. Loftus said. "I had one of those myself."
"As a child, I spent a lot of time indoors. My parents were overprotective and reluctant to let me play outside—probably because of my accident. So, I relied on Chelsea to keep me company."
"And when did you outgrow the need for an imaginary friend?"
"I can't give you an exact time. It wasn't as though I'd gone cold turkey. It was more of a gradual thing. When I began attending school, I made a few actual friends. I still dreamed up Chelsea when I was alone, but those times became less and less frequent. I guess I finally had no need for her when I was in eighth grade. That's about the time I started having an interest in boys."
The psychiatrist glanced at the clock and noted that the hour was about to come to an end.
"Why don't we talk more about Chelsea at our next appointment?" he suggested.
* * *
Oddly enough, no sooner did Trudy consult the psychiatrist than her symptoms seemed to escalate. Upon leaving Dr. Loftus's office, she got into her car, started the engine and heard Toby Keith playing on the radio. Unlike the majority of people who lived in Nashville, she disliked country music. She much preferred rock 'n' roll.
Someone changed the radio station.
Since the car was locked, the culprit could only have been Trudy herself.
Hand trembling, she reached for the dashboard and reset the radio to 1059 The Rock, Nashville's classic rock station. Only when she heard Journey singing "Don't Stop Believin'" did she leave the parking lot, pull out onto Route 24 and head for home. However, when she opened the door to her apartment, she was in for another unpleasant surprise. A vase of red roses was placed on the coffee table in her living room.
"Where did those come from?" she wondered.
She walked across the room and read the card: Thank you for a wonderful evening. Can't wait to see you again. Love, Perry.
Trudy knew no one named Perry. Could the flowers have been sent to her by mistake? Even if they had, she realized, who had put them in a vase and placed them on the coffee table? Again, the answer was obvious. She had to have done it herself. But when? The flowers weren't here that morning. Or were they?
An idea suddenly occurred to her. Was someone trying to gaslight her? The idea that a person might deliberately be trying to make her think she was losing her sanity both comforted and terrified her. If such were the case, that meant she was of sound mind, but it also meant someone was out to do her harm.
"But who? I don't have an enemy in the world."
Although she had no appetite, she decided it best to eat a nutritious lunch. If there was a stalker out there who was able to gain access to her car and her home, she would need to keep her strength up.
When she opened her refrigerator door, she found a Styrofoam container that contained leftover Wagyu ribeye filet from Jeff Ruby's Steakhouse.
"This is crazy!" she cried, slamming the refrigerator door shut. "Someone must be doing this! I certainly didn't go out to eat and bring this food home."
As Trudy racked her brain wondering who would go to such extremes to hurt her, the telephone rang. While she owned a cell phone, she also kept the landline that the previous tenant had installed in her apartment.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Hi, sweetheart," the male caller said.
"Who is this?"
"It's me, Perry."
"Who are you? What do you want?" the frightened woman demanded to know.
"Whoa! It's Perry Heston. What's wrong? Have I done something to make you angry?"
"Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?"
"Take it easy, Chelsea. I didn't ...."
Chelsea! Perry didn't get a chance to complete his call. Trudy slammed the receiver down in its cradle and cut him off mid-sentence.
* * *
When Trudy entered Dr. Blake Loftus's office for her next appointment, the psychiatrist immediately sensed his patient was on edge.
"You seem upset," he noted.
"Yes. I received flowers and a phone call from a man who called me Chelsea."
"That's the name you gave to your imaginary friend, isn't it?" the doctor asked, referring to his notes to refresh his memory.
"It is," Trudy replied, her attitude bordering on belligerence. "Funny. Other than me, you're the only person alive who knows about her."
"Do you think I sent the flowers and telephoned you?"
Realizing that her behavior might be construed as paranoid, the patient calmed down.
"If not you, then perhaps someone who had access to my records. You taped our session. Do you pay someone to transcribe those tapes?"
"No. Patient confidentiality is important to me. Those audio tapes as well as my written notes are kept in locked filing cabinets. Not even my employees have access to them."
"Then who could have found out and how?" Trudy cried.
"Think about the other events we discussed at your last appointment. There were items in your refrigerator that you didn't remember buying. Emails on your computer that you didn't remember sending."
"You think I sent those flowers to myself? What about the phone call? I distinctly heard a man's voice on the line. A man who said his name was Perry Heston."
"Do you recall ever meeting anyone by that name?" the psychiatrist asked.
"No. Surely, if I knew him, he would have called me Trudy, not Chelsea."
A pensive look appeared on Dr. Loftus's handsome, John Hamm-like face as he stared out the window.
"I can think of three possible explanations for this situation. One, you met this man and gave your name as Chelsea for some reason, and then the entire incident slipped your mind."
Trudy had to admit the scenario was possible, given the other lapses in her memory.
"Or, two, this Perry Heston—if that's his real name—is doing all this to make you think you're losing your sanity."
"But if he's gaslighting me, that doesn't explain how he knew about Chelsea? Only my parents and I—and now you—knew about my imaginary friend."
"I don't know. But that brings me to my third alternative. It's entirely possible that Perry Heston, like Chelsea, is a figment of your imagination," Dr. Loftus suggested.
