born two children—and judging by the size and shape of the nipples, breastfed at least one of them.
Lovely but for the scars.
Small puckered burn-scars. Over a dozen on the breasts alone. Many more on her stomach, neck and shoulders.
He could still make out the swastika carved just above her navel.
He had never seen the evidence first-hand before.
“You want to talk about those, Sadie?”
She laughed. “Talk about what?
My tits
?”
“Those burns. The swastika.”
She pushed off him angrily and scooped up the sweater and walked to the window. Slipped the sweater on. Walked back to her chair and dug in her purse for a pack of Winston Lights.
Sadie smoked. The others didn’t.
“I don’t allow cigarettes. You know that, Sadie.”
She gave him a look, disgusted, and tossed the pack back into her purse. Sadie would rebel but only so far. Then like all the others she was forced to obey.
“
Oh, fuck you
, Doc.
Talk
to your precious Leslie. Have a wonderful time. You
asshole
.”
She dropped into the chair and looked at him. The eyes softened. Her face went slowly neutral.
Leslie again.
Now if he could just keep her here for the duration.
The session was running long. He could see that already. The clock on the wall above and behind her read two-fifty. But this was all much too productive to quit in ten minutes. He had a first-time patient who was probably already outside there in the waiting room—his three o’clock appointment. It wasn’t the best way to start a doctor-patientrelationship but the man would have to hold on awhile.
It wasn’t just Patricia who had something on the line here.
This case was going to make his reputation, no doubt about it. The first article, published six months ago, had gone a long way toward doing that already. AP had picked up on it. My God,
The New York Times
. For Warhol’s classic fifteen minutes he and his unnamed patient were famous.
Soon they’d be more so. His first paper was only the beginning.
“Leslie.”
“Hi. Hello again.”
“We were talking about all the sexual things they did to Patricia. But there were other things too, weren’t there.”
She nodded.
“Would you mind going over them for me again?”
“There were all the witchy things,” she said.
“Like what?”
“They taught her all these chants and stuff, and they would all dress in black and sometimes they’d visit graveyards at night and sometimes dig up bodies and do stuff with the bones and the dead guy’s clothes, make up devil potions for the Feast of the Beast or Candlemas and calling up spirits and . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘devil potions’?”
“Pee. And wine. And blood.”
“Whose blood?”
“Theirs. Anybody’s.”
“Go on.”
“Well, most of the time though, they were in the basement of the Gannets’ house. They had a really big basement there. And everybody would be naked. And everybody would have to kiss Mr. Gannet’s penis before things started, like all in a line, and then there’d be chanting and people would eat and drink a lot and then they’d bring in the sacrifice.”
“What was the sacrifice?”
“Chickens. Cats. Mostly it was dogs.”
Dogs like Katie
.
It was amazing and highly unusual. Patricia had created this personality in total identification with the dead or soon-to-be dead.
The dead
taken inside
her, made one with her.
A remarkable exercise in compassion.
“And then there was that one time,” she said. “You know. Her initiation.”
The voice was small and not nearly so matter-of-fact as before. Unsure. Almost frightened.
He knew that tone.
Because it was at this point that Leslie’s information had almost always stopped in the past, here or only slightly further. Something about the initiation had been highly traumatic. Hooker knew from sessions past that Patricia had been sixteen years old at the time, the age at which most of the personalities erupted out of her all at
Lovely but for the scars.
Small puckered burn-scars. Over a dozen on the breasts alone. Many more on her stomach, neck and shoulders.
He could still make out the swastika carved just above her navel.
He had never seen the evidence first-hand before.
“You want to talk about those, Sadie?”
She laughed. “Talk about what?
My tits
?”
“Those burns. The swastika.”
She pushed off him angrily and scooped up the sweater and walked to the window. Slipped the sweater on. Walked back to her chair and dug in her purse for a pack of Winston Lights.
Sadie smoked. The others didn’t.
“I don’t allow cigarettes. You know that, Sadie.”
She gave him a look, disgusted, and tossed the pack back into her purse. Sadie would rebel but only so far. Then like all the others she was forced to obey.
“
Oh, fuck you
, Doc.
Talk
to your precious Leslie. Have a wonderful time. You
asshole
.”
She dropped into the chair and looked at him. The eyes softened. Her face went slowly neutral.
Leslie again.
Now if he could just keep her here for the duration.
The session was running long. He could see that already. The clock on the wall above and behind her read two-fifty. But this was all much too productive to quit in ten minutes. He had a first-time patient who was probably already outside there in the waiting room—his three o’clock appointment. It wasn’t the best way to start a doctor-patientrelationship but the man would have to hold on awhile.
It wasn’t just Patricia who had something on the line here.
This case was going to make his reputation, no doubt about it. The first article, published six months ago, had gone a long way toward doing that already. AP had picked up on it. My God,
The New York Times
. For Warhol’s classic fifteen minutes he and his unnamed patient were famous.
Soon they’d be more so. His first paper was only the beginning.
“Leslie.”
“Hi. Hello again.”
“We were talking about all the sexual things they did to Patricia. But there were other things too, weren’t there.”
She nodded.
“Would you mind going over them for me again?”
“There were all the witchy things,” she said.
“Like what?”
“They taught her all these chants and stuff, and they would all dress in black and sometimes they’d visit graveyards at night and sometimes dig up bodies and do stuff with the bones and the dead guy’s clothes, make up devil potions for the Feast of the Beast or Candlemas and calling up spirits and . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘devil potions’?”
“Pee. And wine. And blood.”
“Whose blood?”
“Theirs. Anybody’s.”
“Go on.”
“Well, most of the time though, they were in the basement of the Gannets’ house. They had a really big basement there. And everybody would be naked. And everybody would have to kiss Mr. Gannet’s penis before things started, like all in a line, and then there’d be chanting and people would eat and drink a lot and then they’d bring in the sacrifice.”
“What was the sacrifice?”
“Chickens. Cats. Mostly it was dogs.”
Dogs like Katie
.
It was amazing and highly unusual. Patricia had created this personality in total identification with the dead or soon-to-be dead.
The dead
taken inside
her, made one with her.
A remarkable exercise in compassion.
“And then there was that one time,” she said. “You know. Her initiation.”
The voice was small and not nearly so matter-of-fact as before. Unsure. Almost frightened.
He knew that tone.
Because it was at this point that Leslie’s information had almost always stopped in the past, here or only slightly further. Something about the initiation had been highly traumatic. Hooker knew from sessions past that Patricia had been sixteen years old at the time, the age at which most of the personalities erupted out of her all at
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