"I suppose I might have imagined the phone call but not the flowers. They were real."
"You might want to call the florist and see if the order was placed by a man or a woman. They might even be able to give you a name if the flowers were charged to a credit card."
"That's a wonderful idea, Doctor!" Trudy exclaimed. "I could also go online and see if there is a person named Perry Heston living in the area."
"I must caution you to be careful," the psychiatrist warned. "If you do have a stalker, he might be dangerous. Perhaps you ought to let the police handle this."
* * *
After an internet search revealed that a man named Perry Heston lived in the Belle Meade section of Nashville, Trudy drove there after work the following day. She stopped in front of his house, a multimillion-dollar brick home with a Rolls Royce parked in the driveway.
"This guy can't be a stalker," she concluded. "If he can afford this house and car, he must be loaded."
She was about to drive away when the front door opened and a well-dressed, middle-aged man stepped outside. He seemed to recognize her car, and a smile lit up his face. He waved and jogged down the driveway to the street. As he neared the car, Trudy felt a burning sensation along the length of her scar.
"Chelsea!" Perry called to her. "How good it is to see you!"
"Leave me alone!" the frightened woman cried.
He reached out to open the car door, but the driver's foot pounced on the gas pedal and she raced away, leaving him in the middle of the road, staring after the speeding vehicle.
"Come back!" he called.
Not long after Trudy returned to her apartment, the Rolls Royce pulled into the complex's parking lot.
"What does he want from me?" she whimpered.
She watched from the living room window as Perry Heston got out of the car and headed toward her unit. Again, there was a warm feeling in her side. It was odd given that the scar had never bothered her before. The discomfort increased in intensity as the man drew closer to her front door.
"God away!" she shouted. "I'm going to call the police unless you leave right now."
"Just tell me what I've done," he pleaded. "After the other night, you owe me some sort of explanation."
"I don't owe you anything. You're a complete stranger to me."
As she spoke, the pain in her side became a searing agony.
"Chelsea, I beg you. Let me inside, and we can discuss this."
"I'm not Chelsea! She never existed."
No sooner did the words leave her mouth than it felt as though her scar had been surgically opened with a scalpel. There was no blood, however. Although the skin was not broken, an unearthly mist seemed to seep from the long-forgotten wound. Unable to move or speak, Trudy stood staring in horror as the strange vapor solidified into a human form. At first, she thought she was gazing into a mirror. The female shape in front of her looked exactly like Trudy herself.
"W-who or w-what are y-you?" she stammered.
"I'm Chelsea, your sister."
"That's not possible. I was an only child."
"No. You weren't. You and I were twins. Our parents named me Chelsea."
"What happened to you?"
"I died. You see, we were not ordinary twins. We were conjoined twins, joined together at the side of the torso. You were the stronger of the two. I, unfortunately, had several defects. The doctors told our parents that I wouldn't survive. Furthermore, my death would endanger your health. So, an operation was performed to separate us. Needless to say, I didn't make it."
"The scar," Trudy said, her eyes looking down at the right side of her body as she tried to make sense of the bizarre turn of events. "It wasn't from a car accident."
"No. It was where I was cut away from you," Chelsea said, confirming her twin's theory. "There have always been special relationships between twins. Some scientists believe there are psychic links between them. In the case of conjoined twins, those links are even more profound. As I said before, I was your playmate when you were a child."
"But eventually, I outgrew you."
"Or so you thought. I didn't disappear. I simply slipped into your subconscious."
"Why have you come forward now?"
"Because it was so unfair for me to die in order for you to survive," Chelsea replied, expressing the resentment she had kept bottled up for so long. "I want to live, too. For the past several months, I've been 'borrowing' your body to do just that."
"My memory lapses ...."
"Right. When I'm in control, you have no awareness of what I do or where I go. One night when I was enjoying an evening out, I met Perry Heston. It was love at first sight. I'm sorry, Sis, but I don't want to lose him."
"But I ...."
Trudy stopped speaking as she watched Chelsea's human form dissolve into a mist and vanish. Once all trace of her sister was gone, the scar on the right side of her body, which had been throbbing with a dull ache since her twin emerged, began to itch as wounds often do when they start to heal.
* * *
Perry Heston, dejected that Chelsea had spurned him, finally stopped knocking on Trudy's door and ringing her bell. His eyes filled with tears as he turned away and headed toward his Rolls Royce. Suddenly, the door opened. He turned and saw the object of his affection standing in the doorway, smiling at him.
"Don't go," she called to him. "Why don't you come in?"
"You're not mad at me then?"
"Don't be silly!"
"But you ...."
"Let's not talk about it," Chelsea suggested. "I was upset before but not with you. My sister and I had a disagreement; however, I never should have taken it out on you. Can you forgive me?"
"Of course, I can," Perry answered and followed her inside the apartment building.
As she shut the door behind him, Chelsea looked down at her left side. Beneath her dress was a scar that mirrored the one that had belonged to Trudy Criswell. It would be a reminder for the rest of her life of the twin sister who had to die so that she could live.
For my birthday, Salem sent me roses and a box of chocolates. When I wasn't looking, he ate the chocolates.
